“Harry, come back to Mummy! Silly boy.” A pretty woman with red hair was calling to him, her bright smile matched only by the energy in her green eyes. His eyes. “Harry! Where’s Harry?” He giggled from behind the chair, pleased by his own cleverness. Mummy would never find him here. “Oh, Harry, where are you?” She peeked around the couch, the coffee table. He giggled again. Silly Mummy. She would never think to look behind Daddy’s armchair. He peered at her from around the cushions, sticking out his tongue. “Hmm...Where could Harry be?”

There was a knock at the door. Frowning, the woman turned away. “Be back in a moment, Harry. Stay where you are, won’t you?” He watched her as she disappeared into the hallway. The door opened. He heard a familiar voice. Deep and deliberate. Slowly, he crawled out from behind the chair. Mummy’s voice was coming closer. “He’s just in here—playing a bit of hide and seek—getting so big—ten months!” She was back, along with another person, a man. Glittering black eyes and greasy black hair, a hooked nose. “There he is, Severus. Isn’t he darling? He looks so much like James.” There was something in her voice. He crawled away, but Mummy caught him up in her arms. “Say hello to Severus, Harry.” There was something in her eyes, something about the way Mummy looked at the man, and then at him. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like this Severus, or the way his Mummy looked at him.

“Adorable,” the man said dryly, and he could tell it was not the way Mummy or Daddy called him adorable. The man didn’t mean it, and he didn’t like him. He didn’t think Harry was adorable at all.

He started to fuss, pulling on Mummy’s hair. Why was she still talking to this man? Why couldn’t the man go away now? “M-maaa!”

She laughed and kissed his nose lightly. “Alright, Harry. Off you go.” He was set on the floor, still crying. She turned back to the man, Severus. “He’s not so good with strangers yet.” She said “strangers” funny, as though Severus shouldn’t be a stranger at all. Something was odd here. He cried again, tugging at her skirt. “What’s wrong with you, Harry? Is your nappy wet? No? Are you hungry? We just fed you...Harry, darling. Harry, hush. Harry...”

He whimpered, then screamed. Mummy! What was happening to his mummy? Her face was changing. She looked so scared. “Harry! Oh, Harry!” She was holding him up. He looked at the man. Severus was standing still. The window. There was someone in the window! No, it wasn’t a window. It was a mirror. It was big mirror behind Severus. He looked at it, screaming desperately. Mummy was looking at Severus in the mirror, holding Harry. But it wasn’t Harry. It was him, he could see his mouth open, screaming. His hands were moving, fighting them off. Trying to free himself, to run from the looking glass.

“What’s wrong with the boy now?” Severus was looking at him in disgust. “Why is he crying?”

He looked at himself. His hair, it was the same, but longer. Pale skin, green eyes, skinny body. He was growing! Why was he growing? Mummy wasn’t holding him. She was standing behind him. Severus was next to her. He was eleven years old and staring into the mirror of Erised. “Mum.” She smiled at him. “Dad.” Severus looked away. Harry pounded the glass. “No, no, no!” Where was James? Where was his dad?

His skin was pale. He was so skinny. Green eyes, lightning scar. Black hair, but it was tame now, a bit longer. His face was thinner. Higher cheek bones, a slightly crooked nose. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t Harry, it was Snape.

Second year. The mirror, Hermione. She was found with a mirror, and his pale face was staring at him from the mirror.

“Mum!”

He was thirteen, and Sirius was staring at him with an expression akin to repulsion.

“You look just like him, you know. Just like your father, that bastard. Just like dear old Snivellus.”

He was fourteen. Ron and Neville and Seamus were laughing at him.

“Look at Potter! Look at him. Can’t he swim?”

He couldn’t swim. Oh God, he was going to die. Why weren’t his friends helping? Why were they laughing?

Hermione was talking about something. “Don’t mind them, Harry. Don’t mind them. They don’t get it. You can’t chose your family. Just ignore it, Harry.” But he couldn’t ignore it. He couldn’t ignore them, the faces, the laughing. Why were they laughing? Why did he look like Snape? Where was James Potter? Where was his dad? “Harry, just ignore it! Harry! Harry!”

“Harry! Harry!”

His eyes snapped open, launching him back into the world rather cruelly. Harry glanced around, only to find that the world was blurry. Someone had taken his glasses. “Here,” it was the same voice as before. Something was set on his face. There, that was better. Hermione came swimming into view, worried and tired. Ron was sitting beside her. They looked worried.

“What happened?” he asked, frowning at them and sitting up.

Ron shook his head. “Dunno, mate. You started screaming and tearing at your blankets. Nearly yanked Hermione’s head off, you latched onto her hair so hard.” Hermione, as if to back up the story. Harry’s head was swimming. The dream. His Mum and that man. That man.

“Snape!” he whispered. The others jumped.

“What?”

“What’s Snape got to do with it, Harry?”

“Snape?”

Harry pushed his blankets off, attempting to stand. “I’ve got to see Professor Dumbledore! Out of the way, this is important!”

Hermione started and blocked him. “What happened, Harry? Was it him? Did you have a vision?” She looked pale, her eyes wide and anxious.

“No, no. I don’t know! I just have to talk to Dumbledore.” He tried to push past them, but they wouldn’t budge. Ron crossed his arms. “Will you just get out of the way?”

“Not until you let us know what’s going on, mate. Was it You-Know-Who?”

Harry glared at them, using every ounce of willpower he had in him to try and somehow brainwash them into letting him go. They didn’t move. Good Lord, what was the use in being the bloody Boy-Who-Lived if he couldn’t even brainwash people? “Fine,” he said sourly, plopping back onto the bed. “But it’s a long story, and you have to promise not to tell anyone!”

“As if we would,” Ron countered. Harry gave in.

“I was with my mum, and...”

O O O

“Good morning, Severus.”

Snape spun around, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the man in front of him. “Lupin,” he said curtly, acknowledging the man with a jerk of his head. What in the devil was the werewolf doing wandering the halls at three in the morning?

“Couldn’t sleep,” Lupin said amiably, nodding at the window. Outside a waxing gibbous could be seen, bright and clear in the dark sky. He shivered. “I was just thinking. It’s good to be back here. I missed it all—the students, the grounds. I’m glad I can keep a close eye on Harry. He needs it, the poor boy. After Sirius, well...What’s your excuse, then? Sleeping troubles? But I’m sure you have some concoction to cure that.” He smiled pleasantly. It was always a strain to maintain a somewhat pleasant atmosphere when Snape was present. The man was so dour and closed off.

“I need no excuse.” Snape cleared his throat. “Your potion takes time and effort, Lupin.” There, just the reaction he was looking for. Lupin drew back, looking guilty. Snape allowed himself a small smirk.

“Ah, well, I am very grateful to you for making it for me, Severus. It helps so very much with the transformation.” He searched his mind for an appropriate change of subject. “Harry’s changing. His face is thinner, paler. You have noticed, haven’t you?”

Snape jerked back involuntarily, his eyes flashing dangerously. “I have no idea what you are talking about,” he snapped, crossing his arms.

“Haven’t you, though? Come now, Severus, you must have noticed by now. It’s only, what, three weeks from his birthday? You’ve seen him several times when delivering your news to the rest. You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed his face changing. Even Molly and Arthur have.”

How did he manage it? How did that bloody werewolf manage to make him remember every time? “I have noticed no change in the boy, Lupin.”

Lupin frowned, the memories of his old school friend resurfacing for a moment. “Lilly told me...There are striking similarities between the two of you, you know. I noticed in his third year. He wasn’t as studious or serious, but you must admit he is every bit as stubborn. And now, his face, his body, they’ve been becoming...different. I know you’ve noticed, Severus. I caught you looking at him, several times, in fact.”

Snape snorted. He stopped, glancing out the window at the moon, frowning. “The boy is a fool with little regard for his own life and the lives of everyone else. He cares only about the adventures he can have, the fun. Potter is written all over that. Besides, boys change as they age. I myself grew several inches.”

“I remember,” Lupin chuckled. “James was so disappointed to find himself shorter than you. No more midget jokes.” He sighed. “See things as you please, Severus, but he has been changing.”

“Go back to bed, Lupin.”

O O O

Why did Snape have to make his lessons so bloody difficult? Harry stirred his Throat-Constricting potion furiously, fighting the urge to toss his steaming ladle at Snape’s greasy, hooked-nose face.

“A little less force, Potter. At this rate, your victim’s entire body will have been reduced to the size of a matchbox. Useless.”

Harry grunted and slammed his potions book shut, images of a matchbox-sized Snape floating across his mind.

“Unfortunately, Potter, I do not believe such a miniaturized look would be becoming for me. Twenty points from Gryffindor, and a detention as well if you don’t set that knife down this instant.”

Reluctantly, Harry set down his silver knife, packing the rest of his potions materials into his cauldron with a flick of his wand. How the hell could Snape have known? Once again, he was left with the feeling that Snape could read minds. He lowered his head, muttering softly, “I’d forgotten, professor. Why use a knife? Your nose would be just as effective...” Behind him, Seamus snorted.

“Just keep off his bad side, Harry,” Hermione muttered. Seamus and Dean were watching closely, anticipating Snape’s answer. Hermione bit her lip, casting a pointed glare at Harry. Boys.

“Detention, Mr. Potter, for the rest of the week, and keep your mouth in check. I am not the headmaster, and will not accept such blatant lack of disrespect in my classroom. Is that understood?” Snape bent low, his large nose merely inches from Harry’s own, black eyes glittering with such loathing. “I ask again, is that understood?” A fleck of spit flew from the man’s mouth, hitting Harry squarely on his glasses. He restrained from wiping it off, but did manage a somewhat intelligible, “yes, professor.” Snape stood, his eyes remaining on Harry, boring into his face with more intensity than he would have thought possible. Then again, this was Snape. “Twenty points from Gryffindor, Ms. Granger,” he snarled, and with a look at Hermione’s face, added, “and the next time it will be fifty.”

Hermione made a small noise in the back of her throat like a dying cat, glaring daggers at Snape’s back as the man leaned over Neville’s simmering cauldron. How in the world Neville had managed to make his Throat-Constricting potion so hot, Harry would never know. They were supposed to be 0°C. Shaking his head, he returned to creating bloody ends for Snape in his mind, taking pleasure by the images of boiling cauldrons and angry Voldemorts.

Out of the corner of his eye, Snape watched the boy. He looked furious. It ought to be Snape who was furious. Potter had no respect for the art of potions. His vile concoctions were poorly made, and, at times, somewhat dangerous. He ought to be on bended knee, thanking his professor for not allowing him to cause an accident that could endanger him and the rest of his little friends. There was already one Neville Longbottom in the class, though how he managed to get into Advanced Potions was beyond Snape. Dumbledore, most likely. The headmaster had an annoying habit of “helping” his favorite students into classes and passing grades. Snape could only hope to avoid any life-threatening accidents with Longbottom in his class, handling volatile potion ingredients. Good Lord, he needed an extra pair of arms, and eyes, for that matter.

Harry frowned into his ladle, turning it from side to side so he could see his reflection. He just didn’t understand it. Ever since his birthday, he’d looked...different. Everyone was noticing. His body was scrawnier than usual, his face thin. Even his hair was growing tame. It was like that dream he’d had, the one at Grimmauld Place. But that was just a dream, right? Harry shook his head. The Daily Prophet was right, he was going mad.

“P-professor Snape!” Colin Creevey ducked into the room, his face shining with excitement. He waved to Harry, beaming when Harry offered a small nod of the head in return.

“What is it?” Snape asked tartly.

Colin took a deep breath, and, gulping, said nervously, “Professor Dumbledore, professor. He wanted me to give you this.” He handed Snape a bit of rolled parchment, waved to Harry, and raced out of the door. Phew. Colin was practically petrified of the potions master.

“Potter,” Snape hissed, giving the boy his best death glare. “The headmaster would like to speak to you after this class.” Actually, the headmaster wanted to speak to Harry and Snape, but he left that part out. Potter could discover it later.

“Yes, professor.” Harry shook his head, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Why did Dumbledore want to see him? Surely nothing was wrong? Was he starting Occlumency lessons again? He certainly hoped not. Well, he would find out soon enough, wouldn’t he? Sooner than that, actually, for the bell had just rung. There was the usual flurry as students scrambled to gather their things and get out of the dungeons and on to lunch. Harry remained behind, trying to ignore Hermione’s concerned looks as Snape ushered her out the door.

“Follow me, Potter.”

Harry started and looked around. Follow Snape? Why in the world was he following Snape? It was Dumbledore that he needed to see, and he could find Dumbledore’s office on his own, thank you very much. Why was Snape looking at him like that? Why was he standing there, waiting expectantly for Harry to follow.

“I believe, Potter, that I just told you to follow me,” Snape hissed. Harry jumped up, grabbing his bag as he was led into the hall and off in the direction of the headmaster’s office. Snape proved to be rather uninteresting company. He sniffed at each wrong turn, insulted Harry for the amount of noise his shoes made, and stared at the boy when he thought he wasn’t paying attention. Harry had noticed, and it unnerved him. The man’s face, his expression, was so alike to the Snape in the dream that Harry found he had to turn away. “Poppycock,” the man growled, yanking Harry onto the moving staircase.

They entered the office, Snape in front wearing a displeased expression, Harry being pulled along, equally displeased. Dumbledore smiled at the both of them, giving his usual greeting of an offering of lemon drops, which both refused. “Harry, please sit down. I am sure you are both wondering what I have called you in for. Severus, if you would be so kind.” He motioned to the door. Snape, taking a hint, strode out curtly. “He is waiting outside,” Dumbledore explained at Harry’s questioning gaze. “I wanted to speak with you first, Harry. It’s true you had a dream this summer? Concerning professor Snape and a rather unsettling change in your appearance?” Harry, unsure of how to answer such a question, simply gave an uncertain nod. “You were worried, Harry, and you had every right to be. You are changing, Harry—your face, your body. It is little wonder you’ve become, ah, how did Molly put it?—a tad short-tempered as of late, no?”

Harry was starting to shake. “No, professor, you’ve got it wrong. That–that was just a dream. My face, I mean, everyone changes, don’t they? I’m getting older, right? Of course I’m changing a bit, I’m just getting older...”

Dumbledore chuckled. “I thought this was how you would react, Harry, and I must say I am relieved. But I you have to listen to me—no, don’t argue—listen. What I am about to share with you is both important and dangerous. It has to be taken seriously. Do you understand?” Harry nodded again.

“I am not entirely certain how all of this came to be, but it is very important that you pay attention and just listen to me.” He cleared his throat. “When your mother had you, Harry, she was worried. She called for me one night. You were but a week old. Positively adorable, if I might add.”

Where was Dumbledore going with this?

“She was afraid that...You see, Harry...We did a paternity test. The results, they were disturbing to say the least. You must remember that she loved your father very much, Harry. She...What I am trying to tell you is...this isn’t going to be an easy thing to hear, but you must listen to me. No—just listen.”

Harry was beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable. He didn’t like the direction this conversation was taking at all.

“For the five years you have been attending this school, you and professor Snape have shared a rather interesting relationship.”

He didn’t like where this was heading at all.

“I believe it would be a good opportunity for you to get to know professor Snape.”

“Get to know Snape?” Harry repeated dubiously, not liking the sound of it. Snape would rather swallow Throat-Constricting potion than spend time with Harry, that much was for sure.

“I’ve arranged,” Dumbledore said loudly, “for you to spend the Christmas holidays with professor Snape at his home, as (dare he say it?)...father and son.”

Harry, who had been mid-way between swallowing a lemon drop, coughed and choked it back up. No way. No bleeding way this was happening. He paused, waiting for Dumbledore to say something like, “My dear boy, I was only joking with you!” It never came. “You’re kidding, right?”

Dumbledore, it appeared, was not “kidding.” “My dear boy, I tell you this sincerely! I know this is difficult for you after all these years, Harry, but your mother wished for you to have a happy childhood without all of this hanging over your head. She wanted your view if your parents to be untainted.”

“Happy? With the Dursleys? Well, it’s a bit late for that, then, isn’t it?” He stood, knocking over his chair in the process. “This has to be a joke. Tell me this is a BLOODY JOKE,” he screamed. Good Lord, not another repeat of last year. Dumbledore frowned, extending his hand.

“Harry please—”

“NO! NO, STOP IT! YOU CAN’T DO THIS TO ME! YOU CAN’T JUST UP AND CHANGE EVERYTHING, LIKE IT DOESN’T EVEN MATTER! LIKE I DON’T ALREADY HAVE ENOUGH ON MY PLATE WITH BLEEDING VOLDEMORT AND A STUPID PROPHECY AND THE MINISTRY! LIKE I WASN’T ALREADY ABNORMAL ENOUGH! NO!”

“Harry, if you would only let me explain—”

“NO! I’M SICK OF YOU EXPLAINING EVERYTHING! I’M DONE WITH ALL OF THIS!”

Harry had had it. He really had. They had to be joking, the whole lot of them. Who did they think they were kidding? He wouldn’t, he refused, to believe such outlandish lies. James was his father, James! “LEAVE MY LIFE ALONE!” And with that, he was out the door, speeding past Snape, ignoring Dumbledore’s futile protests. No.

“Harry! Harry, come back, please!”

“Potter!”

“Harry, you don’t understand!”

Oh, but he did understand. He understood very well, thank you very much. He just didn’t like what he heard.

“That idiot boy,” Snape cursed. Who did he think he was storming out on the headmaster like that? “Headmaster?”

Dumbledore was slumped in his desk, head in his hands. “Ah, Severus. He’ll be back, won’t he? It was just a surprise, just an awful surprise. He’ll be back...”

Snape raised an eyebrow, puzzled. “I haven’t any idea what you mean,” he said flatly.

Dumbledore motioned to the chair that hadn’t been thrown to the ground. “I have much to tell you, Severus. Very much indeed...”

O O O

An hour later, Snape was sitting in his chair, giving Dumbledore what had to be his most venomous glare to date. The room had been silent for at least five minutes when he at last chose to speak.

“You mean to tell me that that boy, that person out there is my...” He couldn’t bring himself to taint his lips with such a vile word.

“Son,” Dumbledore stated matter-of-factly. “He is, in all technicalities of the word, your son, Severus.”

“Why tell me now? Why wait? Why tell me at all, Headmaster?” Snape was up and pacing. He had more decorum than to run out of the room or start throwing things, although the thoughts were tempting. This was too much. Potter. The bloody Boy-Who-Lived-To-Give-Him-Gray-Hair. There was no way in hell that boy was his sodding son.

“It was Lilly’s idea, Severus. I am merely a messenger, instructed to act should she not be here herself when Harry began to change. Unfortunately, our worse-case scenario came true, and it is me sitting here, loading all of this on you and Harry instead of her. I offer you my deepest regrets, Severus, but I would have broken my word had I told you sooner, and my word is something I hold in very high esteem. Enough about history. We need to discuss yours and Harry’s safety. I believe he should continue Occlumency lessons. Should your relationship ever be revealed—it could be fatal. I also think it would be nice if you and Harry could spend some time together, do a bit of bonding. That’s why I have arranged for the two of you to spend the Christmas holidays in your home, Severus. It would help you two to gain new understandings of one another.”

It made perfect sense. The disturbing conversation with Lupin, the change in the boy’s appearance, certain distinct similarities that even Snape himself couldn’t disassociate. Snape rubbed his temples furiously, all the while thinking, the greatest mind in the wizarding world is telling me to take Potter to my house so that we can bond. They might as well reserve a room in the mental ward at St. Mungo’s...

O O O

For Harry Potter, one thing was certain: he most definitely was not going to live to his seventeenth birthday. What with the combination of Voldemort trying to kill him at every turn and his newly revealed...Snape...he doubted he’d even last a couple of months.

But...this was all starting to become clear for him. He’d been changing over the weeks since his sixteenth birthday, and not to his liking. James was slowly disappearing, and, just as in the dream, Snape’s strong features were taking their place. Harry dared to wonder if, just as in his dream, his friends would begin to hate him. Surely they wouldn’t stoop so low? He had known them for far too long for them to simply dismiss him for a genetic flaw that he most definitely could not help. Still, the memories of fourth year when Ron hated him for being in the tournament, and even fifth year after the Prophet’s continued bashing turned his friends against him kept their hold on his brain. What would the Weasleys say, Remus? What would Sirius say?

Sirius indeed. Sirius would have still loved him, wouldn’t he? He liked Harry for who he was, not who his father was. Hadn’t he run away from home when he was sixteen? Because of his parents? Harry considered following his godfather’s example. Running away would be so simple. He could disappear forever and forget about Voldemort, forget about Snape breathing down his neck for mixing the wrong potion ingredients. Good Lord, what about potions? How could he sit in that class, knowing what he knew, trying to mix dangerous ingredients to produce something that would satisfy even Snape’s high standards? He did poorly enough in there as it was. And now this was being added on as well. Harry groaned.

“Harry? What are you doing in here?”

He turned over, his heart bursting with relief at the sight of Hermione peeking around the door. She sidled in, sitting on the floor next to his cot.

“Why are you in the Room of Requirement? I thought you had to speak with Dumbledore.” She glanced around, puzzled by Harry’s odd choice of decor. The room was much smaller, about the size of a cupboard. There were pillows everywhere, a small metal replica of an armed military man on horseback, and a cot. The shelves lining the walls were full of cleaning products, a small stack of clothes, a pair of socks, and book entitled “Wheels!”. It was lit by a single naked bulb, the pale light revealing several spiders scuttling along the ceiling. Harry hardly seemed to mind. “Why is it so small? It looks like a...” Hermione’s face changed from puzzlement to understanding as it dawned on her just what Harry had created. He told her and Ron once about the Dursleys and the cupboard under the stairs in which he spent most of his life. Why would he be recreating it in here? What happened in that conversation with Dumbledore?

As if to answer her question, Harry choked out, “I used to hate it in here, when they locked me in. I felt like one of those caged-up animals at the zoo. But I only really hated it because they did it. It was different when I could go there of my own accord, no orders, not locked in. I knew I could leave if I wanted to, and it wasn’t so scary and dark anymore. It’s kind of nice, the cupboard, once you get used to it.” He sighed, emitting a low, rattling breath. “Being closed in, it kind of feels like this is it. This is the world. Nobody expects anything of me in here. I’m just the boy, really. The cleaning stuff doesn’t expect me to kill a manic evil wizard. That soldier, he doesn’t hate me because my father is someone who hated him. Was someone who hated him. I can talk to the spiders and count the vowels in the labels on the bottles. I can pick holes in Uncle Vernon’s old socks until Dudley comes by and decides to have his fun. He only expects me to run, and I’m good at that. Good at cleaning, too,” he added as an afterthought. Hermione listened attentively, fighting the urge to slap Harry to his senses. “I’m just Harry in here, and you know what, I kind of like. I don’t care what that bastard says. Do I have his nose, Mi? Is it really so crooked? Uncle Vernon says I’ve got a big nose, but I think his is really bigger than mine. I think I’ll measure it one day, just to prove him wrong. He won’t believe me, though.”

Hermione was beyond confused by now. What in the world was wrong with Harry? Was he gone mad? “Harry,” she whispered very softly, as though afraid of arousing some violent spirit within him. “What happened with Dumbledore?”

Harry, however, wasn’t paying her the slightest attention. Like a child in need of an afternoon nap, he had turned to focusing on every bad aspect of his life. “And Aunt Petunia says my mum was a freak. Does that mean I’m a freak? Why is Dudley such a prat all the time? What d’you think Malfoy’d make of him? And why is Malfoy such a git? Why does Ron hate me, Mi? Is it my face? I can’t help it if I look like him, you know.”

“Harry, wake up! Come back, Harry! You’re not with your uncle, and Ron doesn’t hate you. What’s wrong, Harry? Tell me what happened!” She shook him frantically, relieved when he rolled over to face her.

“Why are you yelling at me, Hermione? Did something happen? Is Ron okay?” He glanced around wildly, looking almost surprised to see their surroundings. “This has got to be a dream.”

“Room of Requirement,” Hermione explained briskly. “I found you in here, rambling about, well, I don’t know what you were rambling about, actually. You kept making references to a “him”. Who is that? Wow, Harry, what happened to your nose?”

Harry’s eyes filled with terror. “My nose?” he repeated, reaching up with a trembling hand. Oh, no. His nose. His perfect little nose. Why the hell did it feel so funny? It was longer, and there was a slight bulge at the bridge. “Sweet Merlin.” Without warning, Harry jumped off the cot, scrambling out of the cupboard.

“Harry? Where are you going? Harry, come back! What happened? Harry!”

Hermione called to him from down the corridor, but he ignored her. Severus Snape had a hell of a lot of explaining to do.

Severus Snape was just sitting himself down to a relaxing night of reading when the door of his study burst open.

Sweet Merlin, it was Potter.

The last person on Earth he wanted to see, and there he was, hands on his hips, face livid. Nursing his glass of scotch, Snape stood.

“Another detention, Potter, and I expect a full explanation of just why you feel it necessary to burst into my office at seven o’clock at night.”

Potter’s answer caught him completely off-guard.

“How come your nose is so big?” The boy complained, scratching at his nose, which had indeed turned into something somewhat resembling Snape’s own, although without being hooked.

Raising an eyebrow, the man said silkily, “Sit down, Potter, and stop whinging like an over-grown child. You are sixteen.”

“I’m quite aware of my age, thanks,” Harry snarled, dropping into a chair opposite Snape.

“Ten points from Gryffindor. I expect you to show more respect toward a professor.” Toward your father. Snape shook the words from his head, downing the scotch in a single gulp. That felt a little better.

“Sorry, professor.” The boy bit his lip angrily, green eyes flashing with fury. He snapped his fingers simultaneously, frowning at the jars of slimy substances adorning the walls. “So what’s it like—your house, I mean. Some big, stuffy mansion?”

Snape coughed, setting the glass down on his desk. “Respect, Potter. That will be another, say, thirty points from Gryffindor, and what my house is like is irrelevant. You will be going there whether it is a “stuffy mansion” or a shack on the Thames.”

“And what if I decide not to?”

The boy was really testing his limits, wasn’t he? Fortunately, Snape had someone else to place the blame on tonight. “You will obey the headmaster, Potter. End of discussion.”

“If this is what it’s going to be like, then I’m out,” Harry said scornfully.

“If it’s going to be like what, may I ask?”

“Your...You know perfectly well what I mean! I won’t do it. I can forget everything. I’ll cast a memory charm on myself if I have to.”

“It would be my pleasure to cast it, I assure you,” Snape sneered. Ah, if only things were that simple. Pity.

“Fine.” The boy stood brashly, storming out of the room once again.

Impertinent fool. He would have to be broken of this running away habit. If Snape had ever walked out on his father with such blatant disrespect... “And don’t expect me to call you dad, or anything!” the boy called back. Reluctantly, Snape rose for his feet and went after Potter. That blasted boy would be his downfall one of these days.

“Potter!” With two deliberate strides, Snape planted himself right in front of Harry, grasping the boy’s robes in his outstretched fist and slamming him, none too gently, into the stone wall. Harry gasped. “You fool,” Snape hissed. “Do you really think it wise to run around the dungeons, around the entrance to the Slytherin common room, broadcasting this situation? Think, Potter! Who do you know in Slytherin that would go to any length to see your demise? Whose father is a known Death Eater? Who?”

Harry blinked, reality washing over him like a douse of ice cold water. “Malfoy,” he whispered, eyes darting around, as though expecting the blond boy to round the corner at any minute. “And get off me.”

“Into my office at once, boy,” Snape ordered, shoving Harry back down the hall. His eyes were glittering dangerously, nostrils flared. Indigent and stubborn as always, Harry did his best to slow them down, dragging his feet along the corridor until Snape snatched him up by the back of his robes and half-dragged, half-marched him back into the office. “It is time you and I had a little chat...”

It seemed to Harry that he had been sitting in Snape’s office for decades, listening to the man drone on about respect and prudence. Now he was asking about the Dursleys. Harry straightened in his chair, not wanting to give anything away, and said stiffly, “My relatives are irrelevant, sir.”

Gritting his teeth furiously, Snape allowed himself a single moment to fantasize tossing the retched boy out of the window. Quoting his own words, the nerve of that boy.

“How did you behave around your muggle relations, Potter?” He paced the space in front of Harry, wand held behind his back, greasy black hair swooping with each change in direction. Not waiting for the boy’s answer, he plowed on, “With the same lack of disrespect, I am sure. No doubt they pampered you, boy. You must have been the king of their universe, but let me share a little secret with you—I am not going to pamper you. I will treat you as I treat every other student here, regardless of...other circumstances. You have earned yourself a very low place in my esteem, Potter, and recent events will do absolutely nothing to change that fact. You are a reckless, impulsive, selfish fool, and I will most certainly not allow such behaviour from someone of my—the same rules that apply to the students in my house now apply to you, boy, and I expect you to follow them.”

“And what are they, sir?” Harry sat coolly in his chair, po faced, scratching his nose. It felt so big. Well, it least it wasn’t hooked.

“You will address me with the due respect! You will follow my direction without question! I happen to know just a tad more about life than you, Potter!” He took a moment to calm himself, not wanting the situation to get any more out of control than it already was. “I expect your grades in my classroom to be exemplary. Your behaviour in my classroom—in anywhere—should be beyond what it expected by everyone else. There will be no late-night strolls around the castle, no trips to the Forbidden Forest. I know you, Potter, and I know how your weak mind works. This is not the time for childish games and naïve shows of strength! You will follow the rules I set, or—”

“Or what?” Harry asked calmly, sounding far more collected than he felt. Snape’s glare was enough to make him reconsider what he was about to say, but he went on anyway. Impulsive fool! The words echoed around in his brain, taunting him. Everything was a lie. The man you believed in was a bully, his victim is your father! Where is James Potter now, Harry? Would he have even wanted you if he knew? Would he want Snivellus’s bastard? And what of Sirius? He saw only James in you. He wouldn’t have cared anymore. He wouldn’t have died for you. “Or what? Are you going to give me detention? What will you do, ground me?” It was almost laughable, but the heavy atmosphere of Snape’s office and the reality of what was really happened made it more serious. Snivellus’s bastard.

Snape’s hand appeared, it seemed, out of thin air, heading straight for Harry’s head.

He ducked, but it didn’t matter anyway. He wasn’t being hit. The man was merely reaching for his bottle of scotch. Snape moved slowly, pouring himself a glass before replacing the bottle on the desk, then sipping it at a snail’s pace, as though searching for an answer. Finally, his mouth opened, expelling a single terrifying question, “Do you remember today’s lesson, Potter?”

Throat-Constricting potions. Harry’s mouth went bone dry. Snape was going to make him swallow a Throat-Constricting potion. He tried to say something, but his mind wasn’t making connection with his mouth. No! Snape wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t dare.

“Of course I’m not going to make you swallow a Throat-Constricting potion, you fool!” Relief. That was okay then. Certainly there wasn’t much the man could do. “Today’s lesson, Potter! Think, dammit! Use that blasted brain of yours for once.”

Today’s lesson...He couldn’t remember it. There was Colin coming in, Harry getting in trouble, Dumbledore’s news, running. He went to the Room of Requirement, finding solace in the cupboard under the stairs. But what had the bloody lesson been about?

“You don’t remember? Tut, tut. Not so great are we, Potter?” Snape was smirking, obviously enjoying himself. He leaned close to Harry’s face, black eyes boring into bright green. “Imagine,” he said loftily, stepping back, “having to look like me for the rest of your life.” There it was, that spark of fear in Potter’s eyes. Just the reaction he needed in order to knock some sense into the boy. “Oh, yes,” he drawled, flicking his wand at a row of vials lining the wall. A small, crystalline substance zoomed into his hand before being shoved under Harry’s nose. “I can make you immune to any glamourie. Your genetic will take full control, changing your appearance a bit more than would be comfortable.” Snape’s voice was dangerously low, a determined, hard look gleaming in his eyes.

“You wouldn’t,” Harry breathed, breaking the mood. “It would be too dangerous. People would recognize me right away.”

“You think so?” Snape shook his head. “What if Harry Potter was sent away to prepare for the war? What if he sent letters to his friends, backing up that story? I could arrange it quite nicely, you know. Harry Potter leaves. Padriac Snape arrives at a private school of magic in Italy. By law, I can send you to any school I wish. I can legally or illegally arrange for your name to be changed, your entire identity.”

“You’re a bastard. You’re such a sardonic bas—” Harry started, his voice finding some hidden inner strength.

“No,” Snape corrected. “By technicality, Potter, you are the bastard.” His words were biting and cold, yet truthful. Harry was, in every technical sense of the word, an illegitimate bastard. It was enough to make him want to rip off Snape’s smug, pale face.

Harry jumped to his feet, face pink, fists trembling. It was a battle not to take out his wand and curse every inch of Snape he could reach, a battle almost lost. He couldn’t help the mistakes other people made. The mistakes his parents made. Why the hell was Snape playing this off as if it was somehow Harry’s fault? Because Lilly wasn’t here to explain? Because the years of believing he was tormenting the son of his old enemy turned out to be lies? Filthy lies. The last time Harry had left this office, he was being chased out with jars of slimy things thrown at him. This scene now, devoid of any yelling or violence, with only a deadly serious potions master and a glass of scotch, seemed somehow surreal. He felt himself moving again, out the door, down the hall. Snape simply stood and watched. Stood stock-still and watched him walk away, that awful smirk still playing on his face.

O O O

The common room was mostly empty when Harry arrived. The Creevey brothers waved from a far corner where they had been working on defense spells. Hermione was sitting at a table with a pile of homework and a grumpy Ron, mouthing over and over again if he was okay. He ignored her, rushing past the piles of homework, pushing Ron out of the way.

You wouldn’t care if you knew. You wouldn’t even pretend to like me anymore, not for a minute. You wouldn’t want to be friends with Snivellus’s greasy bastard.

The dormitory was silent, a welcome sound to his buzzing ears. It was calm, almost serene. He dropped heavily onto his bead, pulling the curtains clothes.

Dean and Neville and Seamus slept on.

Inside his cocoon of blankets and pillows, Harry was lying on his side, his legs drawn up, forming a kind of demented “S”. He closed his eyes, focusing on regulating his breath. What had Remus been telling him all summer? “Focus on just breathing, Harry. Just breath, just be. In and out. Just keep breathing.” If only it were so easy. Harry’s throat felt as if it was slowly closing up. He thought back to the vial in Snape’s office and his breath went shaky again. Just breath, Harry. In and out, that’s it.

It was getting hot under the blankets, but he made no move to rearrange them. The sweltering heat was a relief to the numbness in his body. He tried to focus on sleeping, repeating the word over and over again. It was an old trick he’d invented to solve sleepless nights in the cupboard under the stairs. Sleep, Harry. Sleep and forget today. Give yourself a couple of hours to escape.

As he was beginning to drift of, Harry could have sworn he heard Dumbledore whispering, “Numbing the pain for a while will only make it worse when you finally feel it.”

And he really couldn’t give a damn.

O O O

The next few days seemed to Harry to be the longest he’d ever experienced. All of his professors seemed to have some vendetta against him. Snape’s classes, by far, were the worst. It took all of his energy to keep himself from launching off the desk and shoving his pestle down the greasy git’s throat. Unfortunately, such actions would probably land him in far more trouble than was wise, so he restrained himself, but barely.

“Your Dreamless-Sleep Elixirs should now be dark green,” Snape announced, regarding Harry’s cement-like concoction contemptuously. “Twenty points from Gryffindor, for failing to follow direction.”

“But that’s not fair!” Harry burst, his fists clenched. He watched Neville battling his own cauldron, which was spewing what appeared to be tar. Next to him, Hermione sneezed, tugging discreetly on his robes. He ignored her.

“Another twenty points,” Snape snarled, emptying Harry’s cauldron with a flick of his wand. Leaning in close so that only Harry could hear, he hissed venomously, “And the next time you wish to speak, you will raise your hand, Padriac.”

Harry spent the rest of the lesson gritting his teeth in suppressed rage.

“Can you believe the nerve him? I mean, where does he come off docking all those points off Gryffindor like that? Mine wasn’t the only bad potion,” Harry exploded, pushing past a group of second year girls that were ogling him.

“I know, Harry,” Hermione said, sounding tired. “But since when has Snape ever been fair?”

Adjusting the strap on his bag, Harry rounded the corner to the Great Hall, biting his lip. “Well, he never has to me, has he? But you’d think he’d lay off once in a while, especially considering...” He trailed off, quite aware of the fact that he had almost revealed the secret to Hermione in the middle of a crowded corridor.

“Considering what?” Oh, no. She sounded interested.

“Well, it was sort of his fault Sirius died, wasn’t it? Partly, anyway—Oh, look, it’s Ron!”

Ron had arrived just as Hermione was about to open herself, saving Harry from a possible row.

“How was potions?”

The trio quickly found seats at the Gryffindor table, eying the food ravenously.

“Horrible,” Harry expelled miserably, pushing his peas around. “Lost at least fifty points for us, haven’t I?”

“Excellent, excellent,” Ron said absently, stuffing his face with bread and chicken. “Free period all morning, and I haven’t got any homework to ruin it with!”

Hermione sputtered, dropping her goblet of pumpkin juice with a heavy “clunk”. “How come? You’ve got Transfiguration just the same as me and Harry, and McGonagall assigned a huge essay. You can’t mean to say you’ve already finished yours?” She stared hard at Ron’s face, scrutinizing him. It was obvious that Hermione believe Ron to be lying. Sadly, Harry found he had to agree with her.

“Not anymore, I haven’t,” Ron announced confidently, pushing away his plate to grab a massive chocolate chip cookie from one of the plates that had suddenly appeared in front of him.

“And how come?” Hermione sounded suspicious. Harry busied himself with his food.

Ron patted his prefect’s badge contentedly, finishing off the cookie and following with a gulp of pumpkin juice. Smacking his lips, he boasted, “Well, I’ll be off then. Lot’s of time to kill, you know. Think I might go see Seamus. His mum’s sent him a signed poster of the Chudley Cannons!”

Before he could leave, however, Hermione, with her eyes narrowed to slits, started forward, seizing him by the collar.

“Ron, you didn’t!”

“Erm, did what, exactly?” Ron was suddenly looking very interested in Lavender Brown’s new hat, which she was displaying loudly.

“You did, didn’t you? Oh, Ron.”

“Did what?” Harry and Ron asked at the same time.

Hermione glared at them each in turn before responding with a hissed, “Who’s writing it for you?”

Harry was still hopelessly lost, while Ron stared at the ground, his ears turning bright red.

“Oh, come on, Hermione, it’s not like it matters, anyway! When am I honestly going to have to know the twelve properties of furniture transfiguration?”

“Who?” Hermione demanded.

“ThisfourthyearRomildaVane,” Ron muttered, looking to Harry for support. Harry shrugged. He didn’t want to get involved in another row.

“Who?”

“Romilda Vane. I promised her I’d get Harry to write her a note—sorry, mate,” he added, nodding to Harry, who, once again, shrugged as though he didn’t care. He had to expect people would be curious about him still, and for some reason, a lot of girls suddenly seemed very interested in the boy who the Prophet was now calling the ‘Chosen One’.

“Ron!”

“What? Harry doesn’t mind, you saw!” Ron jeered back defensively, his hands clutched into fists. “And if you have such a problem with it, then you can stay away from me!”

“I only have a problem with it, because it’s an abuse of your power as a Prefect,” Hermione snarled, flipping her hair. “And you know it’s wrong, too, Ronald Weasley, so don’t act as if I’m the only one singling you out!”

“Fine!”

Harry sighed as the two stalked off, frowning. He thought they had solved the bickering last year. Figuring there was no use in sticking around when he wasn’t hungry, he stood and started to leave, but was distracted by Remus’s rather obvious absence, and the pointed glare that Snape was shooting his way. That could only mean one thing: Harry was in some kind of trouble for something he probably didn’t do, and Snape didn’t want him going anywhere. Rubbing his eyes tiredly, he dropped back onto the bench. This had better be good.

After what seemed like ages, the Great Hall slowly began to empty. At Snape’s bidding, Harry remained where he was seated, waiting for the man to summon him. At long last, the Hall emptied, and Snape waved the boy up to the professor’s table, lazily sipping from a glass of what appeared to be white wine.

However, when he looked up, Snape was gone.

Cursing the man, Harry made his way off to Gryffindor tower to begin work on his essay.

“Snape! Hey, Snape!” It was Draco Malfoy. His blond hair shone under the bright sun above. “Snape!”

Harry glanced around, looking for the professor. He was nowhere to be found, so why was Malfoy still calling?

“Finally! I’ve only been calling you for the last six minutes,” the boy drawled, leveling with Harry.

Harry looked around, but there was no one behind him. In fact, him and Malfoy were the only ones in the hallway period. “I was in a hurry,” he heard his own voice snap, cold and indifferent. “What do you want?”

Malfoy smirked, pulling a newspaper clipping from his bag. Harry snatched it eagerly, scanning the page.

HARRY POTTER ABANDONS WIZARD-KIND?

It is believed that Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, has left the people he was supposed to protect to save his own life, writes Rita Skeeter, a correspondent for the Daily Prophet. Potter mysteriously disappeared one night two weeks ago and has not been seen since. The headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore, was not available for comment, but we did get this message from the school...

Harry stopped reading, his eyes wide in horror. Malfoy was laughing. “Pretty good, huh? I always knew Potter would run one day. Imagine thousands of people placing their lives in the hands of a stupid Gryffindor. It’s absurd.”

“And what about the Dark Lord? What is he planning now that Potter is gone?” He fought to keep the anxiety out of his voice. He couldn’t give himself away, not now. His life was at risk here. Malfoy could kill him. There was no one around, he thought, remembering the Voldemort from his vision last year. No one to hear you scream.

“I don’t know, but my father says it will change everything. With Potter safely out of the way, the tables are turned. We’re going to win the war.”

“The war?” Harry blinked. Malfoy was no longer standing before him. It was Dumbledore now, his blue eyes serious, their mystical twinkle having dimmed.

“Yes, Padriac, I’m afraid this will greatly affect the war. We need you back, as Harry.”

He could feel his chest tightening. Dumbledore’s gaze was intense, piercing. “No,” he said softly. “I can’t be Harry Potter again. Don’t you understand? I’m not James Potter’s son. I’m the bastard saviour of people who, up until my eleventh birthday, I had no idea even existed. My mother died for the wrong cause. I’m the Death Eater’s son, the double-crossing spy. People don’t want me anymore. They want Harry Potter, professor, and I can’t be him anymore. I can’t be anyone.”

Dumbledore’s eyes were misty. “I was afraid you would say that, Harry.”

Dumbledore’s beard began to shrink. Snape stood in his place, cold and calculating, his wand drawn and pointed at Harry.

“I told you to concentrate, boy! I told you to focus!” His eyes were hard and stormy, filled with disgust, with loathing for the sight before him. Harry bowed his head.

“I’m trying, sir! It’s a bit difficult when you’re screaming at me!”

His cheek was stinging as Snape’s open palm pulled away, the skin turned red from the impact. “Didn’t I tell you what would happen if you disrespected me again? Didn’t I tell you?”

Uncle Vernon was glaring down, a broomstick in his hand, mustache quivering with fury. His beet red face was trembling with suppressed rage. “I told you! Get out of my sight, boy! I can’t stand to look at your disgusting face a second longer!”

“Look a your face. You look just like him.” Sirius was glaring. “Why did you come here? I didn’t need your help. I could have done this all by myself.”

Ron’s ears were pink. His pale face stuck out, eerily white in the gathering darkness. “I didn’t need help from some greasy git! Get away from me!”

“Get away from me!” Remus was transforming, his face contorted with pain. “It hurts, Harry, I know it does, but you have to stand back! You can’t help this.”

His mother. She looked so sad. Her green eyes were dim and brimming with tears. “You couldn’t help this, Harry, dear. You couldn’t help any of it. It was a mistake.”

“A bloody mistake! That’s all you were.” James was pacing, his jaw tense. “You were supposed to have been mine!”

It was Voldemort, his red eyes flashing, bloody dripping from his mouth. His nostril slits widened. “You were my prize! You were mine!” Cedric and Mr. Crouch were floating behind Voldemort, watching the scene somberly. His parents and Sirius stood together in a small group. His mother’s eyes were so sad. And Dumbledore, his chin trembled ominously, the silent figure of Snape glaring from his side, and suddenly his scar was erupting in pain. It seared his skin, crimson blood falling in thick droplets on the clean white snow. Filch was screaming.

“YOU KILLED MY CAT! THAT BOY KILLED MY CAT! HE GOT MUD IN THE HALLWAYS, AND NOW THIS. BLOOD ON MY CLEAN SNOW. DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG IT TOOK TO WHITEN THIS? BLOOD ON MY SNOW!”

His scar was splitting open. His visions doubled, tripled. No one moved to help him. They all watched. Somber. Stationary. It was like a show. Dudley and his friends poked through the zoo bars, laughing at the sign above his cage.

HARRY POTTER: THE BOY WHO LIVED Watch him scream. The saviour of the wizarding world, the illegitimate snake. Watch him die.

“It’s the serpent’s son!”

The were chasing him, laughing and screaming, wands outstretched. “Get him! Kill the serpent’s son!”

Harry Potter awoke, doused in a cold sweat, his Transfiguration essay sticking to his chin like SuperGlue. Frowning, he rubbed furiously at his scar. The pain had lessened, but there was still a dull throbbing in his forehead. He blinked furiously, packing up his essay and heading off to bed.

It was going to be a long year.

"Come in, Potter."

Harry entered the office nervously, biting his lip. Snape had been particularly unpleasant over the past few days, and he wasn’t exactly itching to test the man’s patience.

"I have spoken with the Headmaster, Potter, and we have agreed that your natural features will be restored for your (he grimaced, as though the word he was about to speak was something filthy ) visit. Some alterations will be made, of course, concerning your eye-color and your scar."

"But why?" Harry burst, not able to hold the question in. Why did he have to change his appearance just for Snape’s house? Harry didn’t see Snape changing anything about himself, although it would have been a nice change if he could clean his hair for once. . . . "If it’s just because you don’t like me looking like my dad. . . ."

"James Potter was not your father, Potter," Snape reminded grimly, sounding as though he very much wished it were a lie. "Of course, I shouldn’t have expected you to understand this, It does, after all, require a brain capacity larger than that of three year-old’s. Think, Potter!" The boy was far more foolish than even Snape had suspected. "Think of—" he began, but was interrupted rather rudely by Potter.

"Death Eaters, right? They’d recognize me right away and want me taken to Voldemort, and then you’d be caught as a spy, and, well, Voldemort’d be pleased, wouldn’t he?"

"How many times have I told you, Potter, not to speak the Dark Lord’s name aloud!"

"Sorry, sir," Harry said quickly, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. "But the Death eaters, they come often, do they?" He sounded anxious, but not in a way that most would discussing such matters. Indeed, Harry seemed far more interested in meeting a Death Eater than in avoiding one.

"Not often, no." Snape looked angry. Harry could tell he was pushing his already short limits, but he couldn’t help it. If Bellatrix Lestrange came, he would finally have a clear shot at her. He could avenge Sirius. Unfortunately for Harry, Snape was not fond of this idea. "She does not visit me, Potter, and if I ever catch you thinking of such matter again—" He pointed threateningly to the crystalline bottle. "I do not often play host to Death Eaters. The change in your appearance and name is simply in preparation for the worst case scenario," he explained, staring fixedly at the boy’s face. Entirely Potter’s, disgustingly.

"Do I get to pick my name?" Harry asked hopefully. He couldn’t imagine what kind of name he’d get landed with if Snape was picking it.

"No." The potions master smirked, summoning his bottle of scotch and filling a glass. "I believe the right to chose your name is my responsibility, Potter."

He groaned. Bloody brilliant.

"Therefore, I have decided your alias will be Padriac Eleizer Domingart."

Harry gaped, mouthing ‘Eleizer Domingart’? The name Padriac came as no surprise, seeing as how Snape had already threatened him with it, but Eleizer Domingart? It was absurd.

"He was a student at Accademia di Puro-Sangue, a pure-blood school in the south of Italy. The school was recently annihilated, but the headmaster managed to attain the records of the Domingart boy, as he was the closest match to your appearance and age."

"He’s Italian," Harry choked in disbelief. He was going to be acting as a dead Italian boy? It was perfectly morbid. He had a strong sense that Snape had something to do with the choosing of Padriac.

"British," Snape corrected, taking a heavy drought of his scotch. "16, born in July of 1980. He grew up in Ireland and was only recently moved to Italy, but I doubt anyone will do truly thorough research on the boy. He was oprhaned, so there are no relatives that need to be dealt with." He coughed, giving Harry a pointed glare.

Potter looked positively mortified. Snape allowed himself a small smirk and a swig of scotch, pointing to a rather large stack of papers that were wobbling next to an even larger filing cabinet.

"I have not forgotten your detention, Potter. Alphabetically, academically, and chronologically in order. You have all night, so I warn you to get it done correctly the first time, or you will begin again."

Trust Snape to make an already bad night even worse.

O O O

Harry could hardly believe how quickly the days were going by.

It was already mid-November, with Christmas holidays drawing closer every second. He spent his time preparing the Gryffindor Quidditch team for the first match of the season—having been made Quidditch Captain that summer—and struggling to keep up with the vast amounts of homework the professors kept loading on him. Fortunately, Snape’s detentions had ended a few days ago; he didn’t know if he’d have been able to even survive the workload with those to deal with as well.

To top it all off, Harry was still having his private lessons with Dumbledore. They were becoming increasingly interesting. So far, he couldn’t quite work out how Bob Odgen and the Gaunt family would help him win a war, seeing as they were already dead, but Harry trusted Dumbledore, and if Dumbledore was showing him all of this, there must have been a perfectly good reason for it.

“Harry! Harry, are you even paying attention?”

Hermione was glaring from behind a large stack of books, slamming them down on the table between Harry and Ron.

“Er. . .”

“I was just telling you how—”

She never got a chance to finish, for at that moment, Madame Pince, the librarian, came bustling through, shooing them out and screaming about library rules.

“Back to the common room, then,” said Ron, nodding pointedly in the direction of Gryffindor Tower. Harry shook his head.

“I’ve just remembered something, meet you there!” Without giving them a chance to reply, he sprinted back to the library, avoiding a cackling Peeves who was making his way down the hall with a bundle of matchsticks.

Where could on find old news clippings? Madame Pince swooped down on him, glowering suspiciously.

“Can I help you, young man?” Her nose was wrinkled in distaste, and Harry could tell that she didn’t want to ‘help him’ at all. Still, though, it couldn’t hurt to try, could it? It could save ages of exploring the dusty library shelves.

“Erm, I was just wondering if you had any newspaper clippings, you know, from the Prophet, or something,” he explained, praying she wouldn’t recognize him as the boy who had just been kicked out.

“Anything in particular?”

Harry glanced around, before saying quietly, “About a school—Accademia di Puro-Sangue.”

Madame Pince regarded him for a moment, as if she was trying to guess his motives. Finally satisfied, she led him toward a small corner with labeled boxes of the Prophet arranged in chronological order. With a flick of her wand, Madame Pince summoned one of the boxes and set it down on a table.

“In here,” she said stiffly, pointing to the box. “Mind you put it back when you finish, and don’t make a mess.” She stalked off, lips pursed in an expression that would have done Aunt Petunia proud. Harry grinned to himself and popped open the box, coughing as dust from the lid swirled the air in front of him.

No time to worry about allergies; hr had another lesson with Dumbledore tonight, and the headmaster had assigned him the separate duty to find out as much about Padriac Dagonart as possible.

Pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, Harry dug through the box, pulling out the first paper.

It proved to be excruciatingly dull work. He had gone halfway through the entire box without a single mentioning of Accademia di Puro-Sangue. There was a small article after that about the security measures the school had taken up to protect its students.

Haven’t done a very good job, have you? Harry couldn’t help but think.

He was almost at the bottom of the box when he Saw it:

ITALIAN SCHOOL DESTROYED BY YOU-KNOW-WHO: 200 REPORTED KILLED

Not a week before, Accademia di Puro-Sangue stood tall and proud in the countryside of Italy. Nearly five hundred years old, the school was a beacon of hope to its 200 hundred European students, ranging from ages 9 to 17. The school which was known for it’s strict policy on blood purity, has been believed to be on You-Know-Who’s target list to gather followers for years. Two days ago, the Academy was attacked by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his loyal followers. The entire building was demolished, destroying centuries-old works of art, and all but three of its occupants. “It was just this great explosion,” says one boy—a third year—while tears well in his eyes. “We watched from the field. We could not believe it.” In all of the confusion, several bodies have recently been discovered amongst the rubble, but Italian authorities say that one boy still remains missing. Sixteen year-old Padriac Dagonart, the Boticci (a game similar to Quidditch) captain of one of the school’s former house teams. “The boy’s body had not yet been located, but searchers remain hopeful,” says a representative of the Italian ministry’s Department of International Magical Disasters and Catastrophes (Dipartimento di Internazionale Magico Disastri e Catastrofe), Antonio Bernini. The muggle orphan’s home, St. Peter’s Children’s Home, in Dublin, Ireland anxiously awaits the return of the boy that has lived there since birth.

Pulling out his quill and some parchment, Harry hastily jotted down a few key facts before replacing the article in its proper box.

As much as he loathed Snape, Harry had to admit, the man was clever. How he had managed to find a 16 year-old boy with no living family, captain of his house’s Boticci team, and many people believing him to be dead, was beyond Harry. All it would take now was Dumbledore altering a few records to write that the boy had been found and apprenticed to Severus Snape, and the new identity would be perfect. As a master, Snape would have power similar, if even a bit more, than that of a father’s. He could keep ‘Padriac’ at Hogwarts, or wherever, refusing to allow him to go back to Ireland or Italy.

Replacing the box, Harry went off in search of a book on Boticci.

He found one not much later, and left the library, hiding the slim volume under the sleeves of his school robes. He would need to find a quiet, private place to read, somewhere he would not be disturbed. . . .

I need a place to read, where no one can find or bother me. . . .I need a place. . . .

A tapestry of two knights jousting appeared at once on the wall. One, the Red knight, looked up when Harry approached and promptly fell off his horse.

“Who are you and what is your business?” His little voice was commanding. The Blue knight watched silently.

“Har—Padriac Dagonart, and I need a quiet place to read,” Harry stuttered, holding out his book to back himself up.

The knight narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing him. At long last, he said in a voice that demanded obedience and respect, “A noble name. You may enter, sir, but only you.” He peered around, as if expecting someone to jump out from behind a pillar or under an invisibility cloak.

“Thanks.”

The room had transformed itself into a comfortable-looking study. A fire crackled in an antique fireplace, large, overstuffed armchairs surrounding it. There was a desk sitting under a portrait of a peaceful, empty meadow, the green grass blowing gently in the painted-on breeze. The walls were lined with books, bearing titles such as, ‘What’s In a Name: The Secret to Creating a Good Alias’ and, ‘An Adventure in Wizard Genealogy, by Diddiford N. Alcuro. Discover Your Family and All the Rest!”

Clutching his book on Boticci, Harry made his way to an overstuffed armchair and began to read.

Boticci was similar enough to Quidditch for him to be able to understand, but somewhat difficult when it came to the terminology, as it was all in Italian.

The game was played with five balls; the Curotor (Quaffle), two balls that acted like bludgers, called the Botis, a snitch-like ball called the Ciari, and an extra ball called the Doti, which took turns resting on each team’s goal post. If a player hit the Doti off the postwith the Curotor, that team was awarded fifty points. If the player missed, their team lost ten points and had to surrender the ball to the opposing team.

Padriac had played il a trabbocchetto di Ciari, which was basically the position of seeker.

Harry was wishing he could have visited Accademia di Puro-Sangue, if only to have a go at Boticci. Sighing, he set down the book and picked up a history of European pure-blood families. Accademia only allowed student who were ‘pure-blooded’ into their school, so Dagonart must have been a pure-blood.

“Saint-Claire . . . Mudgebludgey . . . Dargomagus . . . Malfoy . . . Prewitt . . . Prince . . . Gaunt (he paused for a moment before moving on) . . .Dorticelli . . . Parkinson . . . Nott . . .Black (skipping over that particular family tree) . . . Weasley . . . Dagonart!”

The Dagonart family were large and looked to have been quite prosperous. They were distantly related to the Prewitts, and a little closer to the Nott and Burdgemagus families. Padriac Eliezer Dagonart was the last of his family line, the son of Nassya Burdgemagus and Norphilius Dagonart. Scanning the tree, Harry realized with a jolt that the boy’s closest living family were the Notts. His mind immediately went to Theodore Nott, who was a Slytherin at Hogwarts. Fortunately for Harry, according to the book, the Nott and Dagonart families had been feuding for over seventy-three years. Theodore had never met his cousin.

Pulling off his glasses, Harry rubbed his eyes tiredly. It had been an unusually long day for a Saturday. He remembered with a fair amount of guilt that he had promised Ron and Hermione he would meet them in the common room. How much time had he taken up reading? Frowning, he glanced at his watch. It was 6:45 pm, fifteen minutes until dinner started. Thinking that Ron and Hermione might be looking for him, Harry placed the books back onto a shelf for safe-keeping and raced out of the secret door, not noticing as the tapestry disappeared behind him.

“Harry!”

Harry came to a screeching halt. Hermione was striding over, a pink-eared Ron in tow.

“Dumbledore said, well, never mind, but I’m supposed to give this to you,” she explained briskly, stuffing a note into his hands. “Where did you run off to? Ron and I have been looking all over, and—what?”

Harry shook his head, crumpling the parchment and stuffing it in his pocket. “Dumbledore’s cancelled our lesson, says something came up, and,” He snorted in disgust, leaning in close so that only Ron and Hermione could hear. “Snape wants to see me tonight about continuing with Occlumency.” The last words were added in barely a whisper. In truth, Snape’s note said Harry had ‘remedial potions’ that night, but he knew what it really meant.

“So much homework lately. Dunno what they’re thinking,” Ron grumbled in complaint.

“Well, we’ve got N.E.W.T.s next year, haven’t we?” Hermione took a sip from her goblet, scanning a heavy-looking book. “You are going to try harder this time, aren’t you, Harry?” She glanced at him anxiously.

Harry, who had been quite pleased not having to take Occlumency anymore, nodded and swallowed a mouthful of porkchop.

“Haven’t got much of a choice, have I?”

The situation with Snape made things far more complicated than they had ever been before. He could no longer consider skiving off detentions or classes. Snape held the power, and there was no doubt that if he got the proper chance, he would most certainly abuse it. Uncle Vernon had always been boasting the power he had over Harry. And while a professor in Dumbledore’s school would most likely be reprimanded for the use of corporal punishment on a student, Harry wasn’t fool enough to underestimate the upper hand given to Snape for his position.

Ron shrugged and dug into his pudding, not noticing Hermione bolting down her food before rushing off to finish an essay for Professor Vector.

O O O

“Come in, Potter.”

Snape was standing in the center of the room, Dumbledore’s Pensieve sitting on his desk, while its silver contents swirled and glistened in the candlelight.

“Wand out, and face me,” Snape instructed lazily, flicking his wand so that the door locked itself. His eyes had a dangerous glint in them, but before Harry could even give it a thought, Snape had raised his wand, shouting, “Legilimens!”

Harry felt as though a bludger had just knocked him in the stomach.

He tried to clear his head as images began flitting past his mind’s eye, like a film reel, showing snippets of the past.

“Harry! Where’s Harry?” His mum was laughing, her green eyes shiny and happy. The doorbell rang, and she stood. “Who could that be?”

He was seven and Uncle Vernon was screaming something about the neighbors’ cat blowing up.

He was eleven, and it was the first time he’d ever seen Severus Snape.

His mum and dad were smiling from behind the glass in the Mirror of Erised.

“You look just like him,” Sirius sneered. “You look just like that filthy bastard, just like dear old Snivellus.”

No . . . not Sirius.

“Aaaaarrggghhh!”

A young man with greasy black hair and a large, hooked nose was being thrown from the Hog’s Head by the stoic barman.

Snape, much younger, was sitting at Dumbledore’s desk, looking unusually nervous. “Sir, I came to tell you . . .”

Harry found himself knocked flat on his back, Snape’s face swimming above him, his pale features flickering in the light from the black tapers, suffused with loathing.

“Stand up, Potter. You are not trying nearly as hard as you ought to! Now more than ever, it is crucial for you to learn this skill! What did I tell you, boy? What did I tell you?”

Before he could stop himself, Harry heard his own voice say coolly, “I’m trying, sir, but it’s a bit difficult when you keep shouting at me.”

Snape’s hand reared back, fingers clawed and ready to strike; Harry was suddenly struck with the peculiar feeling of deja vu. The two stood, frozen, glaring at one another. Harry knew that there was nothing stopping the greasy git hitting him right there. What he could he do, hit back? Somehow, that only seemed as if it would make matters worse.

Time seemed to have stop, two solitary statues standing, bathed in the light from a couple of dying candles, until Snape, his lip curled into a sneer, seemed to think the better of what he was doing and dropped his hand.

“On the count of three, Potter,” he ground out, raising his wand once again. Harry followed suit, feeling slightly confused. “One . . . two . . . LEGILIMENS!”

As hard as he tried, Harry had not been able to clear his mind. The anger and fatigue permeating his body prevented anything even remotely related to his brain from working.

He was in his reading room, looking up Boticceli. There was Hermione, passing along Dumbledore’s note.

“POTTER!”

When Harry at last opened his eyes, he found Snape rubbing his jaw in frustration, the vein in his temple pulsing furiously.

“You are not focusing, boy!” Snape’s eyes narrowed, and he strode forward, Harry’s collar entwined in his clutched fist, shoving the boy into a chair.

“Do you have a death wish, Potter?”

It was all Harry could do to stop his mouth dropping open in surprise; he had no answer.

“The Dark Lord is a powerful Legilimens.” Snape paced up and down in front of Harry’s chair, subconsciously rubbing his left forearm, and Harry was almost certain he knew why. “Imagine if he were to discover this . . .”

“Relationship?” Harry offered, his green eyes dark.

“Silence, Potter. Now—imagine if he were to discover this connection, boy. Surely even someone with a mental caliber as low as yours would not be fool enough to believe that I would be shown any mercy for this discovery. Of course not. He would torture me first for information, before killing me on the spot, and that would be if I was fortunate. The entire resistance would be terminated. No longer would there be a spy on the other side, passing along valuable information needed to win.”

Harry shuddered involuntarily, his eyes not leaving Snape for a minute. How did he know the man wasn’t really evil? How did he know if he could trust ‘Snivellus’? Snape was a known Death Eater, for Merlin’s sake!

“That’s it, then, isn’t it?” His voice was loud, accusing. “That’s all you care about is your own safety. Been double-crossing both your masters, have you? I bet you don’t even care who dies. You don’t care which side wins, as long as it’s the side you’re on. All you care about is saving your own neck, while everyone else is out, risking theirs. The tables turn, and you go along with them, don’t you!”

He did not know why he was letting Snape affect him so much. Harry had grown used to the potion master’s sharp tongue, learning to ignore it, but the past few months had been beyond taxing. He still hadn’t forgiven Snape for last year, for Sirius.

Snape remained frozen, a shadow crossing his face.

“You’re nothing but a coward,” Harry said through clenched teeth. “You’re nothing but great, big sodding coward.”

The room was so still, Harry could have sworn he heard the flames of the candles flickering.

“Get out of my office, Potter.” Snape’s voice was deathly quiet, hoarse, even. “Get out!”

Harry didn’t waste any time in obeying, scrambling out the door, just thankful that none of the jars full of slimy things had been airborne this time.

O O O

“So he just kicked you out? Just like that?” Hermione questioned for what seemed to be the six-hundredth time, sounding shocked.

“Figures, though, doesn’t it? I mean, it is Snape we’re talking about.” Ron ruffled his hair, pushing past a group of first year Slytherins. “So, what—Oi! Give that here, you!” He pulled one of Fred and George Weasley’s Skiving Snack-boxes out of the hands of a small, dark-haired boy. “Next time I’m docking points,” he warned gleefully, watching the Slytherin’s face change from tan to milk-white in a matter of seconds.

“Finally decided to take your position seriously, have you?” Hermione glowed, sounding proud.

Ron ignored her, pulling out a couple of orange and purple sweets. “Blimey, Nodebleed Nougat! That’s the most expensive, that is. Reckon it’s going for about seven sickles a box now, and I’ve only just run out!”

Hermione rolled her eyes, emitting a long, suffering sigh. She had long since given up trying to make Ron a proper Prefect.

“Do you think he’ll let you back? I mean, you did manage to make him lose his temper , but it’s obviously important you learn Occlumency. I’m sure Dumbledore would be furious if he refused to continue with your lessons.”

“Dunno,” Harry said darkly, watching as Malfoy walked by, flanked, as usual, by his cronies, Crabbe and Goyle. “But I don’t reckon Dumbledore’s let him stop.” That seemed to end the conversation for Harry, Ron, and Hermione, but it did little to cease the battle currently waging in Harry’s head.

As though he had just performed Legilimency himself, Ron pressed a sticky, orange sweet into Harry’s empty hand—Nosebleed Nougat. Harry pocketed it, think to himself that it would take a lot more than blood gushing out of his nose to get out of facing Snape.

“Morning, everyone,” Lupin announced cheerfully. He paused for a minute to survey the room, nodding in acknowledgment at the weak, sing-song chorus of ‘Morning, Professor’ as it hit his ears.

A Hufflepuff girl in the back of the room made the mistake of saying ‘Professor Umbridge’, which earned her a fair amount of taunting from all the rest.

Smiling, Lupin silenced them and sent the Hufflepuff girl, who had burst into tears, off to the toilet for a wash.

“Today, we will be learning about Inferi.”

Harry poked his head up, interested. The Ministry Safety leaflet had mentioned Voldemort using Inferi to do his bidding. Perhaps Remus knew of an effective way to kill them off, or something?

“Who can tell me what is the difference between an Inferius and a ghost?”

As expected, Hermione’s hand shot up at lightning speed, nearly knocking of Harry’s glasses.

“How about you, Neville? No? Ron, Seamus? Ah, Harry. Why don’t you have a go?”

Thinking hard, Harry said slowly, “Well, ghosts are transparent, aren’t they?”

Zacharias Smith snickered from the back of the room, lobbing a note at a blond boy with big eyes and a pointed chin.

“Well, yes, I suppose that is true, however, I’m afraid I’m looking for something a bit more—Hermione, did you have something to add?”

Hermione, her face bright pink, began to rattle off everything she had ever read about Inferi, including a painfully detailed account of a Scottish wizard named Blasphemius Barnaby’s own experience battling Voldemort’s Inferi in the summer of 1978.

“Hermione makes an excellent point. Ten points to Gryffindor, and five for you, Harry, for answering. Now, and Inferius, as Hermione pointed out, is a dead body that had been bewitched to walk and do the bidding of its master. It has no soul or life force, just a complex spell that keeps it upright, a bit like a puppet. Inferi are pale and bloodless, tending to shun excessive brightness and warmth, preferring the cool atmosphere of, say—”

“A dungeon?” Harry interrupted. Behind him, Dean and Seamus erupted into a fit of laughter. Ron snorted loudly, trying to cover it with a cough and thanking Neville, who was trying to hide his own amused smile, for slapping his back.

“I can see your confusion, Harry, but we must not get out Inferi confused with our Potions Masters,” Lupin chided good-naturedly, biting back a wry grin. Allowing the class a moment to settle down, he started up his lesson, hoping to Merlin that there would be no repeat of third year, and Severus would never find out about their little joke.

Harry awoke on Monday morning with a renewed sense of energy.

The week hadn’t been to horrible, with the exception, of course, of Occlumency lessons with Snape, but not even those could put a damper on his mood. He had no homework, Quidditch practice (the second match against Slytherin was coming up in two weeks), and Ron and Hermione hadn’t bickered once since Saturday. That, Harry thought, was quite an accomplishment.

"Blimey, what time is it?"

From across the room, Ron stirred in his bed, sitting up and rubbing his eyes blearily.

"Six," Harry answered simply, rummaging through his trunk for fresh trousers and a clean shirt. "And hurry up. I’m starved."

"It’s about time." Hermione was standing at the bottom of the stairs, hands on her hips. "I’ve been up for ages. Parvati’s mum sent post that her cat drowned, so she’s been sobbing all night, and I don’t think she’ll let up for a while . . . ."

Harry sighed contentedly, walking between Ron and Hermione, not really listening to her. He had Occlumency again, and Snape was in worse mood than ever after their last visit together. It seemed he really didn’t appreciate being called a coward, for every paper Harry turned in since had been emblazoned with a spiky, black ‘D’, with the words ‘seeing as how I do not care who dies, I suppose I also don’t mind who fails’, scrawled across the top.

"Oh look!" Hermione gasped, pointing at something across the Great Hall. Harry and Ron turned in unison, mouths dropping open wordlessly.

Lupin was sitting at the end of the table, his face freshly marred with scratches, engaged in what appeared to be a heated conversation with Snape. But that wasn’t the cause of all the commotion.

Behind them, a shame-faced Draco Malfoy was standing with his head bowed, obviously trying to hide something on his face. It was all Harry could do to keep from bursting into laughter at the sight of Malfoy’s face covered with bright red pimples.

"Finally got what he deserved, has he?" Ron sniffed approvingly, helping himself to kippers and toast.

"I wonder what happened to his face." Hermione glanced anxiously at the Staff Table, frowning before adding hurriedly, "it’s not like that, Harry! It’s just curious. He didn’t look like that yesterday."

Harry glared at his toast, stabbing the butter knife through it with such force that it clinked against his plate, leaving a sizable dent. What did it matter if Malfoy got uglier? He tore into his eggs, chewing furiously. The feeling of euphoria he’d had waking up was gone, leaving him with a cold, gnawing anger that refused to subside. What was Malfoy doing that he got his whole face marked up? It was not likely to be a mistake of his own.

"Transfiguration today," Hermione remarked, studying her time-table.

"Bully," said Harry and Ron simultaneously.

Hermione rolled her eyes and returned to her oatmeal, deeply immersed in an essay she’d written for Arithmancy.

"Morning."

Ginny dropped onto the bench between Harry and Ron, glumly pouring herself a goblet of pumpkin juice.

"What’s wrong with you?" Ron asked, not really paying attention. Harry found his heart was beating at least twice normal speed. What was wrong with him? It was just Ginny.

"Potions," she bit out, grimacing, as though it explained everything.

Ron nodded knowingly, looking pleased. "Glad I’m not taking it anymore, dunno if I could have lasted another year with that greasy git."

This time, Harry knew it was not Ginny Weasley making his stomach lurch.

O O O

"Come in, Harry."

Dumbledore was sitting behind his desk, looking grave. He peered at Harry from over steepled fingers, frowning thoughtfully. "Please, have a seat. Thee is much I wish to discuss with you."

"About Voldemort?" Harry asked, sitting. His green eyes were wide and curious.

"No, not tonight," Dumbledore sighed. "Professor Snape tells me you are not making much progress in Occlumency."

Brilliant. Not only did he have to slave through the bloody lessons, but now he was going to be lectured on it as well. What was Snape playing at telling Dumbledore? Did he somehow think it would inspire Harry’s worn-out brain to actually hold on to something?

"No, sir," he said evenly, staring at his knees.

Dumbledore’s frown deepened. "I was almost certain that after last year you would understand the importance of these lessons, Harry. I was certain you would try."

Harry could feel a monster growing in his chest, filled with stress form the past weeks. He hadn’t asked for any of this, had he?

"I can’t learn anything if Snape doesn’t teach me," he blurted out, flushed. "He’s always shouting. I mean, how can I clear my head when he’s telling me what an idiot I am?"

The room was silent, broken only by a small coo from Fawkes. "Professor Snape, Harry," corrected Dumbledore; his blue eyes had lost their twinkle. "I need you to promise me that you will practice Occlumency outside of your lessons with Professor Snape; it is of the utmost importance. I have many things to show you, about your mother, and everything that happened, but it would not be wise to share such valuable and dangerous information with a vulnerable mind."

"Well, if Snape (he could be a bloody janitor for all I care, professor) would actually teach me something, I’d—"

"Harry," Dumbledore interrupted, waving a hand for silence. Harry fell quiet, his lips thin. "There is a wise saying I was told by my brother Aberforth once (I think he read it on the back of a fortune cookie . . .); it said not to spite those who do better than us, but to set them as an example, and to strive for the same level of excellence that they do.—No, before you interrupt—Professor Snape takes Occlumency very seriously. He has to, for the sake of his life and everyone around him. He expects the same respect for his subject from you, and, it is my belief, that he is sorely disappointed by your lack of concern."

"He’s sorely disappointed that I’m his enemy’s son," Harry pointed out bluntly, and, in response to Dumbledore’s knowing look, added, "It’s taking a while to let on, you know, the whole blood thing."

Dumbledore tapped his chin, regarding Harry for a moment. "Christmas holidays are coming closer, Harry."

"I know."

"And you will be spending them with Professor Snape at his home."

"I know."

"Perhaps it would be prudent for you to at least try to pretend to respect him. I don’t expect you two to suddenly create a loving relationship, but feigned respect can take you a long way."

"You want me to like Snape," Harry repeated, his eyebrows knitted.

"Professor Snape, Harry, and I am asking nothing of the sort. I am old, but my mind is still intact." He smiled, popping a lemon drop into his mouth. "But blatant disrespect makes it difficult for Professor Snape to teach you anything. All I expect of you is to be respectful and polite, as you are to everyone else. Put hatred aside for a moment, if only to learn."

"I will if he does," Harry countered, defiant as always.

The Headmaster sighed. "If you can prove to me that by the end of the Christmas holidays, you have mastered enough Occlumency to satisfy both me and Professor Snape, then I will show you something very important, something that will answer a lot of your questions."

"You said you told me everything last year," accused Harry.

"I did. I told you everything you needed to know about Lord Voldemort and the prophecy, however, there are other details that I promised your mother I would wait to share. I will, but you must first try your hardest to learn Occlumency. Do you understand, Harry?"

"Alright," he agreed, reluctantly. "But make him respect me as well."

For the first time that night, Dumbledore allowed himself a full grin.

"Done."

O O O

"Enter."

Snape glanced up from a large stack of papers, his quill poised over an essay on sleeping droughts.

"Sit down, Potter. We will begin in a moment."

Harry dropped unceremoniously into a hard-backed chair, his hair flopping. Try as he might, Dumbledore hadn’t been able to fully restore the electric energy that kept Harry’s hair sticking straight up. As a result, his hair was limper, needed to be washed more often, but all-together likable. Quite a few girls seemed to have noticed as well, for they flocked around him more than ever now.

"Pitiful," Snape murmured. "Potter, did you even read the assigned chapter on unicorn horns?"

There it was again, that sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He remembered Dumbledore’s agreement and fought back a smart answer. "No, er, sir." Sweet Merlin, this was harder than he thought it would be.

"Clearly," Snape scoffed. "Stand up, Potter, and let’s begin."

There was a mad glint in his eye that Harry didn’t like at all.

"Let’s see if you practice Occlumency half as much as you study for my class—Legilimens!"

A four year-old Harry was watching as Dudley opened a new train set, Aunt Marge gushing about how much she knew ‘Diddykins’ would love it.

Eight year-old Harry was being locked in the cupboard, Uncle Vernon hissing about abnormal people.

Aunt Marge was calling his father a drunk, and he was blowing her up . . . .

"POTTER!"

Harry found himself on his knees, the cold stone floor grinding against his bones.

"Sorry, sorry, got distracted," he said hastily, brushing himself off.

Snape looked livid.

"There will be no room for distractions when you are facing the Dark Lord, Potter!"

"I know."

"You don’t know!"

"Look, can we just—"

"LEGILIMENS!"

Uncle Vernon finished off the last bar on Harry’s window, giving a satisfied grunt.

Clear your mind, Harry.

Dudley was screaming from inside the python’s massive tank.

Clear your mind.

I can’t.

Yes, you can, you fool. You’re not trying nearly as hard as you ought to.

Screwing up his face, Harry pushed back with all his might, concentrating hard on getting Snape ought of his mind.

Ron nodded knowingly, looking pleased. "Glad I’m not taking it anymore, dunno if I could have lasted another year with that greasy git."

His stomach lurched again.

Hurry up, you can do it! It’s like Imperius, and Moody made you throw that one off enough, didn’t he?

He pushed harder, focusing only on Snape, only on getting Snape out.

"It’s Snape! Snape’s after the Philosopher’s Stone!" Hermione paced, her eyes wild.

"Potter!"

Harry stood yet again, the feeling of fatigue and failure permeating his body doing nothing to lift his spirits.

"Do you celebrate Christmas, Potter?"

Well, that was certainly unexpected.

"Er, I s’pose so." Harry thought despondently of Uncle Vernon’s old socks and the tissues and coat hanger the Dursleys gave him. Did Snape even celebrate Christmas?

Snape’s face was dark, his black eyes narrowed, focused only on Harry. "If you do not show signs of improving, I will personally make sure that Christmas does not find its way into my home, Potter, and that would include all gifts and post from your precious fan club."

Harry gaped. Snape couldn’t do that, could he? He couldn’t take away Christmas. Dumbledore wouldn’t let him. Surely Dumbledore would have something to say about this.

But Dumbledore took Snape’s side, didn’t he?

"B-but . . ."

"No buts. I will personally ensure that you have the very worst Christmas of your life, Potter."

Harry’s eyes were wide, but angry and indigent at the same time. "That’ll be pretty hard to do, sir. I’ve had some really rotten ones."

"Don’t doubt me, boy."

And he didn’t. Not in the slightest.

"At least he didn’t chuck you out this time, mate." Ron gave him what he obviously meant to be a comforting pat on the shoulder.

"Wish he had," Harry grumbled, mounting his broomstick.

It felt good to be flying again. He felt comfortable flying, like he belonged there. It was the one thing that no one could take away from him, the feeling he got from flying. Not Dumbledore, or Snape, or his mum, or even his dad could ever take this. This was where he could let off all the steam he wanted and not care about rules or being tied down. From on his broomstick, he could look down, and the world seemed tiny, insignificant. Even Voldemort would only be a speck on the grass.

"Here they come!" Ron called, pointing down.

Harry looked, sighing as he lowered his broom the greet the team. "We’re playing a scrimmage today," he addressed them, swinging his leg over the broom handle. Ginny smiled from behind Katie, casting a pointed glare at the two beaters, a third year named Derrick Blaine, and fourth year named Jimmy Green.

"Katie and Dean on one team, Ginny on the other. The rest of you can, well, split yourselves up."

Dean snickered, giving Harry a light punch on the shoulder.

"Setting me against my girlfriend, Harry?"

Something in Harry wanted desperately to punch him, as hard as he could, square in the jaw, but he restrained, content by the annoyed look that passed over Ginny’s face.

"So, er, let’s begin?"

The game started off with Dean scoring on Ron, who missed the Quaffle by nearly six feet, while Ginny dodged a few bludgers, narrowly missing Katie, and shot over to the opposite goal, depositing the Quaffle neatly through the hoop.

"It’s alright, Ron! Keep at it!" Harry called, watching anxiously as Ron charged furiously after the Quaffle, swearing loudly as it flew through his outstretched fingers.

"Come on, Ron, you can do it!" Ginny darted past a bludger, and was just about to make another comment when she stopped dead, not noticing the bludger that narrowly missed the back of her head.

"Ginny, what are you playing at! That was a bludg—" Harry stopped, his green eyes round.

"What’s he doing here?" Ron whispered, flying up next to Harry.

"POTTER!"

The entire Gryffindor Quidditch team gathered protectively around their captain.

"POTTER, GET DOWN HERE, NOW!"

Harry gulped, lowering himself slowly. He would give anything for time to slow down. Ron hit the ground first, followed by Jimmy, Ginny, Dean, Katie, Derrick, and, lastly, Harry.

"Professor," Harry choked, clutching his Firebolt in white-knuckled grip.

"Come with me, Potter. Practice is over."

"You can’t do that!"

"Come on, professor!"

"But that’s not fair!"

The entire team followed Harry, grumbling, as they entered the castle.

"Go on, all of you."

They left, but not before Ginny could shoot Harry a concerned glance. His heart skipped a beat, and he would have been ecstatic, had the mood not been so serious.

Professor McGonagall was white-faced, her lips thin. Harry didn’t think he had ever seen her so angry before, not even when him and Ron had run Mr. Weasley’s flying car into the Whomping Willow in second year. Her hands trembled as they grasped his upper arm, the fabric of his robes tightening.

"Prefessor? What happened? I—"

"Silence, Potter." McGonagall steered him down the hall, her grip strong, cutting the circulation out of his arm.

They proceeded with silence, down the steps of the dungeon, and finally stopping in front of a door that Harry knew only too well.

"Severus, I’ve got him."

The door was pulled open, and Harry was dragged inside, swallowing hard as he was thrust bodily into the office, landing right in front of a furious Severus Snape.

"Potter," Snape greeted, his black eyes cold and empty. There was no order to sit down. The room remained silence, and the atmosphere was so thick, Harry swore he could have cut it with a knife.

"Tea, Severus?" McGonagall offered Snape a paperweight, transfiguring it into a steaming teapot. Snape shook his head, the manic look back in his eyes. She seemed unfazed, pouring herself a cup of tea and sitting at Snape’s desk.

Harry fought the urge to ask what the hell was going on, biting his lip so hard it broke the skin and started to bleed. No one else noticed.

Sipping her tea, McGonagall cast a disproving glare around the room, her eyes settling on a jar of pickled slugs. "I’ve told you, Severus, you really ought to redecorate. How you even work with those things floating around . . . ."

Snape dismissed her with a wave of his hand, his eyes boring into Harry.

"Mr. Potter," he said icily, and his eyes seemed to be on fire. "Do you know why you have been brought here?"

Harry shook his head, trying to fight the nervousness that threatened to take over his body. He shuddered, watching McGonagall out of the corner of his eye and wishing desperately to be in her place, sipping at a cup of tea and looking quite unfazed by it all. What was going on? Was he in trouble? For once, he couldn’t think of a single reason why. Harry had actually managed to stay out of mischief lately, as he was trying to stay on Dumbledore’s best side.

"You don’t, Potter? Are you positive? I am not foolish enough to tell you to use your brain, however," Snape paused, a smug look stealing his features. If anything, it made him even more unattractive than before.

Harry looked to McGonagall. Surely she would step in? He was in her house, after all. Wasn’t she supposed to stick up for him?

But she didn’t move. She sat, drinking tea, and staring, fixated, at a jar of crushed mice skulls. Harry wanted to chuck the jar at her, or Snape. He didn’t know which one was being more infuriating at the moment.

"Minerva, if you would," said Snape, nodding to the door. Taking the hint, McGonagall stood and strode out.

Harry watched, horrified, as the only witness he would have to what was looking t become a horrible scene walked out.

"Professor, wait! What’s all this—"

"Silence, Potter."

Snape waved his wand absently, and the door snapped shut behind them.

"We need no witnesses to this. It wouldn’t be safe."

Harry gulped. Here it was. He was going to be force-fed Throat-Constricting potion, or hexed, or splinched, or something equally as unpleasant, and probably all for breaching some ridiculous rule he hadn’t even known existed.

"Professor, I—"

"Did I not tell you to be silent?" Snape demanded, glancing at the fireplace. "They should be here at any moment," he muttered to himself.

Harry gave him a curious look, but leapt back, when, a moment later, Dumbledore and Lupin stepped out of the fireplace. They straightened, brushing soot from their robes, before moving toward Snape and Harry, looking grave.

"Harry," Lupin offered a small nod, looking uncomfortable.

"Well, Harry, it appears we must act quicker than I thought," Dumbledore said, looking slightly disconcerted.

Harry gaped at him, not sure what to make of it all. Why were they standing around Snape’s office, looking grim? Why wasn’t anyone telling him what was going on?

"Professor, I—" he began again, but was cut off by Snape.

"I said silence, Potter!" The man hissed.

"Now, now, Severus, Harry is merely curious, and he has every right to be," Dumbledore chastised. Harry nodded in agreement, pleased to see that snape had paled.

"I know this has all been very confusing for you, Harry," Lupin began, placing a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder.

He pulled away.

"I want to know what’s going on."

Dumbledore smiled, his eyes regaining their twinkle for a brief moment. "And so you shall, Harry, and so you shall."

"Wha—"

"Severus."

Snape glanced disdainfully at the Gryffindor boy, still clad in his bright red and gold Gryffindor Quidditch robes. Harry felt as though he was shrinking under the man’s frosty gaze, and it wasn’t pleasant.

The room was absolutely silent.

To his left, Harry could plainly see a pair of shrunken heads, their faces contorted in agony. For some strange reason, they reminded him of Snape’s face on the night Harry called him a coward.

"It seems, Potter," he aid softly, stroking the wood of his wand with his thumb. Harry shuddered involuntarily, his body suddenly cold. The room was getting smaller. He fought to keep hold of it, trying to focus on Snape. Lupin’s hand was icy, feeling more like a claw than a fatherly splay of affection and comfort.

"It seems, Potter, that Christmas has come early."

The silence of the room was suffocating, broken only by the occasional crackle of the fire, and Lupin’s tapping foot. Harry blinked. Once. Twice. His mind was whirling with questions. Christmas? Why had Christmas come early? He was going to Snape’s home for the holiday. Did that mean they had to make the trip earlier than planned? Was he going to have to spend more time with Snape? That would certainly explain why the potions master was so angry. Harry chanced a glance at him. He was seething, his black eyes darting around the room so that they were little more than a frighteningly dark, furious blur.

"Perhaps you ought to sit down, Harry," Lupin said kindly, squeezing the boy’s shoulder. Harry winced and pulled away, his eyes wide.

"There is quite a bit of explaining that needs to be done," interjected Dumbledore, pushing Harry into a chair. He turned to Snape, nodding. "Severus."

As though he had been expecting this, Snape sprang into action, his wand drawn. He pointed it at the door, muttering in a language Harry reckoned to be Latin, but who knew for sure? The doors and walls glowed violet for a moment before fading back to their original state.

"For privacy," Dumbledore explained, giving Harry an encouraging smile. "We are in th dungeons, after all, Harry."

Snape jerked, and Harry thought he could hazard a guess at what caused such a movement. This was Snape’s dungeon, and he was probably proud of it, if only a little. It was the same for Harry with his little bedroom back in Surrey. He didn’t like having the smallest bedroom, but anyone making fun of it and he would have shouted himself hoarse.

"What—what does this mean, ‘Christmas come early’, professor? Do I have to go to Snape’s house? (The man twitched again, a vein working in his temple.) Professor McGonagall ended the whole Quidditch practice for—"

Dumbledore held up a finger for silence, that same pleasant smile still on his face, the one that never reached his eyes. "If you would allow me to, my boy, I can give you some answers, or perhaps you prefer to sit and ask questions all night and never be told a thing; the choice is entirely yours."

That shut him up. He clamped his jaw together, eyes staring fixedly on Dumbledore.

"That’s a boy. Now, to business."

Snape and Lupin pulled up chairs, flanking the Headmaster, their faces grim. They said nothing.

"I had hoped you would have at least some rudimentary skills in Occlumency before it came to this, Harry, but Professor Snape tells me you have mastered very little." Dumbledore frowned, the disappointment clear in his voice. Harry squirmed in his chair, uncomfortably aware of the fact that he had done very little to learn as he promised he would. "But there is time, still. As of the moment, you are not in any danger of having Legilimency used against you by anyone who could possibly pose a threat to either you or Professor Snape, however, I would appreciate if you would place these lessons at the top of your priority list, Harry. It is most important."

Harry nodded, suddenly feeling rather stupid, like a small child who has just been reprimanded for not giving in his homework to a favorite teacher.

"As such, I have increased your lessons to three times a week. You may work out times with Professor Snape, although I don’t believe it will be so difficult after—Well, back to the reason we’ve brought you here." Dumbledore’s voice grew serious, the flickering light from the fireplace reflecting off of his half-moon spectacles. Harry’s ears perked up. "For many years, the Ministry of Magic has been trying to revoke your Uncle and Aunt’s rights as your legal guardians, to make you a ward of the Ministry."

Harry’s mouth dropped open, a cry of ‘But, sir!’ escaping his lips. Dumbledore smiled again, holding up his hand.

"I know, Harry, and so it is obvious to you why I have refused them every time. It was simple to thwart them at first. They came during the summer when you would have turned six, politely requesting guardianship and providing countless reasons of why it would be beneficial to you. I, of course, refused, and they could do nothing, as no one knew where your relatives’ house was, and either way, they would never be able to get past the wards. A few years came and went. On your eleventh birthday they requested again, a little more forcefully this time, but none the less polite. Cornelius was clever enough to understand that I would not respond to intimidation. I refused again, saying that your proper place would be at Hogwarts, and then back in Surrey for the summer. It was, after all, the place you would no doubt be safest."

Harry choked, receiving a thunder-eyed glare form Snape and a pitying look from Lupin, he ignored both, and continued to listen to Dumbledore. What was all of this, then? Dumbledore said he’d tell everything in fifth year, so why was this being revealed now, months later?

Seemingly unaware of his student’s unrest, Dumbledore plowed on. "Then you arrived, Harry, and I realized how serious this really was. It was obvious to me that you were not properly cared for with the Dursleys (Snape twitched), and yet I knew that you were still safest with them, so long as they allowed you under their roof. In the summer before your third year, the Ministry came to me once more. Sirius had just escaped Azkaban, and was believed to be after you, as you already know. Cornelius came after me in a way he never had before, and we argued several times. In the end, you were left in Diagon Alley, under the Ministry’s nose enough to satisfy them, but still under the custody of your relatives. I fought all year to keep it that way, and won in the end. Two more years passed by, and by then, the Ministry lost interest. You were no longer important to them, considering how ‘mad’ you were.

"Unfortunately, as luck would have it, my boy, you were proved innocent and completely sane, renewing the pursuit for legal guardianship that had been abandoned before. This summer, I have had several offers and rather rude threats made, all of which I refused." Here Dumbledore stopped, his fingers drumming absently on Snape’s desk, several potions essays knocked from their neat piles and sent spinning to the floor. Harry could almost taste the nervousness and anger in the room, and it made him acutely uncomfortable.

So, the Ministry wanted him, did they? That wasn’t anything new. Fudge had always liked to keep Harry under his nose, and the new Minister probably wasn’t so different. The Ministry, he noted, seemed to follow the same pattern. They blundered things up, tried to cover their mistakes, blundered a bit more, did a bit more covering up, and so on. It was a cycled of idiots trying to look like they knew exactly what they were doing, when they really had no clue at all what was going on. For some reason, the very thought brought to Harry’s mind the image of Snape trying to drive Uncle Vernon’s company car.

"This is not humorous, Potter!" Snape bit out, his face impassive, black eyes unfathomable. He appeared to be deep in thought.

"Really, Severus, let the boy alone. This is very important, and I’m sure Harry understands that, don’t you, Harry?" Lupin’s lips curved into a slight, almost forced-looking smile.

"I—" Harry began, but was interrupted by Snape.

"If everyone let that idiot boy alone, he would be lying six feet under, with nothing but a grave marker, and a legacy of arrogance and disrespect left to him!" said Snape, slamming his fist into the desk. Both Harry and Lupin jumped; Dumbledore, who was in the process of sucking on a lemon drop, paid them no mind.

"Severus, be reasonable!" cried Lupin, his eyes wide. "Harry has been nothing but brave and selfless. Surely you can—"

But whatever it was, Snape apparently could not do it, for he rose from his seat, pale face flushed, mouth open, spewing spit at Lupin’s face and robes as he bellowed, "I have put up with quite a bit more from this boy than you have, Lupin, having saved his neck several times, once, if I remember correctly, from YOU, and I’ll not have him laughing this entire situation off as a joke, which he most certainly WILL DO!"

"For Merlin’s sake, Snape, he isn’t James!"

That was enough for Snape. He strode over to Harry, yanking him up by the arm with a hissed, "Up, Potter!" and shoved him in front of Lupin, who looked shocked. Harry pulled away, wishing very much to be anywhere else. When he got old enough, he decided, after Voldemort was dead, he would buy a big house and only let people in when the mood suited him, and Snape would always be left out, because he was such a git. Harry would have massive parties, with loads of people, and Snape would have to stand outside and watch as Harry and his friends partied and had fun.

"Look at his face," Snape snarled, his eyes glinting with malice and loathing. He pushed the boy forward, long fingers digging into the small of his back with unrestrained force. "Look at his face, Lupin! James Potter is written over every inch of this (he jabbed his finger into Harry’s cheek, causing it to throb painfully), and this (moving on to his chest), and every joke you allow him to get away with in that class of yours!"

Lupin started, his jaw opening and then closing over and over again. "Severus, you can’t really—"

"DON’T LIE TO ME," Snape spat, his fist wrapped around Harry’s arm, crushing it . . . . "I hear of every mockery, wolf, every one! You think it’s funny, carrying on the legacy of your dearly departed friends, dressing a Boggart as Snivellus in a grandmother’s dress, calling me an Inferi, but I’ll have no more of it! Potter will learn respect if I have to beat it into him. It is about time—"

"Quite right, Severus," Dumbledore interrupted, his tone light, but it was quite obvious form the stern look in his eyes that meant the discussion was over. "It is about time this argument ended. Harry, sit down, if you would, I still have much to explain."

They quieted, both Snape and Lupin looking down as Harry returned to his chair, glad to be away from the two. Honestly, it was as bad as Sirius had been back in his kitchen last Christmas. Sirius, who would never get to sit in his kitchen again, none the less argue over some petty school rivalry. He pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind, returning his attention once again to the Headmaster.

Dumbledore cleared his throat, casting a stern look around the room before continuing. "Now, as I was saying, Rufus Scrimgeour is not a man that can easily be discouraged. He is determined to have you under his control, Harry, and the battle grew to new heights this summer, following an anonymous tip-off claiming that I knew you were being mistreated by your muggle relations." He coughed, popping another lemon drop into his mouth and stroking his chin, all the while regarding Harry with a reserved, piercing gaze.

"Is that why you were fighting, Professor?" Harry asked quickly, looking interested. "The Prophet mentioned it."

Dumbledore smiled, and, for the first time that night, it reached all the way to his blue eyes. "Well, the Prophet is bound to be right one of these days, Harry, and, yes, that is part of the reason for out argument. You see, it appears that Rufus has managed to persuade the entire Wizengamot to back him on this. For several months now they have demanded to see you, and I am afraid that we will not be able to postpone a court date for much longer, Harry, which brings us back to the reason you have been called here.

"You see, I received some most disturbing news this summer, nothing that should concern you too greatly, my boy, but disturbing all the same. It became apparent that we were in desperate need of a plan, so, naturally, I put my rather brilliant mind to work. My next inspiration came in the form of a message from Molly Weasley. She told me of your changing appearance, how you were starting to look a bit peaky, and I knew it was time. Lily’s charm had worn off, and I would need to tell you about, well, I would need to tell you about your proper parentage. It was then that my idea struck me." Dumbledore waved his wand with a dramatic flare, extinguishing the fire so that the only lights left in the room were weak, flickering little pools cast by Snape’s black tapers.

"I requested that Professor Lupin rejoin us, for he is a crucial part of this plan. I also arranged for your visit to Professor Snape’s home and the continuing of your Occlumency lessons, as they will be of the utmost importance." He paused to throw Harry a rather stern, pointed look from over his half-moon spectacles. "Whatever is spoken of in this room, Harry, I must ask you never to repeat it to anyone, not even Mr. Weasley and Ms. Granger."

Harry nodded hastily, his green eyes never leaving Dumbledore’s face.

"The Ministry has grown bold. They demand your appearance in court in three weeks for the guardianship hearing, and I am most certain we will lose, which is why I have called an ‘early Christmas’, as you might say." The Headmaster smiled to himself, tugging at his beard a bit. "Within the course of the next two weeks, Harry, we will be preparing you for what may be the biggest act of your life. My temporary charm will be removed, restoring your natural features once again. Fortunately, such short notice will not ruin this plot, for it is timed impeccably with the full moon."

It was Lupin’s turn to shift uncomfortably as Harry mouthed ‘full moon?", looking befuddled. What did the full moon have to do with anything? Well, obviously it meant Remus’s involvement, but that was already to be expected, considering he was sitting right there.

"There is a Quidditch game coming up in a week and a half, Harry, and I am sorry, but I must insist that Gryffindor loses."

"But, professor!" Harry burst, rising from his chair and nearly knocking it onto its side. His hands were balled into fists, feet planted a shoulder-width apart. What did Gryffindor losing a match have to do with anything?

"Now, now, Harry, sit down. You have not listened to everything yet."

He sat, reluctantly, swinging his feet furiously into the legs of the chair and causing Snape to fix him with a look that could melt a cauldron.

"By the time the match comes around, you will no longer be playing. The full moon will be coming up in three nights from then, and Professor Lupin will be under the effects of Polyjuice, posing as you."

"But what will I . . . ."

"Silence, Potter."

"Just listen to Dumbledore, Harry."

"As I was saying, Professor Lupin has graciously offered to take the Polyjuice, being the most suitable choice, I think. You will have to teach him a bit more about yourself, things to convince your friends."

"But why . . . ." Harry clamped his mouth shut, his feet tapping impatiently on the stone floor. He wanted to know what was going on now. Why was Dumbledore stalling?

"You will have arrived a week before as Padriac Domingart, the orphaned boy from Accademia di Puro-Sangue, the newly acquired apprentice of our own Potions Master, Severus Snape."

Time stopped. Harry’s heart skipped a beat. Two. Three.

Snape’s apprentice? A potions apprentice? He knew nothing of potions, as the man was always more than pleased to point out. But to be the man’s apprentice . . . . Snape would have more power than he needed, more than was wise, and how did they know he could be trusted at all? What if he was just waiting for the moment Harry went into disguise, just so he could hand-deliver him to Voldemort?

"It is prudent that we allow Professor Lupin as much time as possible to be you, so as not to attract unwanted attention or suspicion to your new identity. Harry Potter needs to be here for quite a bit when Padriac arrives. After we have established this firmly, Harry Potter will take a horrible fall, be dosed with the wrong healing potion entirely, and sent to a safe place to recuperate. He should be expected to be gone for at least the rest of the year, in which he will be writing letters to his friends, only after his health has been improved a bit, to assure them that everything is fine. Professor Lupin will return from the full moon, and the Ministry, as well as certain other . . . obstacles, will not be able to touch you, so long as you are able to master Occlumency and keep our secret."

The room fell into complete silence. Harry stared at his knees, counting the threads of his trousers, trying vaguely to remember what colored pants he had on. Probably white. They usually were.

"And . . . Professor McGonagall, she knows, does she? And the Order as well?" He spoke to his trousers, fingering the black material, stroking the soft fabric of his robes.

"No," said Dumbledore, and he sounded regretful. "It would be too dangerous for anyone outside of this room to know of the plan. Regrettably, this includes both Minerva and the Order. I simply had Professor Snape send a house-elf to her, telling her that you were stealing from him and were facing another month of detentions and fifty points from Gryffindor. Naturally, she is quite furious, but I will have a little chat with her, I think, and perhaps restore those points." Dumbledore stood, brushing off his spangled robes and motioning to Harry. "Off you go, Harry. If I am not mistaken, you should be just in time for curfew."

He turned to leave, nodding. "And remember—secrecy, discretion. Both will be undoubtedly important. Not even Ms. Granger or Mr. Weasley."

Harry shook his head, uttering a sleepy, "Yes, Professor."

"Get out of my office, Potter," said Snape, shooing the remaining party into the corridor before slamming the door.Goodnight to you to, sir, thought Harry, rubbing his eyes.

O O O

"And you’re certain this will work?" Hermione looked suspicious, her brown eyes darting between Harry and Ron. "You’ve tested it and everything?"

Ron gave a long, suffering sigh, his ears bright pink, betraying him. "Of course, Hermione, now just get on, will you."

Harry watched in amusement as Ron tried to convince Hermione to mount his broomstick. Hermione had never been much of a flyer. It was something no book could teach her, something that took lots of practice and, of course, natural talent, which she most certainly lacked.

"Stop pushing me, Ronald, I’m not a rag doll!"

"Well, maybe if you’d just get on the sodding thing—"

"It’s not my fault you’re talking up three quarters of the handle, is it!"

"It’s your fault you can’t mount properly, if that’s what you mean!"

"It was your idea in the first place, Ron, and I don’t remember seeing much of a spectacular flying display from you during the last game!" Hermione said hotly, her face turning the color of Ron’s hair.

Harry sighed and turned away, feeling slightly disappointed. He had been hoping for a pleasant, somewhat calm last week and a half before becoming Padriac Domingart, but all his friends could do was row. At least it kept them finding out about the plan, but he wished they could have at least had a bit of consideration. But then, they didn’t know about any of it, did they? They didn’t know his time was so limited.

". . .stop being ridiculous, honestly . . ."

". . .acting like you know everything . . ."

" . . .just because you’re failing half of your classes doesn’t make me a know-it-all . . ."

They were standing at least two meters apart, fists clenched, gritting their teeth. Not wanting to get himself involved, Harry backed away, calling that he had another lesson with Snape, which wasn’t a horrible lie. He did have one, in another hour.

Severus Snape better really like surprises, Harry thought grimly, trekking mud back into the castle.

He wound through the corridors, dodging behind several suits of armor at the sounds of footsteps; Filch would no doubt be on the warpath after seeing the mess Harry had made, but he couldn’t blame anyone if he never found a suspect, could he? Pleased with his cleverness, Harry descended into the dungeons, feeling slightly more light-hearted than he had all week. He stopped in front of Snape’s office, the usual feeling of dread and anxiety filling his stomach as it made its ascent into his throat.

"Come in, Potter."

He took a deep breath and opened the door, unsurprised by the sight of Snape sitting at his desk, looking more than a little frustrated and twice as sour. His eyes were squinted, mouth drawn into a firm line, the creases in his forehead more pronounced than ever, nostrils flaring dangerously.

"You did not gather the nerve to grace me with your presence so you could simply stand and watch me grade papers, Potter. Sit down," Snape ordered, not even bothering to look at Harry. He knew the boy would obey.

Harry chose a seat opposite the desk, the same one he’d been sitting in just last night, when Dumbledore and Lupin and Snape and him were all discussing the new plan.

"You are failing my class," announced Snape, his eyes still glued to the stack of parchment before him. Harry gulped and nodded. "I believe Remedial Potions lessons are in order, unless, by some miracle, you manage to bring your grade up to an Average within the next few days."

He’d forgotten. His grade would change when he switched identities. Was Padriac Domingart good at potions? Harry hoped not. But then, wouldn’t he be expected to have some talent, seeing as how he was going to be Snape’s apprentice? Snape would most certainly not take an apprentice with such mediocre skill.

Harry twiddled his thumbs, wondering whether Snape even remembered he was here. They sat for ages, Snape grading, Harry doing nothing. He glanced at the door for the five hundredth time, plotting to get away before Snape finished. This was taking far too long. Why had he come to Snape at all? Because of the Occlumency lessons that would take place in fifteen minutes? Why would anyone in their right mind want to waste an hour sitting in the Greasy Git’s office, watching him fail half a class because they hadn’t been sorted into the right house?

"Stand up, Potter."

Finally. Snape set down his quill, drawing his wand and motioning for Harry to do the same.

"Have you practiced clearing your mind?" His tone was soft, almost caressing. Harry felt his stomach sinking as he realized that in all the mess of the night before, he had forgotten to do as he promised Dumbledore. The corners of the potion master’s lips twitched into a smirk, and he said silkily, "We shall see, won’t we—Legilimens!"

Harry clenched his jaw, bracing himself.

Ron and Hermione were rowing, their faces scarlet, standing apart like duelers while Harry stood helplessly and watched.

Baby Harry was playing with his mum, the doorbell rang and Snape came in, his nose wrinkled.

"Adorable."

But he didn’t think Harry was adorable. He didn’t even like him.

Voldemort was taunting a fourteen year-old Harry, brandishing his wand and making jokes to his Death Eaters as they laughed.

It occurred to him that perhaps Snape might have been in that circle, laughing along with the rest, pleased to see his enemy’s spawn being tortured and humiliated.

Harry was eight, and Dudley’s friend Dennis was teasing him about his parents, not noticing as his nose grew to the size of a cantaloupe, before it obstructed his vision completely.

Voldemort was holding his finger to Harry’s scar, watching with pleasure as the boy screamed in pain, while a skinny, masked Death Eater behind them twitched uncomfortably.

"That will be enough, Potter." Snape’s voice was cold, menacing even, in the bare dungeons. "Sit down."

Harry sat nervously, crossing his legs. Was he going to be lectured? Shouted at? Was Snape going to give him more detentions, or perhaps berate him for his stupidity?

"It has obviously not yet penetrated that thick head of yours how important these lessons are to your survival, Potter, so I am going to put it into better perspective for you."

Harry gulped, wishing he could run off and hide from the glare Snape was currently sending his way. Where did the man even get it from? His ugliness, his temper, his piercing glares? His father, perhaps? The man must have been pure-blood. There was no way a muggle would have been so . . . disagreeable, with the exception of the Dursleys, of course, but even they weren’t so horribly ugly. In fact, Harry suspected, if his aunt tried a bit more and Dudley and Uncle Vernon lost weight, they’d be much more appealing.

"You will be acting as my apprentice, Potter, which means you will be subject to certain . . . questionable people. As such, you will need to have mastered Occlumency, because they will waste no time in invading your pathetic mind. The Dark Lord is a stranger to leniency, Potter, and I see now that I have been far too lenient with you."

Oh, dear. Somehow, it didn’t seem as if Snape was about to reward Harry with a biscuit.

"I believe it is time you learned a little discipline, Potter," he articulated, pacing in front of the boy, black robes billowing about with each step. Harry could help but wonder if they were a special kind of robe, made for intimidating billowing and such.

"I’ll try harder, sir," Harry insisted eagerly, trying to dissuade Snape from any unpleasant ideas were forming in that sick, twisted mind of his. He obviously like to see people suffer. Was he going to torture Harry? Would he beat him or make him swallow vile potions all night?

"I dare say you will, Potter, but you are obviously not capable of doing so yourself," raged Snape. His eyebrows were drawn almost to his black eyes, which remained empty, reminding Harry of little black tunnels. "From now on, you will tell me every last, painful detail of your wretched life, beginning form infancy and carrying on to now. We will begin next lesson, and Potter, do not be tediously detailed, or I may take it upon myself to find a new solution for this issue, one in which you will not be pleased."

Snape’s threat hung in the air, making the room seem somehow colder, the air thinner. Harry nodded in acquiescence, his nose pink.

"Yes . . . sir."

"Get out of my office for the night. I have no further uses for your talent less mind," Snape sneered, his face hard. He waved his hand and the door flung open, Harry striding purposefully into the corridor, trying to maintain some dignity after having been thrown out yet again.

The corridors were empty on his way back, and Harry found himself in the common room sooner than he expected. It too was empty, the fire crackling in the grate, looking small and lonely and forlorn.

I know how you feel, thought Harry, and, for a brief moment, he could have sworn the flames had answered with a low, "Go to bed, Potter," but it was probably just Snape’s voice still stuck in his head. After all, since when could one have a conversation with fire?

The day was passing much to quickly for Harry. 

It seemed to him he had woken up only moments before, yet his watch told him it had been hours since then. He sighed and turned back to Lupin, shrugging.

"Try it again," said Harry wearily, motioning to the man.

Lupin grinned and walked up to him, his arms swinging about like a little schoolboy’s, shabby robes fluttering about. "How was that?" He asked eagerly, looking rather pleased with himself. Harry didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth, so he simply shrugged again, nodding his head. Unfazed, the professor continued, his usually sad, careworn face resembling something close to happiness. "You know, I’ve always wanted to come back here as a student." He straightened his robes, brushing a hand through his hair. "What about that, then?"

Harry shook his head, reminded of James Potter in Snape’s memory, messing up his hair and strutting about just as Lupin was. "Too much like my dad," he explained, feeling a bit guilty by the put-out look on Lupin’s face. This seemed to be a problem with James’ old friends. They really thought of Harry as a sort of mini-James, or so he was beginning to realise. Mrs. Weasleys words from so long ago came ringing back, along with the slightly unsettling echo of Remus’, ‘he’s not James, Snape!’, ringing in his ears. If he wasn’t James, then why was it so difficult for Remus to learn how to be a proper Harry Potter—one without the arrogant strut, or the annoying, unnecessary hair ruffling?

"Have I been channeling Severus this whole time, then, Harry?"

Severus? What did that—Oh, yeah, he’d almost forgotten. Remus must have thought Harry was talking about Snape. What a terrifying thought.

"No, no, no, not him. I meant James. You’re acting like James again."

For nearly two hours they had been slaving away at ‘Harry Lessons’. Remus needed to fit the role perfectly, because Ron and Hermione were far too clever not to notice if something was off about their friend. Even the tiniest slip in character would alert them that something was off, and that was not a risk anyone was willing to take.

"Watch me," he instructed, walking to the other side of the room. He strolled over, nonchalant, stopping and readjusting an imaginary strap where his bag would have been. "See? You’ve got to walk normally, and don’t keep messing up your hair or anything, cause I don’t do that. My dad did that."

Lupin frowned, looking concerned.

"It’s not that bad, though," said Harry hastily, afraid he might have insulted his friend.

"No, no, it’s not that. It’s just, well, I’m worried for you, Harry. I know this has been a heavy load on your shoulders, and you and Severus don’t exactly get along . . . .and, I suppose—I suppose I’ve been treating you a bit too much like James, haven’t I? You look so much like him . . . ."

"Tonks could look like him as well, if she wanted to," Harry interrupted, unsettled by the empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was only just beginning to hit him how big this would be. People wouldn’t be treating him like James Potter’s son anymore. In fact, they probably wouldn’t even like him. He wasn’t sure what he liked less—always being recognized, but admired by many, or not being recognized and probably being hated by the rest of the school. "She’s a metamorphmagus. If you want a clone of my dad, you can ask her. I’m sure she’ll show you."

Lupin started, looking rather alarmed. "Tonks? Oh–oh, yes, well, I suppose she could, couldn’t she?"

There was something in the way he said it that made Harry think instantly of Ginny Weasley, and he could tell that Lupin’s stomach was flitting around just as much as his was.

Five o-clock found both Harry and Remus exhausted. They had been working for hours on minuscule details, movements, memories, and personality traits that Lupin was likely going to need to know.

"What’s my favorite color?" Harry quizzed, rubbing his eyes. When was the last time he’s had a good, uninterrupted sleep?

"Blue."

"Why?"

Lupin thought for a moment, before saying briskly, "Because you always wanted to go to the sea, and blue makes you think of the ocean." Harry nodded. They were making progress.

"What did Myrtle yell to Ron and me in second year?"

"To throw a book through her."

"Was Ron for it or against it?" They were doing very well indeed.

"For it."

"And what," began Harry, "did I see in Snape’s memories last year during Occlumency lessons?"

Remus paused. They hadn’t covered this one. "James and Sirius teasing him?" He suggested, sounding unsure. Harry shook his head. "What did you see?"

"I saw his mum and dad fighting while he cried, and him blasting flies off his ceiling as a teenager, and then him trying to mount a broomstick as it was bucking him off, while a girl laughed at him." Harry bit his lip. He hadn’t exactly meant to share these particular bits of information with Remus, as they weren’t actually important to being him. No one else knew what he’d seen, but he needed someone to know. Even if he had promised Snape not to tell, he needed someone to be able to understand just what was going through his mind, and Remus would be able to guess better than anyone. He, like Snape, had the uncanny ability to guess just at what Harry was thinking. Perhaps it wasn’t guessing?

"Everyone guessed Severus wasn’t happy with his family." Lupin shrugged. "It doesn’t come as much of a surprise to me, to tell you the truth, Harry. There is worse I have heard of them."

Harry stared at his hands for a moment, painfully aware of the fatherly smile Lupin was currently directing at him. He meant it to be comfortable, no doubt, but the boy could find nothing comforting in discussing Severus Snape.

"You don’t think he’ll—" He broke off, still looking down, this time at the pearly scar on his hand from last year’s detentions with Umbridge. He was thinking of all the times Snape would shout and belittle him, all the time’s the man’s grip on his arm had been bruising and almost cruelly strong.

"Children often mirror the behaviour of their parents, Harry, that is true," said Lupin softly, as though he had read Harry’s mind. "But that is not to say Severus will turn out as his father or mother. There is much more good in him than you realise, I think. He just needs some time. Don’t worry about it too much. He’s not his dad, Harry, and he most certainly is not your uncle."

Harry grinned, hastening to change the subject. "What do you do if Ron and Hermione start bickering over school?" He questioned, his eyes bright.

Lupin chuckled. "Stay away from them and try not to get involved, as they’ll both start trying to get me on their side, and of they get worse, walk away."

"And if they row?"

"About what?"

Thinking, Harry said briskly, "Ron being an arse and Hermione being an annoying know-it-all."

"I stand by in case they need mediating, then walk off and do something else. If it really gets out of hand, I go where they can’t find me, and then try to help them afterward, while still trying not to jeopardize my neutral disposition." Lupin laughed, ruffling Harry’s hair before rising to his feet and brushing off his robes.

"Use the other hand. I’m right-handed."

"Got you," he helped the boy up, collecting his things and walking to the door. "I think we’ve done enough for tonight. And you’ve got Occlumency with Severus, haven’t you?"

Harry sighed, nodding. It had been nice not remembering the dreaded lessons, but he knew he couldn’t avoid them. He’d promised Dumbledore, and the Headmaster would only share everything when Harry had at least come close to mastering the subject. He almost snorted. With Snape teaching him, there was a better chance his wand was going to break into a song and dance number.

"I’ll see you tomorrow, won’t I? We’ve still got more to go over." He hated the way his voice sounded so anxious. Aunt Petunia would have called it whiny.

Lupin’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile. "You’re less like James now, you know, now that I’ve gotten to know you. It’s funny, I always used to think how alike to your father you are. I think I was right."

With that small, confusing bit of information, he left. Harry stood for a moment, trying to make out how he could be anything even remotely similar to Snape before sighing in defeat and heading off toward his Occlumency lesson. Fortunately for him, the corridors were less crowded than usual, so he didn’t have to worry about running into anyone, meaning no one would see him heading off for Snape’s office. He was getting sick of having to explain how Snape was giving him Remedial Potions lessons. That really would have to change, and soon.

"Mr. Potter."

Snape glanced up, a single eyebrow raised delicately, black eyes glaring from behind a curtain of greasy hair. The man looked every bit as undesirable and unpleasant as he had been during their last visit, yet Harry couldn’t help but remember Lupin’s words on Snape’s parents.

"No, it’s Voldemort," he said sarcastically, dropping unceremoniously into a chair. "And how come I’ve got to tell people I’m taking Remedial Potions? They’re beginning to think I’m a bit thick, you know." He frowned, his green eyes narrowed thoughtfully, the lightning-bolt scar on his forehead more pronounced than ever.

"Imagine that," said Snape dryly, ruffling through a pile of parchment. He withdrew one, glowering at it, before passing it to Harry. "You are not nearly as dense as you limit yourself to being, Potter, although, your grades in my class are beginning to suggest otherwise . . . ."

Was that a complement? Harry ears perked up, and he couldn’t help but smirk. A complement from Snape. Those came about as often as bright ideas came to Crabbe and Goyle.

"Good to know I’m not completely thick-headed, then. I was beginning to think it ran in the family." He grinned cheekily, ruffling his hair. How long would it take for Snape to—

It didn’t take long at all.

"Five points from Gryffindor, for your cheek, and I believe we have a lesson to attend to," growled Snape, his nostrils flaring. "Begin with the earliest memory you possess, and then continue until we lose time."

Harry started. He had forgotten that tonight’s lesson, along with many other lessons, would be him spilling his life story out to a man who couldn’t care less. The very thought of it was sickening. The great prat didn’t care whether he got spanked as a little kid, or if he blew up his aunt, or how stupid Dudley had been.

"You are wasting my time, Potter."

Chewing heavily on his bottom lip, Harry said calmly, "I’ve decided not to, actually. I don’t see why sharing any of this with you will ever help me learn Occlumency, and I’d rather not treat you to One Hundred and One of Harry Potter’s Most Embarrassing Moments, thanks."

The silence that followed his words was asphyxiating.

Snape cleared his throat, standing and making his way to a shelf opposite the door. His robes billowed behind him, the hems flicking up with every step, doing a sort of crazed dance that reminded Harry of Hagrid dancing with Madame Maxime at the Yule Ball. Everything was still, with the exception of Snape, who was currently reaching for his wand to point at a high shelf, summoning a small bottle that looked all-too familiar.

"This is not a matter of foolish pride, Potter," he sniffed, pocketing the bottle, much to Harry’s surprise. The Potions Master’s pale face was twisted into a sneer, his lip curling, empty black eyes calculating. Harry couldn’t keep himself shrinking into his chair a bit, but he stood his ground. "Yet again you take me by surprise with your complete lack of understanding."

Harry squirmed, uncomfortably aware of the fact that he was now sitting in a chair in Snape’s office, completely at the mercy of a man he was just doing his very best to offend.

"Stand up, Potter," Snape barked, pushing the chair out from under Harry with a flick of his wand.

Harry cursed, rubbing his backside and rising to his feet, all the while glaring daggers at Snape. "What was that for? I was going to get up on my own, you know." He chewed the inside of his cheek furiously, green eyes boring into depth-less black.

Snape, however, was unperturbed. He simply raised his wand again, leveling it with Harry’s head and hissing, "I am going to remind you just why these lessons are so important, Potter." And that was the last he heard before a cold ‘LEGILIMENS’ tore through the air.

Snape was telling him about Occlumency lessons in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place, while Sirius growled from his chair. It was his first lesson, and he was on his knees, screaming, as Snape glared down at him, reaching out a sallow claw and placing it almost comfortably on his shoulder.

Where had that come from?

It was a few months ago, and he was sitting in Dumbledore’s office, listening as the man revealed the Greasy Git to be his father.

Groaning, Harry rolled onto his back, his eyes taking on a somewhat dazed, lost expression.

"Stand up, Potter," ordered Snape, his voice harsh, cutting through the thick fog that was beginning to develop in the boy’s mind. He emitted several words that would have done a sailor’s mother proud, stomping over to the crumpled form that was Harry and laying a hand on the sweaty brow. Perhaps he had been too rough with the little fool? Potter certainly hadn’t been expecting that sudden attack on his mind, but he should be ready for these sorts of things. The Dark Lord didn’t wait for people to gather their senses and prepare for an attack, and neither could Snape.

"Sit, Potter. There you are—No, don’t speak. Silence, I’m afraid, is a virtue you were most certainly not blessed with." Snape watched as Harry sat up, shaking his head and blinking confusedly. "Remain seated. You look as though you have just been hit by a Confuddlement Charm. You’ll feel better in a moment if you do as I say and sit down!"

Harry blinked again, feeling the ground sway beneath him. It took him a minute to regain full consciousness, and his glasses were now starting to fog from Snape’s heavy breathing, giving him a massive headache. Livid, he pushed away, his wand out and pointed straight at the man’s greasy head.

"What do you think you’re playing at? We were talking! And you think you have any right to say Sirius was a git to you, but look at yourself! How’d you think Dumbledore’d feel if he knew you were cursing students behind his back, huh? During lessons that he set up to offer help, not to hurt me even more!" His voice sounded ragged in the stone office, the angry shouts bouncing off the dungeon walls and back into his own ears. He’d had it with this, he really had. He’d had it with Snape being a git, and Dumbledore thinking it was all for him, all for his safety. Well, he wasn’t so safe now, was he? And what was Dumbledore thinking letting Snape, a Death Eater, teach Harry anything at all? As far as he was concerned, Snape was a Dark Wizard, no matter what the stupid paternity test said, or whatever miscellaneous reasons the Headmaster had for trusting the man.

Snape, however, seemed to be thinking differently. When he spoke, it was in a tone of forced calmness, his strong hands pushing Harry back into the chair. He tapped his foot, wand folded under the crook of one arm, eyes glinting as he fumed, "You think this is a sort of Joke, do you, Potter? Do you think the Dark Lord will let you sit and prepare yourself for an attack? I assure you, he will do no such thing, and it is high time you realised how much everyone else has put on the line to ensure your safety, only to find that the Golden Boy isn’t concerned. He’s decided not to." Snape paced back and forth, stroking his left forearm and glowering at his fingers.

"I have practiced," Harry blurted, splotches of red marring the lightly tanned skin of his face. "I practiced three nights now, and I still haven’t got the hang of it, because you won’t teach me."

Snape stopped dead, his entire facing alight with fury. "Haven’t I?" He bit back, flecks of spit flying onto the desk in front of him. "I have tried, Potter, yet, despite my best efforts, you refuse to obey me. If you refuse to do your part, then I cannot do mine," he finished, bitting off each syllable.

Harry glared back from his seat, his eyes shining dark green from under a fringe of untidy black hair. How pleased Snape would be when James Potter’s unruly hair was finally gone.

"Now, you will tell me what I need to know so that we can work out this problem," instructed Snape, folding his arms across his chest. When Harry didn’t respond, he continued direly, "We will meet again tomorrow, in which time you will do as I have instructed. I will give you the day to ready yourself. You are dismissed."

Harry had never been more pleased to hear those three words before in his life. He fled the dungeons as quickly as he could, heading straight for the Room of Requirement. It was becoming his all-purpose room lately—being used as a study room, relaxing room, and a place where Lupin and him could hold ‘Harry Lessons’ in secret.

I need a place to calm down, somewhere no one can find me, not even my friends. I need a place to calm down . . . . .

The door appeared, and he slipped inside, pleased to find a small, cozy little bedroom, complete with a squashy, blue armchair and a four-poster bed, its blue hangings blowing in an artificially-created breeze. Paintings of the beach adorned the walls, the ocean blowing lazy waves onto the white shore as a little boy made a sand castle, his plastic pail full of shells.

He had black hair.

The little touch made Harry smile. He could almost see himself on that same shore, collecting shells with the pail, his blue swimsuit ruffling in the ocean breeze. He took a whiff of the air, almost expecting to smell the salt from the sea, but there was nothing other than the sweet, drowsy aroma of cinnamon and lilacs—an interesting combination.

"Your pail is . . . watch the pail," he warned the boy in the painting, yawning and dropping onto the bed. It felt good. The blankets were soft and warm, creating a comfortable cocoon around his shivering body. This was what he needed, more than any amount of protection, more than a lifetime’s worth of Occlumency lessons. This was what he really needed. He’d have to make a note of it for Dumbledore, thought Harry contentedly. He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

"Harry! My darling, why would anyone want to hurt a beautiful child like you? Why, my Harry?"

His mum was smiling, her emerald eyes shining with pride and love. He giggled as she touched his little nose. She was hugging him close, her arms keeping him safe and warm.

"My Harry! You are adorable, you know. I don’t think James will ever let you alone now. He’ll want to teach you Quidditch, of course . . . ."

"You’ve got that right," said a loud, amused voice. His dad’s face came swimming into view, the same unruly black hair, the same chin. His hazel eyes crinkled in laughter as held the baby.

"You’re a true-born Quidditch Star, my boy. It runs in the family, you know."

"So does pig-handedness," interrupted another voice, and there he was.

Sirius.

His handsome face was contorted into a look utmost glee as he lifted the little Harry, his nose merely inches from the baby’s own.

"But don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll take after your mum, poor kid. Just imagine another little James running about." He smirked, ruffling the soft mop of messy black hair. "Uncle Sirius’ll teach you how to be a proper man, you little devil."

Lily’s tinkling laughter rang out. She took the baby back, cooing, "We’ll keep you from all of those nutters, Harry. Don’t worry, my baby. I’ve got you. Mummy’s got you . . . ."

The images faded, leaving Harry shrouded in blackness once again. He curled up in his mum’s arms, unaware that they were only his soft blanket and a spare pillow. 

Harry was sitting on his cot, trainer-clad feet swinging into the door of the cupboard, a book clutched tightly in his pale, little hands. He sighed and opened to book for the sixtieth time, running his fingers over the letters. To his four year-old mind, they were little more than random parts of the alphabet smashed together on a page, but, here and there, words were starting to form in front of his eyes. Pushing up his glasses, he read the page slowly, liking the feel of the thick cardboard in his palms.

"T-H-E. . . the . . .B-I-G . . . b-bi-ig. Big. The big t-tru-uck. The big truck." He smiled, pleased with himself for getting it right. Dudley couldn’t even read tiny words yet, as much as Aunt Petunia tried to get him to learn. ("You’ve got to know this for school next year, Diddykins!")

But Dudley didn’t want to learn. He wanted to watch the television and eat his ice cream, so Harry was more than happy to rescue his new book—Wheels!—from the toilet, where it had been thrown in a violent tantrum. Aunt Petunia would most likely be angry with him when she found it, but he reckoned he had some time before she decided to look behind the bleach. He smiled, content with the knowledge that his prize was safe, at least for now.

"The big t-truck d-d-riv . . . D-R-I-V-E-S." He knew that word. It was on one of the big signs to the side of the road when Uncle Vernon took him to the eye doctor, only it looked a little different on those. Some of the letters had changed. "D-R-I-V-E-S," he said again, studying the page intensely. "D-dri-ive-s. Drives. The big truck drives."

Harry clapped his hands, bouncing excitedly on the cot. He’d done it, hadn’t he? He’d read a whole sentence by himself, and a difficult one at that. Grinning, he moved on to the next sentence, completely unaware of the dark-haired boy quietly watching him from the other end of the cot.

The older Harry watched his younger self, a frown forming on his lips. He couldn’t even remember being so young. When was the last time his hands had been that small? His untidy black hair was even messier at the age of four, green eyes looking positively massive from behind his too-big glasses. He wanted to reach out and touch the little boy, tell him how clever he was for teaching himself to read. He wanted to warn him of the year to come, the teasing and the time being locked in the cupboard for crimes he couldn’t make out how he’d committed in the first place, but, of course, he couldn’t. The small boy on the other end of the cot was only a memory, and had no idea what lie for him in the future.

"Boy! Come out, your uncle wants a word!" Aunt Petunia’s shrill voice pierced through the tiny cupboard, sending shivers down the spine of both boys. They stood, reluctantly, Little Harry quickly stashing his stolen book behind a bottle of bleach before opening the door. "He’s in the parlor, and be quick. I need you to mind the soup while I give Dudley his bath," she paused, eying him suspiciously. "What have you been doing in there?"

The four year-old Harry jumped, his little face turned up, grimacing as his hair was held tightly in his aunt’s bony fist. "I was l-looking," he said hesitantly, doing his best to sound convincing.

"At what?"

That question was certainly unexpected. He screwed up his face thoughtfully, trying to think up a good lie. "The c-cleaning bottles. I can read some of the l-letters now. The white one says ‘bleach’."

This time, Harry knew he wouldn’t be questioned further, for his aunt hissed, "You’re a nasty little liar, aren’t you? Of course the white one says bleach. You’ve used it before to clean. I’ll be surprised if they don’t keep you back a year when you get into school, boy, what with the lies you tell. They’ll never be able to tell that you’ve done your work." So saying, she dragged him into the parlor, his trainers shuffling slowly across the carpeted floor.

Harry watched them go, chewing his bottom lip uneasily. Half of him wanted to follow, even though he already knew what would happen. He wanted to see it again. He wanted to warn his little self that Uncle Vernon was in a bad mood after having lost an important order, and not to anger him more by sharing his new accomplishment of learning to read, not if he wanted to eat for the next week. A pincer-like grip on his arm made Harry turn around sharply. All it took was Snape’s "We’ve seen enough, Potter." to make him move.

With the cold floor of the dungeons now firmly under their feet, Harry and Snape moved away from the Pensieve and toward the centre of the room, their feat slapping noisily against the smooth stones. They were silent for a moment, until Snape, his black eyes dark and unfathomable on his sallow face, said evenly, "You lived in the cupboard, Potter?’

That was enough for Harry. He grit his teeth, green eyes glaring from behind the slightly scratched lenses of his round-frame glasses. "No," he exalted sarcastically, "I just liked to lock myself in there every day, you know, to hang out. Didn’t I ever mention how much I enjoy starving in a cramped room, talking to spiders until I thought I’d go mad? The cupboard was only my second choice, really, right after the linen closet in the hall . . . ."

"Enough," ordered Snape, holding up his hand for silence. Harry quieted, furious at having been interrupted so rudely. What was the point in dredging all his miserable childhood memories? "Manners, boy. Ten points from Gryffindor," Snape licked his lips before continuing softly, "I will repeat my question once more, Potter, and you will give me a proper response—Did you live in the cupboard?"

Harry chewed his bottom lip mercilessly, scratching his chin. What if he simply refused to answer? It would probably land him in detention, but even that had to be better than admitting to his sworn enemy—the man who also happened to share blood with him—that his relatives had treated him like a dog for fifteen years.

"I live in my cousin’s second bedroom," he faltered, somewhat relieved to have a truthful, yet non-descriptive answer. Even with Occlumency, Snape would never be able to prove him wrong.

"Then, Potter! Where did you live then?"

It was obvious to Harry that his fath—Snape—was not in a mood to deal with his smart answers. He sighed, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and looked the man in the eye, muttering, "Cupboard."

Snape seemed to grow, his fist outstretched as he charged toward Harry and pushed the boy into a chair. "Why?"

It was one simple word, and yet, none before had seemed quite so terrifying. How was he supposed to answer this one without humiliating himself any more? Why did Snape have to be such a nosy git? "Because I liked it," Harry frowned, rising to his feet once more. "I liked living in the cupboard under the stairs, alright? I liked the spiders and my one bleeding book, and I liked minding the soup for Aunt Petunia when I was dying of hunger myself. Are you happy now? You were right. I’m a spoiled little prat. I made them let me live in the cupboard, because I’m too good for their ratty bedrooms, and I’ve only just started living in one because my family decided I was too big for my cupboard and had to force me out of it!"

Fists balled tightly, Harry began to pace in front of the man, his face slightly pink with exertion. If only Snape had objects like Dumbledore—delicate little things on tables that he could throw. But, alas, there were only the jars of slimy things lining the walls, and Harry wasn’t even sure he wanted one of those opened up. They were vile-looking enough to make his stomach turn at the mere sight of them.

"Potter—"

"You can go tell everyone now that you were right! I’m just a pampered, arrogant little prick like my dad was—"

"Potter, if you will—"

"—Maybe I should start bullying people, should I? I could string them up by their ankles and take their knickers off—"

"Potter, you will be silent, or—"

"—And I could start ruffling my hair, and eying Ginny Weasley, and—"

"SILENCE!"

Harry stood stock-still, mouth slightly agape, his eyes narrowed. Ginny Weasley? Where did Ginny come in? She was Ron’s sister. He liked her in a big-brother sort of way, right?

She is sort of pretty, said the annoying voice in his head. He shook it out.

, said the annoying voice in his head. He shook it out.She’s my best mate’s sister.

But she’s pretty.

It’s too awkward.

And clever, she’s clever, too.

He’d break every bone in my body.

Not if you break him first.

But she’s my best mate’s sister.

"Fascinating as your love-life is, Potter, I do not care to waste my evening listening to your ranting on Ms. Weasley, or any other miscellaneous information that does not have to do with our lesson," Snape growled, fixing Harry with a glare that would have any first year cowering in their trainers. "Now, you will come here and bring another memory, unless, of course, you would like me to extract one again myself?"

Still grumbling, Harry shuffled over, wracking his brain for a pleasant memory from early childhood. There were very few of them, but at last he managed to pull up a suitable one, planting himself defiantly in front of the Potions Master, his green eyes flashing.

"I’ve got one by myself, thanks," he said snidely, allowing Snape to raise the tip of his wand to his temple and withdraw the silvery strand. Watching carefully as it was placed in Dumbledore’s Pensieve, Harry stepped forward and muttered, "Let’s just get this over with."

They were standing in a muggle classroom that Harry recognized to be the one from his first year in primary school. He turned to Snape, looking pleased. "My primary school, first form." At the man’s brief nod, Harry spun back around, taking in the room.

There were colorful children’s drawings adorning the walls, some that he could identify as his own. His were always slightly darker, with depictions of normal, every-day, Dursley-Approved life. But, Harry knew, hidden somewhere in each drawing was something out of the ordinary. On the one of the boy reading a book, there was a dragon on the little, blue cover. There were witches on the television of "Family Watches the Telly", and the motorcycle of his vehicle-theme drawing was hovering ever-so-slightly above the pavement.

"Potter." Snape’s voice cut through his reverie, pulling him grudgingly back to reality.

"Shhh, look." Harry pointed to his younger self, now aged to five years, his messy black hair cut shorter than before. The round glasses were missing.

"What are you drawing, Harry?" The teacher, a kindly young woman with warm brown eyes and rust-colored hair, bent over his paper, smiling at the squiggles of crayon and glue.

"My mum," said the boy absently, giving her a crooked smile and two big, lopsided shapes that jutted out from behind her. "And my dad." He pointed to a mess of black, green, and blue, smiling at the clumsy stick-figure in a very self-satisfied way. "Mum is very pretty, and Dad’s got to look like me, see? He’s got my eyes and my face—" he pointed to a misshapen lump that looked rather like a black potato, with little hollowed, green circles inside. "And everything else looks like me as well, only my dad is loads bigger."

The teacher nodded, studying the paper. "And what are those things coming out of their backs? Are they standing in front of a cloud?"

Harry shook his head, pointing at the ceiling. "That’s their wings," he whispered, glancing around as though to make sure no one else had heard. "Mum and Dad went to the sky in a car accident, so now they’ve got wings, or they’d fall right back to the ground and get a boo-boo."

Unknown to little Harry, a very grumpy Potions Master was standing behind him, snorting at the pitiful drawing.

"Pathetic," he sneered, peering over the boy’s miniature shoulder. "You clearly lack artistic talent, Potter. You call those wings?" He snorted again. "They’re more like those horrid knit things Ms. Granger tried to give to the House Elves two years ago."

"You knew about those?" Harry started. He didn’t think Snape was so well-informed.

Snape scoffed. "Of course, Potter. I had to listen to the incessant complaining every time I went to re-stock the supply of Vomit-Vanishing Elixir in the kitchens."

Harry shook his head, returning his attention to the small, raven-haired boy in front of him.

"Oh, I’m very sorry, Harry," said the teacher, placing a hand on his shoulder. She studied his face, as if suddenly noticing something new. "Harry? Where are you glasses?"

Little Harry stared at his drawing, brows knit together tightly. He never liked these sorts of questions. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon didn’t ask them, and, when they did, it was usually because he had done something wrong.

"Harry?"

"Why didn’t you answer her?" Came Snape’s disapproving voice, his eyes piercing into the older Harry’s own, slightly sad, ones. "Potter, when I ask you a question, I expect an answer, and I do not appreciate being made to wait." Harry shook his head, pointing to the younger boy silently.

The five year-old had his head in the palms of his hands, with his skinny back hunched over the wooden table. "Didn’t want to," he murmured lowly, so that it was a strain for Harry, Snape, and the kindly teacher to hear.

"Why not?" She sounded sympathetic. He raised his head a little, peering out from between two fingers.

Both Snape and the older Harry leaned closer, their ears perked up to catch every sound.

"Everybody," whispered the boy, his eyes wide. "Everybody says only freaks . . . only freaks have got . . . those. I dun wanna be a freak no more. They said . . . they said I looked like," his voice lowered to little more than a soft hiss, "an owl."

Her face deadly serious, the teacher leaned in, her nose a mere inch from the child’s own. "If that’s true, Harry, then you’re the cutest owl I’ve ever seen. (Snape sniffed disbelievingly from behind.) Glasses don’t make you a freak, dear. My brother’s got them for reading, and he’s about as un-freakish as anybody could be, and so are you. If anyone says anything again, you come to me, alright? I’ll set them straight for you." She smiled, patted his back affectionately, and walked off to see how everyone else was doing.

Snape turned away in disgust, grabbing Harry’s arm, and pulling him away. "I believe it is time we left, Potter. My stomach cannot handle much more of this emotional nonsense," he said, wrinkling his nose. He looked a bit like an overgrown bat, swooping down, his black robes whipping over a table, unbeknown to the little girl that occupied it.

Harry scowled, pushing away and going back toward his younger self. "It’s not over."

"It’s not over, sir."

"You know, you can just call me ‘Harry’, professor." Harry grinned cheekily, dropping into one of the tiny, plastic chairs at the table. "Come and sit," he invited graciously, pointing to a yellow chair that had a Winnie the Pooh sticker stuck to the back.

"Five points from Gryffindor," said Snape stiffly, adding, "That is the most hideous chair I have ever seen." Shrugging, Harry turned back to the scene, his lips drawn into a thin line as he watched a fat, blond boy waddle over, holding out a purple crayon like a sword.

"Harry’s picture is ugly," he boy sneered, glancing around briefly to make sure the teacher wasn’t looking. "What do you call that—a blob with sticks coming out of it?" He laughed harshly, snatching the paper up and waving it around. A few other children laughed, scooting their chairs closer for a better view. Encouraged by this display of interest, the boy continued, his chubby face flushed. "I’ll make it better for you, cousin." He ripped half of it off, shredding the paper and tossing a little piece at the boy’s think face. "You’re a freak, Potter," snarled the fat boy, leaning in close.

Harry shook his head, his green eyes large, sparkling with a mixture of anger, fear, and unshed tears. "Not true."

The fat boy laughed again, tearing another piece and spitting on it. He slapped it onto the desk, narrowly missing his cousin’s slender hand, which was pulled away just in time. "My daddy says you’re a freak, and my daddy never lies. You’re an ugly, stupid, weird—er—ugly, poop-head, and you’ll be a rubbish collector when you grow up, ‘cos you’re so stupid and freaky and no one will ever want you." He smirked, the sickening expression a baby has when it has just relieved itself plastered on his face. "Not even your freaky parents wanted you, or they’d have taken you with them when they died. Nobody ever—"

"That is quite enough, Dudley. Kindly return to your seat, and don’t forget to move your sticker to red. We do not tolerate name-calling in this classroom." The teacher had returned, and she looked nothing short of furious. Moving toward Harry, she wrapped an arm around the boy’s upper body, guiding him to the door. "It’s recess in about a minute, Harry. Go wash your face and meet us outside, will you?" Smiling, she gave him a gentle push before closing the door.

Snape began walking, but Harry held him back, bringing himself unsteadily to his feet. "Not yet, professor," he said haltingly, holding up a hand. "We can go out with them. I’m almost done." Nodding curtly, the man returned to his place by the wall, glaring disdainfully at the colorful drawings. Did all muggle children display such a distinct lack of talent in art, or was it just Potter’s class?

When their drawings were finished and collected, the children scrambled for the door, forming an uneven line. They fidgeted, stamping their feet and whispering to one another, erupting into fits of manic giggles. Dudley stood at the back of the line, surrounded by his gang and leering at the rest. His group were rowdy and obnoxious, pushing each other out of the line and stomping on the feet of their unsuspecting victims. They complained loudly about the time it took to get outside, insulting the girl who stood nearest to them until she nearly burst into tears.

The rusty-haired teacher, her brown eyes squinted, interrupted with an audible, "Oustide, everyone. Dennis, you’re to stay against the wall with me today, and you, Piers. You’ll be joining them if you say that word one more time, Dudley Dursley."

The line moved rapidly out the door, the empty hallways of the school echoing with the sounds of fifteen small feet slapping against the polished linoleum. Harry and Snape followed, falling into step with the frazzled teacher. Snape glowered at everything from behind his greasy hair, snapping to Harry to keep up.

"Behave!" The woman sighed as a chorus of "Yes, Ms. Henley" met her ears. Where had Harry gone to?

Unknown to Ms. Henley, at the opposite end of the playground, near a red chain-link fence, a small party of people was beginning to form. Harry and Snape stood to the side, watching as Dudley and his gang circled around a scrawny boy with green eyes and a pale face. A few boys and girls were drifting over, watching the scene with mild interest. Harry looked at Snape, a smile playing on his lips at the sight of the man’s calculating expression.

"Time to go, professor," he said lightly, tugging at the black cloak. With a jolt, they found themselves standing once again in the Potion Master’s office. Snape looked murderous at having been taken from the memory so early, but Harry, on the other hand, looked unconcerned. He sat down at the desk, drumming his fingers on the stained wood and humming absently.

"Potter," Snape started, his face white, shaking with fury. "We do not leave the memories until I say, and I most certainly did not tell you it was time to leave!"

Harry shrugged, putting on a nonchalant air. Inside, he was terrified, but he wanted to win this. He needed to win this. Raising an eyebrow, Harry said calmly, "But you did say to leave, sir, just after—"

"Potter, you will be silent!"

That shut him up. His jaws snapped tightly shut, Harry crossed his arms, following Snape’s every movement with surprised, curious eyes.

"It is obvious to me that you lack structure in your life," stated Snape, his face dark. Harry shifted uncomfortably and scratched his nose. "Therefore," he continued, enunciating each syllable, "I have decided to write out a list of rules for you to follow. These will remain in effect after we take on our little guise, especially considering the magnitude of our act. It will be crucial for you to be well-behaved and capable of following my orders, Potter. The Dark Lord does not take kindly to cheek. I will give you the list tomorrow evening, after I draw it up, and I expect you to memorize and follow every rule and I guideline I post for you, lest you wish to suffer my extreme displeasure." He paused for dramatic effect, rather enjoying the spark of fear that flashed through Harry’s brilliant green eyes. Those were Lily Evans’ eyes. The boy had no right taking them.

"Sir, I—"

Snape spun around, his hair flipping in front of his pallid face. "Do not interrupt me, Potter!"

Harry started, but he wasn’t a Gryffindor for nothing. Gathering up his nerve, he faltered, "Sir, that was s’posed to be a happy memory, I just didn’t—"

"I.SAID. SILENCE!" bellowed Snape, flecks of spit flying from his mouth and onto Harry’s nose. "You will be meeting me here every night, Potter. Is that understood? Every night."

"Yes, professor, but if you would just let me explain—"

Forcing calm, Snape panted a low, "You have explained enough, Potter. I will—"

A knock at the door quieted them both.

"Professor Snape!"

Harry knew that voice anywhere. Muttering a few choice words under his breath, he backed away, trying unsuccessfully to hide behind the desk and banging his head on the worn chair. Snape, however, was more collected. Grabbing the boy roughly by his collar, he shoved Harry behind the door to his private store, carefully slid the Pensieve under his desk, and sat down, pulling a stack of papers over, all in about twenty seconds. "Come in, Draco," he announced smoothly, dabbing his quill in an inkwell of black ink.

The door flew open, revealing a flustered-looking Draco Malfoy, his usually perfectly groomed blond hair messy, a pink flush creeping into his cheeks. "Professor Snape, I’ve just been in the corridor and I heard—someone was screaming around the corner, sir. I tried to see who it was but—I thought you might be able to find out, sir."

That was all it took. Snape sprang up, pushing Malfoy roughly out of the way. "Follow me, Draco," he ordered sternly, throwing a murderous look in the direction of the store room. "I won’t be gone long." And, ignoring Malfoy’s puzzled look, he lead the boy out and down the corridor, leaving Harry to sit in the darkened room, peering out through a crack in the door. He sat down, pulling his knees up, not daring to step a foot outside, lest someone else should come.

Harry sat in his cramped position for what seemed like ages, counting the vowels on the labels of potion ingredients. His neck was beginning to hurt from craning upward, so he gave up his game and leaned cautiously against a heavy, oaken cabinet. It creaked, and he jumped, startled by the noise.

"Potter, come out."

There was the sound of a heavy door being closed, followed by light footsteps.

Suspicious, Harry rasped out, "Professor Snape?" His words were met by more footsteps as the door to the store room was opened, revealing a pale, livid-looking Severus Snape. "What was it?" Harry scrambled out, his muscles screaming in protest. H waited with bated breath, unsure of what to expect.

Snape turned curtly on his heel, motioning for Harry to follow. "We must see the Headmaster immediately, Potter."

"But, what was the—"

"Everything will be explained in time," snapped Snape, striding purposefully down the corridor. "Keep up, boy, and be quiet."

Clambering to keep up, Harry followed, his mouth clamped shut. The last thing they needed was to attract attention to themselves. He padded noiselessly up the stairs, not lowering his guard for a moment. He felt like a criminal, stealing through the castle after hours, following a frightening-looking man in billowing black robes. Malfoy probably wouldn’t bother him if he had robes like that. Perhaps he could ask Snape to take him to a shop that sold them? Where did one go to buy such robes, anyway?

"Acid Pops."

He allowed himself to be grabbed by the collar once more, grunting as Snape threw him bodily into Dumbledore’s Office, closing the door behind them. He looked around, taking a seat opposite the Headmaster’s chair. A disturbance to his left caught his eyes, and he turned, nearly falling out of his chair.

"Ah, Harry, Severus. I see you’ve received Fawkes’ message. I did hope he would be loud enough."

Dumbledore entered, smiling, flanked by a peaky-looking Remus Lupin. They filed in, Lupin appearing to be nervous and somewhat uneasy. Harry jumped up, readjusting his glasses and asking anxiously, "Professor Dumbledore! What’s going on?" The Headmaster smiled, nodding to Harry.

"All in due time, my boy, all in time," he said pleasantly, then turned to Snape and Lupin, suddenly changing his demeanor to a far more serious one.

"Severus, Remus, it is time for our little plan to be taken into action," he paused, smiling slightly, "I know, it is earlier than we originally devised, but Fawkes has brought me great news."

Snape stirred, his eyes darting from Fawkes to Dumbledore. "Headmaster?"

"Has Harry made any progress in Occlumency, Severus?"

Clearing his throat, Snape said gratingly, "Very little, Headmaster. We are trying a new approach. Potter takes the matter too lightly, still, but we are advancing, slowly."

Dumbledore nodded, his face grave. "Alright, well, that is to be expected. You are only just beginning, and I’m sure Harry understands that this is a very important matter, don’t you, Harry?" Without waiting for the boy to answer, he continued pleasantly, "The time has come, Harry, and I do hope you are ready. Complications or not, we will stick to our plan, my boy. Now, come here, so I can see your face one last time."

As the Headmaster pulled him close, Harry could have sworn he saw a tear in the man’s blue eyes, but he blinked, and it was gone.

"Close your eyes," said Dumbledore, and his voice was thick with emotion. Harry immediately obeyed, squeezing his eyes shut as tight as he could. It felt as though a light breeze was blowing over him, and his hands rose to his hair, which had grown at least two inches. His vision had grown blurry, so he took his glasses off, pocketing them carefully. "Aha, there you are, Harry, or, I suppose I ought to say—‘Padriac’." Dumbledore chuckled, laying a hand on Harry’s head as if blessing him. "There will be time later to examine yourself, but first, we must complete our transaction."

It was Remus’s turn. He stepped forward bravely, accepting a tumbler from Dumbledore that looked to be filled with a rather unpleasant potion. Snape stepped forward, wordlessly passing a small phial to Dumbledore that looked like it contained a clear potion, which, upon further inspection, turned out to be several black hairs, laid gently in a thick gel. Harry recognized it as the potion Snape had pocketed several nights ago during one of their lessons. He shuddered, and knew instantly whose hairs they were.

"How did you get those?" His voice sounded shaky. It was unnerving to think Snape could be so discreet that he wouldn’t even realise his own hairs being taken.

For his part, Snape looked completely unconcerned. Pursing his lips, he articulated a curt, "Another thing to add to our list, Potter. You really ought to begin cleaning your robes. Merlin knows what other vile things might be found on them."

Oblivious to the both of them, Dumbledore dropped the hairs into Lupin’s potion, turning it a deep scarlet, tinged with green. He chuckled, turning to Harry, and said lightly, "Hm, it does seem the Sorting Hat had a point when it wanted to put you in Slytherin, Harry. (Snape twitched.) But, you are a Gryffindor, truly," he added hastily, catching sight of the homicidal look on Harry’s face. "Well, I dare say it would taste a good lot better than Mrs. Crabbe and Goyle, don’t you think?"

Laughing nervously, Harry looked to Remus, gnawing heavily on both lips. He watched as his friend downed the potion, his face screwed up in pain as his hair slowly started to darken . . . .

"Take care you don’t start messing up you hair," he directed, concerned. Lupin nodded, smiling slightly and watching with interest his feet shrinking slightly. When he was finished, Harry could hardly believe what he saw. His face stared back at him, the same green eyes, the same lips, the same round nose. He frowned, resisting the urge to reach out and touch his other self, just to make sure he wasn’t looking into a mirror.

"Now that we are all changed, let’s set things in order, shall we?" Dumbledore sounded positively delighted. Clapping his hands, he ushered them into chairs around his desk, beaming. "I’ve brought you both spare robes, and—is something wrong with your eyes, Remus?—Ah, yes. Harry—your glasses, if you will."

Harry sprang up, digging his glasses out and handing them to Lupin, who grinned back at him. It was unnerving, being grinned at by his own face.

"Back to business," said Dumbledore briskly, standing and taking something from off the shelf behind him. Clearing his throat dramatically, he set the Sorting Hat atop his desk with a flourish, pushing it toward Harry with his uninjured hand. "Harry, you will need to be sorted again, and I will tell you now that the Hat will not place you back in Gryffindor. It would not be wise."

Gulping, he tentatively reached out toward the ragged bit of material, unsure of how to proceed. Where would he go from here, if Gryffindor was out of the question? He would never fit in as a Slytherin, that Harry was sure of, and he wasn’t nearly clever enough to be Ravenclaw, nor would Snape ever accept an apprentice from Hufflepuff.

He jumped as the hat was placed on his hat, waiting patiently for the voice.

"So," said a small voice in his ear, "Back again, Mr. Potter? Ah, but you’ve got a new name, have you? Padriac Domingart? A noble name, to be sure, but where to put you?"

Not in Gryffindor or Hufflepuff, Harry pleaded, hoping the urgency in his voice might speed up the process.

, Harry pleaded, hoping the urgency in his voice might speed up the process."Not in Gryffindor or Hufflepuff, you say? Well, that certainly is a change, isn’t it? You’re clever, oh, yes, and rather cunning, I dare say, when you let yourself be. You have potential, boy, to be great, and I’ve said it before, Slytherin will help you on your way to greatness. But you don’t want Slytherin, do you? Don’t think you’re good enough for Ravenclaw? You would do well in both, but I still say, Slytherincould make you more powerful than you ever . . . . Hmmm, you are a difficult one to place. Can’t make up your mind, can you? That’s what this is, you know. It’s not me that chooses so much as your own mind, and you’re not doing a very good job of it yourself."

Can we just get this over with?

"I am trying!" exclaimed the hat indigently. "It’s you that needs to help. There is no doubt you would do well in both houses, but I need your co-operation to place you!"

I’m trying! Harry was thoroughly frustrated by now. Wasn’t the supposed to decide where he went? It wasn’t his place to make that decision.

"Still undecided, I see. Oh, well, better go with my first thought and put you in—SLYTHERIN!"

Time stopped.

Harry sat, frozen, in his chair, not even bothering to take the hat off. Slytherin. He should have known. He’d be in Slytherin, with Malfoy. Sweet Merlin, he’d be sharing a dormitory with Malfoy. How would he sleep at night? How would he stand Pansy Parkinson? He already wanted to slap her as it was. But, he told himself, he should have expected this. The Sorting Hat had always wanted to put him in Slytherin. And why? He’d never know. Was he supposed to be a Dark Wizard? Had something just gone wrong along the way?

The Hat whispered something unintelligible. "You always had it in you, Potter," came the voice in his ear, and Harry wished it were real person, just so he could smack it. "You’ve got ambition, and you’re willing to go to any lengths to reach your goals. You are mistaken in thinking that being a Slytherin would be condemning you to evil. Slytherins are cunning, sometimes manipulative, and they will go to any means to get what they want, and you certainly fit the part."

I’m not a Slytherin, thought Harry furiously. I’m not like them. I’m not a Slytherin.

"You are now," chortled the voice. That was it. Off came the hat, and Dumbledore’s office came swimming back into view.

Smiling, Dumbledore retrieved the mangy old thing from where Harry had tossed it to the ground, replacing it on the shelf, where it looked rather smug and obnoxious. "We were getting worried about you under there, Harry, but, I see it all turned out rather nicely. A Slytherin! Wonderful, really. You’ll be the perfect part now. If I may say so myself, I was rather hoping the Hat would follow it’s nose (if it had one) and put you in the right place."

Harry gaped, his mouth flapping open like a fish. "You knew I’d be in . . . Slytherin?" he gasped, pulling away. A hand settled on his shoulder, and he nearly had a heart-attack upon finding his own self standing behind him, looking worried. Oh, right. It was just Lupin.

"There is more to discuss," announced Dumbledore, smiling vaguely. "Come, come. Remus, you will have to return to the Gryffindor Tower soon. I trust you know which bed is Harry’s. (Lupin nodded the affirmative.) Very good, and now to you, Severus, Harry—ehm—Padriac."

They both perked up, their interest peaked.

"Ha—Padriac—Severus will take you to his quarters for the night, as it would be terribly rude to introduce you to your new house-mates at this late hour. I trust you two will at least pretend to like one another, or at least tolerate one another, for now. (They both frowned, glaring at each other.) In the morning, I will make small business of Padriac joining the school, just a tiny announcement.

"Remus, you make sure to keep yourself in clear view. Professor Snape will once again be taking your position, at least for the week. If anyone does ask, all of you (except you, Harry) will make it seem as though Remus has had a particularly nasty time with his transformation, and went away for the coming full moon, as his potion just isn’t affecting him the same any longer. It might be nice if you told all of Harry’s friends about it, Remus. Oh, yes, I think that would be quite nice."

Harry, Lupin, and Snape sat in stunned silence, each enveloped in their own thoughts. It was late, and they were all tired. The Headmaster smiled slyly, abruptly rising to his feet and bidding them a pleasant night.

When was the last time Harry had a pleasant night? He couldn’t remember, but there must have been one, not too long ago. He thought he remembered himself smiling into his pillow, dreaming about Cho Chang. He stood, albeit unwillingly, and followed Snape out, his mind beginning to give in to the foggy, bleary power of fatigue. Luckily, the trip to the dungeons was relatively short, and he found himself in Snape’s quarters before he actually got the chance to think about where he was going.

So, this was where Snape lived, was it? It wasn’t quite what he’d thought it would be, but it was fitting. The first room they entered was what appeared to be the sitting room. It was small, made somewhat cramped by the vast amounts of bookshelves lining the walls. The sofa was dark blue and rather comfortable–looking. The fire in the stone grate was put out, but the rooms weren’t unbearably cold. There were three other doors, each resting in its own wall. That made four doors, total, and no windows.

"You can sleep on the sofa, Potter, and keep in mind that if you ruin it in any way, even just the slightest tear on a cushion, I will be using your small intestine in my next Brain-Bleeding Elixir." Snape’s dire warning floated out from across the room, but Harry was far too exhausted to pay him any mind.

He yawned, uttering a confused, "But I’m not . . . bleeding. Don’t need a Brum-Bumbling Felix . . . imer." He sighed, contented, and settled down on the sofa, pleased to find that it was just as soft and inviting as it looked.

Cold hands laid a black, cotton blanket atop him, and a deep, smooth voice said softly, "You astound me, Potter. What ever will we do with you?"

The last thing he remembered as he drifted off to sleep was murmuring, "Just don’t give the leprechauns my gold, nasty things. They want to keep it all for themselves, sir. They’re greedy. They want my cereal, as well . . . ."

Snape shook his head, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. He turned once more to look at the sleeping boy on his sofa. It was no longer James Potter’s face staring back at him, but someone slightly his own. The thought made him shudder. The thing on the sofa actually belonged to him. What was he going to do with a teenage boy? And what in Merlin’s name did cereal-stealing leprechauns have to do with it?

Harry awoke to find himself lying on something black and fuzzy, his legs tangled up in a light piece of cloth. His first foolish thought was that he had been captured by Death Eaters and thrown into a containment cell somewhere. He twitched, struggling fruitlessly with the cloth that was currently constraining his legs.

“Get up at once, boy, before you damage the blanket.”

Oh, no. He knew that voice. Shaking the sleep from his head, Harry thought privately that he would rather have dealt with one hundred fuzzy Rug-Monsters than a single Severus Snape.

Snape’s eyes were bloodshot, his sallow face paler than usual. His bony hand reached out, grasping Harry’s arm in a painfully tight grip and pulling him off the hard floor, where he was thrown rather rudely onto the sofa.

“Clean up this mess and get ready for school,” snapped Snape, waving his wand around like a maestro. “The bathroom is the second door to the right of the fireplace, and don’t take long. You still have to be introduced to the Slytherin House, and I would prefer to be at the breakfast table on time.”

“Okay, I’ve got it. I’ll clean up and be really quick. No need to be such a—”

Before he had the time to react, Snape’s hand was at his throat, clutching his collar threateningly.

“Manners, Potter! How easily you forget that I have your entire being at my disposal. You will treat me with the utmost respect, or so help me youwill be sorry.”

Gulping, Harry jerked away, his eyes wide. He couldn’t help but think that Snape was overreacting a bit, but it was most likely better not to argue. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he somehow managed to make himself stand and fold the blanket to a standard that even Aunt Petunia would be forced to accept. Snape stalked off, muttering about incompetence. He sighed, rubbing a lump that seemed to have formed on his head sometime during the night and shuffled off to the bathroom.

Compared to all of the other bathrooms Harry had ever been in, Snape’s was something of a marvel to Harry. It didn’t appear to be any more interesting than the water closet back in Privet Drive, but the minute he stepped up to the looking glass it barked, “Comb your hair, you little snot!” in such a menacing voice that he sprang backward and nearly fell into the porcelain tub.

“I met a mirror like you in the Leaky Cauldron,” he said cautiously, picking himself up. “Only that one was loads nicer, but then, you’re Snape’s, so I reckon I ought to have expected that one.”

There was no response. Wondering if he might be a bit mad, Harry approached the mirror again, and nearly died of shock.

His face was . . . He couldn’t even begin to describe it, but it certainly wasn’t pleasant. Gone was the round nose he’d grown accustomed to, replaced instead by a larger, crooked thing that leered at him from the reflection. His face had become thinner and paler, with more angles and sharp, jutting cheek bones. Even his scar seemed to have faded into his unhealthy, bloodless skin, leaving behind little more than a minuscule slash in the centre of his forehead. But what shocked Harry the most about his new appearance was not his abnormally large nose, or his pale, gaunt face. In fact, those things seemed trivial in comparison. No, what worried and surprised him more than anything else was the fact that he no longer had his mother’s eyes.

“Hurry up, Potter!” Snape could be heard slamming something heavy around from the main room, grumbling at the sound of breaking glass and splintering wood.

“No need to be vain, you ugly little sod! Stop staring at yourself before you go blind and wash your bloody face!”

Resisting the urge to toss a bar of soap at the rude bit of glass, Harry splashed some water on to his face distractedly, his eyes glued to their gray reflection. Gray. What in heavens name would he want gray eyes for? He wanted his mother’s green eyes, and James Potter’s handsome face, and his grandfather’s knobbly knees. This new Harry was unattractive and altogether unlikable–looking, and he couldn’t help but think of the awkward fifteen year-old Severus Snape in Dumbledore’s Pensieve.

“Potter!”

Speak of the Devil . . . .

Drying his face with a slender, long-fingered hand, Harry shuffled out to meet the irate Potions Master.

“Sit on the floor. Don’t move, don’t speak.”

Snape was bent over a very large book, his brows knitted in concentration as he turned the yellowed pages. He reached up once or twice to massage his temples before finishing up with whatever he had been doing and replacing the book on a heavy-looking oak bookcase. He coughed delicately, turned to Harry, and snapped, “From now on, every time you enter my living space, you will not sit, stand, lie down, or even so much as breathe on anything other than the floor. Is that understood?”

Harry shook his head, confused. “But, sir, why—”

“Don’t interrupt me, Potter,” Snape continued, waving his hand. “You tore the blanket this morning with your theatrics, and I doubt I even want to see what’s left my bathroom. (Harry opened his mouth to reply, but thought the better of it and bit his tongue.) You have been nothing but disrespectful to me, and this must cease at once. This is a serious matter. You will be playing the part of my apprentice. Mine, Potter. There is no room for mistakes.

“When you address me privately, you will begin or end every sentence with “sir”. When you address me outside of class, it will be “Master”, and when inside of class I am “Professor Snape.” I will not tolerate being called by any other name, and I assure you, boy, you will like me even less if I have to punish you.”

Harry blinked, trying desperately to make sense of the harsh words that were being spewed at him. His bleary mind was working furiously at the task, and it was beginning to give him quite a headache.

“I expect you to rise promptly at five o’clock every morning—no exceptions. You will be dressed and ready at five after five, and I expect you to be sitting in here by exactly ten after. Tardiness will be met with quick and severe punishment, such as a missed meal. You will wait to accompany me to the classroom, where we will prepare for the day by lighting the fires and organizing ingredients. You will then go to breakfast, followed immediately by your next class. You are not allowed to socialize in between classes, as I find it a meaningless distraction that will no doubt pull your mind from work.”

Harry didn’t bother trying to explain that he wouldn’t have much of a social life anyway, seeing as he had no friends. He would probably only get in trouble for being cheeky, just as if he was with the Dursleys all over again.

“For the time being, you will assist me in class to cover your obvious lack of talent in the subject of Potions. No one will question you; it would be unlikely that my apprentice would not already have sufficient understanding of the subject matter we cover in the classroom. You are forbidden from assisting your friends, or even from conversing with them. You are a Slytherin now, and I expect you to act as such. There will be no more late-night strolls around the castle. Insubordination will not be tolerated. You are also forbidden from riding broomsticks for the time being—that is, until I deem you mature enough to sit astride one of those dangerous contraptions.” Snape droned on until Harry found that he couldn’t even force himself to pay attention any longer.

“Sir?” he asked, his voice slurred with sleepiness.

Snape’s head snapped up.

“What is it, Potter?” Snape obviously wasn’t in the mood for his questions.

Swallowed hard, Harry asked quizzically, “Did something happen today? You seem a bit---I dunno---did something come up again?”

“You need to take this seriously, Potter. This is a dangerous act, and I can see no other way to impress that upon you. It will be of the utmost importance for you to respect me, and for us to be able to communicate, which you are not capable of under the best circumstances.”

Something about the man’s snappish reply didn’t ring true to Harry. He knew this was important. They’d been telling him that from the off, hadn’t they? Why was he having rubbish about communication and behaviour spewed at him when he already knew it? Snape droned on, and Harry couldn’t help but notice he was clutching his left forearm throughout the entire lecture.

“Remember, you are a Pureblood. You must be confidant in who you are, and don’t hesitate to be a bit arrogant. Confidence is key in this.”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Harry nodded, following the Potions Master out of his quarters and down a dimly lit corridor, his newly acquired Slytherin robes fluttering gently behind him. Fluttering. How pathetic was that? What sort of a Slytherin had fluttery robes? He gave a hopeful little kick with his foot, turning his attention back to the corridor in disappointment.

It felt like someone had dropped a bucket of ice down his throat, and it was stuck, refusing to melt, in his chest. He would be meeting his new house today, for the very first time. The thought of it made him want to be sick. It was like the first time playing Quidditch, only about six thousand times more unpleasant. These were the Slytherins. Harry was a Gryffindor for a reason. He just didn’t know how to be a Slytherin, or so he thought.

“Cruor Blanc,” Snape hissed, breaking him out of his daydream. They entered the common room, Harry taking one last gulp of air before they stepped over the threshold.

The first thing he noticed about the Slytherin common room was the change in demeanor of every student upon his and Snape’s entrance. Their backs stiffened, jaws clenched. A few of the older and braver students managed small nods or a respectful, “good morning, sir”, from where they were sitting. Several first years ducked their heads, faces pale; the rest stared on in stony silence.

If they were curious about him, they didn’t show it. Nor did they have any reaction when Snape cleared his throat, gaining the attention of a towheaded fourth year as he tried to make his escape through a handsome wooden door.

“We have a new student,” Snape announced, pausing to allow his black eyes to flicker over each and every one of their faces. They regarded him with cool indifference. “His name is Padriac Domingart, and he will be my new apprentice.”

Somewhere to his left, Harry could have sworn he heard a disgusted grunt, followed by a deep guffaw, and Malfoy’s unpleasant face leered at him from a winged armchair.

“He was a student at Accademia di Puro-Sangue, so you may put your hand down, Pritchard.”

A third year Harry vaguely recognised as Graham Pritchard sunk lower in his seat, looking flustered. Snape, acting as though he hadn’t noticed, cast a stern glare around the room before ending his announcement with, “If there are any problems---and you can trust me to know about them---they will be dealt with swiftly and severely. I will not tolerate the mistreatment of Mr. Domingart in any way, so it would be in all of your best interest to treat him with respect, and, in the very least, indifference.”

There was no reaction from the group, but Harry could feel several sets of cold eyes boring into his forehead. He stared at the fireplace, recalling sadly the many nights spent in the Gryffindor common room, relaxing in a squashy armchair while enjoying the warmth of the merrily crackling fire. No such thing seemed to exist in this common room. The fire burned feebly in the grate, casting a dull, flickering light on the heavily-upholstered armchairs that were neatly arranged around it.

“On that note, we will adjourn to the Great Hall.”

Harry stepped uncertainly into the back of the queue. The rest were chatting quietly amongst themselves, leaving him alone. The first years in front of him were carrying on an animated conversation about the Tutshill Tornadoes, their little bodies jumping up and down with excitement. The first child, a boy with red hair and piercing blue eyes, was boasting about his uncle being manager for the team, and how he was going to a game over the Christmas holiday. The second, a boy with thick brown hair and freckles, stared at his feet for a moment before countering with a tale of his aunt, who used to play for the HolyHead Harpies. They continued for a while, the stories growing wilder as each relation gained in importance and celebrity status, until the first boy, whose name appeared to be Alec, called the second boy---Zachary---a Halfblood Bastard. Zachary immediately blushed, his freckled cheeks bright red as he bowed his head, Alec grinning like man who has just won a contest.

All things considered, Harry thought it an extremely immature and disgusting way to win, and debated telling them that, but decided it would be far too Gryffindor of him to stand up for the rights of first years. Zachary would have to sort out his own problems.

He watched, interested, as Alec told Zachary what his father thought of Halfbloods.

“And you’re a bastard,” sneered the boy, his blue eyes cold. “Nobody likes you, not even your mother. I heard my mother telling Father that. You haven’t even got an aunt. Your mother’s brother is my cousin’s husband, and he’s her only sibling. No one knows who your real father is, liar.”

Zachary frowned, rubbing a shiny, white patch of skin on his wrist. “How do you know I’m Halfblood? My father was Pureblood. I know he was. Mother told me.”

“Because, half-wit, my mother knows more than your slut of a mother, and my mother told me you were Halfblood. Besides, only legally born children can be Pureblood, so you’re Halfblood either way.”

“The Dark Lord is a Halfblood,” said Harry, cutting in. He didn’t think he could stand to listen to such a dreadful conversation much longer. His mind flashed to Hermione. She was more clever than both these boys put together when she was a first year, and she was Muggleborn. He clenched his fists, restraining himself. If Harry could have his way, Alec wouldn’t have a tongue to speak with, let alone insult Zachary, who was doing his best not to look upset and failing miserably at it.

Alec sneered at him, puffing up his chest proudly. “How would you know? I bet you’ve never even seen the Dark Lord. I bet---”

“I bet it’s time you shut your mouth, you little snot.”

A rabbity-looking boy of about Harry’s age had arrived, fidgeting nervously as he regarded Harry. Alec clamped his lips together, kicking Zachary in the shin, then struck up a conversation with the speckled boy about the next Quidditch captain for the English National Team, all arguments forgotten.

“Theodore Nott,” said the boy stiffly.

It was clear to Harry that Theodore didn’t know quite what to make of him. They were supposed to be cousins, meeting at a very awkward time. Harry blushed, realizing he’s just been arguing with an eleven year-old.

“Padriac Domingart.”

They shook hands. Theodore jerked slightly, his scrawny body tense.

“We’re cousins,” he said bluntly.

This was the reason Nott had come to seek him out, was it? He wanted to meet his cousin. Harry nodded, indifferent. He wasn’t really related to the boy, so what did it matter?

“Yeah---Yes. I guess we are, aren’t we?”

Shooting him a last, wayward glance, Nott scurried off to the front of the queue, where he struck up a furious-looking conversation with Draco Malfoy. Harry followed them from a distance. He was already growing tired of Slytherin. Why couldn’t they have surprised him by turning out to be really nice?

He frowned, taking a seat at the end of the table, as far away from Malfoy as possible. If anything, the boy seemed to have grown even more loathsome since the day before. He complained loudly about the school food while serving himself a rather generous helping of kippers and eggs, then went on to insult the students that were unlucky enough to be seated near him. Harry finally understood why no one ever visited the Slytherin table at mealtime. They were such a loud, whiny lot. Who in their right mind wanted to put up with that?

Shoving a piece of toast into his mouth, Harry glanced around the Hall. Snape was sitting next to McGonagall, glaring in his direction and muttering something that looked suspiciously like ‘manners’. He shrugged, watching in fascination as Flitwick picked his nose, then wiped it on the sleeve of an unsuspecting Hagrid. No one else seemed to have noticed. Professor Trelawney, surprisingly, had decided to grace them with her presence. She was chatting amiably with a dark-looking man Harry didn’t know. He moved to the end of the table, his gray eyes scanning the three people that were left. They were uninteresting, so Harry turned his attention back to Dumbledore, who was now standing and smiling around pleasantly.

“Now that we are fed, I have a small announcement to make.”

The hall grew silent, all eyes on Dumbledore. Even Malfoy had frozen, his blue eyes fixed coldly on Harry.

“We have a new student in our midst---Padriac Domingart. Padriac has come from Accademia di Puro-Sangue in Italy. You may have read the story in the Prophet. If not, I must ask you to leave it for another time. Mr. Domingart will be joining us as a Slytherin, and also,” Dumbledore grew serious, his eyes stern from behind half-moon spectacles, “as Professor Snape’s new apprentice.”

The response to that was explosive. Harry fought the urge to duck as nine-hundred heads craned to have a good look at him. Why couldn’t he have been a nobody like Graham Pritchard? Couldn’t Dumbledore have made him someone no one would really care about, someone no one noticed? He would have liked that, for once.

“I expect you will all welcome Mr. Domingart with the warmth and kindness I know each and every one of you to be capable of.”

When at last everyone had returned to their seats, Harry chanced a glance at Ron and Hermione. They were sitting between Ginny and Lupin, staring across the hall in his direction. Hermione looked interested and a little confused, but it was Ron’s face that drew Harry’s attention. His best friend was glaring daggers, face suffused with a deep-set loathing. Ron’s blue eyes shone with hostility as he raised his arm to perform a rather rude hand gesture. Remus, taking advantage of the moment, gulped something discreetly from a silver thermos before replacing it in his bag and end engaging Ron in what appeared to be a very loud, angry conversation.

“I won’t hold you any longer,” Dumbledore smiled, raising his hand in dismissal.

Eager to leave, Harry sprang to his feet, pushing his way through the jostling crowd. He had just reached the stairs to the dungeon when something very solid and painful rammed into his shoulder, sending him sprawling into the wall.

“Oi, watch it will you?”

The ice was back in his chest, spreading slowly to his stomach at that horribly familiar voice. He turned slowly, wand drawn, to find Ron’s hate-filled blue eyes glaring back.

“You were behind me,” Harry countered. He could hardly believe Ron would be such a prat. After all they’d been through! One might think he’d have learned by then not to judge people before he met them.

Ron’s ears were a brilliant shade of pink. He had his own wand out, pointed clumsily at Harry’s chest. Right on cue, Remus cut in, gently pushing Ron to the side. His wand was pointed straight at Harry’s throat. His wand! The wand in Remus’s hand was Harry’s! But then what was the one he was holding? Afraid of what he would find, Harry slowly dropped his eyes. The wand in his hand was indeed not his own. It was about an inch longer, black, and noticeably slimmer. How come he hadn’t felt a change with this wand? Would he even be able to perform magic with it?

Remus winked, nearing Harry, and whispered softly, “they’ve been transfigured.” Oh.

“Leave Ron alone. He hasn’t done anything to you.”

Harry sneered at them, regaining confidence.

“Your nasty little friend started it, Potter. Maybe you should teach him to respect his superiors.”

For his first attempt at being Slytherin, Harry didn’t think it was that bad. He squirmed, an uncomfortable tightness forming in his chest. It was difficult to be unkind to his friends, although Ron was beginning to make it considerably easier.

“Just let it go, Ron,” pleaded Hermione, laying a hand on his shoulder. Her wide eyes darted from Harry to Ron and back again. “Let it go. You don’t want to get in trouble.”

Yes, thought Harry. Don’t be a prat, Ron. Let it go before someone else comes along.

For a moment, Ron looked as though he might take her advice. His wand dropped a fraction, the glare softening as he looked at Hermione. Harry coughed, praying he wouldn’t change his mind.

“I don’t have time to waste on wannabe Death Eaters, anyway.”

Good boy. Leave the mean Death Eater and go. I’m not worth your time.

“Is there a problem here?”

Harry groaned. The last person he needed intervening at a moment like this was Severus Snape.

Pulling Ron and Lupin by the necks of their robes, Hermione said quickly, “No, professor. We were just leaving---weren’t we, Ronald?” Before Snape had a chance to reply, she marched off, a red-eared Ron in tow. He could hear Ron boasting about what he would have done if Snape hadn’t come and poked his ugly face in. Mentally stopping himself clamping his hands over his ears to block out the ringing laughter, Harry returned his attention to the silently fuming man beside him.

“Pro---erm---Master, I---”

“Two points from Slytherin,” Snape snapped derisively, his eyebrows raised. “And the next time, Mr. Domingart, you will remember the correct form of address for one’s master.”

They descended into the dungeons silently. Harry drew up a mental image of his timetable, allowing anxiety to get the better of him for only a moment. His first class was potions. This shouldn’t be too difficult considering he wouldn’t have to do any work. All he had to do was monitor, make a few snide comments, and pretend he didn’t like any of his friends.

“Behave,” Snape hissed in warning. A strong shove in the small of his back sent him flying into the room.

The rest of the class was already seated by the time Harry and Snape arrived. Only Hermione was late, pink-faced and panting as she took her seat next to Neville.

“Today,” began Snape silkily, hovering over Dean Thomas’s table, “we will be creating the Tincture of Amaranth. It is a difficult potion that will test both your skill and your patience. The ingredients,” he flicked his wand lazily, “are on the board. You may begin.”

The class set to their potions immediately, preparing ingredients and fiddling with the fires under their cauldrons, lest they suffer retribution for idleness in Snape’s class. Harry stalked up and down the aisles, sneering at them in his best Snape impression (which still wasn’t very good, even after six years of knowing the man).

“Stir, Malfoy! It’s not a glass of tea, you prat! Put some force behind it!” Smirking at the blond-haired boy, he moved on to the next table.

“Start again, Crabbe. That useless mess looks like sewage.”

“Did you even read the directions? It says (he paused to glance at the board) an infusion of mugwort! You’ll have to start it again, as well.”

“No, no, no, you foolish Gryffindor, it’s aconite! Aconite!”

Half of what Harry said made absolutely no sense, but the feverishly working class didn’t appear to notice. They jumped at his insults, adding more ingredients and vanishing their “useless” potions to begin again. He glowered contemptuously at Hermione’s almost perfect Tincture, passing Neville Longbottom without so much as a glance, and moved on to criticise Parvati Patil, who was sweating profusely as she laboured over something that closely resembled clotted cream.

“What do you call that? It looks like sour milk. Pathe---” Harry stopped mid-sentence as something (or someone) caught his robes. As it was happening in slow motion, Harry could feel himself falling forward, mouth agape. The entire class froze, eyes wide, as he went tumbling into Parvati’s cauldron, dousing her in scalding white goo.

“Dear me,” trilled Malfoy from behind him, a satisfied smirk plastered on his pale face. “You should be more careful around dangerous things like that, Domingart.” He sniffed disdainfully at Parvati, who was silently crying, his cold eyes glinting. “Someone might get hurt.”

Before Harry had the chance to reply, Snape swooped down on them, his wand out, vanishing the spilt tincture. Parvati whimpered, holding out her hand, which had turned scaly and red from the heat.

“To the hospital wing, Patil,” said Snape curtly, checking to make sure the potion hadn’t spread anywhere else. “Don’t bother coming back.”

Rounding on Harry and Malfoy, he snarled, “Back to your seat, Draco. Padriac, return to your monitoring and keep in mind that I will not tolerate another mishap!”

“Yes, sir.” Malfoy stalked off, looking murderous.

Harry opened his mouth, prepared to defend himself. Why was he being shouted it? It was Malfoy’s stupid fault. If he hadn’t of---

“Padriac!”

Oh, yeah. He had a job to do.

“He’s such a---”

“---nasty git. Wish I could---”

“---but did you see his face---”

“---when he fell into the cauldron---”

“---hope Parvati’s alright---”

“---like a miniature Snape---”

Harry sighed, staring at his shoes. They already hated him. He knew they probably wouldn’t like him. It would have been foolish to hope for total popularity, but still, it might have been nice to have at least one person on his side. All of his old friends, the entire Slytherin house, and the one man he had to spend the most time with hated him. More than that, they loathed him. Was it stupid, he thought, to have hoped to just have one friend? This was already difficult enough on its own, but did he have to lose everything else as well?

“You have Defense Against the Dark next,” drawled Snape from his desk, where he was arranging potions samples from their class. “Come.”

“Wands away, books to page five hundred and six.”

From his seat in the back corner, Harry watched the rest of the class groan, grumbling to themselves, as they reached for their thick textbooks. He flipped to page five hundred and six, his eyes unfocused. Defense Against the Dark Arts was Harry’s favorite subject. He glared at his textbook, tearing the corner off of page two hundred and tossing it at Malfoy’s silvery-blond head. Sirius said one of the reasons Snape got picked on so much in school was his knowledge of the Dark Arts. Would Harry be branded with the same label as the young Severus Snape had for showing an interest in class? He knew things about Voldemort and the Dark Magic he’d seen the man do that would certainly arouse suspicion. They’d hate him even more, maybe even take to bullying him like James and Sirius had taken to bullying ‘Snivellus’.

“Which one of you mindless dolts can tell me what a corporeal Patronus is?”

No one answered. Harry looked around in amazement. Most of these people were members of the D.A. Some of them were even able to produce Patronuses properly. His eyes darted over to where Hermione and Ron were sitting. Hermione looked stricken, her eyes shining. Ron appeared to be apologizing profusely over something. Remus was staring hard at his book, obviously waiting it out to see who could answer properly and trying to ignore Snape’s look of utter triumph.

“No one?”

Harry knew that look. That was Snape’s ‘answer-my-question-or-die’ glare. He smirked, pleased. Everyone in the room deserved a nice, fat essay and a long detention with Filch for treating him badly, and for not remembering everything he’d worked so hard to teach them at D.A. meetings. Had that been a joke to them? He thought they took it seriously enough.

“P-profe-essor.” Neville’s hand trembled in the air, twitching with each stuttered syllable he uttered. Snape looked like he was ready to drown a cat.

“Stop stammering, Longbottom,” he ordered, the vein in his temple working double-time. “You are wasting my time.”

The rest of the class watched, dumbstruck, as Neville said quietly, “We---Harry taught us last year---”

“Get on with it, boy!”

The class straightened in their chairs, enthralled by the scene. Harry bit his lip, hoping Neville got it right. Someone needed to answer properly or Snape would never let Remus forget it.

“He . . . he said---a Corporeal Patronus---it’s a fully-formed Patronus, p-professor. It has a dis-distinct sh-shape and . . . well, that’s what we l-learned.”

How Neville could bravely stand up to the woman who tortured his parents into insanity but cowered in the presence of Severus Snape Harry would never understand. He puffed his chest out a bit, proud that at least one of his friends was able to give a suitable answer. He wasn’t a complete failure as a teacher, then.

“What is significant about the shape a Patronus takes for its Caster?” Snape questioned, pacing. Once again, the room was still. No one knew the answer to that one. Remus looked crestfallen. Determined not to let down his only remaining loyal friend, Harry hesitantly stuck his fist in the air, his gray eyes never leaving Snape’s face.

“Mr. Domingart? Show these worthless dunderheads what intelligence looks like.”

Doing his best to ignore their muttered insults and threats, Harry said slowly, “A Patronus is sort of . . . a reflection of the Caster, I guess. It’s an animal form when properly performed. Sometimes (he wracked his brain, trying to remember what Hermione said about Patronuses changing form) really emotional things, like tragedy or---falling in love---can change the form of a Patronus.”

It was a shot in the dark, but by Remus’s small, hardly noticeable smile, Harry was almost certain he’d been right. Almost.

“Ten points to Slytherin for proving human-kind still has hope left,” sneered Snape, glowering at them down his nose. “For tonight’s homework, I want five feet on the proper way to cast a corporeal Patronus, the improper way, and the results of both . . . .”

Harry spent the remainder of the class with his head in his hands, trying to block out the whispers and sideways glances that were floating his way. Already they were making theories about him, most of them unpleasant.

“---wonder where he learned about Patronuses---”

“---bet he can’t even cast one properly---”

“---just trying to show how much better he is---”

“---heard he was a Dark Wizard---”

“---see what he did to Parvati---”

“---best mates with Malfoy---”

“---heard he was a Death Eater---”

“---saw his mark---”

“---thinks he can be the next Dark Lord---”

“---pur-lease—”

Even Remus was adding to it, telling his own wild account of how Harry tried to cast Cruciatus on Ron and him in front of the Great Hall because Ron tripped and bumped into him. He shook his head, disgusted. What did it all matter anyway? He’d never ever hinted at being Dark and they were already making their assumptions of him. On his first day!

“Padriac.” A cold hand rested on his shoulder. Harry shifted his gaze upward, not half surprised to find Snape staring hard at him, his lank hair falling about his face. “Do you know where the toilet is?”

Of course he knew where the toilet was! He’d been going there for six years, after all. But he shouldn’t know, should he? Padriac Domingart wouldn’t have known where the boy’s toilet was.

“I’ll send someone with you.” Snape glanced around, scanning the room. His stead gaze rested on Remus’s untidy black head. Loathe as he was to admit it, the bloody werewolf was the only one who could set Potter right for the rest of the day. He pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation, tapping a random desk with his knuckles.

“You’ve been chatting long enough in my classroom, Potter. Show Domingart to the boy’s room.”

The wretched werewolf scoffed at him, rising reluctantly from his chair and kicking it aside in a perfect impression of Potter. Snape scowled. That Quidditch accident couldn’t come soon enough.

Dazed and confused, Harry followed Remus into the hall. Why was Snape sending him with Lupin? Why not someone he trusted, someone Harry didn’t like?

“It’s down the corridor here,” said Remus stiffly, pointing at a door some ways off.

“I know where the blooming---er---thanks,” Harry stumbled, shoving his hands into the pockets of his robes. He shuffled toward the toilet, feeling even more alone with Remus than he had during the entire class.

“I’m casting a silencing charm on the biggest stall,” Remus hissed, flicking his wand. The door glowed violet for a moment as Harry was dragged inside. Taking a seat on the toilet, Remus grinned nervously.

“How are you taking this? I know it’s been difficult on you, but it was better than having you locked up in Grimmauld Place all year. You’re like Sirius, Harry. You wouldn’t have been able to last in there. I told Dumbledore he wasn’t locking you up.” He shrugged, smiling sadly. “This was my idea, and I hope I won’t have to regret it. I’m sorry you had to go through this, though. Really.”

Harry nodded, unable to speak. It felt like a thick fog was filling his throat, and the ice in his chest was starting to melt, sending rivulets of chilly water dripping down his arms and legs. He shivered, dropping to the tile floor.

“I just---I didn’t know that---I mean, I knew but---” he choked, pushing his knuckles into his eyes to stop them trying to leak.

“You didn’t know they would be so hostile,” Remus finished softly, dropping his head. He looked so sad, sitting there on the toilet, his eyes squeezed shut. Harry couldn’t help but forget about his own problems for a moment. He never really thought about how hard this must be for Remus. Remus lost all three of his best friends, and now he was sitting in the boy’s toilet, disguised as Harry Potter and spending his time surrounded by immature sixteen year-olds. At least Harry had the summer to mull things over and accept everything. Remus was busy working with the Order all summer, and planning for Harry to have a safe return to Hogwarts.

“I’m sorry, you know,” whispered Harry, his voice cracking. Why was he being such an idiot over this? This shouldn’t be so hard. “About Sirius. I’m sorry I didn’t listen or wait for anybody. I just---he was on the ground, and Voldemort---and the Cruciatus---”

“Sirius wanted out, Harry. That wasn’t your fault. Has Snape been telling you---”

“No! I just---well, I thought that---” It felt nice, mused Harry, to have someone tell him that. The Dursleys hadn’t been much help about anything over his holiday. “When we get back,” he grinned, standing, “tell them I’m planning on starting my own Dark regiment, and if any of them want to join, they can be really important henchman and help me develop an evil plot to take over the world, but if they don’t I’ll give them each a bottle of Snape’s shampoo.”

Remus laughed, ruffling Harry’s hair and taking a swig from his thermos, which seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.

“And that you’ve got a pack of ravenous nifflers in your trunk. Will do.”

Sniggering, they pushed open the stall door. Just as they were passing the cracked mirrors, the door to the toilet began to open slowly. Harry stopped dead, holding his arm out to catch Lupin in the chest.

“Shh. We hate each other,” he hissed, eyes glued to the door. Remus nodded, drawing his wand. Soft footsteps padded by, the door creaking as it swung at a snail’s pace.

One . . . two . . . three . . . .

“POTTER!”

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.

To my friends,

Well, here I am, lost and confused age seventeen. Having entered Hogwarts lost and confused age eleven, it's also looking increasingly likely that I'll be leaving Hogwarts lost and confused in a couple of months to continue my lost and confused life. Lost and confusedness aside, I can safely say that Hogwarts has had a load of happy memories for me.

While I'll never forget this school, the things I will recall are of Gryffindor: having to live my life under the command of an insane house-mistress (she does love me, Moony), having to develop resistance to firewhiskey, the ability to consume ten pieces of Honeydukes chocolate as a main meal each day and late nights on end without sleep. I'll never forget the brilliant pranks we played
(Snivelly's pink hair), or the friends I made here, and I know none of you will ever forget me or any of the other Marauders, for that matter.

It's the people in a school and not so much the way it works that makes it
special. I will miss you all a lot. No doubt we'll all meet again, probably
down the Hog's Head the way things are going.

Before I get all deep and sentimental and receive a kicking in the arse from Prongs or Moony for crying on the parchment, I'll finish this short piece and wish you all good-bye.

Your mate always,

Sirius Black (a.k.a. the unbelievably handsome Padfoot)

With trembling hands, Harry set down the letter. There was no doubt in his mind that this letter had been written by a seventeen year - old Sirius Black, preparing to enter the world. At seventeen, Sirius did not know he was going to become a Godfather. He did not know he would lose his best friends in a few years. That he would be sent to Azkaban for twelve. That he was going to die.

In his letter, he was cocky and sincere. He had no way of knowing that one of the boys that would later read this would be mourning his untimely death. He looked down again, taking in the texture of the thick parchment, the red ink, the splotches where mistakes had been made. He drank every word, his eyes glued to the untidy scrawl.

Harry's eyes clouded over momentarily. He took a deep breath, tearing the parchment in half. What was Remus thinking giving this to him? The parchment was in fourths. Didn't he think it was just enough for Sirius to have died? A particularly vicious tear brought it into eighths. Did he have to make it even more difficult with painful memories and stupid (sixteenths), useless (he tore a small bit and tossed it on the floor), letters from a boy who thought he had his whole life ahead of him?

Furious, Harry watched as the small bits of parchment fluttered to the wooden floor. Like little snowflakes, he thought vaguely. Horrible snowflakes that burned more than one thousand Cruciatus Curses. More than Snape's biting insults and Ron's loathing and having only a bloody first year as an ally. He dropped heavily to the floor and sat, staring at a blank stretch of space for ages, his mind blank. Why had this been so difficult before, with Snape? It felt lovely, having a clear mind. No thoughts, no memories, no bloody parchment. Harry smiled
softly, running his fingers along the mess at his feet.

It was wrong to have torn Sirius's letter. That Harry knew. It would not help him feel any better. Only time could do that. Time and Bellatrix Lestrange's screams of pain when he finally caught up with her, when he gave her what she deserved.

'Reparo.'

The parchment lay at his feet again, staring back innocently. Harry made no move to pick it up. He was not planning on moving until the fireplace chucked Sirius and James and Lily and Cedric out onto his hearth. He would not move until they were all sitting comfortably, toasting marshmallows and laughing over silly little things like Voldemort and mass destruction and prophesies. Nothing but marshmallows and Quidditch talk. Nothing, until morning came.

The sunlight burned his eyes. It seared through the tender eyeball and into his brain. Without thought, Harry rolled over, moaning. The sunlight found his eyes again, and he groaned out something unintelligible, swatting at the source of annoyingly bright light.

'Mr. Harry Potter must wake up, sir!'

Bloody hell, he knew that voice. Harry's eyes snapped open; Dobby was standing with a torch, his green eyes as wide as saucers. When he was sure Harry was indeed not asleep, the torch was switched off and stowed away in the pocket of his football shorts.

'Dobby?' Harry slurred, wiping his eyes. He found his glasses, ignoring the brush of parchment under his fingertips as he reached for them. 'Wassamatter?'

Dobby shook his head, beckoning Harry to the door with a long, spindly finger. 'Mr. Harry Potter must come now, sir. Dobby is coming to warn him, sir --- Professor Snape is looking for him!'

'Snape?'

At that precise moment in time, two things occurred to Harry. The first was that he would have to pick himself up off the floor, play the dutiful apprentice, and scurry into what was promising to be an unpleasant situation. The second was that he wished very much to have switched places with Sirius. Anything beyond the veil had to be more pleasant than an angry Snape.

'Mr. Harry Potter sir is to come at once!' Dobby exclaimed, grasping a thick chunk of black hair with his tiny hand. 'Come, Harry Potter, sir!'

Reluctantly, Harry rose to his feet, stuffing the letter Remus had given him deep into his pocket. The last thing he wanted to do early in the morning was march into Snape's dungeon after having deliberately disobeyed him by not returning to the Slytherin common room the night before, but he let Dobby lead him through a secret stairway behind the tapestry of Barnaby the Blasphemous on the fourth floor, which brought them into a narrow dungeon corridor that Harry recognised instantly, dread filling his stomach like a ton of molten lead. He looked back at Dobby for a moment, his brain beginning to pick up speed as it whirred with a jumble of confused thoughts.

'Hang on, how did you know it was me, Dobby?'

The House Elf beamed proudly, puffing out his little chest. 'Dobby is knowing Mr. Harry Potter, sir. Harry Potter freed Dobby, and Dobby will keep Harry Potter's secret, sir.' Smiling wryly, the elf rapped twice on Snape's door, disappearing with a loud crack that sent shivers up Harry's spine. It did not take long for Snape to open the door, his pale face illuminated by the flickering candle he held in his claw - like fist.

'In.'

Harry obeyed immediately, not wanting to try his already thin luck by angering the man even more. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, hands balled into fists at his sides, not daring to utter a single word. Surprisingly, Snape simply strode toward a door across the room, yanked it open, and stepped inside. It took a moment for Harry's brain to connect the pieces; Snape wanted him to follow.

The floor under his feet felt like mud, clinging to his shoes and crying out with each step toward what was looking to be some form of punishment. He could hardly focus on the room, his eyes travelling instead to the potions master at the other end. Snape glared, Harry stared back.

'I trust you slept well,' said the man dryly, his eyebrow rising sardonically. Harry could only nod in return, so curious was he to know just what they were doing in what looked to be a small, cramped library. Snape continued, spitting each word at his apprentice contemptuously, his face unnervingly calm. 'This room is my private study. You are never to enter it without my permission.'

Without another word, Harry found himself being pushed out forcibly into the main room, where he was led once again to a slightly worn - looking wooden door.

'The lavatory,' Snape announced, then pulled him on before he had a chance to have a proper look. 'The spare bedroom, my bedroom. The main room. The fireplace connects to the Floo, and you are under no circumstances allowed to so much as look at it, unless you are being attacked. If you swallow something poisonous, do not attempt to bother me, because you will wish I did not have the happy power of force - feeding you an antidote. There is a supply of bezoars in the
lavatory for that very purpose. If you are bleeding, there are potions in the lavatory. If you have any other problems, you may come and find me or, preferably, someone else. Any questions? Good. You may prepare yourself for breakfast. I'll not have you showing up in the Great Hall looking so disgraceful.'

Wondering vaguely if this was some mind game and Snape was planning on revealing his punishment later, Harry stumbled off to the toilet. The mirror was just as rude as before, but gone was his shock at seeing the face of Padriac Domingart. It would take some time, of course, before he began to accept that foreign face as his. Throwing the mirror a filthy look, he scrubbed his skin until it burned.

Days passed and Harry found himself less popular by the minute. With the combination of Snape being a git and him having to pretend to be a git (although he wasn't really having to pretend anymore), he predicted he'd be even less popular than Severus Snape had been in school. The thought ceased to worry him, though. While the others were making things difficult, Harry was spending his friendless nights buried in books. It was not nearly as enjoyable as Hermione made it out to be, this practising business, but it kept him occupied. He worked on his potions each night, and even Snape could do little more than sniff indigently at Harry's Dreamless Sleep, which he had accidentally dropped a sprig of cinnamon into, adding a lovely Christmas aroma to it that reminded him of the pudding Aunt Petunia always made for the holidays back in Privet Drive.

Did Snape make pudding for Christmas dinner? Somehow, Harry doubted it.

'Quidditch match today,' piped a small voice at his side. Zachary had returned. The boy was nice enough, but he was forever trailing after his new hero, asking questions about Snape and the Dark Lord that made Harry's head spin.

'My real father was a Death Eater once,' the boy would often remark, his eyes clouded over. 'I want to be just like him.'

The subject was usually changed abruptly by Harry, who would much rather steer away from the topic of fathers.

'Bully,' he grunted, peeling his cheek off a colourful page depicting a man having his head ripped off by a vicious - looking chimaera.

Unperturbed, Zachary continued, 'Slytherin versus Gryffindor, and I know Slytherin will win this time. Potter's been looking peaky, and Draco says he probably won't last the entire game.'

'Huh.'

'I wish he would last it out, though. Be cool to see him play. My cousin Alfred in Ravenclaw says he's ace at Quidditch. Good enough for the English National Team, anyway, but they're all a bunch of batty boys. I think anyone that good ought to be on the Tornadoes. They're brill.'

It was this sort of mindless chatter that made Harry appreciate Zachary more than anything on some days, and want to stuff a snitch down his throat on others. Today he did not mind it so much. It took his mind off the fact that the final main stage of the plan was being carried out today, and Remus was right in the middle of it.

Zachary gave a sort of spasmodic bounce, rising to the tips of his toes. 'See you later,' he whispered, then said in a clear voice, 'I'm going to get ready for the game. Big game, you know, and I really want to see what Potter can do.'With that, the boy was gone. In a way, Harry almost felt bad for him. At the rate things were going, he never would get to see the famed Harry Potter's skills at Quidditch.

Time went by like a delayed clock, ticking slowly, almost painfully. Harry squirmed in his seat, impatient. Was Remus any good at Quidditch? They had never covered that in their “Harry Lessons.” He chewed viciously on the end of his fingernail, spitting fragments of nail into Malfoy’s hair at intervals.

‘Have you ever seen a Quidditch match before?’

Harry sighed, frowning at the small boy peering up at him. If he had not known better, he would have suspected Zachary of spying on him, the boy followed him like a lovesick puppy.

‘Yeah, I used to – well, in Ireland, of course. But – erm – we mainly just played Botticelli in Accademia. It’s really similar, though.’

Despite his hopes of turning the boy’s attention back to the game, Harry had only managed to get him interested even more. Zachary perked up, his small face bright, freckles glowing in the dewy air.

‘Botticelli?’ he whispered, eyes wide as saucers. ‘What’s that? It’s like Quidditch, is it? Is there a Seeker? Did you play? I’ll bet you did. What position did you play? What positions have they got? I’ll bet – ‘

His shrill voice was lost in the cheers of the crowd and the ear-splitting screech of Madam Hooch’s whistle. Harry waited with bated breath –

‘Mount your brooms – ’

They were off. Beside him, Zachary had fallen silent, lost in the excitement of the game. Harry could just make out Remus’s pale face – a mere blur – as he shot off on the Firebolt like a cannonball. His hands clutched at the handle of the broomstick desperately, as though he feared for his life. It would have been amusing, had this not been so serious….

‘Slytherin in possession of the Quaffle – Quigly shoots – SCORE 1 SLYTHERIN!’

Around him, Harry’s new housemates roared, clapping their hands and laughing. He pulled away, repulsed by their sinister giggles. Above them, Ernie MacMillan droned on, oozing boring statistics and long, droning commentary. It was obvious Ernie had been forced into commentating the match; he had never before shown much of an interest in sports.

‘Potter circling the pitch – wonder if he’ll try the Wronski Feint today. Be an interesting sight, of course, he’s only a sixth year, so he’d probably end up with his face in the dir – Gryffindor in possession. Bell goes for the goal – shoots – SCORE!’

The red and gold-clad students erupted into cheers joined by most of the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaws as well. Harry spat bitterly onto Malfoy’s smooth, blond head.

Far above, Remus circled the pitch, hands trembling. Harry wondered if he had any idea what was going. He wasn’t a bad flyer, really. Bit shaky, perhaps, but not horrible overall. Harry bit his lip, eyes glued to his friend’s silhouette. Zachary was chatting amiably about Gryffindor’s defence, versus Slytherin’s.

‘I mean, when Weasley gets the courage, he’s really not too horrible. (Yeah.) Hopefully he stays on the way he is now, give us a clear shot for a few more goals before Potter catches the snitch. I mean, everyone’s always going on about Potter. He almost never misses, did you know that? Never. Wonder what’ll happen this – LOOK!’

The entire stadium moved in unison, fingers pointed skyward, Harry swallowed hard. Remus had begun to weave, the Firebolt dodging from side to side, as though trying to chuck him off. He looked rather ridiculous, really. Harry followed with his eyes – as did everyone else – the breath caught in his throat. This was it.

‘It seems Potter has lost control of his broom. Odd – the only time I remember him doing that was in his first year, but I dare say he has improved a bit since then. He has been looking ill lately, perhaps it was a dodgy breakfast – ’

But no one was listening. A loud gasp tore through the crowd as they watched Remus lose his grip, tumbling to the muddy Earth below. Zachary stood on his bench, ignoring the indigent cries of his fellow Slytherins. Feeling no need to sit around and watch, Harry slipped away. If he could get to the library before everyone else came back to the castle, he might be able to avoid Ron and Hermione. Pushing his way through the throng, he made slow progress toward the ground; he was not unnoticed.

‘Look at Domingart! Ron, look!’

With an excited whisper, Hermione thrust her binoculars into Ron’s hands, pointing to the slowly retreating form of Harry.

‘What’s he doing?’ Ron asked, leaning forward. Without wasting a moment, Hermione snatched the binoculars back, face pink with exertion. Something about the Domingart boy was oddly familiar – almost unnervingly so. Was it perhaps the way he walked? He almost reminded her of –

‘Ron! He’s done something to Harry’s broom and – we’ve got to get to Harry, now! What if he’s cursed him?’

The crowd had risen, with the exception of the Slytherins, and a small party of professors was beginning to form around Remus’s fallen body – Dumbledore at the helm. Harry glanced back once more; silently hoping Remus was all right, before slipping into the forest.

‘ – Never seen such a thing – ’

‘ – In all my years – ’

‘– Awful, fell straight off –’

From the back, Hermione could make out only the vague, trembling form that was her friend. She clutched Ron’s hand tightly, ignoring his surprised expression, and edged closer. It was good they were ignored, she decided. No one noticed as two sixteen year-olds crept between the gaps in the throng, whispering concernedly, wands drawn.

‘You were spotted,’ Snape informed, almost immediately, as Harry stepped through the door to his office. He shrugged, dropping unceremoniously into a chair. ‘By Weasley and Granger.’

Unconcerned, Harry said flippantly, ‘The whole school was at the match, professor, if you hadn’t noticed. I’m sure loads of people were spotted.’

Snape seemed to grow, his pale face illuminated eerily in the flickering candlelight. ‘They saw you walking away from the match, Po – Padriac. They think you have done something to damage their friend in some way, and they will be watching you. For Merlin’s sake! Does nothing penetrate your thick skull, boy? They will be watching you.’

‘They will be watching me,’ repeated Harry, scratching his chin. ‘What happens when I’ve got to use the toilet? I mean, d’you think they’ll both follow me in, or just Ron?’

It was almost fetching, that pale fuchsia blotch in Snape’s skin. Almost made him look human, at first glance. It was a habit of Harry’s to note small details during confrontations and lectures, one of which he knew would occur sometime within the next five minutes. He noticed the bits of fried egg in Uncle Vernon’s moustache while being shouted at during breakfast, the sombre faces of Ron and Hermione when they crowded around him in the hospital. Now he noticed Snape’s blotchy skin, the pulsing vein in his greasy temple, the twitch of his left eye, the way his nostrils flared ever so slightly when he was upset.

‘They won’t bother me, erm, sir. Ron’s my best mate; he’s not about to cast tracking spells on me and sample my bowels or something. He’s not like that, Hermione either.’

This did not seem to calm Snape much, although he decided not to pursue the matter.

‘Tell me a story,’ he said suddenly.

Harry spluttered, nearly fell from his chair, and quickly turned his sniggers into a hacking cough. He could feel the heat in his reddened cheeks, tears welling behind his eyes. Snape wanted Harry to tell him story?

He must be going barmy, thought Harry. Him and the rest of us.

‘Erm ….’

‘Tell me about your aunt. What do you remember, growing up with her?’

Ah, well, that was different, wasn’t it? He just wanted more information. Probably writing a book, or something, Harry mused. The Secret Life of Saviours: An Unauthorised Biography of the Boy Who Lived. He sniggered.

Snape, looking rather pained, began to say something, and Harry cut him off quickly.

‘She took me shopping once. Well, more than once, but this one time – it was, er, you know, before I’d got glasses. And, er, Dudley – he’s my cousin (Snape snorted) – he was whinging about sweets or something. He’s fat, Dud is.

‘Erm, Aunt Petunia, she was, ehm, talking to the clerk – in the supermarket – and told me to bring Dud’s favourite crisps up, but I couldn’t see the bag all too well. I mean, it was all blurry, so I, er, took the wrong ones, and then she sent me back again and again, but I always took her back the wrong packet of crisps. I couldn’t find the proper ones, and everything was blurry, and then the clerk said I looked blind, and Aunt Petunia convinced Uncle Vernon to get me to see an eye doctor. It took loads of convincing, but he let her when she told him she’d turn of the television – the Whites were playing – so they took me a few days later, and I failed (‘Horribly, I am sure.’) and they gave me these glasses. Well, not these ones exactly. Aunt Petunia wanted me to pick the ones with square frames, but I liked these. Circles were my favourite shape when I was four.’

Besides raising an eyebrow, Snape did nothing as Harry ended his story. Finally, after a rather pregnant pause, he hissed, ‘You cannot take anything seriously, can you, Potter?’ Harry frowned. He had thought his story was serious enough. ‘I give you a simple task – tell me a story about your aunt – and you joke.’

‘Ah – but, sir –’

‘Leave, Padriac. We will continue these lessons at another time, perhaps once you have learnt to hold that infernal tongue of yours every time you think of something clever to say.’

Before he had the chance to respond, Harry found himself in the hall. He returned to the Slytherin common room, ignoring the sideways glances and whispers of his housemates, and settled into bed early.

‘Dinner,’ announced a smooth voice from just beyond his green hangings.

‘Sod dinner.’

‘You’d like to, wouldn’t you?’

Not that voice. It was worse than an angry Ron, suspicious Hermione, and annoying Zachary put together.

‘I’m not hungry either,’ Malfoy smirked, flicking the hair from his face.

Harry’s head was swimming. What was he getting himself into this time, following Malfoy – Draco Malfoy – to the Room of Requirement while everyone else was busy with their dinner and would most certainly not realise their absence until he was a cold, glassy-eyed carcass stashed under a table somewhere.

‘We need to speak, in private,’ Malfoy had informed him,

So, here they were, Malfoy in the lead, their cautious, purposeful strides taking them quickly to the tapestry of the disastrous troll ballet. The room was luxurious, certainly not something Harry could ever have dreamt up, with thick wooden tables and stately leather armchairs. The posh carpeting beneath Harry’s trainers depicted a garden scene; he found himself fighting to hold back laughter, yet Malfoy seemed quite comfortable.

Settling himself in a winged armchair, he turned to Harry and said lazily, ‘Sit down, Domingart. You look awkward standing, like some idiot Mudblood.’

Harry sat. The leather beneath his backside squeaked and clung to the fabric of his robes.

‘I am not going to waste my time, Domingart, so you had better pay attention.’

Harry straightened, doing his best to look as though he didn’t care.

‘As I’m sure you well know, my father is a very influential man,’ Malfoy sniffed. Harry snorted, leaning back in his chair carelessly. Was this all? Malfoy wanted to intimidate him by boasting his father’s now nonexistent power?

‘I’m sorry, Malfoy,’ he interrupted rudely, sneering, ‘but I thought you father was in Azkaban? Not so powerful now, is he?’

Draco’s face took on the ripe shade of rotten tomatoes. His silvery-blonde hair shone in the light from the fireplace, casting a reddish glow upon his pale skin.

‘My father is one of the Dark Lord’s most trusted followers! He is in prison for serving his master nobly, something I’m sure you could never even dream of.’

‘You’re right,’ Harry retaliated, swallowing hard. ‘I couldn’t dream of Azkaban. My parents died in there, and I don’t plan on visiting it anytime soon. So, if you’ve got a point to this – ’

Malfoy smirked. ‘Of course, I have, you dolt.’

He seemed pleased, for some reason, with Harry’s answer. What was Malfoy planning with him, and what had he just jeopardised with his spontaneous lying?

‘You’re Snape’s apprentice, Domingart. Surely you must be talented at potion-making?’

Oh, no.

‘I guess.’

The smirk widened, until it was situated across the entire bottom of Malfoy’s face, from ear to ear.

‘You’ve noticed by now, I’m sure, how Professor Snape favours certain students above others? (Harry nodded, confused.) Snape has long been close to my father, Domingart. My father will be out of prison soon, you’ll see. The Dark Lord will get him out as soon as he feels it’s time. But you,’ here, Malfoy flicked his wand. A tray of biscuits appeared beside him (‘Have one, please.’); he took a Ginger Newt for himself.

‘You could be useful, you see. Do you ever wonder what would have happened, had your parents not died?’

More often than anyone knew.

‘You want revenge, don’t you?’

More than you know.

‘I can give you that. I can help you; guide you, to your revenge on the people who took your parents away, who threw them into Azkaban without a second thought. Without thinking about their son and what he would do without them, how he would cope in an orphanage in Ireland.’

Suddenly, Harry felt a very new, very frightening tightness in his chest. He wanted this. He wanted to take revenge on the people who took his parents from him.

‘Who stole your parents from you, Domingart?’

It came without thinking, escaped his lips quickly, as though afraid it would be stopped had he paused for thought.

‘Dumbledore.’

Dumbledore ruined everything. Dumbledore kept the prophesy from him. It was Dumbledore’s fault Sirius was dead, Dumbledore who tainted the image of Lily Potter and took the only father Harry had ever dreamt of. It was Dumbledore who let him put himself in danger every year, every year, to fight for the cause, to be programmed into a saviour.

It was at that moment that Harry forgot every kind thing Dumbledore had ever done for him. All he could remember was the twinkle in those blue eyes, Dumbledore taking him from Gryffindor, from his friends, and placing him in Slytherin with Malfoy. It was Dumbledore’s fault everyone hated Harry Potter – no, Padriac Domingart.

‘I can help you,’ Malfoy breathed, his eyes taking on a strange, daemonic glint. It was clear he had found exactly what he was looking for. ‘Brew me a potion. Brew me a poison, and we’ll get our revenge on Dumbledore.’

‘Erm …’

Malfoy’s smile flickered for a moment at Harry’s blatant uncertainty. What Harry wanted to say, his brain being temporarily out of order, was, ‘yes, of course, I’d love to’. However, something in the back of his brain – the Gryffindor bit – urged him to refuse and leave. This was not an intelligent decision, sitting alone in the Room of Requirement with Malfoy, revealing emotions he had not even known he possessed.

‘Erm – I mean …’

What would Snape say? Harry found his stomach sinking, suddenly full of lead. Snape would kill him, wouldn’t he? But, how could he blow his cover now? What if he said no and Malfoy decided he was of no use to anyone, and decided to dispose of him? Wasn’t he already going to be involved with Death Eaters, anyway? Snape had more than hinted Harry would be expected to meet Voldemort. Surely Dumbledore was aware of everything that went on? Had he already known of Malfoy’s plan? And if he did not, Harry could always tell him.

After all, how much damage could a silly little poison do?

‘OK. OK, I’ll do it.’

Malfoy’s smirk was as broad as the Nile. ‘I knew you would,’ he said, standing. Harry did not move from where he was sitting in the armchair, almost afraid he would break some sort of protocol he was not aware of. ‘I’ll speak to you soon about getting everything in order. Until then –’ Malfoy’s cold eyes swept the room, settling at last on Harry’s own tired, grey ones. ‘Tell no one of our little chat, here, lest I should have to remind you just what sort of power my father really has.’

With those friendly parting words, the boy strode out, leaving Harry to sit behind in his armchair and contemplate his life. What was he doing to himself, he wondered, by agreeing to all of these plots?

Surely nothing horrible could come of it. Surely.

The following Saturday dawned cold and grey. Girls complained in the common rooms about the moisture in the air, furtively stroking their hair in attempts to flatten any nonexistent strays. Harry, loath as he was to admit it, could feel winter coming on as though a block of ice had settled in his stomach. Winter would bring Christmas, and there was no doubt in his mind that Christmas was going to lack as much holiday cheer as Snape could possibly manage. He fell into a gloomy routine of class work, revisions, long hours in the library, few hours of sleep, Remedial Potions lessons, and Occlumency with Snape.

Despite dire threats from the man, Harry had found himself purposely skiving these lessons. They were nearing Harry’s first year of Hogwarts memories in Occlumency lessons; he was not horribly willing to share with Snape the confusion of not knowing why the Potions professor had loathed him upon arrival.

They had (somehow) managed to skip through the Dursleys fairly quickly, and moved on to matters like primary school and nosy neighbours. Snape, as far as Harry was concerned, already knew more about the Dursleys hating him than anyone else had a right to know. And yet, there was never a single change in his demeanour. Not once did he hint at pitying Harry, or sympathising, or any of the reactions the boy had planned. There was no dramatic apology, no theatrical tears or pleas for forgiveness. There was, in short, absolutely nothing but the same deep, angry glare and a sharp tongue that was bound to sever the boy’s ego one day soon.

And so it was that Harry found himself, two weeks until the Christmas holidays, hiding out in his bed with the hangings pulled shut and a silencing charm stretching from his four-poster to the door of the dormitory. Needless to say, Harry’s dorm mates were not overly pleased, but they tolerated him for the mere fact that they were in constant fear of Professor Snape.

‘I know you’re hiding in there, Domingart.’

Not him again.

‘Hell – the whole school knows you’re hiding here,’ Malfoy drawled. He must have released the Silencing Charms on his way in Harry thought, burrowing deep under his thick blanket.

‘Sod off, Malfoy,’ he said hoarsely from underneath the pillow. ‘I’m not in the mood to listen to more love stories about your bloody father.’

Malfoy’s laughter was high, almost forced. He had long since ceased to surprise Harry with his mood swings, which could be as unpredictable as Voldemort himself.

‘Don’t be a twat, Domingart. I need to talk to you, about Quidditch.’

Quidditch? What the hell did Quidditch have to do with anything? Harry puzzled over this for a minute, reacting just too late as Malfoy wrenched open the hangings, his pale face practically glowing in the dim light of his wand.

‘You’re a bit intellectually challenged, I’d say, but I’ve still got uses for you. We need to speak in the Room, now,’ he hissed. It was odd, Harry mused, how this boy - who was not much older than he was himself - managed to sound so authoritative and charismatic all at once. He snorted. Lucius Malfoy probably had his son training in the art of Manipulation from infancy.

‘All right,’ agreed Harry, albeit reluctantly. He had been hoping to avoid Malfoy for at least another day or so. ‘Just as long as I haven’t got to listen to “One-Hundred Reasons Why Your Father is More Powerful than Mine.”’

Chuckling darkly, Malfoy pulled him from the four-poster with a gentle tug of his fist. ‘We’ve much more important matters to discuss at the moment, Domingart, but I appreciate you reminding me. I had been planning that particular lecture for Wednesday, but it looks as though I will be indisposed, so …’

He trailed off, leaving Harry to ponder just where the boy would be on Wednesday. Perhaps he could nick his father’s cloak back from Snape, just for a bit?

‘And nothing about how loyal he is to the Dark Lord, or how rich and influential he is, or how well his robes match the grey hairs on his ars – ’

‘Oh, shut up,’ said Draco. And he did.

The corridors were oddly silent as Draco and Harry crept down to the Room of Requirement. Although, supposed Harry, it could well be because of the new eight o’clock curfew for all students, and the fact that both him and Draco were currently breaking it. He found himself shuddering involuntarily, trying to ignore Draco’s amused sniggers as they stumbled their way to the door. What would Snape do to him if he were to be caught out tonight?

The Potions Master was already furious after Harry had skipped four Occlummency lessons with him, not to mention three Remedial Potions lessons and a meeting about the Christmas holidays. He was no longer quite certain why he was skiving these things, except that they had something to do with Draco’s poison, and his promising to brew one. Oh yeah – and the fact that Snape happened to be the best Legilimens he knew of.

‘Will you be with Severus over the holiday?’ Malfoy questioned sharply, almost as soon as they had settled themselves. Harry nodded, a sinking feeling in his stomach informing him that this was, yet again, a horrible mistake on his part. ‘Have you got an owl? A proper one?’

Harry immediately thought of Hedwig, but the pang in his heart was too great. She had been his only friend over countless nights at the Dursleys, had tolerated and forgiven his short temper, had always been faithful. Where was she now? He wondered.

‘Sometime over the Christmas holiday, Severus will bring you to my manor. He always comes on Boxing Day, and sometimes Christmas itself. We’ve got a massive party that lasts for days. Of course,’ he smirked, pleased about something, ‘as a lowly apprentice, you will remain in the kitchens with the House Elves and the other servants.’

Harry could feel his face burning red, and he had the distinct desire to pummel Malfoy into a pulp, which he only just managed to curb as the boy continued snottily.

‘I’ll meet you in the kitchen to collect my potion on Christmas Eve. If you haven’t got it ready then, you needn’t even bother. I’ll have your master (he took particular delight in this word, Harry could tell) know that you have been misbehaving on my property. Malfoys do not tolerate barbarianism within the perimeter of our manor, Domingart.’

Despite having listened to every word, Harry had grasped about as much of the concept of this as he had of the Goblin Rebellions of 1824. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his head before Malfoy started asking questions.

‘Good to see you comprehend,’ said the boy unpleasantly, offering his most sickly sweet smile. ‘You may leave me now.’

Pointedly ignoring the dismissal, Harry stood. Tomorrow he would have to face Snape again; he could not continue avoiding lessons, especially not with the coming holiday.

O O O

‘Your parrots should now be – ah, Mr Domingart; how kind of you to join us.’

Bowing his head, Harry sat quickly at the only empty table in sight – a small one with one chair and a scruffy-looking bird that squawked at him as he opened his bag.

McGonigall stood near his table, wand grasped firmly in aged hands, as she admonished, ‘I do not tolerate tardiness in my classroom, Mr Domingart. You have been here long enough, I should think, to be well aware of the rules.’ Harry bowed his head, hoping she would leave it at that. She did not. ‘As such, I think it would be appropriate that I took five points from Slytherin. You may rest assured that your Head of House will be aware.’

Behind him, Ron sniggered and muttered something to Seamus. Harry, in turn, ignored them completely. He was past taking Ron personally anymore. It was difficult, of course, them not being friends. It was difficult to finally realise how Ron would have been had Harry been sorted into Slytherin that first year. He had never before seen his friends in such a light. They were the good side; they only retaliated when the Slytherins were nasty to them first.

He ignored them now and settled for reading his set book, but the words blurred on the page. Ron was really a bastard. He could handle that. Harry scrubbed at his eyes furiously, willing the colours not to bleed together, the fuzzy black squiggles to sharpen again and form words.

Somewhere very far away, Ron’s voice hissed, ‘Death Eater’; Harry read on.

O O O

If there was one thing Harry prided himself upon, it was his ability (or so he thought) to accept criticism amazingly well.

Severus Snape did not give criticism.

From the moment he stepped into the cold dungeon office, Harry knew it was going to be a very long night indeed. Snape was sat behind his desk, fingers steepled, somehow managing to look both pensive and incredibly angry all at the same time.

‘Sit,’ he said softly, and Harry had the horribly sinking feeling in his stomach. He would rather have taken a plunge from the Astronomy Tower than sit down in the office, with angry Snape giving him a nasty glare. ‘Six feet,’ Snape cleared his throat, standing. He towered over the desk, an imposing black figure not unlike the villains in Dudley’s old comic books.

‘Come again?’

Thoroughly confused, Harry raised his eyebrows. Six feet? Was he expected to grow six feet? Was that the length of the cane Snape was planning on beating him with?

‘Six feet, boy. I expect you to have it by tomorrow’s lesson, which you will most certainly not be skipping. I want six feet on just why it was you found it so important to miss both my classes and our private lessons.’ The man fixed him with a stern glare, giving Harry the feeling that he was under a microscope. ‘Tomorrow.’

‘Fine.’

‘And all of the work you have missed in my class, I will be expecting you to have made it up by this Thursday.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Snape gave the boy an odd look, as though surprised by the sudden change of tone. If truth be told, Harry had not the energy for anger and defiance. He was worn out with worry about Malfoy and Ron and Hermione, not to mention the ever-present threat of Voldemort.

‘Let’s see if you have at least given time to practise….’

Of course, he had never once thought of practising. Snape would know. Then again, Harry reasoned, how could it get worse?

‘Legilimens!’

It was nought but a whisper, yet Harry had grown conditioned to fear the word. IT had never brought anything pleasant. And now … now it intensified tenfold. If Snape saw his meeting with Malfoy….

Ron and Seamus were laughing; Harry tried to ignore them.

The words blurred together on the page, the colours bled.

And Voldemort was laughing as he tortured Harry, the Death Eaters cheering on as if it was nothing more than a football match.

Malfoy had that awful, knowing smirk – almost like he knew exactly what you were thinking, and it amused him….

No, insisted a small voice in the back of his head. No. You can fight this, Potter.

‘Can’t,’ Harry replied, as though the voice was thick in the head.

You can. You’re just lazy.

‘I can’t.’

You can, and you will. Snape will not see what happened with Malfoy. Snape cannot see.

And then, something odd happened. It came quickly – this new, empty feeling. His head felt pleasantly airy, as though he had just inhaled large quantities of helium. Harry felt like he was floating. It was clear to him that he had to stay this way forever. No thoughts, no anger, no pain, no joy. Just empty. Empty like air and clouds and gently flowing water.

‘Well.’

If anything, Snape looked almost murderous, but Harry found that he could hardly contain the goofy grin threatening to take over his face. He’d actually done it! He’d done Occlumency, and even Snape couldn’t possibly say he had been shirking his work this time!

‘What was your last Potions grade, boy?’

The sharp question was hardly the reply Harry had expected. ‘Er, a D, sir,’ he said uncertainly, staring at his shoes. Snape nodded, seemed satisfied, and strode quickly toward his desk.

‘Good, good. We’re finished for the night. You were – you were not completely pathetic tonight.’

‘Thanks, sir.’

Snape stared at the wall for a moment, his lips moving a slow and steady rhythm that looked almost like poetry, yet no sound came out.

‘That was not a compliment, Padriac.’

‘Goodnight, professor.’

As Harry left Snape’s office the corridors had never seemed so bright before. The torches gleamed gold, their brackets silver. All he could think about was the fact that he had performed Occlumency tonight for the very first time, and even Snape had nothing horrible to say about it.

He stumbled in a daze to the Slytherin common room, ignoring Malfoy’s slanted attempts to catch his eye, avoiding two second years that wanted to get his opinion on their Potions essays, nodding politely to Zachary, who look thrilled, before finally settling in his bed – fully clothed and beginning to feel the slow effects of drowsiness on his mind and body.

‘HARRY!’

Someone was calling, but the room was empty and black. There was not a soul in sight.

‘HARRY!’

A prickle at the back of his neck told him to turn around. He followed it; Snape strode out from behind a pillar, wearing a robe that looked as though it had been bought in ancient Greece.

‘You’ve done well, my apprentice. Very, very well.’

And now it was Voldemort, those red eyed gleaming. He tried to back away, but found that his body would not comply. It seemed to want to be there. And, to Harry’s horror, he himself wanted to be there, Voldemort’s steady gaze fixed on his pale face.

‘You’ve always had it in you,’ he was saying. ‘You’ve always had that sneaky, bitter corner in your brain, just waiting to come out. It’s taking over, and you cannot stop this. This is you, Harry. This is you – my apprentice.’

His hands were changing shape, from slender and pale to skeletal. Before him, Voldemort had begun to grow red hair, and the gleaming eyes were shining green. Lily Evans looked positively nightmare- inspiring when she was in a mood.

‘You’ve always had it in you, you know. It’s been stuck back there in your mind, after all those years – and this was all it took. Malfoy will bring you power. Malfoy will bring you prestige, but he is not your friend. You say you want revenge!’

It was as though she was merely a talking portrait. She was two-dimensional, but her voice carried such fury that Harry thought he might actually be thrown against the black wall from the sheer force of it.

‘I’m your friend, not some fool of a wannabe Death Eater! Bit sad, isn’t it? When the only person who wants to be your friend is a girl who hates your guts?’

She softened for a moment. Her green eyes were dim and teary.

‘I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry – for what they’ve done to you. I’m sorry if you think I’m just letting it happen, but you’ve got to understand that I can’t do anything! I’m sorry, Severus. I hope you see things clearly one day. Go on and find your revenge with Malfoy, if that’s what pleases you.

I won’t sit around and wait.

It was then, as Harry lie, gasping beneath the heavy blankets, that he realised he needed to see Dumbledore.

Now.

‘What, Potter, are you doing in my quarters at four o’clock in the bloody morning?’

Harry blinked, rubbing his eyes. What had brought him here? He head meant to see Dumbledore, to tell him the stupid plan was off, and he wanted to be Harry Potter again. Yet, somehow, his feet had lead him down another corridor entirely, stumbling six flights of stairs, bumping into walls, and finally to a small relief of a troll smashing out the brains of a wizard who looked remarkably like James Potter – spectacles and all.

‘Puh-druck,’ he said thickly.

Snape raised an eyebrow, but, for the first time in his life, refrained from commenting. The boy was half-asleep, and appeared to be suffering some teenage affliction. ‘Padriac,’ he repeated. ‘I am well-aware your name, however,’ he stepped a bit closer, taking in Harry’s red-rimmed eyes and weary frown, ‘what I am not aware is why you are in my quarters at four in the morning.’

Harry stepped back involuntarily, eyebrows knitted curiously, lips pursed. ‘Why’m here?’

‘Yes, boy. Why you are here.’

It was this question that Harry could not respond to. How could he explain heading off to Dumbledore’s office, only to find himself twenty minutes later in the dungeons, in Snape’s private quarters? He shrugged, blinking some more. ‘Dream, my mum. You. Dumb-le-do-or.’ He swayed on his feet, and Snape immediately guided him to the sofa.

The man was dubious. Potter had come to him, of all people, because of a bad dream? What on Earth had possessed the boy to even consider it?

‘Boy,’ he addressed sternly, glaring at Harry’s tousled hair and clouded grey eyes, ‘you are not to enter my quarters without permission. Is that quite clear?’

Harry nodded slowly, his sleep-fogged mind guiding him without thought. ‘Noughtagain.’

The ever-pulsing vein in Snape’s forehead was giving him a migraine, and he massaged it roughly with sallow fingers, eyes trained all the while on his apprentice. This boy was going to drive him mad, he could feel it.

‘Never again.’

Potter nodded. ‘Ne’er-guhn.’

‘I suppose you’ve got at least four feet on your essay?’

It was a miracle. Where his eyes had once been droopy, mind clogged with useless ponderings and old dreams, Harry found himself seeing painfully clearly. He started, hands jerking to his lap, mouth flapped open to form a perfect “o”. A shadow crossed Snape’s unpleasant face, but he appeared to be controlling his temper rather well, considering.

‘You haven’t given it a thought, have you?’ he questioned wearily; this was become tiresome. Harry’s terse nod was the cue for a lecture. ‘You skip my class, my lessons, any contact with me at all; you hover around those blasted Gryffindors as though hoping somehow they might smell the Harry Potter in you. Tell me, Po – Padriac, how is it you can find time to mope about mourning the loss of those snivelling, pathet-’

‘I didn’t come here to be lectured on how horrible my friends are, sir,’ said Harry hotly. He matched Snape’s glare with one of his own, lips pulled into a taut line. The man stopped mid-sentence. A reply formed on his lips just as he glanced at the boy’s face. Pink-cheeked, narrowed eyes, mere lines for lips. Padriac Domingart looked every inch his father, though there were places here and there that were clearly (to Snape) Lily Evans. His almond-shaped eyes and high cheekbones, for one. The feathery eyebrows that resembled a doll’s. A perfectly squared chin that would last into old age. They sat in ossified silence; each wrapped in his own thoughts until Harry said finally, ‘I’m tired.’

Snape snorted, and it broke the tension. ‘Lie down, then. What am I, your nurse?’

Though the man was cross, Harry flopped back onto the sofa with a smirk on his lips. ‘What if we forget the essay and I never skive off again?’

A second snort, though it lacked derision. Snape stood, scratching his forehead bemusedly. How had he gotten himself mixed-up in all of this? Taking care of Potter as though the boy was five?

‘You can write your essay,’ he articulated, casting the boy a stern glare, ‘or you may pickle frogs every night until I am quite satisfied you have learnt your lesson.’

Of course, the answer was painfully obvious.

‘Nite, sir!’

From the day he turned four Harry Potter had dreamt of having a father. A proper one, like Jeffrey Dunn’s, who played football with him every day after school when they were in primary. He had been the only boy who never spoke of late-nights watching football matches on the television, or how his dad was always nicer than his mum, or who packed a better lunch. His corner of the room was deserted on every Parents’ Night; there was no to tell him how wonderful he had done on his maths exam, or how clever he was for using the word “extravagant” in an essay, no one to rant about his drawings and claim he had to be the most talented young artist in the history of talented young artists.

No one was proud of Harry Potter, but that had never stopped him –

Until now.

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would have laughed in his face to see him the way he was with Snape. Ugly, in his opinion, sour-tempered, unkind to his friends – he had his father now, but he had changed his mind. It was overrated this having parents business. No one told him having a dad would be as torturous as Christmas on Privet Drive. He was told when to go to bed, what to eat for dinner, how to do his homework. He was criticised for every fault, compared to a Hufflepuff more than once, and treated like a house elf whose only purpose in life seemed to be kissing the feet of Severus Snape. It hardly took long for the rest of the school to realise this.

‘Need some breath mints, Domingart?’

What for?

‘Breath mints are no good, Seamus, he’s kissed too much arse – it’s a permanent stink.’

‘Ooh, professor, don’t make me sit next to Domingart! I’ve only just had lunch!’

‘Arse-kisser.’

‘Blood-Traitor.’

‘Death Eater.’

By the time he reached double Potions, Harry was in no fit mood to be around people. He was not a Potions person, a Herbology person, a Transfiguration person, a Defence person, or any type of person at all. He sat where he was told to sit and tried to ignore whatever varied and unoriginal insults floated his way. He smirked and played sarcastic, and though Remus had returned from his leave of absence and Harry Potter was now safely away at St Mungo’s, Padriac Domingart was very much alone. Alone and despised was how he saw it, yet neither Snape nor Dumbledore seemed to care.

He sighed, rearranging his ingredients for what must have been the sixth time. The seat beside Harry was unoccupied. He was sat in the front, only half-aware of the sniggers and muttered comments behind him. Snape had him brewing a potion today, his first time since they had taken up the act. It was hardly complicated from what the book said, but Harry found himself unable to begin.

‘You should have finished preparing your ingredients by now and be well into the first stages.’ Snape’s silky voice drifted lazily from where he was sat at his desk; he kept his eyes on the essays in front of him.

Harry swallowed his groan, but he was the only one. Apparently, he was not the only criminally incompetent brewer in the sixth year. Seamus Finnegan was having to re-dice his roots, after a particularly vicious attack with the silver chopping knife, Neville had somehow managed to melt his cauldron before the actual potion-making was even begun, and, to Harry’s immense satisfaction, Malfoy was looking at a spectacular telling-off for his horribly mangled worm root.

Unfortunately, however, none of these (pleasing) observations would be of much use in the brewing of his own Pimple-Popping Confixer. His ingredients lay beautifully prepared on the table, ready to be loaded carefully into the simmering water. He reached for the worm root, ready to add it in moderation, as the book advised, and the next thing he knew Harry was sprawled on the floor, puddles of water steaming on the stones beside him. He groaned, clearing the water quickly, but it did not take long for Harry to realise that fate could never be so kind as to allow for an easy clean-up. Of course, his bag would be drenched, along with every bit of parchment he owned. Of course, Neville Longbottom would be wringing his hands, looking very much as though he was about to cry, and apologising profusely while the Slytherins sniggered. Of course, his potions book would be dripping, soaked to the core, its soggy pages a blur of ink and wood pulp.

Harry stood; Neville gulped.

‘Sometimes, Longbottom, I wonder if that brain of yours is not as twisted and empty as your cauldron,’ hissed a snaky voice from somewhere near Harry’s left earlobe. He felt himself stiffen, standing almost at attention, deaf to Ron’s muttered comments of having a stick shoved too far up his arse. What did it matter, anyway, when Neville was looking as though he was about to wet himself with fright, and all because he’d knocked into a stupid cauldron? ‘Clean it up, Domingart!’ Snape barked, thrusting a tatty book and a rag into his hands. ‘I’d have Longbottom do it, but obviously his idiocy runs deeper than even I had imagined.’ He turned to Neville, who backed away, looking stricken. ‘Leave, you feather-brained imbecile, before you manage to melt something else.’

And Neville ran. Harry pursed his lips and busied himself examining the book Snape had given him. It was the sixth year set book, but had obviously been hated by someone in a previous life, for he/she had scratched love notes all over the pages, in between the margins, and sometimes crossed things out. He sighed, flipping through the pages as though they were made of lead. As if Advanced Potion-Making was not complicated enough without some hormonal teenager’s scribbles on –

Pimple-Popping Confixers?

Excitement coursed through his veins; making his hands tremble on the flimsy pages, smudging precious black lettering.

Add two cups beetle eyes, the book read. Someone had crossed out half of the instructions, listing his (for Harry had begun to think of this mysterious faux-love-letter-potions genius as a he) own. Add three cups beetle eyes, crushed to a fine powder. Mix with juice of pomegranate seed.

He hurried to add the beetle eyes, curiosity driving him more than anything else. Snape must not have realised his students were marking up their set books, or he would have been absolutely furious.

Confixer should be yellow-orange, lightly simmering; golden mist. Temperature 40ºC.

Harry could have kissed this person, whoever he was. The Confixer brewed like magic, each step progressively easier as he learnt to decipher his mysterious helper’s cramped penmanship.

‘Your confixer should now be deep blue.’ Snape sniffed over Ron’s boiling green mess, stopping once to sneer at Hermione’s nearly-perfect confixer, which was just one shade too light, and moved on to the Slytherin side of the room, his nose eternally wrinkled. He paused over Malfoy, taking a moment to comment on the faint silver mist hovering just above the cauldron. Harry waited with bated breath, self-consciously stirring his own confixer every few seconds, as the book instructed. He felt, for once in his life, that he had actually succeeded in potions. If only Occlumency had a magic book like this to tell him what to do; he was certain it would be far easier if Snape could teach like this unnamed saviour.

‘Crabbe, add some root. You’ll set the table on fire if you let that go any longer…. Parkinson, Nott, mix in some – put that disgusting thing down, McKnight. Twenty points from Gryffindor.’

A mousy-haired boy sat next to Dean scowled and stuffed a magazine into his bag with astounding speed, face flushed red. Harry muffled his sniggers with a cough, earning himself a glare from Ron and Seamus. A few weeks ago, he might have been muttering under his breath with the rest of the Gryffindors, furious with the greasy git for picking on his house again, but now it was humorous. Tory McKnight was a stupid fool thinking he could get off reading dirty magazines under the table in Snape’s class, and if six years with the man hadn’t taught him that, the idiot was hopeless.

‘Domingart, explain to the class why they shall all be receiving a T for the day’s lesson,’ snapped the professor. The Gryffindors protested angrily, moaning and insulting, but the Slytherin side was silent. They listened attentively, eyes glittering in the dungeon lights. If he had been Snape, Harry thought, he would have found himself an illiterate deaf mute and the incantation to the Fidelius Charm.

‘Because,’ he cleared his throat, glancing at Snape pleadingly. ‘Because mine is the only confixer with, er, a gold mist over it, and the proper colour, and…’

‘….And I’ll eat Weasley if I ever see a more pathetic display of arse-kissing,’ Malfoy grumbled. His friends laughed nervously. ‘Honestly, Domingart, why don’t you lick the shi –’

‘Detention, Mr Malfoy,’ Snape said coldly. His nostrils were flaring, and Harry had a difficult time deciding whether to wet himself or sing for joy. Malfoy had got himself detention – from Snape – and all because he’d been insulting Harry! Even Ron was staring at Snape’s apprentice with renewed interest, obviously torn, as was everyone else whether he ought to smile, clap, or return to his work as if nothing had happened. But, the Pimple-Popping Confixers were forgotten in the excitement, and a slow clap had started, Harry was surprised to see, by Hermione, who was looking for all to see as though House Elves had been given rule of the world.

‘Sir, but - !’

‘But nothing. I shall see you after class to – ’

BOOM.

It happened simultaneously throughout the room.

BOOM, BOOM, BOOM.

First with Ron, then Seamus, Dean, Tory, Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, Nott, Pansy Parkinson, Bode Miller, Parvati Patil, and Lavender Brown. Blaise Zabini followed, and then Allyson McKeenan, Roger Finks, Anthony Robbergottem, Logainne Woods, Sarah Peters, Daniel Kay, Fiorella Marcks. A few unnamed Slytherins Harry had yet to meet.

BOOM.

The class screamed, diving under desks to avoid the spray of poorly made confixer. Snape could be heard above the din, swearing loudly from behind Goyle’s hulking frame, Malfoy whimpering by his feet. Harry alone stood at the front of the room, untouched, grinning at the spectacle and wondering how he could ever have been so lucky. The entire class was covered in oily pimples the size of kumquats. They moaned; he snorted. Snape stood in the centre, a fantastic pimple rapidly enveloping his nose.

‘Detention,’ he breathed. ‘For everyone.’ And then he saw Harry, calmly returning to his seat at the front, rows away from the contained explosions and tending to his potion as though this was an everyday occurrence for him. ‘With the exception of Domingart.’

Let them grumble about favourites. Harry Potter hardly considered himself a favourite. Was it his fault he was lucky enough to get a book that taught him how to make a proper potion, one that would not explode? He felt like emptying his Gringott’s vault for Neville. Never before had Harry been so pleased with the other boy’s clumsiness. He hastily shoved the book into his bag and hurried for the door. He was the only one.

‘Keep smirking, Domingart,’ someone growled. Oh, yes. There was a promise he could keep.

‘Keep blowing up cauldrons,’ said Harry lightly, nodding to the glaring girl, ‘and I assure you you’ll never go smirkless again.’

She sniffed, but Harry was the one walking out, pimple-free.

Listening to Dumbledore prattle on about his responsibilities over Christmas holiday was become painful for Harry. Beside him, he felt Snape stiffen; whatever the Headmaster was saying was lost on the boy’s ears as he silently picked a hole in the carpet with his school shoes. He found it highly unlikely that anyone in their right mind would even consider visiting a bastard like Snape over holiday. He didn’t exactly make for pleasant tea-time conversation, did he?

‘…And, of course, we’ll need to – Harry, are you paying attention, my boy?’

The fog in his ears cleared ever so slightly.

‘Harry? Have you heard anything I’ve just said?’

Of course he had. Something about a tea party, wasn’t it?

‘Yes, sir.’

Snape snorted, waiting for Dumbledore to turn around before tearing off the edge of a fingernail and spitting it derisively at a brightly coloured tin that could only have held the Headmaster’s seemingly never-ending supply of sherbet lemons. The meeting had dragged on far longer than it was supposed to, and the two Slytherins fully blamed Dumbledore; the old man had more waffle in him than Eggo.

‘Beg pardon, Headmaster,’ Snape interrupted with the airs of a man who would rather swallow a Blast-Ended Skrewt than beg pardon from anyone, ‘but I have several volatile and rather valuable potions to pack still, and I am certain the boy’s tendency for sloth has no doubt slowed his own packing to an almost criminal rate, so if you would be so kind as to hurry this up….’

Dumbledore smiled. It was amazing, really, Harry thought, that a man could smile after such a monologue as though he had just been offered a lifetime supply of sherbet lemons.

‘Of course, Severus. You’ll have to forgive an old man’s rambling; I sometimes forget you are a grown man yourself, and more than capable of handling this.’ If it was meant to be a compliment, it certainly did nothing to help. If anything, Snape looked possibly more inclined to homicide than he had before. ‘I’ll just say goodbye then, shall I? Good luck, the both of you.’ He shook their hands, patting Harry on the back in a fatherly way. ‘Good luck, Harry, Severus.’

It was, perhaps, the first time Harry could ever recall being wished good luck for Christmas.

The moment they entered the corridor Snape turned, leering down his nose, and ordered, ‘Fetch your things, then, and don’t be all day with it. I plan on leaving here before breakfast.’ He strode off without another word, most likely to sulk in his quarters, Harry thought.

He followed slowly, his mind on other things. Maybe if he took long enough he could nip down for a bit of toast or something, anything to appease his queasy stomach. Packing should not take a horribly long time. Harry had never owned much. Some fresh shirts, trousers, maybe a pair of robes. Shoes he was wearing; a comb might help. His wand, a few books, socks, pants, parchment, and quills were a necessity. Snape had said to bring a toothbrush if he planned on keeping his mouth clean, and both his Invisibility Cloak and the map were in Lupin’s care for the time being. Not much packing to do at all, then.

‘Sang Pur,’ Harry mumbled. He shuffled into the common room where the unlucky few who had stayed for the holiday milled about tiredly, lounging on wing-backed armchairs and doing their best to look uninterested in one another. Fortunately, Malfoy and his bumbling lumps were gone, leaving Harry to enjoy the last moments of peace he would have before Christmas with Snape. Theodore Nott (who insisted on Harry calling him Theo) glanced up, nodded, and returned to his book.

The sixth year boy’s dormitory was empty, with the exception of Nott’s foul black cat. Harry opened his trunk, yanking out his Slytherin robes, ties, scarf, and jumper. He replaced the scarf under a pile of socks, clumsily folded one of his robes, a tie, and jumper to lie on top of the short pile of clothes already occupying trunk space. A few random books were tossed in, his writing supplies, and a bag of sweets mail-ordered from Honeydukes. His last addition was the potions book Snape had given him. It had saved him a total of four times in class so far, not to mention held a myriad useful spells. He would have been hard-pressed to leave that behind; it had become nearly as precious a resource as the Marauder’s Map.

‘That’s it, then.’ Theo’s cat yowled, and Harry shot it a grin. ‘Bet you’re well pleased to see me off, aren’t you, you nasty old –’

‘Domingart?’

He stopped dead, head whipping toward the door in time to see Nott enter.

‘Why are you talking to my cat?’

Harry shrugged, locking his trunk. ‘Your cat was talking to me.’

Theodore chuckled, lifting the beast into his arms. Everyone hated Nott’s cat, except for Nott himself. For reasons unknown to the rest he seemed to actually love the little monster, and no matter how many times Malfoy promised to give it a well-deserved skinning, Theodore simply smiled and laughed to himself, as though he was in on some secret joke. He sat on the edge of his bed, petting his cat and watching Harry struggled with his trunk. ‘You’re a bit odd, you know, Domingart,’ the boy informed.

‘You’ve got no idea, Nott,’ Harry snorted, waving a spare sock at the other. He took a last glance around the dormitory, realising with a sharp pang in his chest that this was the last time for at least a few weeks that he would be seeing the room. It had almost become a second Gryffindor to him, if one forgot the three beds occupied by Malfoy and his cronies. Nott was almost pleasant at times, and Zabini could be a pompous arse, but he kept to himself mostly, so that was all right. It had taken a bit to get used to the absence of Gryffindor scarlet and gold, though, and Ron’s snoring. And Crabbe had this disgusting habit of spitting his toenails onto Goyle’s bed at odd hours, and Malfoy tended to narrate his dreams as he was having them, so the entire room echoed with his annoying voice. But, besides all that….

He really did miss Gryffindor Tower.

‘Well, be seeing you then, Nott.’

Theodore smiled grimly, raising the cat’s paw in a sad little wave. ‘Happy Christmas, Domingart, impossible as it might be for you.’

‘Yeah, Happy Christmas to you as well.’ So saying, he turned away from Nott and his horrible cat, dragging the trunk behind him. The Slytherin common room seemed abnormally cold this morning.

‘Hurry up!’ Snape’s mood had gone from foul to fouler with every step they took down the dreary streets. No one else was around, and Harry couldn’t help but stare at the smoke-stained bricks on the building nearest him. His trunk was spattered in mud and Merlin knew what else from the long, tedious walk to wherever Snape lived. He could only hope the place was more attractive than, well, whatever this was.

‘Coming, sir.’

Snape gave no sign of having heard him as he struggled with his own things – a rather heavy-looking bag and a shabby wooden box. Harry hoped they were painfully heavy.

‘Keep up, boy! I’m not having you lagging behind –’ He swung around suddenly, watching Harry struggle with beady black eyes. The trunk became heavier as he sludged his way toward the unpleasant man, and he began to wonder just how angry Snape would be if he stopped for a rest. ‘For Salazar’s sake, boy, bring the trunk to me!’ But, Harry was not fast enough. Within seconds Snape was at his side, snatching the handle from his hands and pushing the box and bag into his arms. Harry started, but Snape was already on the move again, and the look on his face said clearly that the next time they stopped would be for the disposal of a Harry-sized body.

And so they trudged, man and boy; Snape appeared to have charmed his things, for they were weightless in Harry’s tired arms, a fact which he was grateful for, even if he never would vocalise it.

‘Stop.’ The command came unexpectedly. He stumbled backward on his feet, taking a moment to regain his balance before gaping up at the building. Snape was fitting a key into the lock, grumbling about “stupid, Muggle things” under his breath and casting dark looks at the neighbourhood every few seconds.

‘Sir?’ he heard himself ask quietly. Something about this lane screamed for silence.

Snape paid him no attention. The door swung open with a deafening creak, followed by Snape and the trunk (the latter of which was left unceremoniously by the entrance, turned on its side). Harry licked his lips nervously. Surely this could not be it. Surely Snape did not live in this … hovel. That was certainly the only word that could describe this place. A hovel, one of many, on a lane of similar little hovels, though Snape’s was by far the most run-down of the lot.

‘Well, what are you waiting for – Christmas?’ came the sharp scolding from within the house. A moment later Snape’s head appeared in the doorway, accompanied by the rest of him. He beckoned Harry with a crooked finger. ‘Not up to your standards, is it?’ the man sneered. It was harsh, but it broke the spell. Hurrying to the door, Harry pushed past Snape and set his things on the floor.

‘It’s small,’ he frowned. They were standing in a closet-sized entry hall, made smaller by bookshelves packed to capacity that adorned every wall. Snape snarled, kicking the trunk toward Harry with a jerk of his foot.

‘Upstairs with it,’ he ordered snidely. ‘It’s blocking up the hall.’

This really was getting a bit ridiculous.

‘Maybe if you’d had a proper hallway instead of this, this….’

‘Cupboard?’

It was Harry’s turn to kick something. He clenched his teeth as pain blossomed in his two front toes from their brief contact with the staircase. ‘Where am I sleeping?’

‘Where am I sleeping, sir, and if you’d shut your mouth for once in your pathetic life I could show you.’

They faced each other, Harry defiant, Snape looking slightly green. Harry felt he was being put through too much by this. Wasn’t it enough to have to stay with the greasy git for his holiday, without the house? It’s better than the Dursleys, said a traitorous little corner of his brain. Shut up.

Snape led the way up a flight of stairs. Harry nearly laughed as they reached the landing. It was, if possible, the smallest second-story of a house he had ever seen. There were three doors – one, he guessed, was the toilet, which left a room for Snape and one for Harry.

The first door was locked. Obviously, the room was not Harry’s. Without waiting for Snape’s invitation, he reached for the second.

‘What are you doing, Domingart?’ demanded Snape. Harry turned to glare at him, but the best he could do was sneeze.

‘My room,’ he said thickly, grasping for the handle again.

Snape stood, arms folded across his chest, watching. Just as Harry was turning the knob, he interjected, ‘I know you must be used to living in confined spaces, boy, but unless you plan on sleeping in the water closet, I would suggest the third door.’

Harry flushed, fully embarrassed, and growled, ‘You could have told me that before – ’

‘Before you rudely entered a room without being invited to? Oh, but I wouldn’t dare impose on the Boy-Who-Will-Not-Be-Alive-To-See-His-Seventeenth-Birthday-If-He-Does-Not-Wipe-That-Filthy-Glare-Off-His-Face.’

‘Show me, then,’ griped Harry, not half annoyed.

Snape seemed all-to happy to comply; he opened the third door with a flourish, kneeing the trunk in and smirking. Harry entered slowly, expecting the worst.

‘It’s,’ he began slowly, pausing to take in the room; Snape raised an eyebrow. ‘Not unbearable.’

It was small, of course - one could hardly expect otherwise after seeing the rest of the house - but Harry could do small. He’d lived in a cupboard for over half his life, hadn’t he? The room was grey, mostly, with a tatty blue blanket draped carefully over the bed and grimy curtains fluttering over grimier windows to face – surprise – a soot-covered brick wall. The bed, small enough on its own, took up most of the room, but there was enough space for a small wardrobe and a nightstand squeezed against the far wall.

‘Unpack,’ Snape commanded, waving vaguely at the trunk. ‘The kitchen is behind the door in the parlour. There ought to be something to eat for lunch.’

Harry grunted, surveying the postage stamp room again. He waited for Snape to leave before forcing his trunk under the bed. A thin layer of dust covered practically everything, and he coughed, feeling his eyes watering slightly. The place was obviously in need of a good cleaning; Aunt Petunia would have had a heart attack.

Unpacking was easy, as it consisted of him sitting on the bed and thinking mournfully of his bed in the Slytherin dormitory. This bed was narrow, long, and creaked when he moved. Harry felt the pillowcase, surprised to find that it was rather soft, and stretched his arms. He was not nearly as gangly as Ron, but the walls were close enough that he could brush them with his fingertips. His room was like the bed – long, narrow, and sad.

Snape came in just as Harry was about to sit down. He had wracked the cupboards, but the kitchen yielded nothing decent to eat. In a drawer he found a bottle of something, a stick of ordinary Muggle bubblegum, and a tin of sausages. The sausages had expired in 1979, by the label, but the gum and drink were as good as anything he reckoned he’d find in the house.

Almost as soon as he raised the bottle to his lips, however, Snape snatched it from his hands.

‘Hey!’ Harry cried, indignant. If Snape wanted something to drink he could find it for himself, the great git.

The man was unremorseful. Wrinkling his nose, he set the bottle on the cooker and set about searching the cupboard. Harry watched smugly, inching his way over to the cooker while Snape was preoccupied.

‘Touch it, and I promise you won’t be able to sit properly for a week.’

He shot back to his chair as though the cooker had threatened to bite his fingers off. Snape rounded on him, wearing an unreadable expression and holding the sausages Harry had discarded.

‘I’m thirsty,’ complained Harry. He knew he was being petulant and unhelpful, but Snape most certainly deserved it. How did he come off thinking he could just drag someone here, shove him into a cupboard-sized bedroom, and deny him the only drink in the house?

‘Drink from the tap,’ Snape replied as he gingerly pulled the lid off the tin.

Harry chewed his bubblegum with vigour. ‘I want that, er, sir. I found it first!’ It really wasn’t fair. Snape hadn’t even asked – just swept in with his great ugly face pulled into a scowl and took it. It was something Dudley would have done.

He caught the first whiff of sausage and coughed heavily, gagging over the table (albeit, a bit dramatically) and ignoring Snape’s Death Glare. ‘Bin it!’ Harry pleaded. It was as if a troll had decided to relieve itself in a pile of rotten eggs. The musty, old smell of death, mixed with something far worse – like decaying potion ingredients. Snape frowned at the tin, seemingly oblivious to the stench, and regarded it instead as he might a botched potion. He leaned forward to sniff it, and that was enough for Harry.

‘Aha!’ The man looked up just as he was having a triumphant swig from his bottle. Snape stood, and Harry backed away just as the liquid hit his throat. He choked; nearly dropping whatever it was and stumbled forward – into Snape.

‘Of, course, boy, it would be impossible for you to follow simple instruction. Don’t touch the bottle means don’t on your pathetic life touch the bloody bottle!’ He was furious, and he was advancing. Harry shoved away.

‘I didn’t know it was – what was that … sir?’ he asked weakly. Snape cleared his throat, claming himself a bit. He examined the bottle, peeling back the blackened label and sniffing the contents. Harry felt as if he might puke, just knowing that same disgusting, crooked nose was on his face….

‘Irish whisky,’ he announced. Harry sneezed. ‘Which would be why I had ordered you to keep out of it!’

Oh, dear. Harry could feel a lecture coming along. It would, of course, be more intelligent to keep his mouth shut and let Snape rant, but he was not in an intelligent sort of mood. He wanted to rant right back, and then see how the prat liked it. ‘I know, I know, it was wrong of me not to listen, and I’m so sorry, sir,’ he began, not sounding sorry in the least. ‘But, you could have at least told me what it was before I – urgh, what is that?’

‘I – ’ Snape smelled it too – the undeniable stench of a decaying corpse. They both turned instantly to the table, where the tin of sausages sat innocently, staring back at them.

‘Those – things – are disgusting, sir,’ informed Harry; he pinched his nose attempted to shove the tin off the table with the tip of his wand, but was stopped by Snape.

‘No,’ the man hissed. ‘They’ll spill on the floor.’ Harry could hardly argue with this logic, but the urge to say something stupid was strong in him. ‘We’re going shopping,’ Snape announced suddenly, striding out as though there was not a tin of twenty-eight year-old sausages on his kitchen table. ‘Come, Padriac.’

Harry followed wordlessly.

The trek to the nearest shopping centre was a long one. Harry felt as though he had been sent back a hundred years or so. The buildings were mostly red brick, stained from years of exposure to smoke from the industrial plants that dotted the town. He stopped when they reached a bridge to examine the sludgy water beneath it. The place was a mess, whatever it was called, and he could only hope Christmas would be over soon. Although, by the way things had been looking lately, the entire excursion would probably be extended due to Voldemort blowing some old woman’s tea party, or something.

‘Just up here,’ Snape said, more to himself than Harry.

‘Better be,’ he grumbled; his shoes now matched his trunk in the fact that they too were covered in greenish sludge. ‘What’s this place called, anyway?’

For a few minutes it seemed as though Snape had not heard him. That, or he was being a git and decided to ignore the question, but Harry liked to think of it the first way. They trudged up three more blocks before stopping in front of a sad parody of a gas station convenience shop, only it was in a brick building just as Snape’s house was, on a street that looked almost identical to the one they were holed up in.

‘Spinner’s End,’ Snape said, turning to glare down his nose at the boy.

‘Oh,’ said Harry, and it was a fair few seconds before he realised Snape had just answered his question. ‘What’s that?’

But, they were already entering the shop, and there was no time for a reply. The place smelt strongly of mustard, for some reason, with grey walls and faded signs that must have been vibrant at one time, though now they offered up bargains (bread – sixpence!) weakly, as though the walls had leaked grey into the aging paper. They were, Harry understood it, in a very Muggle town. A very ugly, poor Muggle town, but a Muggle town nonetheless. Silently vowing to himself never to agree to a plan before Dumbledore told him every painful detail, Harry shuffled past a rack of romance novels.

‘Touch nothing,’ warned Snape, and he was forcibly reminded of another shop, in an equally dingy and unwelcoming place, with Mr Malfoy grabbing at a twelve year-old Draco Malfoy’s arm to deliver the same command. He nodded and wandered toward a shelf of biscuits boasting more chocolate chips than before and a bright red package. They were something a young Dudley would have demanded to have immediately, but Harry was uninterested in biscuits and Mars Bars. Snape’s house needed basic necessities, and, besides that, he was hardly one to whine over sweets, especially not to Snape.

‘Severus Snape.’

They both spun around, Snape calculating and wary, Harry startled.

‘I thought you stayed at that school place through Christmas.’ A podgy old man in a green grocer’s apron was frowning thoughtfully from behind the counter, his watery brown eyes fixed on Snape.

The man took a deep breath, pulling Harry’s arm after him as he strode to the counter.

‘What’s this, then?’ The old man looked surprised. ‘I wasn’t aware you had a family, Snape!’

Harry almost opened his mouth to correct the man, but Snape beat him to it. With the airs of a Malfoy, he said loudly, ‘the boy is from the school I teach at, Slattery.’

‘Of cou – ah.’ And now the man was regarding him as though he was a mad murderer, or something similar. Harry wondered just what school Slattery thought Snape taught at. ‘One of them, is it? What’s he done, then?’ He continued to stare at Harry, his watery blue eyes roving over the pale face and parted lips, halting finally at incensed grey eyes.

‘He robbed a bank,’ Snape huffed, putting on a good show of being annoyed by the old man Slattery’s questions. Harry found himself feeling quite the same way, though he kept silent and coughed out his snort, his widening eyes swivelling to meet inky black. ‘And before you ask, Slattery, he is staying with me because he has nowhere else to go. His … relatives … are unwilling to take him, unfortunately.’

‘Oh,’ was all Slattery could manage. His eyes darted from Harry to Snape almost nervously. ‘Well, of course he – he’s safe, is he, Snape? Won’ be burglin’ off me come tonigh’?’

It was all Harry could to do to stop himself bursting that he had not robbed a bank, thank you very much, and that Snape was a filthy, lying bastard. It was difficult, though.

Surprisingly, Snape seemed to be thinking along the same lines (excepting the filthy, lying bastard bit). When he spoke it was in the low, threatening voice he always used when Harry was mouthing off in class. ‘Your shop is quite safe, Slattery. The boy could hardly manage to get inside the bank, let alone properly burglarise it. He can be,’ here he glanced at Harry, as though warning him to keep his mouth shut, ‘violent at times, of course, I assure you his time at Newgate has made him calmer. He should be very well-behaved.’

Harry nodded, deciding he rather liked his new role. It was far better than Snape’s apprentice/number one arse-kisser, he decided. ‘Yes, professor,’ he said softly, trying his best to look deranged. For a moment, Harry could have sworn Snape looked like he might laugh, but the man was back talking to Slattery, and he couldn’t be sure.

‘Where do you keep the milk?’ Snape demanded. Slattery immediately pointed out a set of fridges in the back, an oily smile plastered over his face. Just like Borgin with Malfoy’s dad, Harry thought. ‘Boy,’ Snape snapped his fingers – an order, Harry supposed, to fetch the milk.

He took his own sweet time, relishing in the sideways glances Slattery kept sending him and stopping to examine several shelves of fizzy drinks. On the way back to Snape he paused, milk in hand, to pick up a package of chocolate Buttons. Aunt Petunia used to like them, he remembered vaguely. She used to eat them on holidays and shopping excursions, always with a fizzy drink. It was her one guilty pleasure, she always said, and it made Harry laugh every time.

Slattery’s eyes narrowed, and Harry made his decision. He slipped behind a rack of health magazines and came out empty-handed, a small smirk on his lips. ‘Milk, sir.’

Snape rounded on him, staring suspiciously at the bulge in the pocket of his jumper. ‘Bread,’ he replied quickly, his voice clipped. Harry left the milk on the counter and shuffled off, humming to himself. He almost laughed, for he knew Slattery must have been watching, just as he knew the man had seen him slip the chocolates into his pocket. He had no intention of nicking them, of course, but watching the old man jump was too entertaining; Harry had a feeling he was going to seriously lack entertainment in Spinner’s End.

He took forever picking out a loaf, rather pleased to have the freedom to do so. Aunt Petunia always decided what they bought at the supermarket in Little Whinging, and he ate whatever Hogwarts gave him to eat. It was a small thing, but it made Harry feel that perhaps living with Snape might not be quite as horrible as Christmas with the Dursleys would have been.

While he was at it, he reckoned he ought to test his freedom here. He snatched up a bag of crisps and a fizzy drink, a box of biscuits, some tinned soup for good measure, sausages, bacon, eggs, sugary breakfast cereal, and cinnamon oatmeal. Snape raised his eyebrows and immediately began picking through the pile of food. He handed back the crisps, fizzy drink, and breakfast cereal, denouncing them as “unhealthy confections”, and ordered them put back immediately. Slattery, much to Harry’s amusement, jumped at them and offered to replace them himself. He eyed Harry warily now, but Snape scoffed and pushed them back into the boy’s arms. ‘Now,’ was all he said, but Harry knew by the glint in his eyes that he meant it.

‘Yes, sir,’ the response came without thought, snide and full of anger he didn’t feel. Slattery started and stared after him the entire way. When he returned, Snape was paying for the food with a small wad of Muggle bills.

‘Empty your pockets, Padriac,’ he snapped without looking up once. Harry protested, but pulled the pocket clear out of his trousers.

‘See, professor?’ he smirked. Slattery looked as though he was about to say something, but thought the better of it and began packing the food into a paper bag. ‘I told you I’d be good, sir. Nothing in my pockets.’

‘Your jumper is bulging. Empty the pocket.’

Harry’s hands moved to the wrong one. He was being a pain, he knew, and would probably pay for it later. Then again, it had been Snape that started the entire lie in the first place. ‘Professor, really,’ he pouted. It did nothing for him; before he could really register what was happening, Snape’s hand was pulling away from a round the head slap.

‘Padriac,’ he seethed.

‘Professor!’ Harry whined. Slattery chuckled, and Harry rounded on him. ‘Think it’s funny, you fat lump?’ He put on his best imitation of Malfoy, or, how Malfoy would have reacted had his father in public just hit him round the head. Even if public did only consist of a shabby little shop and an aging oaf of a man. It earned him another slap round the head, this one a bit harder. Slattery chuckled again.

‘They let you do that up at your school, Severus? That’s good. Boys like this, they need a good strong hand keepin’ ‘em in line, they do.’

Oh, but he would show the man a good, strong hand. With a swipe of his arm, the entire bag had emptied itself onto the floor, bread crushed under the carton of milk, which had exploded over Snape’s foot. ‘Oops,’ trilled Harry. He grinned like a champion, mentally patting himself on the back for his genius.

‘Clean it up!’ Snape’s voice was a deathly hiss. Harry stopped grinning very suddenly. He felt a bit stupid now, staring down at the mess on the floor – the mess he had made.

Almost painfully slowly, Harry dropped to his knees and began to pick up the salvageable goods. The milk and bread were utterly destroyed. He glanced around for a rag or something with which to sop up the mess and spotted a newspaper rack. He was in enough trouble as it was; this surely couldn’t hurt him much more.

Slattery protested loudly, and Snape looked ready to kill, but Harry paid them no heed as he folded the soggy bread and half-empty carton in the sports pages. He used the rest to dry the floor, and then set the entire sopping thing on the counter.

‘All cleaned, sir.’

They stared at him silently for a moment, and then Slattery began to type rapidly on a little machine. His watery eyes were wide, though he kept his head down. Harry bit his lip, doing his best to stay out of range of Snape’s hand. It was beginning to sink in now, and he felt himself swell at the injustice of it all. How did Snape get off hitting him? How? It just wasn’t fair. He was the one who started it all, for Merlin’s sake!

‘I can comp the milk and bread for you, er, Snape,’ Slattery piped up nervously. Both Harry and Snape looked up in surprise, but the man only smiled. ‘It’s not your fault the boy’s unmanageable, and it’s a good thing yer doin’ takin’ him in like that. Needs some discipline, I say.’

Harry almost thanked the man. Perhaps Slattery was not so awful, after all.

‘Nonsense,’ Snape breathed, nostrils flaring. He took a moment to glower at the side of Harry’s head.

Slattery shrugged. ‘Yer not payin’ fer it, anyway, Snape.’ He too glowered at Harry, but his glower turned back into the oily smile. Harry felt his stomach jerk. ‘Give him an hidin’, hm? Teach ‘em a lesson.’

No, Slattery really was just an awful, fat old man, and a sadistic one at that.

‘Of course.’ Snape looked as though he was being forced to swallow nails as he pushed Harry back toward the fridge once more. ‘Get them boy.’ The silent warning in his eyes said quite clearly that any “funny business” would earn another slap, or perhaps something worse. Harry stalked off, rubbing his head for good measure, though the slight sting of the slap had gone two seconds after being hit.

‘Sir.’ He returned quickly this time, and Slattery offered a mocking nod.

‘You’ll learn yer lessons well soon livin’ wi Snape, here, lad.’

They exited the shop quietly, Harry spurned on by Snape’s hand at his back. The walk back was silent. Snape, Harry guessed, was too angry to speak with him now. He felt relieved in a way. It was far easier to deal with the man this way than the lecturing, shouting Snape he normally got.

Fifteen minutes later and everything was beginning to look the same to Harry. Snape had walked far ahead of him, and he lost sight of the black-clad figure as it rounded each corner. Spinner’s End was not built, as most towns were, on an organised grid. It twisted and narrowed and fattened out on its own free will, it seemed. Some lanes were darker and thinner than others. Some were wide streets with cobblestones and a few people milled about, small children playing with balls in front of their respective houses while women of varying ages talked to one another from porches, through open windows, and over laundry-laden garden fences.

One child called out to him. ‘Hullo!’ He nodded back quickly, eager to catch up with Snape. ‘Hullo! What’s yer name!’ The boy was shooed inside by his mother, who nodded stiffly at Harry and followed him in.

And then the streets narrowed into lanes again, and he saw less and less people. More were older, around Snape’s age, maybe a bit younger. A tourist and his wife snapped photographs of the deteriorating houses.

Up ahead Snape appeared not to have noticed Harry was so far behind. He walked with a purpose, glaring at anyone who came too close or dared look his way before disappearing inside a crooked house at the end. Harry sighed. They were home.

The hall was dark when he shook out his shoes and stumbled in, dread filling the pit of his stomach. The sound of cupboard doors being slammed shut in the kitchen alerted Harry that Snape was putting away the groceries. He raced up the stairs; Snape could shout and lecture all he wanted, but Harry was going to have a nap before. He needed to be properly rested, anyway, if he was even going to give off the illusion that he was paying attention during the lecture that was sure to come.

In his room he tried to pace, but space was limited. He settled instead for lying on the bed. In no time Harry was sleep, the package of Buttons forgotten in his jumper pocket.

He was back in the grocer’s, and there was Slattery weighing out rat liver on a brass scale. Voldemort stood by in a hat topped by a stuffed vulture, a red handbag dangling from his arm.

‘No, no, foolish man, it’s two pounds rat liver!’

It was the same high-pitched voice, raspy and frightening, but Slattery only glared and pulled some liver from off the scale. A bell rang somewhere by the door.

‘Oh, not them again.’

Harry turned just in time to see Snape and Mr Malfoy enter; only, they were wearing red swimming trunks and stilts. Mrs Weasley stepped in on her stilts, pulling McGonagall in behind her. They approached Snape and Malfoy, giggling and blushing. To his surprise, the two men turned bright red, and the foursome broke into pairs – Snape with Mrs Weasley, Malfoy with McGonagall. They waltzed on their stilts while Voldemort scowled and ordered for more rat liver to be brought out and Slattery muttered to himself.

‘You’re an ace dancer,’ Mrs Weasley commented airily as Snape spun her. He smiled crookedly and dipped her down.

McGonagall draped her arms over Malfoy’s shoulders and he hummed the tune to the Avenger’s under his breath.

Harry closed his eyes, not believing what he saw, just as Snape was commenting on Mrs Weasley’s hair….

‘Wake up, boy.’

Harry shot up, the bed creaking beneath him, and took a deep breath. Snape was standing over him with a bowl of something, his lip turned into a sneer.

‘What you did in that shop,’ he began, and Harry braced himself for a lecture. ‘Was foolish and uncalled for.’

‘You hit me!’ He had tried to sound angry, but it only came out as a slight whine. Harry knew, very deep down, he had sort of deserved being slapped.

‘You sound surprised,’ Snape said dryly. He placed the bowl on the bedside table, and Harry could see now that it was soup. He eyed the chicken and vegetables hungrily, but Snape blocked it with his hand. ‘As I was saying, it was very, very foolish of you. We are not here to draw attention to ourselves, boy, and I expect better of you in the future.’

Harry blinked. That was it?

‘If not, you have already got a taste of just what I can do with my happy power as both master and – ahem – family. You will learn respect and self-control.’

No matter how hard he tried, he could not stop seeing the Snape with stilts, whispering to Mrs Weasley as he fondled her hair. He snorted.

It was, perhaps, not the most intelligent thing to do. Snape froze, his eyes narrowing in a very Uncle-Vernon-like way, and that was really too much for Harry, who’s snort became a full-blown snigger. He realised suddenly that they had both used the same lie – Snape and Vernon – about prison school.

‘Something funny?’

Harry shook his head, doing his best to put on a straight face, but it was difficult. He sniggered again.

‘Spit it out.’

‘It’s just,’ he convulsed, trying to bite back the sniggers as they came. ‘My uncle and y-you – you both,’ he shook his head, ‘You both said I went to a p-prison school, to cover up for the M-muggles.’

If Snape understood this logic, he shows no sign of it. Stepping away from the bed, he said softly, ‘Eat, boy. The Headmaster shall kill me if you come back as you do after summer holiday. Eat, be quiet, get some sleep, and for once in your life, keep yourself out of trouble.’

Harry stopped laughing and pulled the soup over, spooning it into his mouth clumsily. “…As you do after summer holiday….” He shook his head. Snape was cutting him down again, as usual, making a slight at the fact that he was always skinnier after summer holiday. He swallowed his soup and set the spoon back in the bowl. The funny thing was, Harry had never thought Snape noticed how he looked after summer holiday. He didn’t think Snape wanted to notice.

As he set the bowl back onto the nightstand, something caught his eye. In the very far corner, in black ink, was written a shaky-looking word. He craned his neck to have a better look and read aloud, ‘H…B…P.’ HBP? What was HBP?

He yawned. Whatever it was, it could wait until later. Turning onto his side, Harry whispered, ‘Her Boyfriend’s Potter.’ He didn’t know what brought the words to his mouth, but they seemed funny.

Snape came back to take the empty bowl and stopped for a moment to look at the boy’s silly grin. He shook the blanket out at the end of the bed and tossed – no – laid it gently over the teen’s scrawny shoulders. The tiny room could be horribly cold at night, he remembered, especially for a skinny boy who didn’t want to be there in the first place. He glanced again at the sleeping face, and, for the briefest moment, pictured Lily Evans as she slept the morning after. She had the same grin on her face – that was before she woke and realised who she was in bed with – and the same carefree expression.

He shook his head, telling himself silently, No. No, it was a mistake. It was all a horrid mistake.

He glanced again at the boy on the bed and scowled. ‘Her boyfriend was Potter.’

Harry laughed.

He sounded like his mother.

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.

When Harry awoke it was to the sounds of the doorbell ringing shrilly from downstairs and a rather fierce pounding from down the hall. Snape, whom he had always pegged for an early riser, groaned and barked, 'Open the bloody door, will you?'

Sighing, Harry slipped from under the covers, taking a moment to glance at his reflection in a tiny looking glass on the wall. He looked exhausted, with grey circles under his eyes and a haggard, pinched expression. Not exactly the ideal image to present to whoever was ringing the doorbell with such persistence the floor below.

'Coming!' He shouted, which was met by a nasty howl from Snape and deafening pound on the front door. 'Hang on a minute! I'm coming!'

He swung the door open with such vigour that the person fell forward, mid-knock, onto the parlour floor. It was all Harry could do to stop himself laughing as Slater steadied himself, sending a glower at the offending door.

'Could've told me you were opening it,' he said reproachfully, rubbing his shoulder. Harry levelled him with a filthy look of his own.

'If you weren't so busy trying to knock Snape's door down, you might've heard me.'

'Indeed.'

Both boys stiffened as a hand clamped down on Harry shoulder, Snape's cold voice carrying almost as much menace as his glare.

'Sir,' began Slater and Harry in unison.

Cocking an eyebrow, Snape shoved Harry forward a bit. His eyes, too, were shadowed by thick grey circles, and he kept blinking, as though something was caught in them. 'I suppose you have come to invite Trotter out. He shall be down in a moment, after he has brushed his teeth and dressed himself.' Speechless from shock, Harry stumbled upstairs on clumsy feet, fumbling for a clean pair of trousers and one of his school shirts. After quickly scrubbing with the toothbrush, he found his way downstairs again. Snape held out five quid, which he took wordlessly. 'For food,' he instructed. 'I expect change, and I expect you to be back by seven tonight.' The two turned to leave, each as relieved as the other to be away from Snape.

'And Trotter - '

Harry groaned, dissimulating his frustration behind a weak smile.

'Don't do anything stupid.'

The door clicked shut before the words "yes, sir" had even begun to form on his lips. Slater sniggered, straightening his back and raising an eyebrow. 'I expect change,' he said in an uncanny impression of Snape's low, heavily articulated voice. 'I expect you to be home by seven. I expect you to kiss my bloody arse, and while you're at it Trotter, I expect you to - '

'Shut up,' Harry grumbled. Slater punched him lightly on the shoulder and opened his mouth to reply, but Harry pushed him away. 'I've only met you yesterday, and all of a sudden you're being all best-matey with me. Go away.'

Slater stiffened, looking extremely put-upon. 'Not like you've got any mates around here, is it? What, d'you watch Dr Who with Snape, or something? Have a go on the Play Station against each other? I'm sure he's loads of fun.'

As much as he would loved to have told Slater to simply get stuffed, Harry had to admit the younger boy had a point. A very painful, clear point. He sighed. 'Fine. Where're we going, then? Play Station? Watching Dr Who on your mum's TV?'

Slater shrugged and pointed at number three lazily. 'We're going wherever Hightowler says we go.'

Hightowler was taller than Harry remembered, his blue eyes like chips of ice on a pale, square face. He walked slowly, arms swinging at his sides. 'Trotter,' he greeted, sparing Harry a brief jerk of his head. 'Slater said you'd want to get away from Snape for a bit. We're,' he turned to Slater, lips pursed, 'going downtown.'

Harry had never had a day quite like this. Snape had certainly been right about Spinner's End making up a small majority of Rottidge. The village, while not exactly Little Whinging or anything even remotely close, grew cleaner and more pleasant with every step one took away from the disused old mill, which, Hightowler informed him, had once been an off-shoot of the Ford factory in Birmingham. 'Small things,' he disclosed, 'axles and minor framework - stuff like that.'

Harry nodded, glancing back at the tall chimney of the mill. 'What happened to it?'

Surprisingly, it was Slater who answered. 'Most of the town worked it in the '70's, especially the neighbourhoods round Spinner's End. It sort of died, though, after the unions lost power, and then there was this big murder - no one could work out how it happened. Doors were locked from the inside, lights on, not a mark on any of the bodies. This whole family died, and nobody could make out how it happened, and another one died. Then, another. Five men, three women, six kids. Everyone went yampy for a bit, and then it calmed and people started leaving bit by bit, and the mill closed because no one was left to work it anymore. Three families, two other men.'

He could feel his ears perking, alert and at attention. It was early in the morning, but Harry knew the funny feeling in his stomach was not a plea for food. No, this was Voldemort. Or, Death Eaters. It had to have been. He thought of the article in the Prophet on Amelia Bones. Doors locked from the inside, not a mark on her. His stomach dropped.

'See, the thing was,' Hightowler spoke now, hushed, yet authoritative, his eyes darting over the quiet streets, 'all the people killed were connected to the Union and the mill. Every one. There was the McKinnons at nine, Fickler Lane, the Andertons at four, Spinner's End, my uncle Philip, Paul Chase, and the Snapes. They were the odd ones. Sitting right in front of the televisions watching the Avengers, dead. Like nothing was wrong, but they both had the wrong head. Weirdest thing anybody'd ever seen. Both heads on the wrong body, different skin tones and everything, but they were on like they'd been born that way. Like it was natural.'

Harry made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, snapping his mouth shut. 'The Snapes,' he panted, glancing between the two. They both nodded. 'Snape's parents were killed?'

Hightowler's reaction was not what he had imagined in the least. Cocking a single eyebrow and managing to look both politely bemused and incredibly well-informed at the same time,' he said softly, almost chucklingly, 'Snape's parents? He never knew them, as far a mum's told me. Mum died having him, and his dad popped off three months later in a drinking accident. Run over by a lorry, wasn't he?'

His throat once again produced a sound not unlike to that of a mouse being trod upon. Harry mouthed out the word "what", his voice little more than a rasping squeak. What about the Occlumency lessons? And the parents arguing? What about the dark haired boy crying the corner?

'Snape lived with his aunt and uncle here, and then they snuffed it in '78, the last family to go. After that no one wanted to live anywhere near the mill, or have anything to do with it.'

'We're here.'

They had stopped in front of a restored cinema called "The Hippodrome". A flashing sign overhead informed passers-by of a Star Wars marathon, a Disney cartoon, and some new drama about King George. Taking Harry's arm firmly in his own, Hightowler led him to the door and announced a bit too loudly, 'Slater's taking care of tickets for us. Just in here, then, Trotter?' They stepped cautiously inside, a cool wave of air conditioning ruffling Harry's hair and making him chill beneath his old jumper. He followed Hightowler to buy fizzy drinks and Crunchies, and then to find seats in Star Wars, where Slater, who huffed and rubbed at his reddened cheeks exasperatedly, joining them. Their only accompaniment were two boys of about seven, dressed in their school uniforms, and a couple of well-past primary age, who Harry very much doubted had come for a Star Wars marathon at all.

'Who's he, Adam? Who's he, then?' A titchy, freckled boy leant over to his friend, school jumper dulled as the lights dimmed. He was pointing excitedly at a plastic toy still in the box and bouncing up and down on his seat. 'Does he fight Darth Vader? Is he cool?'

'He's nobody,' said the other. 'Shh.'

Slater and Hightowler grew bored almost as soon as the film had begun, and halfway through had turned their attention onto a much more interesting and provocative performance - the couple, who was currently eating one another's faces out two aisles above. Sniggering, Slater tossed his popcorn at them and commented loudly, while Hightowler looked on indulgently, his blue eyes showing only a brief flicker of uncertainty when the two began to bung gumballs in return.

'He was worried for you,' commented Hightowler quietly. He nodded to Slater, who had ducked a moment before to dodge a rogue gumball. 'Afraid of what Barraclough said, you know, about Snape and everything.' Hightowler scrutinised him, lips pulled up at so that the corners of his mouth folded into tiny creases. He frowned. 'It's true, though, innit? About Snape. Mum thinks it's true, and Slater, and...me. I mean,' he cut off swiftly, 'he's not the pleasant sort, is he? Only been here three times since I can remember, hasn't he? And there's your hand. Barraclough noticed when you shook his - there're words scratched into it, aren't there?'

Harry started. In all the plotting and the hectic, chaotic mess Hogwarts life had become for him, he had never spared a thought for the marks on his hand. But, of course the Muggles would notice straight off. He glanced at the words, which, once pearly white and practically gleaming, had faded to a slightly discoloured upraised patch of skin. The sentence "I must not tell lies" was still there, still an awful reminder of the old hag he hand his friends had put up with the year before.

Making a split-second decision, he confided quietly, 'I'm not from Hackney, you know.'

Hightowler snorted. 'I'd guessed. You haven't half got a Cockney. I reckoned you might've lived there for a bit, or something, so I gave you the benefit of a - sommink wrong?'

Setting a finger to his lips, Harry said softly, 'No, and it's not Snape doing anything to me. It's a long story, and I don't feel much like sharing it with everyone just yet.' Hightowler nodded, resigned. 'Who's that bloke with the wonky hat?'

'Some alien-thing. Dunno.'

Slater scoffed. 'It's a sand person, you twat.'

They spent the rest of a good three hours in the same fashion, dodging the occasional gumball and shouting at the two excitable boys in the front.

Lunch rolled in round noon. Harry followed Slater and Hightowler through the streets of downtown, taking in the restored bank and greengrocers, the sweet shop, the day care centre, and an old-looking building called "Rottidge Towne Centre". He reckoned they must have been a fair ways away from Spinner's End, for the downtown of Rottidge was cleaner, brighter, and above all - modernised. Where Spinner's End and its surrounding neighbourhoods looked as though they could easily date back to the Industrial Revolution, downtown appeared to be in the process of a remodelling. Older buildings had been repainted or replaced, thick concrete ones torn down to make way for their more eye-pleasing counterparts. Hightowler stopped in front a McDonald's on the corner, pushing open the door to herd Harry and Slater past a group of boys in track suits listening to hip hop music and grumbling incoherently at one another. They looked remarkably like Dudley to Harry, who could not help but stare as he was shepherded to the counter to give his order.

'Big Mac,' Slater said, almost immediately upon stepping up the counter. The bored-looking girl behind the register punched in a number and snapper her gum at Hightowler.

'Same. And two Coca Colas.'

Harry had been inside a McDonald's only three times in his life to date. Once to use the toilet when he was five, once to have Dudley's chips after he'd thrown a fit, and once to run in from the pouring rain, while Aunt Petunia honked the car horn obnoxiously outside for him to hurry up and get her food. He knew it was Dudley's favourite hangout, or one of them, and that they served all sorts of food Hermione would have sniffed at.

What he did not know was what to order.

'Hurry up,' the girl prompted.

'Er...'

'Make that three Big Macs,' Hightowler interjected quickly. 'And three Cokes.'

He passed her a few quid, and Slater took a tray of food to a table with "Chanel + Luke Luv 4 Eva" scratched into it.

'Thanks,' Harry said sheepishly, to which Slater shot him a funny look. Hightowler brushed it off.

'Haven't got McDonald's at that prison school, right?' He said McDonald's funny, like it was two words "Mack Donald's". Harry nodded, relieved.

'No, it's all nasty food there.'

Slater groaned into his Coca Cola.

'Where d'you lot go to school, anyway? Is it - '

'Not in Rottidge,' Hightowler said. 'Only one here's this nasty comprehensive, so everyone takes the bus to St Francis's. They're rebuilding our comprehensive for us.'

'Have been building it,' cut in Slater, his mouth full of chips and hamburger bun, 'for two years. By the rate they're going, we reckon it'll be done the time I reach uni.' He bit into a chip gloomily. 'If I make it to uni at all.’

Harry felt suddenly distinctly out of place. Here were two people that had never before heard or thought about Hogwarts, or OWLs, or NEWTs, or any of the things that dominated his own day-to-day living. They had no idea magic even existed, and, truth be told, what did he know about comprehensive schools or buses anymore? There had been a time when Stone Wall High was the future, with a grey jumper and grey trousers and probably a rather boring life compared to the one he led now. But, that time had been replaced with wands, and Malfoy, and (he groaned) Snape. Snape who would murder if he saw Harry chewing a Big Mac like it was celery and downing Coca Cola like pumpkin juice. (“Unhealthy, useless, disgusting thing – Muggle fast food.”)

‘Sod it.’ Slamming a chip into the table and shoving another into his mouth, Slater stood. ‘You ruin every ounce of fun that comes your way, Trotter. D’you know that?’ He was grinning, though, through potato-coated teeth. ‘Let’s get out of here before Barraclough or someone comes, y’know? That batti’s always hanging round here when he’s got nothing to do.’ He sniggered behind the McDonald’s wrappings, clearing up quickly. ‘All he can afford, I’m sure.’

Before he could ask why Harry found himself being whisked off, past the boys in tracksuits, who had now been joined by gaggle girls armed with a battalion of push-chairs, bottles, and screaming toddlers they repeatedly called “Cheyenne” and “Elvis”.

“Elvis, get your arse back, y’little bugger.’

‘Titchy kid, innit.’

‘Cheyenne, have yer Big Mac!’

Hightowler, Slater, and him pushed their way through to the street, careful to steer clear of little Elvis, who had taken his nappy off and was attempting to feed a limp chip to an innocent passer-by.

‘Where to?’

Hightowler considered a moment. ‘You play football, d’you?’

When was the last time he had really given half a thought to Muggle football? Harry could not remember. For the past five years his life had been entirely dominated by Quidditch, friends, and Voldemort. Did he even remember how to play football?

He scoffed. Of course.

‘Er, yeah, a bit. I’m in my House team at school.’ His voice cracked, betraying his uncertainty. Slater raised an eyebrow, and Harry felt a surge of confidence swell in him. He was the best Quidditch player Hogwarts had had in ages, and was Quidditch so different from football, really? Goals, Keepers, Chasers were like the offence. The only problem was, he played Seeker, and Seeker had no Muggle equivalent. ‘I’m youngest player in a century to have made the team. Se – er – Midfield in my first year and everything.’

‘What’s your club, then?’ Slater quizzed.

Harry thought for a moment. Favourite club? Football club? Did he even have one? He had a Quidditch team, knew hundreds of them. The Holyhead Harpies, the Tutshill Tornadoes, the Chudley Cannons, the Manchester Man-eaters – what about Muggle sports? What about football? He knew the teams everyone knew – Newcastle, Man U, Liverpool, Arsenal, Chelsea the English National. He knew Uncle Vernon hadn’t let him out of his cupboard for a week over a Real Madrid match, and a month during the World Cup.

‘I – ’ But, now the question was what to say. What did he say next, and how did he say it, and what in the hell did he knew about Muggle football? ‘I like, erm…’ What team could he pass off as a fan for? Which did he knew most about?

And then he remembered Piers Polkiss was a die-hard Blades fan.

‘Sheffield.’

This time, it was Hightowler who groaned, good-naturedly punching him on the arm. ‘Blades fan,’ he said hopelessly, shaking his head. ‘Can’t stand the buggers.’

Slater huffed and said self-importantly, ‘Birmingham City F.C. all the way. And Hightowler’s,’ he wrinkled his nose, ‘a sodding Magpie.’ He pointed an accusing finger at Hightowler’s top, which was blue and emblazoned with the felt Newcastle club badge at the lapel. ‘Disgusting, innit?’

They had drifted toward the primary school, where six or some odd little boys were kicking a football between themselves and arguing over who could play for England or not when he “grew up”. Slater materialised a ball from inside an abandoned kit bag, and they set to. There was no keeper. Anything went. It was Trotter vs Rottidge, and Harry was beginning to feel unfairly matched by Hightowler’s second goal.

‘Your mum’s a fat cow,’ Hightowler, who had randomly begun scoring for Harry, laughed tauntingly. Slater’s cheeks pinkened. ‘Stroppy fat cow.’

He kicked the ball with an unknown fervour, missing the net entirely and running into the slide.

‘She’s been around, hasn’t she? Slattery reckons he still hasn’t managed to shake the infect – oi!’

Slater had kicked the ball into his shins. Seizing his chance, Harry stole forward and pounced. He missed the net by a mile, but no one noticed. Glancing around, he found the other two engaged in a sort of mock-fistfight.

‘Filthy slut!’ Hightowler howled. Slater charged at him, but he was laughing.

‘Your dad’d know!’

‘My dad’s dead!’

‘Your brother, then.’

‘Too young.’

‘Your mum.’

‘If they work the same corner, maybe.’

‘That’s just scary, mate. She’d scare off customers.’

‘Now you’re rating my mum?’

‘Someone’s got to.’

‘Your dad.’

‘He’s drunk. He forgets two comes after three sometimes.’

They rejoined the game, still laughing, but it was a joke now. Slater tripped over the ball, passing it inadvertently to Hightowler, who picked it up and deposited it on Harry’s head.

‘You lose, Sheffield,’ he announced, sending a pass to the air five foot from Slater.

Harry raised an eyebrow. ‘Sheffield don’t lose to Magpies. Ever.’

‘No, but they lose to Birmingham,’ Slater joined in, dribbling past to score. ‘Birmingham

Citay!’ He aimed, missed by a spectacular ten feet, and loped off after the ball.

‘C’mere, Trotter,’ Hightowler stood suddenly, pushing Harry none-too-lightly on the shoulder. ‘C’mon, get off your arse. You’re as bad as Chelsea.’

‘You’re as bad as Liverpool!’ Slater called over, making to pass at Hightowler, but missing and sending the ball zooming toward the opposite end of the pitch.

‘You’re as bad as French Cricket!’

‘American Rugby!’

‘Chinese Basketball!’

‘Leeds Football!’

‘You’re such a spastic.’

‘You sound like you’re six, you prat.’

‘Git.’

‘Batti boy.’

‘Only because you like it.’

‘Fine, only because I like it.’

‘Spastic.’

‘Bollocks.”

They were laughing again, Hightowler with his eyes closed, sitting atop the football as though there was nothing else in the world except him, Slater, the football, and an empty pitch. But, Harry noticed, though Slater laughed, he had a glint in his eye. He looked like the young boy in Dumbledore’s pensieve, with black hair and a piercing stare. They resumed the game a third time, Hightowler with Harry now, while Slater operated his own sad little team.

‘You play football like a pig on its hind legs, you sod,’ Hightowler taunted, and they were at it again.

If the rest of Draco Malfoy's house was anything like his kitchen, Harry was beginning to consider a change of name. The House of Malfoy in his worst nightmares and fiendish revenge plots had always been tall and dark; an imposing structure furnished in the style of Count Dracula where the Malfoys counted their hoards of money before a roaring fireplace (wing-backed chairs included, of course) and took great pleasure in the general sufferings of others. What he found here was somewhat of a pseudo cottage-style kitchen, complete with cosy hearth and bustling house-elves. There were three of them, so far as he had counted, with rhyming names and the same tennis ball green eyes. They greeted him timidly and offered him tea, and were, in short, rather enjoyable when compared with the boy now sat directly across the table from him.

"I suppose you think I'm angry with you, then," Draco sighed long-sufferingly, swilling his tea. "Of course, I expected you'd be sort of useless from the off, didn't I?"

If he had expected an answer, he would be sorely disappointed. Confused to the point of utter helplessness, Harry shrugged and grunted through his bread. He could not say that he was completely upset by the fact that Malfoy's murder plot had been thwarted by his own uselessness, so, taking a leaf from Crabbe and Goyle, he said absolutely nothing at all. Malfoy frowned.

"It would have been nice if you'd come through with it, you know. It was important, though it's not the end of the world. I'll have to do it myself now, and you do owe me something for being such a dumb twit." Sighing again, he patted the table sadly. Even his light hair, usually rather sleek, seemed to droop. "Anyway," he brightened, "how did you find my house?"

It took Harry a full minute to register that he was no longer being put under a guilt trip, and another to muddle his way through the question. By the time he had reached his answer he was so thoroughly bemused by it all that he blurted thickly, "Turned west at London."

Certainly it wasn't the answer that Malfoy has been expecting (though he did a poor job hiding it), for he cracked a painful smile and all-but chewed out, "I asked for your opinion, not a map."

Oh, but, this was turning into quite the show. Harry felt his back straightening, eyebrows shot straight into his fringe as he deadpanned Slater-style, "And I'm aksking is there a quicker way to get here, cos that bloody drive gave me the worst fookin' headache."

"Really, that's - "

"Have you ever had to sit in a bloody taxi with Snape breathing down your neck?"

"You're entirely - "

"Swore I was going to die of death - or boredom."

"I don't appre - "

"And I didn't appreciate his smell, either. If he took a bleeding shower every once in a while - "

"You know, he is my - "

"And it doesn't help that he likes to read the stop signs every time we - "

"MORE TEA!"

The only thing better than a flustered Malfoy was a blushing, flustered Malfoy. With a face brighter than a Scot in Majorca, Draco seemed almost too relieved at the arrival of a beaming house-elf. As the creature bustled about refilling the pot and replacing biscuits, Harry could not help to notice how very different it was from the only other Malfoy-family house-elf he had met. Dobby had seemed to be always frightened, perpetually guilty and grimy, whereas the grinning thing now adding sugar to his fresh glass bounced with each step, and - was he humming under his breath? Draco, too, took notice of this.

"Twit," he announced grandly, snapping his slender fingers.

Taken aback, for he perceived the comment to be aimed at him, Harry spluttered, "Am I?"

If it was possible for Draco Malfoy to become any more obnoxious, he managed it just then. With eyebrows raised and a patronising note to his trill, he jabbed his closed fist into the teapot, and explained as one would to a very small, stupid child, "Father let me name them when I was eight. That's Twit - " The elf shivered, snapping off a dutiful bow before scurrying back to the cooker, where two others greeted him with nervous smiles and whispers. "Twat -," pointing out a slightly podgier version of Twit, " - and Wog." The shortest, spindliest of the group nudged his fellow - was it Twit? - and hurried off to calm a pot of boiling water. Harry couldn't help but wonder what Hermione would have said to this.

Speaking of Hermione.... "There's another one around here somewhere," sighed Malfoy, as though his favourite dog had just been killed by a rogue milkman. "He was the replacement for our last. Father let me name him Potter. It was almost Granger at first; father liked that one, but Mother suggested Potter, and it seemed so fitting...." He sipped his tea thoughtfully, then tacked on, "Did you know she's started a society for them? Granger I mean."

"Spew," said Harry without thinking.

Fortunately, Malfoy appeared not to have noticed. "Yes, spew. Society for the Persecution of Elfish Warfare."

Harry coughed. "Welfare."

"Yeah, welfare - it's like the dole, isn't it? For poor people?"

If there were a million proper answers to this question, Harry would not have answered. Fortunately for him, he needn't do so. As he reached to scratch a persistent itch at the back of his head, the door to the kitchen flew open with a spectacular bang. "The young master Malfoy, sir, is wanted for dinner!" Squeaked the house-elf, his large ears matched only by equally large green eyes. On his forehead was drawn a rather crude lightning bolt in what Harry guessed to be black ink. Heaving a sigh, as though the world had just carved a great chip from his shoulder, Malfoy stood, brushed himself off, and nodded.

"You still owe me now from not doing my potion," he informed distastefully, glancing Harry up and down. Harry shrugged. "And I doubt we'll see much more of each other until school starts again, so - " By the way he hesitated, one might have thought that his airway had spontaneously closed up. Pained, his silver eyes tightened into mere slits, he managed to chew out rather ruefully, "Happy Christmas, then, Domingart."

And with that, Draco Malfoy was gone.

Harry watched the pair until the kitchen door was slammed shut behind them and they had left him for good. Without Malfoy it was suddenly very apparent how alone he was. By himself in the kitchens of someone else's house, on Christmas Eve, with only the house-elves for company and the same phrase running back and forth across his mind until it finally drove him to sleep on the wooden table.

Severus Snape did not approve of Christmas - not in the least. Christmas, he reasoned, like all the rest of the pointless holidays, was a waste of his time. Under normal circumstance he would have let the day pass without consequence. After all, what was there to celebrate about Christmas - a fat man managing to make himself airborne with the help of flying rodents, or whatever they were? He did not believe in gifts, or feasts or Christmas crackers. Nor was he a particular fan of wrapping paper bvand Christmas trees and multi-coloured lights.

Unfortunately for Snape, the rest of Spinner's End seemed not to share his views. The houses, as he trudged down the lane, presented themselves in flashes of blue, green, gold, red, and white. The Hightowlers had dressed their porch gnomes as fat little Father Christmases, each with lighted fishing pole and crˆpe paper sacking on his porcelain back. He thought again of Harry asleep in his bed at the house, and his resolve strengthened. If the boy whinged of an unhappy holiday to the Headmaster....

"Well, when can you come out?" Slater looked impatient.

"It's Christmas Eve," said Harry pointedly. He was leaning in the doorway, his thin frame limp against the old wood, black hair falling lankly into his forehead. Snape had been out all day, leaving Harry largely to his own devices.

"What the hell is that? Hightowler's mum invites you to tea - finally - and you tell me no. Well, why the bloody hell not?" He looked intrigued suddenly, peering in the doorway as though expecting something, or someone, to jump out of a bookshelf or from under the rickety little table in front of the sofa. "Snape keeping you in?"

Harry sighed. Loathe as he was to admit, the thought of not knowing where Snape had gone off to frightened him. Had there perhaps been a Death Eater meeting called as he slept, a problem with the Order, a breech in security? Slater scowled.

"He is, isn't he? He's keeping you in, and you're scared of him."

The accusative tone in his voice stung as sharply, as though the boy had slapped him. "He's not," said Harry hotly. "I can decide if I want to go to Hightower's not, and I'm not going. I've - I've got to make lunch for us anyway, I haven't got time to - "

"You're an awful liar, Trotter; look at you. Your hands are shaking."

Indeed they were. Trembling and twitching, as though they had been hooked up to an electrical current. And yet it was not fear that made Harry shake, not the fear that Slater had accused him of, not of Snape, he realized, but for him. For the both of them. If there was something wrong, if there was a problem, if Snape had been injured or killed....Much as he wanted to hate the man, the idea of losing him so quickly, without warning, hit him like a bludger in his stomach.

"I can't - I - " But he was out of excuses. If Snape really was at a Death Eater meeting, wouldn't it be better to wait for him where he could distract himself with the company of his new friends. "If Snape comes when I'm gone...."

"Aha!" said Slater, his eyes gleaming triumphantly. "You admit it! He's keeping you in! He's making you stay and you're frightened of him! You're - " But Slater's face had fallen, he glanced Harry up and down. "What's he done to you?"

There was something about the underlying hint of concern, the worry in Slater's squinted eyes that reminded Harry so painfully of Ron and Hermione, he choked. How was it possible a person could care that much, knowing him for little more than a week as Slater did? He shrugged anxiously and tried to scowl, but it would not come. "If I go to Hightowler's for tea," he began testingly, his tone harsh even by his own ears, "will you shut the hell up about Snape?"

The younger boy seemed to consider it, there was a pregnant pause, and then, eyes nearly pushed up into his low brow, he grinned. "Right, but he does anything to you - I swear it, Trotter, I really do - tell someone. You can't keep everything a secret, not if you want friends. I couldn't."

But what he meant by this rather ambiguous statement, Harry was not to know. Not then, at any rate, for he was all-but dragged into the street and down to Hightowler's house, where a chubby little boy Harry fleetingly remembered to be Richard's brother regarded him silently.

"Pork," nodded Slater, by way of greeting. The boy fled into the house. "Mental, that one."

Harry felt the eyes on him almost before he could see them. "Tom, dear, watch Pork for me a minute, will you? I'd like to speak with Patrick alone."

By the way they all looked at him, Hightowler and his mum and Slater and even the little boy called Pork, Harry could tell that he had not been called to the Hightowler's home for tea alone. Without warning, Mrs Hightowler seized his hand and tugged him back, out of the parlour they had walked into, and through a small door, to a staircase. It was only now that Harry, who had felt quite at home in the disorder that was Hogwarts, and even somewhat the mess of 12 Grimmauld Place, noticed how old and poorly kept Snape's home was. Compared to the Hightowlers they were living in squalor. Where the wallpaper at Snape's was peeled and torn and yellowed with age, and the furniture creaked and the windows rattled every time one of them opened or closed a door, the Hightowler home was clean and well put-together. Pleasant, with floral papering and spotless wood floors, it gave off a sense of home and living that Snape's dusty, cramped abode conspicuously lacked.

"I was going to invite the both of you, Snape, too, but I'd run into him downtown and reckoned by the rate he was finding things, he probably wouldn't be back very soon...."

She was babbling to herself, squeezing his hand as they pushed through a handsome wood door and into a tiny bedroom. The bed was large, filling most of the space in a great mass of floral sheets and fluffy down pillows. Atop it lay a box, cardboard and dented. "This was my husband's home, until he left it - I had always meant to give these back to Snape, but he's such a frightening....Well, anyway...." She was blushing as she dragged him over. "My husband and Snape, they never got on well...when, one year, when Snape went off to that posh boarding school his father was always on about, my Richard - he'd meant to give them back, I'm sure, but one thing led to another and...well, I thought you might bring them back with you. It would be wrong to keep them, anyway, and you seem like such a nice boy...."

With a small smile, shy almost, she took out something long, square, and thin from the box and handed it to Harry. "Magical Mystery Tour," said Mrs Hightowler fondly. "The Beatles, that is." Harry's confusion cleared. The Beatles. There was one thing, at least, that he could recognise. "There must be at least fifteen here, not all the Beatles, of course. There's a player as well, er, that was mine. It just sits here gathering dust, and I thought you might like it. You could try a few of them out. It's rather different from a tape. You can bring them downstairs, set it by the door, and take it with you when you go back."

She smiled in such a way that Harry was instantly reminded of Mrs Weasley. Gulping, he nodded and took the box from her bed.

The walk downstairs was largely silent. Harry looked into the box every so often, giddy at the thought of a second Mrs Weasley, at the idea of friends who cared for him like Ron and Hermione. They had tea and sandwiches, and the conversation was light. Pork bounced and fretted over his cheese sandwich, picking out onions and rambling on happily about the coming holiday while the others laughed at his excitement. They were halfway through a bowl of crisps when there came a great pounding at the front door. Mrs Hightowler started, glancing from Harry to Slater and down the corridor.

"I'll get it!" called Pork spastically, slapping his pudgy fists into the table with a bang to echo the one still reverberating from the front door. Before anyone could stop him he shot from his seat; they could hear his high-pitched voice as he yanked open the door. "Mr Snape! Mum - it's Mr Snape! Yeah, he's here. Mum, he wants Trotter! Patrick, it's Mr Snape!" Harry moved swiftly, the box clutched tightly in his sweaty grip.

"Thanks for tea, Mrs Hightowler. It was really great, er, and thanks for...." He motioned the box. Though she smiled, Harry could see the worry in Mrs Hightowler's eyes just as it had been in Slater's. He hadn't the time to say goodbye, however, before Snape was pulling him back into Spinner's End, where the mud splattered their shoes and sprayed up the legs of their trousers, which, Harry realised for the first time, were almost identical.

They did not speak until the door of number six had closed firmly behind, and only then did Snape round on him, much as he had expected the man to.

"You weren't here - " They both said at once, red-faced and panting.

"You didn't leave a note," Harry complained. Snape raised an eyebrow.

"I was not aware I had to give notice each time I left my own house."

"Yeah, well, you should have. I was worried."

"About me?"

Harry spluttered, his colour rising as he held the box closer to his heaving chest. "No - yes! If Voldemort had - "

But Snape cut him off with a wave of his wand; the box flew itself to rest on the rickety old coffee table and Harry found himself suddenly standing in the kitchen, the man's fist gripped so tightly around his upper arm that it throbbed, pushing him into one of the spindly wooden chairs as he paced.

"How many times must I warn you not to say the Dark Lord's name? Too many! Foolish, arrogant, brash - did you not hear me last night when I specifically told you - told you - that I would be heading out early this morning and not to expect me at breakfast? Of course not! Sleeping, dozing off and forgetting everything, and did you not hear me say quite plainly to stay inside today? And how did you think I felt coming back to find my house empty, the bloody boy I am supposed to protect gone, with no notice, wand in his room when I know perfectly well that he would never, no matter how many brain cells may have been knocked from his head during those rotten Quidditch matches, never leave the house without it!"

And Harry could feel the swooping shame in his chest as he recalled last night's stilted conversation, the order to stay home while Snape was gone, to wash the dishes and try to sweep, if he got the chance.

"He - they insisted, and I - they think you're mistreating me." It came out in a rush, hurried, word after word tumbling over one another as they scrambled to form a coherent sentence. "It's not just Slater, sir, it's Hightowler and his mum and his little brother, and - and they've tried to weasel a confession out of me, but I kept telling them it was nothing. I - they - "

Snape had turned from him, his pale face like a mask under matching curtains of greasy black hair, as he appeared to be deep in thought. "They would think," he began slowly, his jaw tight, "She knew my father, my uncle...." They remained in utter silence for several long seconds, each wrapped in his own thoughts, though Harry strongly suspected they were thinking along the same lines.

"What - "

"Go to m - your room," said Snape slowly. The mask did not break, nor, indeed, did he show any emotion by the brief register of movement as a sallow finger pointed out the secret door behind the bookcase that led to the stairs. Harry hesitated, mouth dropped as though to protest. "You've eaten already. For Merlin's sake, boy, go! Just go!"

And Harry went.

He traipsed hrough the stuffy little sitting room, there snatching at the box of records, up to the small doorway to the stairs, which landed mere feet from his own door, the letters HBP, just like on the bed, scratched firmly into the dark wood. Once there and fully alone, he set down his box and sighed. The rails of the bed, the blankets and sheets and mattress itself seemed to echo this mood in their despair. Until seeing Hightowler's house, he had not realised how dusty it was, or how the paint chipped over the ancient armoire. In fact, the cardboard box, in all it's dented, torn form, seemed to fit in better than he ever could. Well, the old him, at any rate. The him that still looked like James Potter and made fun of Snape with his best friends, when they had been best friends.

He glanced again at the box, then, groaning with effort, dragged himself to it. The record player Mrs Hightowler had given him looked ancient. Made of faded red plastic, with a little box labelled "needles" taped to the side, it was dusty and appeared to have been used many times. He set it in the far corner on the floor and plugged it in. After a brief struggle replacing the needle, Harry was able to turn it on and off. Now, for the record she had shown him.

The Magical Mystery Tour, like the record player, smelled of closets and dust and dead memories. He fingered it carefully, cautious to place it just right. Aunt Petunia, Harry considered, knew how to use a record player. He had watched her once while dusting her bedroom. First came the record, and then to turn it on, and finally the needle, which was to be set at the very edge.

It crackled to life and filled the cramped bedroom with white noise. And then there were instruments, and music. The first song sounded slightly familiar, but the second and third were unknown to him, though no less enjoyable. It was almost, he mused, like being brought back in time. The room seemed not to have changed from the time that Snape had occupied this house with his aunt and uncle. Frowning, he reached for the paper case to the album. Scrawled across the top, unnoticed by Harry when he had first drawn the record from its cardboard holder, was a neat little inscription.

To the Prime Minister's Head, for his collection.
From love, the Gypsy's Wife

The Gypsy's Wife? Prime Minister's Head? Puzzled and curious, he reached to pull the box down. Sgt Pepper and the Lonely Hearts Club, The White Album, Brahm's Lullabies, Russian Folk Tales, Assorted Muggle Fairy Tales, Beedle the Bard and Other Classics, Barny Malloy and the Purple Hinkypunks; they were a worn mix of Muggle and magic, and each had something written at the top.

The PMH, saw it and thought you might enjoy it.

Baby music.

For the baby.

For Seamus.

From love, the Gypsy's Wife

Enjoy it, dear. I bought it from your sort, in one of those shops.

Freckler Feckler, phoo you're an awful best friend. Love you.

And then, finally, Barny and the Beedle, bearing matching inscriptions in the same neat, girlish handwriting:

To the boy who has nothing, from the girl who wants everything (har har!) .
You shouldn't be so down all the time (it makes your face look long), Sev. Anyway, mum let me buy these for you in Diagon Alley (meaning, I sneaked off first chance and snatched them up before she could say no), to make up for missing your birthday when I was ill (I fully blame Tuney's awful sausages). It's so amazing there, Sev, you were right (how do you tell a girl goblin from a boy?)! Please be kinder to Tuney while I'm gone this holiday (or prepare for more of her lovely sausages), and to yourself. You're not all bad (Mum says she'll give you that haircut when we get back), you know. Happy Christmas!
Love you,
Best Friend

Snape had a best friend? A girl? Who was Tuney, a pet? Perhaps Tuney was a dog, which Snape had been watching for his friend, the giver of the two magical records? And Seamus. He had never heard of a Seamus other than Seamus Finnigan, and the other Gryffindor was not likely to have been in any kind of contact twenty or so years before, with a teenaged Severus Snape. The new mystery felt refreshing. Eager to unravel it, Harry replaced the records in their box, his hands fumbling, and hid it under the bed. He felt suddenly very weary, as though instead of tea Mrs Hightowler had invited him on a run around the town.

On the bottom level of Snape's ageing home, in the grungy little kitchen, a dark-haired man appeared to be having a staring contest with the table below his thin face. Snape grunted, fingers massaging gently at his temples. He had a headache. Christmas Eve was ruined, and it was all the stupid neighbours - Hightowler and that little monkey, Slater.

A weary look had settled itself into Snape's harsh features. His black eyebrows, like curved, furry little caterpillars over beetle-black eyes, seemed to droop, the corners of his lips, usually raised in a smirk, fell flat. Hightowler knew Snape. Hightowler knew of all the Snapes. Hightowler knew everything, and if the boy found out it might take too much to explain it all. He would never be able to explain it all, and Harry was still doing so poorly with his Occlumency. It was useless to worry, of course. Worry could only make him paranoid, and the last thing he needed was Harry Potter suspicious.

Back upstairs, in the boy's room, the room that had once belonged to the Prime Minister's Head, Harry Potter was asleep. Below him Snape fretted and worried his way into the night. He worried through charmwork, back bent over a wicked looking little stuffed crocodile with soft cloth skin. He worried through gift-wrapping and cleaning and thinking and fretting. With the crocodile wrapped perfectly in a flimsy box, he worried his way to bed.

Christmas Day dawned brightly on Spinner's End, but to Harry it seemed a dark cloud had rested itself above them, sucking the happiness from the holiday with each of Snape's derisive sniffs. He picked at his egg and sausage, uninterested.

"If you do not eat," said Snape placidly as he pushed his own egg around, "you cannot go out with those grimy little neighbourhood monkeys later on." They regarded one another carefully, Harry silent and thoughtful, Snape stubborn, awkward even. "Drink your milk."

"I'm not thirsty."

For a moment it looked as though Snape might reprimand him; his black eyes were full of something - was it reproach? The eggs lay forgot on his old china plates, milk yellowing in the glasses, but Harry and Snape seemed not to notice. It was as if weeks of being together had deprived them of something to look at so badly that they simply could not bring themselves to look away. Deep, searching, Snape's gaze met Harry's eyes and they broke contact. He was not going to let himself get Legilimised on Christmas.

"The Headmaster arrives at two," Snape grated. "It is - " he checked the clock above the cooker, his face unreadable once more, " - nine. You have until one-thirty with those boys, and then I shall expect you back."

The Headmaster arrives at two. The sinking in his stomach was indicative enough of the panic Harry felt at these words. Dumbledore would know that he had not been working at his Occlumency, and he would know, too, every tiny thing that Harry had done since their arrival at Spinner's End, for Snape was sure to tell him. And with Dumbledore disappointed in him, the only thing he would be able to think about was Draco Malfoy's failed attempts at poisoning him.

Snape's next words came distantly to him, as if from a thick fog. "I doubt very much that it had crossed your mind to buy anyone else a Christmas gift."

The sinking increased. Presents. Would Hightowler be expecting one? And Slater? Snape he need not worry about, Snape would never have got Harry anything. But what about Ron and Hermione - would they still expect one from, even in critical condition at St Mungo's? His attention was drawn up to the table as Snape slapped a small, home-wrapped box onto it and stomped to the sink.

"Who's it from?" asked Harry cautiously, prodding it. Snape showed no signs of having heard him. "D'you know who sent it?" he tried again, but Snape was busy washing the dishes and seemed not to have noticed. Carefully, with both hands poised to push the table away, he undid the thin green ribbon. The paper was ordinary and Muggle and shiny silver. Slytherin colours.

"I quite assure you, Potter, that it is not going to explode if you actually open it." Snape had moved from the sink to hover behind him. His large nose seemed to grow from underneath as he sniffed.

Indignant, Harry gave a gentle tug and the remainder of the wrappings fell away. The box was ordinary, made of thin cardboard, and could not have been any larger than his foot. Snape sniffed again, and Harry reached inside.

"Rotter," came a squeaky voice from inside. Whatever it was his fist closed around it; it was soft and squirmed between his fingers. A tiny crocodile waddled out over Harry's fist and frowned at him. It was stuffed, he realised, a plush toy that must have been charmed to life by whoever the gift was from. He dropped it on instinct and pushed it away, drawing a deep, Snape-like glare from the tiny creature, which said, "I may be yours and ordered to be polite to you, but if you continue to gape at me you'll face my teeth of fury!" Delighted, he reached to pick the thing up again, more gingerly this time, by its wriggling tale. "Unhand me, you malodorous imbecile! Unhand me, I say! Unhand me at once!"

"I suggest," came the deep drawl from somewhere behind his ear, Harry had quite forgot that Snape was so close, and started, "that, for once in your life, you do as you are told."

"Did you do it?" He twirled the tale in his fingers, the crocodile complaining as it swung left-to-right over the table, but Harry was not paying attention. "It sounds a bit like you." And then, as an afterthought, "And a bit like Sir Cadogan."

"Sir Cadogan! You dare - you dare - I come from a noble line of crocodiles, sir! From my great-uncle Gorbert who was fashioned in Grenoble, my great-great-great grandfather who was created in a toy shop in Germany and sent to England to be the friend of young Everard Pri - "

"You did, didn't you?"

"And why," Snape snapped, taking up the milk glasses and returning to the sink, "would I waste my valuable time on a trivial child's toy?" But Harry swore that as he turned, the most indistinct of pleased smirks crept into the man's lined face and softened them.

Before he could respond the front door gave a mighty lurch, and a boy's voice called loudly, "HAPPY BLEEDING CHRISTMAS, TROTTER!" Harry need not wait for the invitation to leave; Snape's deep-seated glare was enough. Stuffing the toy into the pocket of his jumper, amidst many complaints, he departed with a hasty "Happy Christmas, sir".

"Took you long enough," Slater moaned. Harry saw the younger boy's eyes swivel from his black shoes to his old jumper, taking in everything.

"It's Christmas." Even to him his voice was cool and unwelcoming. The crocodile had stilled and was apparently listening intently now.

"Yeah, and Snape's let you out! Hightowler's mum made pudding, so we're going to McDo until the danger's past." He wrinkled his nose, jerking a thumb at the other boy, who had appeared almost from nowhere on the front steps of his house. "The Coftons are coming, as well. They're not bad, once you know them - oh, look, here they come."

They stood with Hightowler as the two groups neared, and smiled as Harry came closer.

"Where to?"

The small group walked for a long time, filling the passing air with small talk of Christmas (which Harry discussed in length) and school (which he did his best to avoid). Slowly, the scenery began to change from the dreary, muddy streets of Spinner's End (Slater informed him that the neighbourhood sat right upon the river, and was muddy year-round) to what he supposed was the middle class section of Rottidge. Many of the houses here were unconnected, with their own little gardens and bright exteriors. Beside an empty playground he spotted something shiny and small in the dirt. Whatever it was, Harry pocketed it, and they moved on.

"It's nice," he noted to the nearest Cofton (James?). The boy nodded.

"It's mostly new people here, not like Spinner's End. Sean and me, we live two streets down. It's nice there, too."

"Oh." As much as he had been unwanted, perhaps even downright loathed, at the Dursleys, Harry had to admit that while they were unpleasant, they kept a nice house. From their sheltered suburban neighbourhood, to Hogwarts, to the cosy atmosphere of the Weasleys, he had always taken for granted the neighbourhood he was in, the cleanness of the streets and the windows and the people who lived there. Even Grimmauld Place, though it had been grotty compared to the rest, had its own grandeur, its secrets, its hidden wealth. But Spinner's End was none of that. If Voldemort discovered them that moment, killed Snape, and somehow lost Harry, if Snape was good enough to leave him anything, if blood had any say in what he inherited, the house on Spinner's End would be his - and what was there to that?

Of course, he reasoned, there was always the chance that England would freeze over, in which case the place might make for good firewood. He could sell it, if there ever was a great freeze, he could sell it to the Muggles and make himself a tidy fortune, and Snape would never know, because he would be dead. Dead people never got a say in real estate.

Grinning to himself at his musings, he followed the others through their midtown detour, past streets of houses with clean bricks and fat children on bicycles, past mothers pushing prams and complaining about milk prices, old men walking dogs that looked about ready to drop dead, a dark-haired woman chasing a little boy, screaming with laughter. They passed another playground, where a small boy and girl sat in the sand and giggled over small children things. By the time they had reached downtown Harry was beginning to feel distinctly underprivileged.

Through a lunch of burgers and Coca Colas, with Slater telling corny holiday jokes and the Coftons making bets on who could land their wrappers in the hat of a woman three tables away, Harry thought of Spinner's End and the records. He had yet to listen to the magical ones, for they refused to play. Perhaps the boy Snape had once possessed of an altered record player, one that cooperated with magic? It might still be in the house somewhere, if he could stomach a search.

"Not hungry, are you?" There was a look so reminiscent of Ron in Sean Cofton's eyes that Harry's breath caught in his throat. Despite the fact that the Rottidge boy had brown hair, where Ron was red, his freckles and eyebrows, and even the long nose were so Weasleyesque he did a double take. "I'll have it if you won't."

While Sean and James devoured his lunch and Slater watched out of the corner of his eye, his jokes growing worse with each punch line, Harry thought. His thinking was split into three sections that overlapped one another as they competed for his attention: the old Harry Potter, the current Patrick Trotter, and whatever Dumbledore, Snape, and Voldemort had in store for him. He had gathered from Dumbledore's deep concern for the matter that Occlumency was going to be extremely important, but for what? The only plausible explanation was that both Snape and Dumbledore were expecting Harry to meet the one person he truly needed to defend his mind from, and if that was the case -

"He always this boring?"

Everyone froze and the silence, to which he had become rather unaccustomed to when in the company of his new friends, drove Harry so far from his thoughts that he had no hope of finding them before lunch had ended.

"No," Slater bit out absently, midway through tattooing James's arm with the ketchup. "Sometimes he talks about books." Harry nudged him, none too softly. "Well," he amended, still not looking up from what had quickly become a lurid red flower, "sometimes he talks about sport, too And Snape."

"It's comparable with your atrocious attempts at humour, I would suppose."

The voice came, a tiny squeak, from behind the thin cloth of Harry's jumper. He started and glanced round, but Slater and the rest were too busy with the ketchup tattoo to worry about disembodied voices and simply snorted. "Wait till you hear him about Snape. Hightowler and me are beginning to think they're either related or planning on announcing their marriage sometime soon, but Trotter'll be wearing the gown, as he's got no balls where Snape is concer - "

"Or perhaps you weren't trying to be funny at all? If this is the case, I suggest you have your head examined, my precious Mugg - "

"Did you hear something?"

Both James Cofton and Hightowler jumped.

Slater groaned. "Now you've gone and cocked up the - "

"Of course, it never occurred to you that it might have been awful in the first place, had it?"

Squirming, Harry moved to cover the conspicuous lump in his pocket with the empty wrappers from someone's chips.

"I heard it, too," said Sean. He glanced suspiciously at Harry.

"You heard no such thing!" came the indignant little voice. Harry squirmed again. He had not thought about the crocodile since stuffing it in his pocket ages before; he felt it moving now against his chest, gnashing its teeth of fury and scratching at him.

"It's Trotter," Hightowler pointed out, gesturing him. "The noise is coming from his jumper."

"Oooh, we're clever, aren't we? You've got a brain for the Ministry, Muggle Boy."

Slater looked confused, the Coftons torn somewhere between amused and puzzled, but Hightowler was grinning as though he had won a contest, his lips pulled tight into thin cheeks. He snorted.

"I didn't know you were ventriloquist, Trotter. They teach that at prison school, too, do they?"

And Harry could have killed Snape, if the man had been there, if the situation had not been so amusing and intensely terrifying at the same time.

"Definitely a brain for the Ministry," said the little voice sagely, to which the rest looked utterly perplexed.

"What sort of ministry is it?" Slater asked. Harry could feel tightness in his chest, but the crocodile was climbing out of his pocket now.

"The Ministry of Imbeciles, Cretins, and Those Who Stand on Toadstools," said the Crocodile, and Harry grinned thinly. "Of which you will no doubt be Minister, my Muggle friend."

"Oy," said Slater loudly, "What the hell is a Muggle?"

Stuffing the crocodile deep into his jumper, Harry answered swiftly, "A disease. Like a leper." He felt guilt swoop in low on his stomach, his thoughts on Hermione and his mother, who would most likely have scowled if they could hear that. Slater laughed uneasily and Hightowler looked slightly amused, but it was the Coftons that drew Harry's immediate attention. With wide eyes they glanced between one another and exchanged a knowing look that was all too familiar.

"My mum's expecting me to at least have a bite of her fruitcake," Hightowler announced out of the blue. It did the trick, at any rate, and cleared the tension. Harry nodded.

"Snape'll want me back soon. My - my grandfather is coming." He thought of Dumbledore and the long, silvery beard. As a lie, it was closer to the truth than even he realised. Dumbledore was a grandfatherly age - perhaps great grandfatherly where Harry was concerned, but old was old, after all. "We're having pudding - he'll be upset if I come back late."

They stood and nodded to one another, like mini-diplomats, following which Harry raced out into the street, the disembodied voice of his crocodile floating behind -

"What the devil is going on? I demand to know this instant! This instant! Do you hear me, boy? I swear to you, I'll come after you in the night! You will never escape my jaws of thunder!"

He reached number six in record time, panting and heaving himself through the front door, which closed with a fantastic slam and alerted Snape to his arrival. The man bustled out, followed by a beaming Dumbledore who looked quite stunning in a gleaming, gold velvet suit. Harry choked.

"Professor!"

"Professor!" echoed the crocodile. It had begun to squirm again in his pocket and he let it out at once to roam the worn sofa.

"Ah, Harry, Severus tells me you've made friends in the neighbourhood." The Headmaster's blue eyes carried their customary twinkle as withdrew a small package from the pockets of his robes. "For you."

Like Snape's crocodile, the gift was pocket-sized and wrapped in ordinary Muggle paper, this time in red and green. Curiosity driving him, Harry tore through the paper, earning himself a disapproving glare from Snape, who, he now realised, was tugging at the pointed tip of a jolly red hat with bells at the end, which appeared to have stuck itself quite firmly on his greasy head. From the twinkle in the old man's eyes, the culprit was obvious.

"Blimey, sir, it's - er, what is it, exactly?"

Dumbledore beamed wider, his eyes were eager as he sat down on the couch, the crocodile climbing to sit contentedly in his lap. "It is a Christmas gift, of course, and a rather good one, if I may say so myself. Fawkes chose it from my office. I hope you don't mind, but he was rather persistent that you were in dire need of sweet machine. It makes sherbet lemons upon command!"

If he hadn't already known for certain that it was true, Harry might have thought the Headmaster was off his trolley. A sweet machine? Sherbet lemons?

"Of course," Dumbledore continued pleasantly, patting the seat beside him, which Snape, who looked thrilled, quickly occupied, "I had considered that not everyone shares my personal fondness for Muggle sweets, so I have altered it for you. You can write an idea for your own sweet and drop it into the slot at the top, and it will create it for you! A full factory cleverly compacted into one pocket-sized little machine. The Weasley twins would have been quite pleased, I must say."

"The Weasley twins," Harry repeated, regarding his new gift with interest. It looked rather like a teacup, with a handle on the side that he supposed was meant to be pulled, and a little spout where the sweet came out. The whistled and spat out a conspicuous yellow ball, and the crocodile scowled enviously.

"The very same," confirmed Dumbledore. " They've asked me to relay half of their shop to Mr Harry Potter for Christmas. It is waiting for you at Hogwarts, where, I assure you, the only danger of it being taken is by Mr Filch, who would know enough by now not to come up to my office while I am away."

"Thank-you, sir."

When Dumbledore smiled Harry felt something within him stir, a fondness for the old man who had done so much for him. The blackened hand, withered and dead looking as it had been from the first time they had seen one another that summer, lay serenely atop Snape's dusty pillow. When he spoke, it was with a low note of reluctance. "I am afraid, however, that my visit is not purely for the pleasure of wishing you a Happy Christmas." He straightened, and Harry could feel the sinking in his stomach; Voldemort was planning on blowing up an old woman's tea party and Remus had died while safeguarding the sugar pot, or Ron had been expelled for tossing Malfoy from the Astronomy Tower, or Death Eaters had impersonated the McDonald's employees and followed him home from his lunch with Hightowler and the others. And, Harry strongly suspected, because he was complete pants at Occlumency.

"But first," Dumbledore stood and brushed off his suit, his smile just as wide as it had been before, his eyes twinkling all the same behind their half-moon spectacles, "I did not cause poor Severus here such distress by dragging him down to that charming little grocer for nothing."

There was something in the way he said charming that made Harry snigger, and even Snape looked as though he might smile.

"If I recall, the chipolatas should be ready by now. Come, Harry, Severus, when an old man smells food he intends to eat it - Fruitcake, my boy?"