Harry Potter had only lived on the streets for three months, but he knew the rules as well as anyone.

Number one: Don’t attract attention. Didn’t matter if it was good, bad, or in between, attention was the last thing you wanted. Which had been hard for Harry at first, he’d admit it. His eyes were too bright, too magnified by his dirty glasses, which had been stolen his very first night. Without them, he stumbled around nearly blind half the time and he often needed to find himself an out of the way street corner where he could get a few coins from the passerby. His hair, always messy, had seemed to actually calm itself as it was bogged down with three months worth of dirt, snag, and tangles. His scar, which he’d always hidden, was covered pathetically by a few streaks of mud. Yes, Harry had learned that rule particularly well. Don’t stand out, ever, because it never leads to anything good. He had learned it the hard way, for sure, but he had learned it and that was all that mattered, now.

Number two: Only steal when it’s necessary. He’d seen countless kids, shoplifters, pickpockets, purse-snatchers, all picked up by the police, caught in the attempt to score some money for food or drugs or sex, and he never wanted to be dragged away like that, because the police might take him back, and then what would they do? Rations at the Dursley’s (thinking of the Dursley’s still filled him with that funny mix of anger and fear and sadnesss, so he tried not to think of them) had always been a bit slim, and that had served him well. His stomach seemed to be smaller than a lot of the other street kids, so he could go longer without food. And then he had longer to get enough money to buy something, normally at the fish and chips store at the corner. He’d always do the same thing—buy his food, then run quickly to the bathroom, locking himself in a stall as he ate quickly. He always burned his throat and lips, but it was a wonderful kind of burn, a burn that meant his hunger was sated for a few hours and that he was doing alright for himself.

Rule number three: Don’t make it personal. Begging, which was Harry’s only source of income, worked very well, but he’d learned after running after women, pleading for just a few cents, it scared them when he looked them in the eye. They had seen too many street kids strung out on drugs, too many crazy homeless men to trust anyone who looked and smelled like Harry did. He had seen Aunt Petunia (don’t think about them, don’t think about them) walk briskly away from them with that look of fear and loathing in her eyes she nearly always got when she looked at Harry, which should have told him something, he supposed. So you kept it back, you held up little cardboard signs and, if you had to talk to them, you just kept repeating the same thing over and over. Please please please please please.

Number four, and maybe the hardest rule for Harry: Never think about how you got there. Because it didn’t matter anymore, how you got there, it only mattered that you were there and that you had to get out of there. No one could afford to dwell on the past, to think about warm beds in cosy cupboards, of the days when he would get half and sandwich and the leftover, burned bits of bacon (sometimes, outside café’s in the morning, Harry sniffed the air and closed his eyes and pretended he was just making breakfast, which broke the rule) and soggy toast and watery soup for dinner. You can’t think about the things you used to have, because, as Harry had learned, you didn’t have them anymore. And you wouldn’t ever have them again.

So yes, Harry had survived and learned the rules and played the game, like he always had in the Dursleys. But, for eleven year old Harry Potter, life felt like one enormous chore to get through. And some days, Harry wondered when it would end and he could got back to sleep in his cupboard.

Muggle London, Severus decided, was a stinking, disgusting place filled to the brim with stupid, stinking people and whiny, snot nosed brats and the occasional whore or two. Muggle London was a place he avoided at all costs. He remembered, vaugely, in a life he had tried hard to forget, taking a trip there once with his parents.

His mother had sniffed and sneered and clucked at the disgrace and his da had simply looked at her, and at him, little Severus with the same Prince sneer pasted on his face, and he’d grunted ‘You drop those airs and get that sneer off your face or I’ll leave you here with the rats.’ And though his mother had tossed her hair and looked disdained, while she was in the loo he had gotten seperated from her and wandered around, lost, for an hour until she located him again with a quick spell, picking him up and crying into his hair that she’d though she’d lost him.

And though they all pretended it was an accident, neither Eileen nor little Severus denied the fact that Toby, who had a fair eye and a loud voice, who had never lost Severus before, had smiled cruelly at Severus as soon as he returned.

He had hated London ever since.

However, in some of the darker potions, certain…questionable ingredients were necessary. Some darker ingredients that were housed, unwittingly, in little magical pockets throughout Muggle London. Ingredients that he needed, if he was ever to make that damned locating charm for that blasted Harry Potter.

Severus scowled, frightening a pair of giggling, playing children, and turned quickly onto a darker, dimmer, dirtier street filled with the undesirables of Muggle society. He kicked a poor child with one arm out of his way as he kept storming through, weaving into seedier and seedier area’s as he pondered the idea of that damned Potter fool.

Too good for his relatives and Hogwarts too, the fool. Caught one look at his letter and scarpered, according to the Muggles. And now Severus had to waste time, effort, and potions ingredients, PLUS a trip into bloody London to track down the little fool.

A flickering thought in Severus’ mind almost made him turn around. ‘You could tell Dumbledore the store had been shut down by the Ministry. He wouldn’t be able to check. You could tell him they were out of October Root, and you could go home, to Hogwarts, and forget the brat exists.’

But all those years with Dumbledore had given the man a small, almost miniscule conscience, and he trudged on, thinking off all the ways he could hold this over Potter’s head when the boy was found.

He strode down the dirty, muck infested street, and he pasted that Prince sneer on his face, brushing off the various beggars and homeless vagabonds that brandished their coffee cups and cried for help, salvation, a few pence.

Severus kept on walking.

He ducked quickly into a dark store front, whose peeling sign read ‘FORTUNES TOLDE BY PROFESSIONALE INSYDE! PALMES REDDE ANDE CARDES SHOWYN!’ and showed a faded, worn palm print on the edge of the sign with the life and marriage lines clearly marked.

Severus pressed his hand to the palm and simply faded into the shadows, focusing his mind on the intense round of bartering to come instead of who the bartering would benefit.

Damned Potter.

Harry woke up that morning to find that someone had stolen his shoes in the night.

He had known, as soon as he had found the little crawl way under the dumpster, that he would be found. But it had been so late and dark out that he could hardly see, and he knew that if he slept in the open it might be he himself who was taken away. So he had resigned himself to losing something valuable, because all the things he had left now were valuable, and he merely thanked God that it had been his shoes, and not his life (or something more important, but Harry didn’t like to think of that) that was spirited away.

He set to tearing spare bits of fabric from Dudley’s old, baggy trousers (wincing even as he ripped, knowing that when fall fully settled in he would regret that, probably) to wrap around his feet, which were already pink with cold through the holes in his socks. They had neglected to take his socks, and Harry once again thanked his lucky stars that his thieves were either incredibly kind of incredibly dim-witted, or both.

He managed to patch his feet up slightly presentably, and he then yawned, shook his head, and felt his stomach rumble. It was the third day he’d been without food—it wouldn’t be ignored. Harry started to look around him, squinting to try to make out the letters on street signs and stores.

He missed his glasses something awful.

He stumbled about blindly for about twenty minutes before settling down outside a palmistry place. People that came out of there almost always gave a few coins, sometimes even a pound or two. He just had to be patient, as always.

He entertained himself, as he waited, about who was in there, getting their forune told. It was a woman, he decided, a tall, beautiful, red-haired lady, like in his dreams. And she was very sad because she hadn’t any child and she wanted one very badly. She would go in there and the fortune telling lady would stare into her crystal ball, and the lady would cry because it was useless and she never thought she would have a child. But then the fortune lady would look out of her crystal ball and she would smile and say ‘Look outside’ and then the lady would run outside and see him and she could know, right away, that she was his real mum. She hadn’t died in the car crash, just hit her head like him and gotten amnesia, but no scar, he decided, because she was too pretty. She had looked and looked for him, knowing he was missing but not remembering his name or what he looked like, and now that she had found him they would live in a big castle and she would feed him sweets all the time—

His lovely daydream was interupted, however, by a foot kicking him in the back, hard. So hard he toppled sideways and banged his head on the pavement, hard.

“Out of my way, you filthy child.” Severus Snape snarled as the little ragamuffin flew forward and hit his head on the ground. Severus frowned in concern, then sighed and, distastefully, pinched his nose and leaned over the boy, who scampered away the closer he came.

Harry could almost cry. The daydream had seemed so real, this time, and even though he knew he was too old to be so babyish, to see this ugly, angry man emerge from the same doorway his mum was supposed to appear from was too much. Harry bit his lip and, seeing the man advance, pushed himself backward.

“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to be in your way. I’m sorry.” He was flinching and pushing back, until he backed into a signpost.

Severus scowled and sneered distastefully. What an ugly little urchin. He could even see properly, it seemed, and his face and hands were extremely dirty. His clothes too, were stained and baggy. Second or third or fourth hand, he wagered. A cut on his forehead had appeared, due to his tumble from the porch, and he was starting to bleed. He, unsuccessfully, tried to wipe it away with his hands.

“Here, boy,” Severus snarled, tossing him a handkerchief. The boy murmered a small thanks, wiping and pressing the handkerchief to the cut. He pulled the handkerchief away, frowned at it, and then spat on it. Severus nearly slapped his grubby little hands. But he was mopping away at his bloody forhead, removing most of the blood and the grime and revealing---

A scar. A lightening bolt scar.

The boy shyly handed him back the handkerchief, and Severus tried to process what he was seeing. A boy, a small, thin, ragged street boy, with dirty, shaggy hair that could have looked like James’, if it had been combed, and big, green eyes that looked like Lily’s. And a scar, a scar that he had heard countless tales and theories about.

The boy, while Severus was staring blankly, had picked up a tattered carboad coffee cup and held it out.

“If you can spare it, sir? Not that you have to, what with lending me your hankie and all, but if you have any I would be right thankful. Truly.”

Severus blinked, slowly, and made his decision. Even if this boy was just some crude look-a-like, he would take him to Dumbledore. Yes, Dumbledore would know what to do.

Severus reached out, and the boy looked tentatively happy, holding out his little cup. However, that happiness turned quickly to anger and fear as Severus latched on to his bony wrist and, with a powerful jerk, pulled him into his arms.

Harry immediately started to scream, kick, and bite. At first, Severus was so shocked that the boy was resisting—who dare resist him, Severus Snape?—that he didn’t take in the words fully. Nor could he really be bothered to. He simply scooped up the boy and started to make the long fight to an alleyway where he could apparate to Hogsmeade.

Harry was terrified. He had only been grabbed by a strange man once before this, and after that experience he had never wanted to do it again. The man hadn’t wanted to do more than look, but he’d terrified Harry. He had run for weeks on the edge of tears and exhaustion, too scared the man might find him again and demand a higher price.

Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had always lectured Dudley on the finer points of what to do if someone grabbed you. Harry had always listened, part of his mind merely absorbing as he nibbled his toast, the other part wondering who in their right mind would want to steal Dudley. But he remembered. You were supposed to scream and fight and kick him in the crotch, that much he knew. However, against this tall, terrifying man, Harry didn’t know if it would be enough.

He flailed and kicked and wailed, not even words, just streams of anger and fear. He screeched and shrieked and bit. But, in the end, the man had sucessfully dragged him into an alleyway and suddenly, he got the distinct feeling the man had somehow drugged him, because the walls and his stomach dropped down, down, down, and the colors all span and ran into each other.

Harry and Severus were no longer in the alley.

Harry and Severus, in fact, were no longer in London, or even England.

Severus let out a bark as, when they landed from one of the most difficult Apparations he’d ever worked, a foot came out of nowhere and nearly hit a strong blow to his balls. The shrieking hit his ears again and Severus quickly cast a Bubble-Charm over them, constricting all noise to the inside of the bubble.

The boy had finally resorted to words.

“I won’t let you touch me, I won’t, I won’t, I won’t! You can’t touch me, never, and if you try I’ll bite off your hand, I swear I will, and my mum and daddy won’t let you hurt me, they’ll kill you, you hear me? My mum will kill you dead, you pervert, let me go! Please, please, let me go! They’ll kill you dead!”

Severus’ jaw dropped. The boy thought—

Well, it wasn’t unreasonable, he supposed. As a fear for a boy from the streets, he supposed it was valid. Severus ducked behind a building, planted the brat firmly on the ground, and before the brat could run, slapped him firmly on the cheek.

The boy wouldn’t stop screaming.

“I won’t do it and if you make me I’ll stab you in the heart and leave you in the dumpster and my mum will grind you up for sausage!” It was a good thing that, with his other hand, Severus had kept a tight hold over his wrist, because the boy was tugging against it something fierce. Severus slapped him again, and this time the boy seemed a bit dazed and quieted for a moment.

“Be quiet, you little wretch, it’s perfectly safe here!”

“That’s a lie! You’re a liar and a pervert and if you don’t let me go I’ll bite it off! I’ll do it, I’ll do it!”

Snape snarled and snapped “No one wants anything of that sort, you fool, now stop screaming so I can get us a bloody carriage!”

“They all lie, how should I know that you’re not lying too?”

Severus looked into the boys eyes, heaved a sigh, and said “Because I knew your parents. Lily and James, correct?”

The boy looked starstruck, dazzled, and he swallowed and whispered “You knew them?”

Severus nodded. “I did. It was a great loss to the world when they died.”

Harry’s eyes, which had lit up, dimmed slightly. “So they really are dead, then.”

“Yes, Mr. Potter. I’m afraid they are.”

The boy seemed to weigh this in his head, and he slowly nodded, but glared. “I don’t trust you any. If you try anything, I’ll kill you dead, I swear.”

Severus gave a small sneer. “That is acceptable, Mr. Potter.”

He dragged the boy into the nearest carriage, paid the fee, and relaxed for a bit of a ride. Just as he closed his eyes, he heard a small, hesitant throat clear.

Without opening his eyes, he stifled a groan. “What is is, Mr. Potter?”

“Well…I was just wondering, uhm…how you know my name?” That air of fear was back again, and Severus sighed and opened his eyes to see the boy staring, apprehensively, at his chin. He was chewing on his lower lip as if determined to wear it through, and all his muscles were tensed up, like he was ready to run.

“Your scar is quite distinctive, Mr. Potter.”

The boy reached up and traced it, slowly. “My mum and daddy didn’t have any scars, did they? From the crash?”

Severus frowned. “What on earth are you talking about, boy? What crash?”

Harry wass immediately on the alert. “I thought you said you knew my parents. Don’tcha know how they died?”

Snape glared at the stupid, irritating boy. “Of course I do, you idiot child, but what in the blazes are you on about? The only crash that night was between yourself and the Dark Lord.”

Harry cocked his head to one side in confusion. “Who?”

“You-Know-Who,” Severus corrected.

“No, sir, I don’t. I’m sorry.”

“You ignorant whelp, You-Know-Who. The Dark Lord. He Who Must Not Be Named.” Harry’s face was still clueless and wary.

“What?”

Severus moaned and put his hands to his head. “I’ll explain it when we reach the school.”

Harry seemed to ponder this, then nodded slowly. “Kay.”

Then they both settled in for a long, bumpy carriage ride.

Severus woke with a start and a snarl as the carriage went over a particularly large bump. Harry was still huddled in the corner, biting his nails and staring out the window. When he noticed that Severus was awake, he stopped biting his nails and hid them in his lap.

“When was the last time you washed you hands, boy?” he snapped, and then growled as Harry’s hand returned to his mouth as he tried to remember. “Stop, stop, if you have to think about it, it’s too long! Don’t put that hand in your mouth, you unhygenic child, you may ingest something toxic and Poppy will skin me.”

“Yes, sir.” Harry started to crack his knuckles instead, then softly said “Sir?”

“Yes, Potter?”

“Uhm, what’s your name, then, sir?” He tried to crack his knuckles again, then failed and seemed to decide to fiddle with the loop of his filthy trousers.

“You may call me Professor Snape, Mr. Potter.”

“A professor? Do you teach at the university, is that what you meant before by school?” Harry seemed to have determined that he wasn’t a threat, and Snape half-wished the boy had not reached this conclusion. He had a splitting headache.

However, he mused, if the boy hadn’t decided he was safe, he would probably still be shrieking in the sqare at Hogsmeade.

Severus had hired a Muggle carriage to take them to Hogwarts, operated by a Squib named Hrothgar Snubb, or Gary. It was a nice, easy way for Muggle parents to get to the school, in the case of an emergency, and Severus had determined a nice, non-magical ride was just the thing to soothe their nerves. He had forgotten, however, that Gary hadn’t put any Cushioning Charms in the seats. Severus was sore all over, and he started to shake out the cricks in his neck while answering the boy.

“I teach at Hogwarts, Potter.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t know what that is.”

Snape looked at him, slightly puzzled. “What, have your relatives never mentioned it, Potter?”

Harry’s eyes turned sad and he bit his lip before shaking his head. “No, sir. Why would the Dursley’s know, sir?” Perhaps it was like Smeltings—Harry looked at the man in front of him. He certainly looked dour enough to deal with Dudley.

“Your letter, Potter. What did you think it was about, if not Hogwarts?”

Harry looked curiously at the professor. “But sir, I’ve never gotten a letter.”

Snape sneered and rubbed his temples. As soon as he got back to his quarters he was downing his entire stock of headache reducers. This boy was clearly thick.

“Oh, p’rap’s you’re thinking of Dudley. Smelting’s sent him lots of mail, all about his dormitory and his class schedule and supply lists. Maybe you thought they sent something to me, but I’m going to Stonewall, and they don’t send any letters home. I’ve never even gotten a overdue notice, sir, I haven’t got a library card. So it can’t have been my letter.”

But Harry was remembering, with a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach, about the letter he had thought he’d seen the day before—well, before. Dudley had refused to get the mail, and when Harry tried the same tactic he got a sharp thump in the head with Dudley’s stupid stick. He hadn’t been able to properly look at the mail until he got back to the kitchen, his world was whirling about him as he picked it up and shuffled back to his seat. He had thought, for a moment, that one of the letters, a thick one written on funny paper, had said Harry Potter on it. But when he asked Uncle Vernon, he’d simply spluttered “From the government—a, a pittance, for raising you—cupboard, go to your cupboard—Dudley, go—“

Dudley had thumped Harry in the head again and shoved him in to his cupboard. The next thing he knew, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were driving away in the car and he was left with twenty pounds, an old jacket of Dudley’s, and strict orders to get every item on the list.

He’d spent ten pounds before he realized they weren’t coming back.

Staring at the professor, Harry swallowed and faintly asked “This…this Hogwish letter—“

“Hogwarts, Potter, Hogwarts.”

“Uh, yeah, is it on funny paper, like cloth, kinda? Heavy?”

“Parchment, boy, parchment. Growing up amongst Muggles has done nothing for your brain—unless the brain damage is a result of being smacked in the head too much.”

“No, sir.”

“What that negative in response to the comment of your brains or my hypothesis of how they got to be in such a lamentable state?”

Harry nodded, then shook his head. “Uh,” he said, looking confused. “Neither, sir?”

Snape snorted and looked out the window when he was interupted again by the brat. “What, uhm, what is Hogwarts, then, sir? Is it a public school? One of the boys at my primary, he’s headed to a public school. He’s going to Eton, he wrote a whole report on it and read it to the whole class.”

Severus gave a disdainful sniff. “Hogwarts was founded while the founders of Eton’s ancestors were still soiling their nappies. There’s far more to Hogwarts than silly boys running around in ridiculous Muggle clothing. Hogwarts is about magic, boy, not children mucking around in the dirt. Hogwarts is about power.”

He watched Potter’s eyes shine on that, saw him mutter ‘magic’ to himself. He said, with more courage he had seen in the boy yet, “It’s real. Magic, I mean. It’s real.”

“Of course, you foolish child. Did you never wonder the small matter of that scar on your head?”

Harry’s hand flew to his forehead as he deflated. “Oh. Oh, sir, no, there’s been a mistake. I got my scar in the crash that killed my mum and dad.”

Snape stared at him, bewildered. “What are you saying, boy?”

“Well, it was an accident. They were driving and the road was wet and, and Uncle Vernon and Aunt Marge say they were probably drunk, but I don’t believe that because my parents were smart, they wouldn’t do anything like that, and Uncle Vernon lies about everything anyway. But the road was wet, and they slipped and skidded off the road and ran into a telephone pole, and the car was all twisted and everyone was so shocked no one saw to my cut, so it scarred very badly.” Harry tugged on his fringe self consciously. “Aunt Petunia says it looks horrid and gory.”

“But—“ Severus started, then he stopped. He, a reformed (mostly) Death-Eater, should leave this matter to Dumbledore. Yes, that’s what he would do.

“That’s not true, Potter,” he said finally, and Harry shrugged sadly.

“Well, Aunt Petunia said I should be ashamed of it. Says it should keep me humble, my scar, but I think it’s brilliant. I mean, if you have to have a scar, it should at least look nice. Specially since it’s right on my face, you know? And, and she says it should remind me that my parents were, weren’t capable of even driving in a little rain, that they were prob’ly as stupid as me, but I don’t think about that because rain can be real bad to drive in, Miss Zell told us, so we hafta be careful. And my parents just had somethin’ bad happen to them, but it isn’t their fault.” Harry got quiet for a moment, tracing his scar across his forehead. “You know what I pretend?”

Severus shook his head, listening to the dam of feelings that had probably been stifled within this boy for years. Much as he hated James and Lily Potter and all they stood for, much as he disliked the boy, he listened. Because Potter was talking so fast, sounded so desperate, that Severus really wondered what would happen if he was denied this right one more time.

“I pretend that my mum, she died protecting me. That when the car started to skid, she shielded me and kept me safe, because she loved me, and otherwise I would’ve died too, and she didn’t want that. And her, and my daddy, they died because they loved me. And so, so maybe it’s okay that they’re dead. I mean, not okay, but just---when I pretend that it doesn’t hurt so much. Because it means they loved me.” Harry paused, then sighed and pulled his hand down from his forehead. “Stupid, I guess.”

Severus inhaled through his nose, then exhaled again. Just as he was about to say something, the carriage jerked to a quick, sharp stop, and Hrothgar poked his head into the carriage, demanded his seven galleons, and wrinkled his nose at Harry’s stench.

“We’re at the Entrance Hall now, Professor.”

And Severus yanked Harry out of the carriage, threw some coins at Gary, and briskly swept into the most magnificent castle Harry had ever seen, or even dreamt of.

If this was Hogwarts, Harry thought in a daze as he ran a labyrinth or corridors and moving stairwells, he didn’t ever want to leave.

000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

Severus reached Dumbledore’s office about a corridor or so ahead of Potter. The boy was jogging, slowly, taking in everything. He was gaping at a portrait of a beautiful woman with the same sort of hair he imagined his mum having, long, red hair like he’d seen once in when of Aunt Petunia’s photo albums. She was his mum, he decided, slipping back into the fantasy. She had come out of the fortune place just after he had left with the professor, and she had cried and cried and cried in the middle of the road, but then the fortune lady came out and said ‘He’s at Hogwarts.’ So she ran, ran real fast and got here before them, by magic! And she was hiding in the portrait until she could come out and hold him in her arms and promise, promise to love him forever and always and never leave him again—

At that point, the hallway he was in flooded with students and Harry was promptly swept away in a crowd of clean, well dressed, chattering students.

Suddenly, Harry was very aware of how long it had been without a shower, or a change of clothes.

The older students simply wrinkled their noses and moved on. The middle ones, still older than Harry, jostled him slightly as if to question why such a ragamuffin was in their hallways. It was the youngest children who started to tease, because they were the lowest on the food chain and it was nice to get fresh meat.

Harry got through them without tears, but minus a sleeve of his shabby coat and several people stepping on his as yet unshod feet.

He found the professor standing outside a stature of a beautiful bird, and the professor sneered at him.

“Now, Potter, we’re going to see the Headmaster. You’re to be on your best behaviour, clear? No, no blowing your nose in the Headmasters beard or anything.

Harry, now daunted by the size of the casstle and it’s occupants, gave a small smile. Severus rolled his eyes. “Forget I’ve said that. You Potter’s don’t need any ideas.” And with that, the professor turned, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like ‘candy floss’ (but from what he had observed of the professor, he thought that unlikely) and suddenly he was being pulled up a revolving stairwell into a room far better than anything else he’d ever seen before.

It was a wonderful room, Harry thought as he wrapped his hands in his shirt sleeves and looked in awe at the room. It had a hushed tone to it, as though many different people had just been talking and were silenced by the sight of such a dirty, unkempt, ugly boy. Harry took a few steps into the room, careful not to touch anything, and he kept on gazing upon the wonderful oddities that filled the room to the brim. It was only when he heard a polite chuckle that he lept backwards and saw there was a man there, as well.

He was the most magical man, a kind of man Harry couldn’t even dream up, and that, more than the castle and the room and the professor, convinced him what he was seeing was real. The man smiled kindly, though how he could smile kindly at such a filthy boy in the middle of his special room, Harry didn’t know, not when Aunt Petunia had shrieked if he’d even stepping into the kitchen with mud on his shoes. Harry ducked his head bashfully as the man came closer, and he was so shocked he flinched when he felt the magic man wrap his arms around him and hold him tight, only for a moment. When the man let go, Harry was staring at him with shining eyes, and the old man teared up.

“Oh, Harry.”

Harry shuffled nervously as the man looked at him, and suddenly he was very frightened again. He wasn’t at the Dursley’s, or on the streets, where at least he knew the rules. Suddenly, this wasn’t a pretend anymore, this was real, and he was plunged into a world where he didn’t know any of the rules, and so he decided the safest thing to do was apologize immediately.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

The old man simply embraced him again, this time for a few more seconds than before, and Harry let him. He pulled back, and this time he was wiping his eyes.

“Oh, Harry, it’s all right. I think you’ve been punished quite enough for running away, hmm?” Dumbledore was smoothing the brats hair fondly, the boy looked stricken and Severus bit his tounge.

He would talk to Dumbledore later and get it all straightened out. Yes, he would talk to Dumbledore and then it would all be like it was supposed to be, him glaring at an ignorant, arrogant, pampered Potter and ridiculing him and slipping things in his potions to make them explode so he could dock points and glower. Yes, yes, Dumbledore would fix everything, later.

Harry’s mind was a whirlwind and he suddenly felt sick. They lied. He knew they lied, of course, they always lied about him, but they never—this lie felt different from the others, this lie was more than just a mean lie about his family, this lie was a cover up and this lie made him feel like he was about to throw up all over the rug. Because this lie meant that, even though he had done what he was told and tried his best and survived, they didn’t want him back.

His voice sounded strangled when he spoke. “R-running away, sir?”

“Yes. Now, Harry, I know that you’re going to miss your family, but Hogwart’s is truly the best place for you.”

Harry nodded. The Dursleys had ruined it all for him, once again. Not only was he now miles away from all his worlds and rules, he was in a place where they would all think him an ungrateful brat. And maybe he was, if the Dursleys and the magicians thought it, maybe he was.

“My boy, we were all so worried about you. I wish I had thought to go and deliver the letter myself, to explain things. Ah, well, you’re here now and we’ll just put all this unpleasantness behind us, hmm?”

Harry nodded and stared at the floor, which was a safe thing to do everywhere. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry for the trouble, sir.”

The man waved away his apology. “Tut, tut, boy, nothing to apologize for! Now, how about we get you something to eat, and perhaps a bath?”

Harry nodded and thanked the man, and as the man went behind the desk he retreated back to the professor, who still seemed safe.

“He isn’t Merlin, is he?” Harry whispered, and Severus shook his head and hissed “His name is Professor Dumbledore, and he’s the headmaster.”

Dumbledore smiled kindly at the waif and pointed to the door. “Tookie will be waiting there to take you to the baths, then to the kitchens for a bite to eat. Professor Snape and I will probably join you there in, oh, say, a half an hour? We have a few things to discuss. Tookie!”

Tookie, a frightened looking house elf, poked her head in. “Professor Headmaster is wanting Tookie to lead Mister Harry Potter to bath now?”

“Yes, please, Tookie. Then to the kitchens, get him some food. Myself and Professor Snape will be there shortly.” As soon as Harry was led out the room, giving an anxious look back at the professor, Dumbledore steepled his fingers, motioned for Severus to sit down and, with a steely side Harry hadn’t seen, spoke.

“All right, Severus. Tell me everything.”

Harry liked Tookie more than he’d ever liked anyone in his life—except for his mum and dad, of course, and Professor Snape. She led him to a bathroom with a tub as big as a pool, then set the taps so the water was warm and there were lots of bubbles and foam, all floating in the air and popping. Then, right before he’d shed his clothes, she’d magicked him up a set of old little wooden boats. They had belonged to one of the professors sons a long time ago, when Tookie was a new elf, and she thought they might make the bath fun. She then popped out, promising to return as soon as he was done (‘House elves is always knowing when Masters is done, Master Harry!’) and Harry settled into the first bath he could remember in years.

He had an epic battle with the boats (which were magic and had little pirates manning them), then he tackled the dirt and his hair. By the time he was done, the water had a thin film of dirt in it before there was a soft ‘plink’ and the dirt was replaced by bubbles.

His hair was still knotted and tangled, but a little cleaner. Harry ran his hands through it and sighed. He would need a haircut, for sure, and he hated haircuts. Maybe he could get Tookie to do it—she would listen to how long he wanted it.

He had another battle, and when the last pirate had gurgled ‘Yaargh!’ at him, he regretfully got out of the bath and toweled off. He wrapped a towel around him, then looked around the room.

“Tookie?” he called out quietly, and he yelped and almost fell back intot he tub when Tookie suddenly appeared.

“Young Master called Tookie?” she chirped, then frowned. “Why has Young Master Harry not put new clothes on?”

Harry looked around, and saw, draped over a hook, a uniform like he had seen the hoards of children wearing.

“I—I didn’t know those were for me, Tookie. I’m sorry.”

“Young Master not need be sorry, is Tookie’s fault for not saying! Young Master put on robes, then Tookie take to kitchen for food. Elves has been working hard for Young Master Harry. Gibley has made Young Master a cake!” Tookie proclaimed with pride. She then clapped her hands to her mouth and her ears flopped down with horror. “Oh, Tookie told Young Master the surprise! Tookie is bad elf!” She burst into tears, started to wring her hands and moan her apologies, and Harry didn’t know what to do. No one had ever apologized to him before.

“It’s all right, Tookie,” Harry said awkwardly, patting the elf on the back. “I’ll still act surprised and all, it’s okay. I haven’t ever had a cake made for me before, it’s all right that I know ahead. Tookie, please don’t cry, I’m sorry.”

Tookie stopped crying and looked up at him with big, wet, blue-green eyes. “Young Master is good master, to say such nice things to Tookie!” she cried, and hugged him around the knees before remembering her orders. “Young Master must get dressed so Young Master and Tookie may go to kitchens and have secret cake!” She turned away and Harry hastily pulled on the shirt and trousers, tucking in and buttoning up before Tookie turned back around to help him with his tie. She had to levitate herself to do it, and she held out his robe for him to shrug into, then she ran her hand over his hair in a worry.

“Ohhh, Young Master’s hair is fright! Young Master cannot see Headmaster with such hair!”

“I know, Tookie, would you please—“

But Tookie was already at work, magicking a pair of scissors like she had magicked out the boats and snipping away. She chatted as she did, and even though Harry was nervous—he’d had a great many haircuts, but none done by elf—he tried to listen.

“Tookie did this for Young Master Francis all time! Tookie very good with snippers, Young Master not need worry! Just snip snip tangles, hair be nice and neat!”

Harry snorted. He doubted his hair had ever been nice and neat, except maybe when he wass a baby and he didn’t have any. “Was the other boy you took care of nice, Tookie?”

“Oh, yes, Young Master Francis very nice! He always give Tookie big hug before he go bed, always say ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’ Young Master Francis wonderful boy, just like Young Master Harry.” She made a few last snips and then let herself down. “Young Master Harry perfect looking gentleman! Come, Young Master and Tookie must go to kitchen!”

She grabbed Harry’s writst, and before he could catch a look of himself, he was being pulled down various hallways and passages until he found himself shoved through a portrait of fruit that appeared to be giggling.

Thousands of house elves surrounded him, it seemed, and were pulling him to a big, rough wooden table. The top was scarred, as if someone had been cutting things on it, and Harry found himself running his fingers over the table as he watched the small, enthusiastic creatures pile plate after plate of food in front of him.

It was everything he had dreamed of over the last three months. There was a plate filled with strips of seasoned meat, mashed potatoes and green beans, a plate of some kind of stew, and two bowls—two bowls!—of peppermint humbugs, which he’d never tried, but he liked. He was shoveling food into his mouth when the professor and the headmaster showed up.

The Headmaster was smiling, but sadder looking then before. The professor was looking disdainfully at the two bowls of humbugs.

Harry felt the mashed potatoes in his mouth, but he was no longer hungry. He was surely going to be in trouble! Of course all this food wasn’t for him. Professor Snape was surely hungry as well, and the Headmaster—oh, they would be so angry, like when he ate Dudley’s food or got caught stealing from the fridge! He swallowed the lump of mashed potatoes and almost gagged on them. He jumped up and wondered if they would hit him, or if they would just send him to his cupboard.

“Pro-professor. Headmaster. I’m, I forgot—“ Harry’s throat closed up with regret. He’d always thought that, if he got away from the Dursleys, it would all be different. Well, even without the Dursleys for three months, he was all the things they said he was. And it hurt, to realize that, even though they had been lying about everything else, they weren’t lying about that.

It made him wonder if they really were lying about everything else.

The Headmaster let out a laugh. “Harry, no need to stand on ceremony! Sit, eat—it looks a long time since you’ve put in a hearty meal.”

Harry sat down cautiously and looked from man to man. Both had sat down across from him, the Headmaster kindly taking tea from a cheerful looking elf who Tookie had introduced him to, Tippy, and Professor Snape snapping out his order for black coffee and glaring at everything.

He picked up his fork again, slowly, and started to eat a little more slowly, watching to see whether the Professor or the Headmaster were going to yell at him. When they didn’t, he tucked in with his previous gusto. They might yell at him, but later he would just be satisfied to have a full stomach.

“Harry, my boy, slow down a little, you’ll be ill.” Harry tried to, but he was so hungry, and the food smelled so good. It was hard to tell what time it was in the castle, the thick walls made everything seem like it was late at night, but he could see the elves working on supper. It couldn’t be later than 2:30 and his world had changed, but his hunger had not, so he kept eating, slowing down only slightly.

Professor Snape sighed and snapped “Potter! The Headmaster said to slow down, show him some respect!”

Harry swallowed his food and said “But Professor, I’m hungry.”

Snape sighed again and pinched his nose. “Potter, stop sounding like a petulant child and start eating like a human instead of an animal. If you stuff all that food in your stomach now you’ll just sick it all up later.”

Harry slowed down a little bit more, but was still eating with considerable speed. The Headmaster waited a moment, then cleared his throat.

“Harry, I would like to talk to you about the Dursleys.”

He should have said that first, because suddenly Harry lost his appetite and stopped eating altogether. He started to mold his mashed potatoes into a square.

“Why?”

“Why, because they’re your family. And Professor Snape here told me you never received your letter—“ Harry glared at the professor, who glared right back, “—it does set me wondering. Why did you run away, child?”

Here was his chance. He could tell Dumbledore the truth, tell him everything from that day a week before his birthday until he’d felt Snape’s boot in his back that morning. He could tell him about the last ten years of his life, he could tell him everything he needed to know.

Instead, Harry shrugged.

“I don’t know why, sir.” He started to poke at the remaining stew. “I was just bored, I guess.”

“Bored, Harry?”

They would hate him now, he knew, hate how he was so selfish and thoughtless, but it was better than them knowing that not even his family could love him. “Yeah. Uhm, I just, in all the books you read all these kids have such, uhm, such exciting things happening to them, and I guess I just wanted some, uh, adventure.”

Snape looked Potter up and down. The boy was lying, Severus knew it, and he wondered if Dumbledore knew it too. A quick glance showed the man next to him his eyes flicker.

“And was it, Harry?”

“Uhm, was it what?”

“An adventure. Was it an adventure?”

Harry stared at his potatoes. “No,” he said softly. “It wasn’t an adventure.”

Dumbledore changed the subject. “Well, Harry, I think that, once I write a letter to your relative’s, they’ll understand. I know you probably miss them terribly and want to go home, but the school year here has been underway for a little more than a month now, and you will have to work very hard to catch up—

Harry looked up suddenly. “You mean, I’m going to stay here? And, and be a student?”

Professor Dumbledore looked baffled. “Of course, my boy. It was a shame you were so hasty in your thirst for adventure, but I won’t take your education away as punishment.”

“You mean—I have magic?”

“Yes, Potter.” Snape suddenly broke in. “You’re a wizard.”

Harry felt the floor spin underneath him, and he gripped the table. “I—“

“Headmaster, perhaps it would be…beneficial if we could allow Mr. Potter a little time to soak this all in. Perhaps, in your office?”

The Headmaster nodded. “Yes, a splendid idea. I trust you are done, Harry?”

He nodded, slowly, and pushed himself away from the table. The Headmaster led the way out, and Harry made to follow him before Snape grabbed his shoulder from behind.

“I know, Potter. You’re lying, and I can tell. And you think the Headmaster won’t find out, you’re wrong, because he will. You’re lying about something, and we’ll find out.”

Harry swayed, then lurched. “I’m going to be sick,” he whispered, and then he vomited all over the kitchen floor.

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After a quick Cleaning Charm and a few breath mints, Harry found himself in the magical room once again. This time, defiantly, he drifted from the professor and went to look at the magic trinkets. He had to get very close, of course, to see them, but he wasn’t really looking.

He wasn’t lying. The Dursleys were lying, but he was just following them. What else could he do? Let everyone know he was a freak, that he was just an ungrateful child, a naughty boy who didn’t show thanks to anyone? No, no, he would be back in London, on the street, and then what would happen? What if the next time he was grabbed, it wasn’t by Snape? So no. He wasn’t lying. He was—he was protecting. That’s it, he was protecting himself. And his family. And that wasn’t lying.

Snape must have noticed how close he was to the object, a tiny golden eye with long silver threads dangling from it. Harry could hear the sneer in his voice, but he refused to turn around.

“Don’t get too close, Potter, it’ll bite your nose off.” When he didn’t respond, Snape let out a sigh and continued. “You’ll ruin your eyes, staring so close at that thing.”

“My eyes are already ruined. My glasses got stoled—without them I don’t see so good.”

Snape was at him in two second, lifting his chin and forcing Harry to look him in the eyes. After a few moments of studying them, he casst a quick diagnostic charm.

“Dear God, Potter, what were you doing, stumbling around Muggle London blind as a bat? You must have been banging into walls all the time!”

Harry glared. “It wasn’t so bad. Everything just got a little blurred, is all.”

Snape rolled his eyes and cast another spell. Suddenly, Harry felt the cool, familiar weight of glasses on his face, and he took in the professsor for the first time.

God, he had forgotten how clear things could be. For months it had been like he was peering through a fog, but now everything was smooth and clear and light and Harry felt like himself again.

Then he looked at Snape and he lost that confidence.

The man was tall, way taller than Harry, with a hooked nose and angry black eyes. His face looked so uncompromising that rock came to mind, and it looked pale and yellow, like he had been ill. He turned and looked at the Headmaster—he still looked exactly like Merlin, only with more lines in his face and his eyes twinkled way more.

Snape snorted and pushed him toward the headmaster. “As if the boy didn’t look enough like Potter, Headmaster. Well, let’s sort the boy so he has somewhere to sleep tonight. Unless you want me to put him up in my private chambers?”

“Actually, Severus—“ Albus began, but Severus snarled so loudly that Dumbledore started to laugh. “I was just about to ask you to hand me the hat.”

The Hat in hand, Harry was placed on Dumbledore’s desk chair and Severus dropped it over Harry’s head unceremoniously.

Suddenly, there was a voice in his ear and Harry almost fell off the chair.

“Hmm—difficult, very difficult. Abundance of courage, I see—and you’re not lackwit, oh no, not a bad mind at all. Hmm—interesting. Well, you’ve got plenty of courage and brains and ambition, by the book you could go anywhere. But—“ The Hat paused and for a moment in felt like someone was rummaging and removing all his memories, then putting them back neatly. “I don’t think Slytherin is the best place for you at the moment. Maybe later you’ll learn those lessons on your own. But what you need now most, Mr. Harry Potter, is a childhood.

Which is why I think I’ll put you in GRYFFINDOR!”

As the Hat was being yanked off his head, Harry thought he heard the hat say ‘Try to have some fun’, but he couldn’t be sure.

Dumbledore was beaming and Professor Snape was scowling, and Harry was handed a new tie and robe (‘I’ll send Tookie to Hogsmeade today to pick up the things you’ll need, they’ll be waiting for you tomorrow, my boy.’), this one with a fierce looking lion on the patch.

“Professor Snape, could you please go and send Mr. Weasley to my office?”

“Which one, sir?”

“Percy. The Prefect. Send him and tell him he’s excused from his remaining class to show Harry around.”

“Classes will be over in a few minutes, sir, and I doubt that Weasley would leave the class if I slipped him a Diarrhetic Drought. Why don’t you go meet him and drop the boy off and I’ll leave Potter to his—tour.”

Severus had swept out of the room before Harry had a chance to say goodbye, and for some reason that made Harry nervous.

Percy Weasley prided himself on punctuality, peacekeeping, and perfection. He thought that was the definition of being a prefect, and he had even made a small sign to hang over the Prefect’s Common Room with those three virtues stenciled on it—it had been knocked into the fire by the Slytherin Prefect’s, though, and he was midway through making a second, fire proof one. But just because the sign was down didn’t mean that it wasn’t true. Percy had spent his whole life training to be a prefect, it seemed to him, and he had decided that being punctual, peaceful, and perfect had helped him a lot in that regard.

Which was why he was so flattered that Headmaster Dumbledore HIMSELF was waiting outside of Divination with a special mission.

“Headmaster!”

“Hello, Mr. Weasley. This is your last class for the day, is it not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hmm…would you be adverse to perhaps doing me a favor? I understand if you wish to study, or perhaps be with your friends—“

Percy had intended to study History of Magic this afternoon, but to turn down a special errand, a favor for Professor Dumbledore? Never!

“Oh, no sir, I hadn’t any plans. What do you want me to do?”

“We have a new student, Mr. Weasley, one who, due to unfortunate circumstances, has just arrived.”

“A first year?”

“Yes. I’m aware you have a brother in that year—Ronald, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. I’m quite capable of dealing with first years.” Percy’s chest puffed up a bit with pride. “Ten of them have come to me for homesickness, sir.”

“Very impressive, Mr. Weasley. Well, I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind showing the boy around? A brief tour of Hogwarts, perhaps emphasizing areas he would need to be? I have a staff meeting in twenty minutes, otherwise I would do it, but I know that you will show this boy everything he needs to know.”

Percy beamed and nodded quickly. “Thank you, sir, I would be honored to, sir!”

“Ah, good, good, my thanks, Mr. Weasley. He’s just been Sorted into Gryffindor, but magic ass a whole is a bit new to him so—“ the Headmaster chuckled, “—be careful. But I’ll entrust him to your capable hands.”

Dumbledore turned to see the boy all the way down the hallway, staring in awe of a painting of a knight.

“Harry—“ Dumbledore said softly, touching the boys shoulder, and Harry spun around quickly. “Harry, this is Percy Weasley. He’s your house Prefect, and he’ll be showing you around Hogwarts.”

“How d’you do,” Harry said quietly. Percy nodded pompously, then stopped in awe as he saw Harry’s scar.

“Professor—is he—“ Percy started to stutter out, and Dumbledore nodded soberly. “We all—well, we did the math, we knew—but why is he so late?”

“Please, Mr. Weasley—do not pry there,” Dumbledore answereed seriously, and Percy nodded again, thia time frantically.

“Oh, no sir, of course not, sir, I’ll be the very model of discretion!” Percy babbled, and Harry frowned and looked at the floor. It wass if they were all talking in code, and Harry didn’t like not knowing what was happening to him.

“Headmaster?” Harry said softly, tugging on the mans sleeve gently. “I have a question, actually.” The painting of the knight had reminded him, asking him where he got such a horrid scar, and he remembered what Snape said on the carriage. “Professor Snape said that my parent’s didn’t die in a car crash and that I didn’t get my scar there, I was wondering if—“

Percy was gaping at him like he had just said he didn’t know what his name was, and Professor Dumbledore simply shook his head.

“Later, Harry. We will discuss all of this later.” And with that, Professor Dumbledore walked away, leaving Harry hoping that, maybe later, there would be answers.

Percy regained himself quite quickly and started to lead Harry around the school. He was quite interesting about it, actually, and showed Harry all of his classroms and gave him little tips on what to avoid.

“The stairways like too trick you and they change a lot, or sometimes steps disappear, but the way I remember it is ‘Stairs are Slippery Shifters’, so just keep that in mind on the stairs and they don’t trip you up as much, I think they like a little recognition.”

Finally, they stood outside a portrait of an enormous lady in a pink dress, who reminded Harry a little bit of Aunt Marge only her face was nicer and there was no dog in the picture.

“Password?” she said, then she seemed to be squinting at him, and she put her face closer to the edge of the cavas. “A new student, this late? My dear, what—“

“The Headmaster will explain everything to you, Madam,” Percy said grandly, then with equal grandeur, he intoned ‘Patricium!’ and the portrait swung open.

During their tour, Percy had seemed a little stuck up, but nice all the same. When they had passed the red-haired queen portrait again, they both stopped and Percy had told him how it looked like old pictures of his mum. But now, once they had gotten back to the common room, Percy became stuffy and arrogant.

“Jordan, if I’ve told you once I’ve told you a thousand times, that spider is not allowed in the common room! Keep in your dorm or with Professor Kettleburn, but it frightens the girls—I don’t care if it isn’t poisonous, Jordan, just do what I say or I’ll be docking points from the lot of you, see if I don’t! Spinnet, Bell, what are you doing?”

“Aw, Percy, we were just going over some of the new plays Ollie gave us—“

“Go over plays in your head, not with the common room chairs. WEASLEY!” he bellowed, then looked regretful as three other boys just as red headed as Percy looked up.

Two of them were sitting in front of the fire making a tower out of playing cards. As soon as Percy called, the tower exloded and the two--twins?—looked over at Percy murderously.

The other boy was in a corner, laughing with a sandy haired boy and a black boy. He, too, glared at Percy and even yelled “What d’you want, Perce?”

“Ron, I mean.” Percy amended his call of Weasley and Ron, the boy in the corner, regreetfully got up and dragged his feet over to his brother.

“What, Perce? You were the one who told me to make friends, now you’re dragging me away from them?”

“You—“ Percy said, puffing his chest, “—are going to be a part of a special mission from Dumbledore.”

Harry looked alarmed.

“Yeah? Well, I don’t wanna. I’ve just made friends with Seamus and Dean, and you can’t make me.” The boy glared and Harry wanted to get away from this loud, filled to the brim room, maybe go find a cupboard, and cover his his ears and wonder how he’d gotten there.

“Please, Ron, you can still be with Seamus and Dean. I just want you to take Harry with you,” Percy pleaded, and for the first time Ron looked at Harry. “He’s a first year, he’s new, please, Ron. Remember how lonely you were until you made friends with Dean and Seamus?”

“I don’t want to. He’ll just ruin everything, he looks like a wet blanket, just like you,” Ron shot back angrily. “’Sides, me and Dean and Seamus’re talking about Quidditch. I bet he doesn’t even know what Quidditch is, do you?”

Harry shook his head.

“See, Perce? Please, Percy, I just have started to talk to them and they havent taken the mickey once on me being poor. I can’t just drag a new kid in!”

Percy glared at Ron. “Ronald Weasley, you are behaving horribly. I am owling Mum tonight—“

“Aw, Perce, don’t, she’ll send me a Howler!”

“Then just do ONE LITTLE THING and take Harry over to be with your friends!”

“Please, it’s all right—I can just go over there, I don’t want to be a bother,” Harry whispered, and both boys looked at him.

Ron relented. “Aw, no, it’s not a problem. I’m sorry, I just haven’t made any friends and it’s been a month, and this is the first time that Dean and Seamus have talked to me. I didn’t mean to be mean about it.” With that, Ron led him back over to the table in the corner.

“Who’s he?” the sandy haired boy asked in a weird accent Harry had never heard before.

“His name’s Harry, he’s our age. What were we talking about?”

The black boy said “I was wondering what makes the balls fly. Is it like, a levitation charm, or—“

“Why’s he so late, huh? Is he a Squib?”

“Be quiet, Seamus,” the black boy said. “Maybe he couldn’t come because of family reasons. Now, Ron, you have that copy of Quidditch through the—“

“No, Dean. I want to know what’s wrong with him. What’s a matter, Squibby, didn’t do your magic till now?”

“Leave him alone, Seamus, he’s not a Squib, he wouldn’t be here!” Ron shot back angrily, the back of his neck turning red and his ears going and angry pink. “Leave off him, he’s got just as much a right to be here as you, me, and Dean.”

“What, and not Neville?” Seamus said, then he descended into a fit of mean giggles. “That really is an example of a Squib—why don’t you give the kid to him, yeah? Then we could get back to our conversation.”

“Shut it, Seamus!” Ron said, clenching his fists.

“If, uhm, if you don’t want me here, I mean, I can go,” Harry squeaked. “I mean, I can, uh, go find my dormitory, or, or—“

Ron and Seamus glared at him. Dean tried again to get back to the original conversation.

“So, the balls, they levitate?”

“Only the Bludgers and the Snitch. If you drop the Quaffle, it falls. And it’s more than levitation, it’s an actually flight pattern,” Ron said. “My brother once made an apple act like a Bludger, he found the charm somewhere. Animus-something. It’s like, they have a little brain in there, and it flies anyway, y’know?”

Seamus didn’t say another word the whole conversation, though Harry joined in once or twice with quiet observations on Muggle flying things, Dean aggreeing and adding on (‘Planes, Ron, they fly in the air and there’s a pilot—no, it’s to do with aerodynamics—god, wizards don’t know anything about nothing, do they, Harry?’)

Seamus never joined in. All he did was stare at Harry, and he wondered what he would have to do to get the attention back to himself.

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Severus Snape was throwing ingredients around his store room (the one’s in unbreakable vials, of course) when Dumbledore arrived.

“Staff meeting over?” Severus sneered, then threw a Mandrake liver at the wall.

“Yes, though there was a lot of wondering over where you were. I told them you were resting.”

THUMP! A jar of pickled newt eyes hit the wall next. “How kind of you.”

“Well, Minerva is very excited about having Harry in her house. I believe she ran from the meeting to the common room to find the boy.”

“She always knew, didn’t she?”

“Knew what, my boy?”

Severus turned and stopped throwing vials, staring the Headmaster in the eye. “That the Dursleys were no good.”

Dumbledore sighed. “We have no proof of that.”

Snape snorted and threw a jar of fangs at the wall. “No proof? Headmaster, the boy IS proof! One look at him and you can see he’s been abused!”

“Many things can account for running away, Severus. It is not always abuse.”

“But this time it is, and you know it!”

“I know nothing but what Harry has told me, Severus. That he ran away for a taste of adventure. Do I suspect otherwise? Of course I do! But suspecting other things does not mean abuse, it does not mean I can storm into the Dursley home, and it does not mean abuse!”

Dumbledore sighed again and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I have to trust that Harry will entrust one of us with the truth. And I have to hope, when that time comes, that it’s not too late. Sometimes you have to let people make the mistakes they want to make.”

Severus glared at the Headmaster. “Like you let me?” he spat, and with that he rushed from the room, his robes fluttering behind him as he slammed the door on a quiet, regretful Dumbledore.

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Harry had just been getting into the conversation when it all went to pieces. He had been listening avidly to Ron explain the rules of Quidditch (while Dean kept chiming in that it was pretty cool, but not as good as football) when a tall lady in robes, glasses, and a gray bun in the back of her head had thrown open the portrait door and, after a moments pause, rushed over to Harry, throwing her arms around him and pulling her close to her.

The whole room of people were staring and harry was petrified. He wasn’t sure he liked hugging, he decided. He had always wanted a hug from Aunt Petunia, like she gave Dudley, and he had hugged Mrs. Figg’s cats enough times to know that being the hug giver could be nice, but he didn’t like being trapped in someone’s arms like this.

Maybe it was something you had to get used to.

But the lady was rocking him back and forth and crying, and Dean had asked “Erm, Professsor McGonnagal? Are you OK?”

She let him go then, wiping her eyes and smiling. “Yes, Mr. Thomas, yes I am.” She was staring at Harry in a way that made him feel like she could see through him, and he wondered if Professor Snape had figured it out, if he had told everyone. “Oh, Harry.”

Now she sounded like the Headmaster, and Harry let himself relax. Maybe she had been worried, like the Headmaster. That was okay, right?

“Mr. Potter,” she said, still smiling at him. “Come with me. We have a lot to discuss.”

Seamus was whispering ‘teacher’s pet’ from behind him, but Ron looked dumbstruck.

“Harry—Harry Potter?” he squeaked, and the whole room got even quieter for a moment, then filled with an uproar as he followed Professor McGonnagal away from the room and to her office.

He sat down in a chair across from her desk, where she finally settled, still staring at him and smiling.

“Well, Mr. Potter. I hear I’ve quite a bit of explaining to do.” Her smile fell off her face, then, and she seemed more seriously. “First, though, I have something to give you.”

She started opening her desk drawers, then pulled out a small white parecel. It had a little red and gold ribbon tying it shut, and she handed it to him carefully.

“I went through Poppy’s photo’s—she used to always have a camera on her, she thought Muggle photography was quaint—and I found one that I thought you might enjoy.”

Harry carefully opened the parcel to find it was a framed picture of—himself?

No, that boy was too old to be him—at least sixteen. And then, next to him—

“Is—are these my parents?” Harry asked, tracing over their faces with his fingers and fighting back tears.

His mum was even prettier than he imagined. The two of them were sitting underneath a tree, with a sparkling lake he remembered from the carriage ride in the background. His mother seemed to be laughing right at the camera, smiling at him, and he could hear her speak, if he listened hard enough. ‘I love you, Harry, I’m sorry,’ he could hear.

And the man, his father—he didn’t know what to expect of a father, which is why he rarely dreamed about finding one. All he knew from Uncle Vernon was to laugh boomingly and be mean to the supid boy in the cupboard. But looking at this man, he knew what a father would do. He would carry him on his back and tell him stories and fix his cuts and smile, always smile like he was there.

“Yes, they are. I’m sorry it’s not one with you in it, but by the time anyone thought we might need such a picture they were in hiding.”

Harry kept tracing over his parents faces. “Hiding from what? How did they die?”

Harry heard a story that not even he could make up. A story of an evil wizard and a powerful prophecy, a mothers love and a hateful curse.

“So—she died to save me.” Harry’s voice was flat and he was scared he might cry in front of the professor, which would be embarassing.

“Yes.”

“So, if it wasn’t for me, she’d still be alive.” Two tiny tears rolled down his cheeks and he squeezed his eyes shut so he wouldn’t cry anymore.

He felt the professor’s hand on his back. “No. If Lily hadn’t had you, she never would have lived. At least, not in any way of happiness. And neither would James. They needed you, Harry. They loved you so much, that life without you wouldn’t be life.”

Harry felt her arms envelope him again, and this time he hugged back with all his might, crying into the professors robes and holding his picture tight to him as he cried away eleven years of missing.

Severus Snape was sitting in the Great Hall, staring angrily at the chicken on his plate. Every time that the Headmaster, who was on his left, tried to speak with him Snape looked up, made eye contact, picked up his fork. And quickly, deliberately, stabbed the chicken. Then he turned away.

Severus Snape was sitting in the Great Hall, angrily thinking about how much his perceptions were changing and how much he hated it.

He had based his whole life on black and white, in his childhood. His father had been bad, his mother good. His home had been horrible, Hogwarts had been wonderful. Muggles were evil and wizards were righteous, and there was just no way to get around these truths. His life had been lived in such extremes that it was nearly impossible for him not to view his life that way.

But then he became a spy, and that changed.

He had commited atrocious deeds, but he was still a good person, wasn’t he? Wasn’t he? He was doing these things for the righ reason, wasn’t he? But they were dead.

That’s when it all started to shift.

But when the Dark Lord had been defeated when he became a teacher, his perceptions slid back to the way they had been, and he’d rejoiced in it. Three dimensional worlds and people were too much to handle. It was easier, with everything black and white.

But now this. Now a boy, a little boy, was acting just like him. But he wasn’t him. He was Potter, or as good as, and how could a Potter, any Potter, act like him?

“What do you want me to do, Severus?” he heard the Headmaster ask on his left.

This time, instead of looking at him and stabbing the chicken, he stared at him and hissed “I want you to do the right thing.”

No matter that Severus didn’t know what it was.

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Harry had cried into Professor McGonnagal’s robes for what seemed like a decade, but was really only an hour and a half. Then, as she calmed him down, she rubbed his back and told him stories about his parents. About the first time he had walked, when she had been present.

“Your father, God bless him, had just gone to get the tea for me and the Headmaster when your mother saw you holding yourself up on Professor Dumbledore’s robes. She screamed for your father and I swear, he broke every single tea cup in that house leaping into the room. Just in time, though, and you ran to him and he picked you up and twirled you in the air, he was that excited.”

“He really did?”

“He really did. I remember your mother and I were horrified, we were sure he would drop you. The Headmaster simply laughed and you were giggling so hard while you were up there. Once you were down, however, you spit-up all over his robes. Lily told him it served him right, but he just kept on smiling.”

The professor took a pause and looked at a clock on her desk.

“Oh, it’s time for dinner! We’ve been in here for two hours, you must be half starved!” She seemed to be summing him up, then, and firmly said “After dinner, I am taking you to Madam Pomfrey. You’re far too skinny.”

Harry nodded and sniffled, and the professor stroked his hair gently.

“Perhaps you’re not ready to face the Great Hall, hmm?”

“I—I don’t think so, ma’am.”

“Well…why don’t I have the house elves send up a plate for you here. Then, as soon as you’re done, I want you to go directly to the Infirmary. Do you know where that is?”

He vaugely remembered Percy pointing it out. “Uhm…is there a big statue of a funny-looking guy with two noses near it?”

“Twiggins the Two-Nosed, yes. Actually, have a house elf take you, I don’t want you getting lost.” Her eyes softened as she got up and straightened out her robes. “I wish I could stay and eat with you, Mr. Potter, but I need to at least put in an appearance at dinner. That’s when most of the children come up to me and ask me for help with school work or something. I promise that I will meet you in the Infirmary as soon as I can. Tell Poppy to start the examination as soon as you arrive, all right?”

Harry nodded, and she gave him a quick pat on the back before disappearing.

As soon as she was gone, however, Tookie and another elf appeared, and Harry forced a small smile.

“Young Master Harry left kitchen before Gibley give cake!” Tookie scolded, setting down two enormous platters of food. His stomach faintly rumbled, as he had thrown up most of his lunch.

“Does Young Master Harry not like cake? Oh, Gibley such fool!” the other elf moaned, and he started to beat himself in the head.

“No, no, Gibley, I love cake! I just had to go early, that’s all. I’d love a piece now,” Harry said quickly.

Gibley stopped hitting himself and smiled happily. “Young Master is wanting his cake! Gibley must make him more cake!”

Tookie scolded Gibley. “Silly Gibley, Gibely make him cake already! Must wait for Young Master to finish cake already made before making next cake! Besides—“ here Tookie’s eyes sharpened a bit, “—Young Master is growing boy. Must have veggy-bles and meat before cake.”

Gibley nodded. “Oh, yes, Gibley understand. Gibley make Young Master eat meat and vagaballs first.”

Harry’s eyes almost popped out of his head when he saw what was on the platter.

A whole chicken, just for him, and scalloped potatoes. A hot roll, too, with butter melting off it. More green beans, and lettuce.

The other platter held the cake, and Harry immediately wanted to forget about the chicken and dig in to the cake. It was chocolate, he could see, with chocolate frosting and his name (his name, not Dudley or Uncle Vernon’s, but his own name, HARRY!) written across the top in green icing.

“Gibley, it looks great. I can’t wait to eat it,” Harry said, and Tookie put the cover back on the plater and gave a small, motherly glare.

“But Young Master must wait and eat chicken and potatoes and veggy-bles and bread before he eat Gibley’s cake! And—“ here she pointed to a goblet he had missed before, “And must be drinking all of punkin juice! Make Young Master strong!”

Harry dug into the chicken then, gnawing on the drumstick and shoving potatoes into his mouth so fast he was surprised he didn’t choke. The roll went into his mouth whole, along with the beans, and by the time he had finished the majority of the chicken, all of the beans, all but one, lone potatoe and a few bites of the salad, he felt almost full for the first time in months.

He drained the glass, which was filled with something that tasted a lot like apple cider, and then turned his attention to the cake.

Harry almost didn’t want to eat it. It was his cake, his first cake ever, and here he was, all alone in a teachers office, eating it by himself.

Then he looked at Tookie and Gibley and got an idea.

“Would—would you two like a slice?” he asked shyly, and they both looked shocked.

“Tookie and Gibley not take Young Master’s cake!” Tookie exclaimed, and Gibley nodded.

“Yes, but I want you to have some. Please, take a piece. I won’t be able to eat it all by myself.”

Tookie burst into tears and was hugging his left lef, while Gibley was doing the same to his right.

“Young Master Harry so good to measly elves!” she wailed, and Gibley was just wailing without words.

He finally calmed them down, and between the three of them they finished all the cake. Except for the part that said HARRY, which Gibley and Tookie promised could be kept. Harry didn’t want to forget his first cake.

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Poppy Pomfrey wasn’t shocked to see a small, shy Harry Potter poke his head in the Infirmary door.

“Mr. Potter,” she said briskly, pulling him into the room. “Take a seat.” Tookie and Gibley waved goodbye and popped away as Harry sat on one of the beds.

“This is a physical examination, Mr. Potter. I assume you’ve had those before?”

Harry thought back to his doctor from the Dursleys who always seemed to give him injections, and swallowed hard. “Yes,” he said smally. He hated shots.

“Well, this is much the same.” She pulled the privacy screens over, shielding the boy from sight. “Please strip down and put on the gown on the bed. Call me when you’re done.”

She waited patiently for a few moments, then heard the small voice call ‘Ready.’ She went in expecting the worst, steeling herself so she could see and treat the product of three months on the street.

And she was surprised.

He was small and underweight and (she cast a spell to check) yes, malnourished. He had a few bruises on his chest and one shaped like a boot on his back and two hand shaped ones on his arms. There was a cut on his forehead, over his scar, and three long, angry, infected cuts up his arm.

“How did you get those?” she asked as she started healing the bruises. Harry was watching them, slightly entertained by how they shrunk from brown to light purple to green to yellow to gone.

“Uhm…I was running, and I ducked under a fence and it cut me,” he answered, still watching his bruises fade.

“When was this?”

“Mmm…two, the weeks? I washed it, when I got to a bathroom, but it still hurts really bad.” Suddenly he looked up, worried. “Is it infected?”

“Mildly so, Mr. Potter. Nothing to worry about.”

Harry started to shiver, slightly. “Will you have to give me shots to make it better?”

Madam Pomfrey snorted. “We stopped injecting medicines into people centuries ago, Mr. Potter. If I needed something in your blood stream, I could do it without puncturing your skin with bits of metal. Besides, it’s a very mild infection. A salve and a bandage should take care of it.”

Harry relaxed and smiled at her for the first time.

“I think that the more I learn about magic, the more I like it,” he said, and he allowed her to finish the examination.

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Severus Snape was summoned to the Headmasters office at the same time that Minerva McGonnagal was entering it.

“I just thought you should know, Headmaster, that I cleared up any…misunderstandings the boy may have had,” she said, and Severus backed up a bit. She was utterly feline in her manner, and there was a bit of anger in her eyes.

“Misunderstandings, Minerva?”

“Did you know—“ she said, eyes flashing, “—that Harry thought his parents died in a car crash? That the Muggles told him his parents were driving drunk and crashed into a phone pole?”

Dumbledore sighed and nodded. “Harry had indicated something of the sort when I was handing him off to Mr. Weasley, but I simply did not have the time to deal with it at that moment. I am thankful, however, that you have had that conversation with him, and please believe that I myself did intend to address the problem.”

Minerva calmed down a little bit. “I told him about Lily and James, as well,” she said. “Gave him a picture. He cried with me for a good hour, I’ll have you know.” She lowered her voice. “I don’t approve of what that boy’s been through, Albus.”

“Minerva—“ the Headmaster said soberly, “Do you think I do?”

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It was seven o’clock by the time the examination was over. His arm, which had been aching for weeks, was fixed. He could breathe deeply in his chest without a pain. She had given him a lovely potion that wass cherry flavored, but not too strong, that she said would help him with his weight. He was waiting, warm and slightly drowsy from the meal and the potion, and talking to her about Muggle doctors and how horrid they were.

Professor McGonnagal, Professor Dumbledore, and Professor Snape entered the room.

“Harry,” Dumbledore said kindly, “I hope you’re feeling better?”

“Yes sir. She fixed my arm, see!” He waved the bandaged arm in the air. “And she didn’t need to stick me with needles either, sir, and now my bruises are all gone and look, my potion’s much better tasting than Dudley’s stupid old cough syrup, I could drink it all the time, ‘cept that I won’t because Madam says it would make me fat.”

Professor McGonnagal let out a small laugh. “Well, Mr. Potter, it seems that Madam Pomfrey took good care of you!”

“Yes, ma’am. She’s much nicer than the nurse at my old school, she just gives you crackers, even if you go in with a cut or something.”

“The other professors and I need to talk with Madam for a moment, Harry. I know it’s been a long day, so after that I believe we’ll set you up in the dormitory.” Harry nodded and watched as the professors headed over to Madam’s desk.

“What’s the tally then, Poppy?” the Headmaster asked wearily, and Poppy got the distinct feeling that both Minerva and Severus had given the man a good tounge lashing.

“Not quite as bad as you may think, Albus. A few bruises—three on his chest, one nasty one on his back, one to the upper left arm and one to the upper right, a cut across his forehead, and the cuts he showed you. All taken care of, injuries wise.”

Albus sighed and looked relieved. “Fabulous, Poppy. So, he’s right as rain?”

“Not exactly. He’s lost a great deal of weight—not eating right, I imagine. He’s also extremely malnourished, that’s what the potion is for.”

“All that’s to be expected, Madam,” Dumbledore said joyfully. “He’ll make a full recovery, I presume?”

“Yes, but I was troubled by one thing.” Severus and Minerva exchanged a glance and Dumbledore looked pained.

“What, Madam?”

“His growth. James and Lily were not, say, of Hagrid proportions, but they were not quite as small as Harry here seems. I ran a quick diagnostic check—he’s been malnourished for years, it’s stunted his growth.”

Severus was looking at the Headmaster in a way that would have burned through his skull, had his eyes had that particular power. Minerva had pressed her lips into a thin line. And Dumbledore simply closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and nodded.

“Thank you, Poppy. I’ll keep that in consideration.”

“As it is, Albus, I would like Harry to be visting me at least every week, maybe twice a month, to be sure he’s progressing the way I want and that more potions aren’t necessary.”

“I’ll make sure of it, Poppy,” Minerva said. “But I think that right now, Mr. Potter should go up to his dormitory and get a good nights sleep.”

Poppy nodded and handed Minerva a pair of folded, blue and white striped pyjamas. “I doubt he has anything suitable for tonight, so give him there. I understand Tookie is to go pick up things for him?”

“They’ll be ready by morning. Just robes, cloaks, uniforms, pyjamas. We can give him extras of his text books. I’ve already been in contact with Orpheus, he said he’ll come tomorrow and sort the boy out, wand wise,” Dumbledore said, and he turned to wish Minerva goodnight, but she had already left the Infirmary, with Harry in tow.

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Harry found himself walking back into the Gryffindor common room, which was again packed to the brim. Most of the students were talking excitedly in corners, and when they saw the professor and Harry enter many jumped up.

Percy, however, came to their rescue.

“Sit down now, all of you! I told you that an explanation by Professor McGonnagal would be provided in due time, now sit down, all of you, or I will dock twenty points from everyone standing!”

Many of the children sat right back down, many landing on the floor to prevent the loss of points, and they all started to complain about Perfect Percy, but he seemed determined to do the right thing by the quiet little boy he’d led around that afternoon. He went up to the professor.

“I’m sorry, Professor, they’ve been like this all afternoon, I don’t know how to stop them. You’ll need to give them an answer, please, or they’ll storm the first year dormitory in the night.”

McGonnagal nodded. “I understand. Thank you, Mr. Weasley, for keeping them under control. Twenty points.”

“Thank you, Professor. I’ve, uh, I’ve confined the first year boys to their dormitory, so they wouldn’t gossip, I’m very sorry. Shall I release them?”

McGonnagal’s lips quirked up. “Yes, do, Mr. Weasley, though I admire your dedication. I’m headed up that way myself, I’ll let them go. Make sure the whole house is down there when I return.”

With that, she led Harry up the stairwell and into the first year dormitory.

Ron and Dean were sitting on their respective beds. Harry could tell because Ron’s had a poster of that Quidditch team he’d been blathering on about that afternoon, while Dean had a poster of a football team. Dean seemed to be writing in a Muggle notebook with a ballpoint pen, while Ron was tossing a plushie Quaffle in the air. Both stood up when McGonnagal came in.

In a bed by the far wall was a boy with a chubby, sad face and very pink cheeks. He had been looking at something in a book, slamming it shut and jumping up when the professor and Harry had entered.

Seamus was sitting in the middle bed. Next to his bed was an empty bed, and on top of it were all sorts of textbooks, spare quills, Gobstone sets, chess pieces, and the odd bit of rubbish. He stood lazily, leaning against the bedpost with his arms crossed.

“Mr. Finnigan, wipe that smirk off your face.”

Seamus’s smirk disappeared.

“Boys, this is Harry Potter, your new yearmate.”

Dean and Ron muttered hello, Neville waved, and Seamus inclined his head.

“Why’s he so late, then?” Seamus asked.

“That’s Mr. Potter’s business, Mr. Finnigan, and if I hear anyone has been troubling him about it, they will receive detention and a talking to from the Headmaster.”

Seamus shut up.

“He is late, but here now and ready to be a part of life here at Hogwarts. He will need the support of his housemates, especially of his yearmates, and I would like you to remember back to a month ago when all of you were in his position, only there were other people with you. Mr. Potter is all alone.”

She steered Harry to the empty bed and scowled at the mess on it. “Who does this rubbish belong to?”

Seamus raised his hand sheepishly. “I’m sorry, Professor, we didn’t know it was going to be used—“

The items were suddenly, swiftly, flying on to Seamus’ bed.

“Mr. Potter,” she said as she pointed Harry to the bed. “Your bed. Tomorrow morning, when the others are headed to—what do you have first tomorrow, Mr. Weasley?”

“Erm—History of Magic, I think.”

“When the others are headed to History of Magic, Mr. Longbottom—“

“Who, me, miss?” the chubby boy squeaked.

“Yes, Mr. Longbottom, you. You will lead Mr. Potter to Headmaster Dumbledore’s office—“

Seamus snorted. “Uhm, Professor, Neville doesn’t even know how to get to the common room. He’ll never find it.”

“He will too,” Ron snapped. “I’ll help him, right, Nev?”

“Fine. Mr. Longbottom and Mr. Weasley will deliver you to the Headmaster to fit you for a wand and to give you the rest of your supplies. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Harry replied.

“Good. Until tomorrow, then, Mr. Potter.”

“Professor, Percy locked us in here and I need to get my Transfiguration book—“ Seamus started to whine.

“You boys are allowed to go.” As she let them go, she saw Harry pull, from in between the folds of his new pair of pyjammas, the photograph she had given, and place it reverently on his bedside.

Blinking away tears, she went to give a very similar talk to the rest of Gryffindor House.

Harry fell asleep as soon as he put on his pyjammas, waking only briefly when the other boys came in at curfew.

“—asleep already, not even ten—“

“—hush, Seamus, he’s probably tired, leave him be—“

He fell asleep, then woke again at one-thirty with a full bladder. Stumbling around the dark room, he found a doorway and yanked on the handle.

A rectangle of light and Percy Weasley tumbled into the room.

“Whaa—Harry?” Percy said, yawning as he picked himself off the floor. “Whasamatter?”

“I, uhm—I need the loo, please,” Harry said, and Percy only smiled and led him to it, then waited for him and escorted him back.

“Why are you outside our door?”

Percy blushed the same way Ron got angry—pink ears and a red neck. “Well, some people, you know—“ he shrugged. “They think that you’re this big, uh, celebrity and all. I just thought that no one should be out of bed after hours, not unless they’re a prefect on duty like me.”

Harry smiled. “Thank you, Percy,” he said, and then he went to his bed, shut the door, and went to sleep.

Harry woke up to hear four other boys getting ready in a rush.

“Oh, no, I’ve lost my tie—Trevor! No, not under the bed—oh, my tie, you clever toad!”

“I swear, Long-arse, if you don’t shut your mouth about how smart that damn toad is—“

“Aw, leave off him, Seamus. Just because he actually has a pet—“

“Yeah, so what? So I don’t have a pet, Weasley, at least I have first-hand robes, yeah?”

Harry sat up, rubbed his eyes, and put his glasses on to his nose.

Dean was helping Neville tie his tie and looked over. “Hello! You’re awake, we thought you’d sleep through breakfast!”

Harry had eaten more yesterday than he had in months, maybe years, and he didn’t know if he could eat a breakfast too. He smiled at Dean, then yawned and ran his hand through his hair. He liked it short, like this. He would ask Tookie to cut his hair all the time.

“Do you need to know where the shower is? You probably have time for a quick one,” Ron said as he tried to pull on his sweater. Harry, who had almost forgotten he would be able to shower here, quickly agreed, and twenty minutes later he found himself running down the hallway with Dean, Ron, and Neville.

Seamus was already at the table when they got there.

Harry felt the eyes of the whole school settle on him, and he shrunk into himself. He wasn’t supposed to be noticed, that was the first rule, but this wasn’t the street and he didn’t know what to do, so he just shrunk into himself and ignored them.

Dean and Ron sat next to Seamus, while Harry and Neville opted for the other side of the table. While Neville was shoveling bacon and eggs onto his plate, Harry looked around for something that wouldn’t make him sick.

He settled on lightly buttered toast and started to nibble on it as everyone else started in on their plates.

“H-harry, you can’t have j-just that for breakfast,” Neville stammered. “You’ll be hungry a-and they don’t l-let you get food in between classes.” He fed a piece of bacon to his toad, then ladled some of the eggs onto Harry’s plate.

“Thanks,” Harry said softly, and he tried some of the eggs. They were delicious, and soon he was nibbling on them and on his toast and a piece of bacon Neville had slipped him.

“Don’t listen to Lard-bottom, Potter, he’ll make you fat as he is,” Seamus sneered, and Ron elbowed him in the stomach while Neville stopped eating. His toad jumped onto his shoulder, seeming to try to console him.

“Shut up, Finnigan,” Harry said quietly. He’d never had anyone feed him, except Tookie, and he wasn’t going to let them tease Neville for being kind. “Neville’s just being nice, you can’t just be mean to him because there’s nothing better to do.”

Seamus looked around, prending to be shocked. “And here I thought that was the one thing Longbottom was good for!” He looked to Dean and Ron for laughs, only to find Ron immersed in his cereal and Dean biting his lip.

Angered by his lack of support, he pushed on. “Well, I guess you’re just useless, then, Long-arse.”

“Don’t call him that,” Ron said. “I told you, Seamus, leave him alone. Remember what your mam said.”

There was a secret conversation going on between Seamus and Ron. Dean looked in on it too.

Seamus scowled at Ron. “Who are you, my mother? My mam ain’t here, but you do a very fine impersonation.” He started to mimic Ron in a falsetto, waving his hands in the air. “Ooh, Seamus, don’t tease the stupid, useless fat ass. He might try to hurl himself off the Astronomy Tower, too bad he’d bounce!”

Harry looked over at Neville and saw him holding back tears.

“Neville,” he said loudly. “Hey, Neville, I left something in the dormitory, can you help me find my way back?”

Seamus snorted. “What’d you leave, Potter—your imaginary friend? You don’t even have a wand.”

“Neville—“ Harry continued, staring at the boy. “Help me find my way back?”

The boy finally nodded and pushed away from the table. Once they were farther away from the Hall, Neville started to sniffle.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” he sniffled. “I know I’m just a c-crybaby, but I can’t—“

“All the boys at my old school used to tease me,” Harry said suddenly as they headed down the corridor.

“Really? Wh-what’d you do to make them stop?”

“Er—nothing,” Harry admitted. “My, uhm, my cousin used to be the worst of them all, and I lived with his family, so I just—didn’t do anything.”

“I t-told my gram, but she said it’s my own f-fault for being fat. My father and mother weren’t fat, so she says i-it’s just me eating too much.” Trevor ribbitted and fell off Neville’s shoulder.

While they were trying to catch the frog, Harry remarked, “You know, my cousin was really fat. I mean, reallllllllly fat. He musta weighed, like, the size of—six Seamuses. Maybe seven.” He gave a small laugh, then peeked over his shoulder to make sure Dudley wasn’t lurking in the shadows.

Neville’s eyes were the size of saucers. “But—but that’s huge!”

“Mhmm.”

“That’s—that’s huge!”

“Uh-huh.”

Neville and Harry wandered around the corridors for a few more minutes before they found, completely by accident, Dumbledore’s office.

“See, you did know the way!” Harry said happily.

“No I didn’t, we just muddle across it,” Neville replied.

“No, no, you knew it in your—uhm, you know, your subconcious. Yeah!”

Neville just shrugged, smiling, then looked at the door.

“I don’t know the password, do you?”

Harry frowned. “I think I heard it yesterday—but I don’t know, cause I didn’t know you needed a password.”

“Ron says his brother knows it, cause he’s prefect, but I don’t know where he is now.” Harry shrugged, noticing Neville’s stutter seemed to disappear.

“Uhm—Hocus Pocus?” Harry tried, but the door stayed closed. Harry giggled and turned to Neville.

“Hum—Gryffindor?” he tried, then he giggled too.

“Hogwarts?”

“Mugwump!”

“Chicken!”

“Licorice Wands!”

“Peppermint Humbugs!”

“Professor Snape!” Neville giggled, and Harry, in hysterics by now at the sheer absurdity of what they were yelling, fell to the ground.

“Ca-candy floss!” he yelled, and him and Neville rolled on the ground for a full minute before the realized the door was open.

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After Harry bid Neville good luck, he headed up the stairs and was immediately set upon by some sort of magical tape measurer.

In front of him was a young man with the queerest eyes he had ever seen, the lightest blue color that he had only seen on blind people, but this man wasn’t blind, not the way his eyes were fixed to Harry’s scar. He wass still young, probably about twenty or twenty five, and he looked very excited.

“Mr. Potter, it’s an honor, let me tell you! My name is Ollivander. Octavian Ollivander, at your service.” The young man bowed, almost tripping over his feet.

“Pleasu—blech!” Harry said, spitting the tape measurer out of his mouth, where it was try to measure his tounge.

“Don’t interfere with the measurer, Mr. Potter, it’ll mess up the configurations and your wand may not fit.”

Harry was confused. “What’s the legnth of my tounge to do with my wand?” he asked as he ducked the measurer again.

“Well, in 1233 there was a wizard named Reguko Mugwert, he used to hold his wand between his teeth and move it by his tounge—amputee. But—“ he said, hurrying as he heard the Headmaster shifting behind him, “—let’s get you sorted, hmm? Bet you’re eager, eh?” Octavian rubbed his hands together. “I can tell you’ll be a challenge, Mr. Potter, feel it in my very bones. And Ollivander bones never lie!” He started to rummage through a box filled with scrolls on his right, muttering to himself about legnths.

“Master Ollivander—“

“Please, Headmaster, call me Tavey! It’s not like I’m the real deal, you know, just subbing in because Father can’t leave the store—he’s a conference, you know, with Baguette-Filles, been on for months, can’t be moved—hmm, the green in his eyes--let’s try the Curly Maple and Rosewood, 11 2/3.” He waited a moment, then yelled at the paper. “OI! MAPLE CURLY AN’ ROSEWOOD. HOP TO IT!”

Out of the paper popped a wand, which Tavey handed to Harry quite dramatically. “Give it a wave, then, Mr. Potter!”

Harry, feeling a bit foolish, waved the stick shyly, aware of the headmasters eyes burning holes in him. He tried the next twenty wands, getting shyer and shyer each time he waved it.

“No, no, you’ll need something a bit finer—giving you that is like giving you an axe to cut a toothpick. Hmm…now this, this is one that my Father wouldn’t have picked out for you, but he’s a staunch traditionalist, he is—Phoenix feather, I think, for the scar, and—hmm, holly, yes. Well, you’re a shorty, aren’t you?”

Harry bristled, and Dumbledore looked a little sad.

“Yes, well, 11 inches should do the trick.” Tavey called it out the to parchment, and it immediately popped out.

Professor Dumbledore was watching, curiously, and Harry felt a little twinge of nervousness go up his spine. What if he wasn’t good enough? What if the wand didn’t work? What if the professor threw him out, and just after he’d made friend with Neville? He’d never had a friend before, and now he would lose—

Harry hadn’t even noticed the wand being placed in his hand, or the greedy way it seemed to be leeching fears from him. All he noticed was how warm it felt in his hand, how comfortable, and how he raised it and gave it a flick almost instinctively.

Out of the wand tip came an enormous red and gold fire, and Harry was terrified it would the room alight until he noticed the Headmaster sitting in the center of it. With a wave of his hand, the fire disappeared, and Dumbledore held his hand out.

“Harry, I am afraid you cannot have that wand.”

But Harry had tasted it, magic, he’d felt it on his tounge and through his veins and in his very ears, and he’d be damned if he was going to give his magic up. Never, he’d go back to the streets first! The Headmaster could beat him till he bled and shut him in the cupboard for weeks, he had just found something worth it and he would never give it up.

“No,” he said stubbornly. He’d faced the Dursleys and Muggle London and Snape and he could face him. He could. He was old, he couldn’t catch him if he decided to run. No one could catch Harry. A touch of fear flooded his spine when he saw the Headmaster grip his own wand.

He couldn’t take into account what the old man could do with magic. And Harry started to get scared, because how could he give up his wand, his whole new life, how could he?

“See here, Headmaster—“ Tavey said, frowning. “The wand makes the choice, you know that.”

“Harry,” Dumbledore said, making a motion with his hand. “Give me the wand. You can pick another.”

Harry shook his head and started to back towards the door.

“Please, sir,” he pleaded. “It knows me.”

Dumbledore simply sighed and held his hand out further. “It’s not safe, Harry.”

“See here, Headmaster!” Tavey exclaimed angrily. “Ollivander’s wands aren’t dangerous, they’re made with the finest of care. That wand has your own phoenix—“

But Harry had run out of the room before he could hear anymore, running down, down, down with his wand in his hand, and he could hear the blood in his veins pump.

Magic, magic, magic, magic.

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Having the Gryffindor-Slytherin class after the Gryffindor’s had History of Magic was always an interesting experience, Severus mused as Weasley nodded off for a moment, pouring powdered Billiwigs into his potions. He snapped out of it with a yelp and a wail, and Finnigan started berating him as he frantically tried to counteract the results. Severus smirked and pretended to be immersed in Malfoy’s potion. Not near the right color, but Snape fixed that with a handful of Shrivelfig seeds.

BOOM!

He could hear Longbottom wailing and Weasley whimpering and that nasty piece of work, Finnigan, was moaning and groaning. The only unharmed Gryffindor, it seems, was the Thomas boy, who had leapt backward and under his desk at the first mention of a mistake.

“Twenty points,” Snape said dismissively. “Go to the hospital wing, Longbottom, Weasley,” and Longbottom scurried away, his face and hands an awful mess of red, itchy blobs. Finnigan had shielded himself with Weasley when the explosion occurred, so he was almost fine except for a few bumps on his hands. Weasley had run before Snape could properly assess the damage, but he was sure Poppy would rant at him about it later.

He had dismissed the rest of the class, ending it with Weasley, Finnigan, and Longbottom in detention. As he sat at his desk, grading papers and thinking, a small, black haired boy threw open the door, slammed it shut, and, clenching his eyes and holding his wand so tight Snape was surprised it didn’t snap, paused for breath. When he opened his eyes, he saw Snape standing over him and cursed under his breath.

“Five points, Mr. Potter. Watch your language in front of teachers.”

“You can’t have it.”

Snape arched an eyebrow. “What, Potter?”

“My wand. The Headmaster says I can’t have it, but it’s mine and it chose me and I chose it and I won’t let him take it, I won’t!”

“Hmm, let me guess—your mother and father will come and, how did you put it yesterday, ‘kill him dead?’”

Harry blushed. “I’mverysorryaboutthat,” he whispered, but then he continued. “It’s my magic, and if I don’t have it he’ll send me back. Please, Professor, make him not do it, don’t let him take me back.”

Snape had a shrewd look in his eye and a plan formulating in his head. Casting a quick locking charm on the door, he motioned for Harry to sit down in a chair across from his desk and he seated himself behind the desk. Harry sat slowly, perched enough on the edge of the chair

that a quick escape was possible.

“I have a proposition for you, Mr. Potter.”

“Erm—is that a deal, sir?” Harry asked, gripping his wand tighter and almost relaxing as he felt that warmth run through him again.

“Yes, Potter, it is a deal, as you so eloquently put it.” Snape leaned forward, his eyes locked with Harry’s as he put forth the idea. “You will come to me for a detention later tonight and answer some of my questions. Truthful, honest answers, mind you. Then I will protect you and your silly stick to Dumbledore.”

Harry shook his head. “Three.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Three questions. That’s how much it always is in storybooks, three questions, three answers, three wishes.”

Snape rolled his eyes. “Fine, three.” He extended his hand and waited. “Deal?”

Harry shook Snape’s hand back. “Deal.”

Harry followed Snape all the way back to Dumbledore’s office, hiding behind him as Snape pulled him to the office impatiently. As he dragged Harry up the stairs, Harry let himself begin to hope that the professor might be able to convince Dumbledore to let him keep the wand. It was singing to him, in his hand, like a much more pleasant version of elevator music to go through his head, and Harry hid it in a robe pocket before he entered the room. If Snape lost, Harry still wouldn’t give it over without a fight.

Dumbledore was sitting at his desk, staring at papers, when Professor Snape slammed his hand down on the desk.

“You—“ he shot out, and Dumbledore held up a hand.

“Severus, please—“

“You know that once a wand chooses no other wand will work the same. You know that to some children—“ here Snape’s gaze sharpened and Dumbledore looked mildly ashamed, and Harry wondered what sort of magic that was, to give the professor that power, “—bonding to wands is faster and more intense than to others. And you know that this is one of those cases, and you know why, and you try to deny the boy that, when it’s your fault he’s been denied so much else?”

Dumbledore had taken it until then, looking more and more cowered until he burst out, weakly, “I don’t know anything at all, Severus!”

And the professor snapped back, “That’s the truth.”

And Harry was staring in awe at the professor who had somehow, magically turned the tables. Who had defended Harry (Harry!), and Harry felt himself start to like this professor more and more.

“Harry,” the Headmaster said, and Harry bit his lip and looked at the sad, lined face. “Harry, I was trying to do it for you.”

Snape snorted, and Dumbledore shot a glare at him. “As Professor McGonnagal told you yesterday, Voldemort—“

“He killed my mum and dad,” Harry said, to prove he’d listened.

Dumbledore nodded. “Yes, and the curse he cast on them was cast with a very powerful wand. And in that wand, there was a phoenix feather who came from the same bird.”

“But, my wand isn’t his, is it? So why should it matter?”

Dumbledore slumped and smiled at him, softly. “As Master Ollivander beat into my head profusely once you had left. And I knew that, deep down, but I merely—I wanted to protect you, Harry. Your wand and his are brothers, and I didn’t want him to have that kind of claim over you.”

Harry shrugged and said, quietly, “I think he already has a claim on me, Headmaster.”

Dumbledore nodded with pained eyes. “I know. I just wanted to protect you, Harry. You know that, right?”

And Harry looked the old man in the eyes and he said yes.

But he was lying.

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The afternoon went by quickly, with Harry trying on and putting away his robes, pyjamma’s, and uniforms, and looking through his new textbooks on his bed. Every now and then his mind would get a little worried about his detention tonight, but he would just push it today. He’s been through worse, he kept telling himself.

Dinner was a very pleasant affair, as Ron and Seamus were off serving detention with Professor Sprout (Seamus had, apparently, poked a rather irritable plant with a very pointy stick, and Ron had simply been standing next to him when the plant attacked.).

“Four hours,” Neville said as he fed Trevor lettuce. “Four glorious, Seamus-free hours.”

“For giving the plants indigestion,” Dean added, and all three boys laughed into their food. Neville poked Harry into having one piece of steak and four little roasted potatoes.

“Hogwarts must have potatoes every night,” Harry said blissfully before downing a glass of pumpkin juice.

Dean shrugged. “I guess. We’ve had them for five meals in a row now, though, I wonder when they let off.”

Harry, Neville, and Dean spent the whole meal laughing, Dean and Harry talking all about weird Muggle things while Neville listened in awe. Neville was visibly shuddering as Dean and Harry told him all about the dentist and drilling for cavities.

“They do not!” Neville said, shaking his head. “You’re taking the mickey, they don’t do that!”

Harry cocked his head. “What do they do here, then?” He remembered last night and his discussion with Madam. “Just stick their wand in your mouth and kazam, gone?”

“Pretty much,” Neville said. “Oh, oh, that’s horrible! Drilling your teeth!”

“You should ask Hermione,” Dean said, looking around. “She’s probably in the library. Her parents are dentists, she probably knows all the gory details!”

Neville simply shuddered and packed more roasted potatoes in his mouth. “Oh, how gross,” he said again.

The boys finished relatively quickly after that, and Dean and Neville started to head up to the dorm, talking about the Potions essay they had to do.

“Coming, Harry?” Neville asked, looking expectant, and Harry felt a jab in him as he shook his head.

“No, I, erm, have detention.”

Neville looked shocked and Dean looked impressed. “How?” Dean asked. “You havent been to any classes yet! Who’s it with?”

Harry tried to think up a suitable lie and failed. “Uhm, Professor Snape—“

The other two immediately stopped questioning, and Dean patted him sympathetically on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, mate, he’s not that bad.”

Neville nodded, but not very enthusiastically. “Erm—right. He’s, he’s not…” But he seemed unable to finish his sentence, and he just nodded. “Right.” He started to dejectedly head up to the Common Room, and Dean ran after him.

“Hey, Nev, wait up!”

“Dean? But—“ Neville clearly looked confused, and Dean simply shrugged.

“Ron and Seamus are arses. I’ll hang out with you. I’ve not quite finished the Herbology paper, your whiz at that, right?”

“Uh, I guess,” Neville said softly, and Harry gave a small smile as he headed to detention, content his friend was not alone.

0000000000000000000000000

Severus was debating whether or not to go through with this.

It was cruel, he heard one part of his mind say. It was cruel to blackmail the boy with the threat of taking away his wand, his magic, it was cruel to pry secrets from a boy obviously unwilling, and it was crueler than cruel to be toying with the idea that, if the boy didn’t give him the right answers, a hit of Legilimency might not go astray.

But Severus knew this boy. This boy wanted people to know, wanted people to help, but he didn’t know how to get it or why he might deserve that help, and he had no reason to even expect it might be given freely. So it would have to be this, bartering, this for that until Snape had the answer he wanted.

And he kept wondering—what if he didn’t get the answer he wanted? What if he’d projected himself in that little boy because he’d himself once almost been lost in London, because he himself had been so desperate at eleven for attention that they listened to the first voice that came.

But also, he knew he wasn’t that boy. Because, above all, that boy was a Potter. And Severus Snape could never be anything like a Potter.

He was still mulling these thoughts over when he heard the small, tentative knock at his door.

He got up and went to answer it. Whatever he had been thinking of doing instead, it was gone now. It was too late to go back.

00000000000000000000000

Harry sat down awkwardly in the chair as he heard Snape mutter the same thing at the door he had that afternoon. Was it a spell? Harry wondered what it would do, and he hoped it wasn’t anything bad.

Severus Snape was scowling at him from across the desk and looking very peeved that it didn’t seem to cow Harry.

“Three questions, three answers, Potter. That’s the agreement. Three completely truthful answers.”

Harry nodded and bit his lip at the hungry look in Snape’s eye. Maybe this would be worse than he thought.

“Why did you run away from the Dursley’s?” Severus asked, and he frowned as he watched the brat in front of him struggle with an answer.

Harry phrased his answer very carefully. “I—I don’t know why I ran away from the Dursleys, sir.”

Severus narrowed his eyes. “That’s not the answer you gave the headmaster.”

“No, sir.”

“Why did you lie to the headmaster?”

“Is that my second question?” Harry asked, and he almost fell out of his chair when Snape slammed a hand down on the desk.

He had forgotten. This was a new place, new rules, and he had let himself forget because everyone was so nice, but he knew that some rules were the same everywhere, and so he looked at his hands and tried to think of some way to evade the question.

“Do you think this is some kind of game, Potter?” Snape spat out, furious. “Do you think that just because you’re a celebrity, I have to bow down to you as well? Ah, I see, that’s it.”

Harry looked up. “What’s it, sir?”

“Why you ran away.” The words stung Harry deep, but he ignored it.

“What do you—“

“You ran away because you weren’t the center of attention twenty-four hours a day.” Harry felt his temper grow. He didn’t mind being accused of things that were at least halfway true, but he wasn’t—that wasn’t the way it was. Snape should know that.

“Your aunt and uncle, they had their own lives to live, didn’t they? And I believe you have a cousin—“ Harry clenched his fists, “—and I bet that you couldn’t take that your aunt and uncle didn’t adopt you, elevate you over their own son—“

“No,” Harry whispered, but Snape kept on. He knew that this, one way or another, would reveal something.

“They just couldn’t raise you high enough, could they? They didn’t see you for who you are, what you are—a celebrity. The Boy who Lived. And they didn’t treat you special—“

“Stop it.”

“They just treated you the same as everyone else, and you couldn’t stand it. You couldn’t even bear to think of it, of treating a scummy little Muggle as your equal—“

“It wasn’t like that!”

“So you thought, I’ll make them pay. You thought, I’ll make them realize how special I am. So you ran away—“ Harry started to shake with anger. How could he have been so wrong about Snape? “You ran away to London where you thought everyone would bow down to you, little boy king—“

“That’s not how it was!”

“And you realized that you weren’t special. You were just some greedy, unclean, arrogant beggar boy. I bet you weren’t above letting someone haul you off for an hour and a few pounds, because they should want to touch you, shouldn’t they?”

Harry remembered the man who had just taken him and looked, the way he’d run for weeks from the man and himself, and he screamed “Stop it! Stop it, that’s wrong!”

And Snape said, slippery as an eel, “Oh, do set me right , then, Potter? Tell me, tell me the noble reason that you ran away and caused your relatives such worry. I believe they told Dumbledore they trolled the streets for hours, yelling your name. I bet you heard them yelling and you laughed at them, at their pain—“

“If they had called I would have come running—“

“You ignored them and decided to wait for someone better to come along—“

“No, I told you, that’s wrong!”

The volume was getting louder and louder and Harry felt near the verge of explosion. “So tell me then, Potter. Tell me the right thing, oh great and powerful—“

“THEY DIDN’T WANT ME!” Harry screamed, and with that the door blasted off its hinges and the cupboards all exploded and Harry made a mad dash for the gaping hole that used to be the door. The locking and warding spell, however, held fast, and when Harry ran straight into it, it propelled him backwards where he fell, in a crumpled heap, crying.

Severus Snape looked down in shock, and he wondered if maybe he should have let the boy go.

“They didn’t want me—“ Harry whispered, and Severus simply got up from his desk and went to the boy.

“They never—“ Harry started, and he stopped when he felt a hand rest lightly, tentatively, on his shoulder. He turned and saw Snape, and instead of being angry he launched himself at Professor Snape like he was Professor McGonnagal, wrapping his arms around his waist and sobbing into the mans robes, which smelled comforting, like his cupboard.

Severus, unsure of what to do, patted the boy on the back twice then stood there, wooden, as the broken little boy (who may have been Harry Potter and may have been Severus Snape, he wasn’t quite sure anymore) cried into his robes and Severus wondered if this had been the right course of action.

After a few minutes, when the sobs had died down, Snape pushed Harry away awkwardly.

“Pull yourself together, Mr. Potter. We have two more questions left.”

Harry wiped his face, took a shaky breath, and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Severus stared at the boy, his face a mask, and wondered what to do next. If acknowledging that his relatives didn’t want him was that severe, what might happen if Severus pushed further?

But he had to ignore that little voice, because more than he cared for the child, he needed to know. He wanted to know so he could know how Potter had done it, had lived and come out of it seeming so clean that it took someone who’d been through it as well to know for sure. Because Severus hadn’t come out of it clean, and he wondered if Potter hadn’t either, if he was just acting.

Harry, oddly enough, didn’t feel like he disliked Snape any more than he had before the detention. He knew he should—Dudley threw fit after fit if anyone ever dared talk to him like that—but the professor was a grown up, and grown up’s got to do what they wanted. Besides, he had let Harry cry on him—nothing that the Dursleys would ever do. Snape made Harry feel safe, and it would take a lot more than a yelling match to dispute that.

“So,” Harry said awkwardly, twisting his fingers in the edge of his robe.

“What are the Dursley’s like, Potter?” Snape asked suddenly, and Harry gave a small sigh. It couldn’t be something easy, like his favorite food or what his best classs was.

“Loud.” As soon as he said it, he looked up, a little nervous. “I mean, Uncle Vernon’s always yelling and Dudley’s just like him, and Aunt Petunia’s got this horrible high laugh—“

For a moment Harry thought he saw the ghost of a smile on Snape’s face, but it disappeared as quickly as it came.

“How are they to you, I mean, Mr. Potter.”

“Uhm…I don’t know. It was very kind of them to take me in, I suppose,” Harry said in a tone of voice that indicated he would rather have been left in the zoo than in their care.

Snape heaved a sigh. “Tell me about your uncle then, Potter.”

Harry supressed a quiet sigh. “His name is Vernon Dursley and he works at this place called Grunnings that makes drills. Drills are—“

“I know what a drill is, Potter,” Snape hissed, and Harry looked at his hands.

“Sorry, sir. Uhm, he makes drills.”

“Tell me how he treats you, Potter.”

“Uhm—“ Harry looked a little nervous and shrugged. He opened his mouth, then closed it and shrugged again.

“I don’t know what you want from me, sir,” he said helplessly.

“What happens if your cousin misbehaves?”

Harry shrugged again. “Probably gets a new computer game to make him stop.”

“And how many computer games do you own, Mr. Potter?” Snape asked snidely, and Harry snorted.

“I’m not allowed to touch the computer, Uncle Vernon says I’ll short it out.”

“What do you get, then?”

Harry shrugged.

“Stop that infernal shrugging, boy, or I shall remove your shoulders.” Harry muttered an apology and stared at his hands.

“What do you get, Potter, when you misbehave?”

“Is this my third question?”

Snape bared his teeth. “This is a command. Answer.”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“On what I do.”

“What if you broke a lamp?”

Harry bit his lip. “I’d probably get the cupboard for a week, sir.”

Snape relaxed slightly in his chair. He hadn’t been wrong. He hadn’t been wrong. “The cupboard?”

“My bedroom, sir. I sleep in, uhm, the cupboard under the stairs. It’s not very bad,” Harry rushed to add. “It’s cosy, and I fit because I’m so small. I probably won’t get meals, either.”

“They withold food from you?”

Harry shrugged, then quickly answered. “I guess. Most times they just forget I’m in there.”

“Forget.”

“Yeah. I guess, cause they never wanted me, when they don’t see me they just—pretend I don’t exist. But, to be fair, sir,” Harry said as he saw Snape’s gaze sharpen, “I do the same thing.”

“So you dislike them.”

“Yes.”

“This is why you ran away.”

Harry felt his throat tighten. “I guess.”

“Don’t guess, Potter. This is your life. Now, you know why you ran away from the Dursleys.”

Harry wouldn’t tell him. He couldn’t, not yet. He could see himself, one day, telling, but that day was not today. “I guess so. I mean, yes.”

It felt like the worst lie he’d ever told.

“What about your aunt?”

“This is more than three. We said just three.”

“I have asked you two questions: Why you ran away and what your family is like. You have provided an insufficient answer, so I am merely narrowing it down so your thick mind can understand. Do—you--understand?” Snape asked mockingly, and Harry nodded.

“My aunt’s name’s Petunia.”

“How does she treat you?”

Harry shifted in his seat. “Not—not particularly well, I suppose.”

“Suppose?”

“She hates me.”

“You’re an eleven year old boy.”

“She always looks at me like I’m about to set her on fire. She yells at me and tells me horrible things about my mum and dad, Uncle Vernon too, and she always tells me I burn all the bacon and it’s expensive.”

“Why are you cooking in the first place, Potter?”

“’Cause I can, and she doesn’t want to.” Harry paused and started to bite his thumb nail. “She, uhm, she burned all the pictures of my mum in the fire place, years and years ago. She missed one, in the phot album, and I found it and she slapped me and burned that too.” Harry brightened up. “Professor McGonagall gave me a picture of my parents, sir.”

“How wonderful,” Snape said sarcastically. “Do your relatives hit you often, Potter?”

“Is this my third question?”

“No. Answer me.”

Harry pulled out his wand and held it in his lap. His voice got very soft.

“Not terribly often, sir.”

“How often is that?”

Harry mumbled something into his lap, staring at his wand. He was magic, he would never have to go back to the Durlsleys again, so none of these questions mattered, none of them could touch him here.

“Potter.”

“About—About once or twice a day, sir.”

“What?”

“I mean, I don’t get beaten or anything,” Harry jumped in to answer. “I don’t, I don’t get hurt awful bad or anything. Just, just a smack or something.”

“A smack or something.”

“Uhm, yeah. Like, if I break something or I burn the bacon or, or Uncle Vernon catches me touching any of the stuff I’m not supposed to touch. They just—it’s just what it is, sir. Like, like gripping me too tight or, uhm, hitting me in the head, or—or bumping me into the walls. It’s all normal.” Harry could feel himself babbling. “I mean, there are a lot of kids worse off then me, like that little girl that got beaten to death in Surrey last year sir. And I get to go to school, and I get all Dudley’s old clothes and I get some food in my stomach and it’s not, it’s not a bad life—“

Snape sneered. “Being starved, locked in cupboards, and being abused—“

“I’m not abused! That’s when parents or someone hurt their kids, they aren’t my parents—“

Snape continued like he couldn’t hear Harry. “This is normal, for you, Potter?”

Harry shrugged. “Er, yeah. I guess. I mean, I’m not really a part of their family.” He got a defiant look on his face. “I wouldn’t want to be. So they just, they keep me around, and it’s good of them to, to take on such a burden for practically nothing—“

“What do you mean, practically nothing?” Snape asked. He had heard that Dumbledore paid a regular sum in Muggle money each months—a sizeable sum.

Harry mistook him for not understanding why they got anything. “The government sends money, because I’m a dependent on them and I havent any other family. It’s not enough for, for new clothes or anything, not more than a—a pit-ants, really, but they keep me anyway. They could have turned me out a lot—“ Harry started, then he closed his mouth immediately. Snape, however, seemed to be putting the pieces together.

“Turned you out a lot sooner,” he said, and Harry shook his head desperately.

“No, I told you, I ran away. I ran away because they didn’t—“

“They left you there. They drove out there and left you there, didn’t they? That’s why they didn’t want you—they left you.” Snape sounded wondering, like he couldn’t understand why he hadn’t put it together sooner.

“I ran away. I’m selfish and greedy and horrid and I ran away for the attention—“

“They just pushed you out of the car and drove off, didn’t they?”

“No!” Harry yelled, and he slammed a fist down on the desk like he had seen Uncle Vernon do when he was angry. He had let Snape find out as much ass he would let him. If they knew, no one would love him. If his own family couldn’t love him, why should anyone else make the effort? He knew that was what would happen, so he put all he could into this last battle.

“I ran away! I ran away because I, I didn’t like my cupboard. I ran away. They wouldn’t do that.”

“The people who beat you, starve you, and imprison you are above abandoning you?” Snape mocked. “I know, Potter. I’m right, aren’t I? They left you.”

“No, they wouldn’t. They don’t, they aren’t like that. I was making it all up, I always tell lies. They love me.” Believe me, Harry pleaded with his eyes. Believe me. Because he knew that, if Snape knew, he would never love him, or like him, if he knew how bad and ungrateful he was.

“They despise you so much they left you in an alleyway to die,” Snape said matter of factly. “Face up to it, Potter.”

“No. They loved me, I heard them running the streets calling my name and I ignored them—“

“They loathe you, you stubborn boy. They. Loathe. You.”

Harry clenched his hands into fists. “You don’t know them. They’re not like that, not at all. They love me.”

“They love the idea of you starving to death in the slums.”

“That’s not true,” Harry said pleadingly with Snape. “It’s not true.”

“You said it yourself, boy—they didn’t want you.” Harry let out a whimper. “They never wanted you.” Harry covered his ears with his hands. “They waited until—“ Snape suddenly stared at Harry, at the wand clutched in one bony little hand, and the last piece of the puzzle, the piece even Harry didn’t know, fell into place. “Until they knew you were a wizard.”

Harry pulled his hands off his ears. “What? No, they don’t know. They couldn’t—“

“Your letter, you stupid child. They read your letter—“

“No—“

“They found out and they tossed you aside like an animal they no longer wanted.”

“No,” Harry said feebly. “T-they love me. They, they wouldn’t—“

“They don’t care about you.”

And with that, Harry slumped over as if all the bones in his body had disappeared.

“Shall I go give everything back, then?” he asked softly.

“What?”

“My new books and things. You’re going to send me back, aren’t you?” Harry’s voice sounded dead, and he stood up mechanically. He should have known it was too good to last.

“You imbecilic boy, sit down.” Harry sat, staring at the desk in front of him. Couldn’t Snape just send him home? Knowing he couldn’t stay was making the castle press against him so tight he could hardly breathe. “Why would we send you back there?”

Harry’s throat went tight and he gulped. “B-because I’m ungrateful and selfish and I never do what I’m told and I’m, I’m willful and I eat too much food and I’m a freak and my own family didn’t even want me—“

Snape silenced the boy with a look. “Potter, you fool, of course you aren’t going back.”

Harrys eyes lit up, and he almost bounced as he was refilled with energy. “I’m not?”

“No.”

“But I’m no good. This just proves it—no one will ever love me,” Harry said mournfully. “Why would you keep me?”

Severus looked at the boy, and James Potter’s messy hair and nose, Lily’s shy smile and green eyes, at the Gryffindor patch on the boys robes and the thin spectacles that perched precariously on his nose, and he tried to think of him as James or Lily or a Gryffindor.

And all he could think was, Severus.

So he said “Because no one ever loved me either.”

Harry just looked at him up and down for a moment, then extended his fragile little hand. Severus instinctively clutched it in his own, and the two sat there, held together by an understanding and something so simple as a little boys hand.

Harry and Snape sat there for what felt like hours until Severus pulled his hand back. Harry tucked his hands in his pockets and stared at the floor.

“You—you won’t tell anyone, will you?”

Snape knew that Dumbledore would expect to be told. He knew that Minerva would skin him if he didn’t inform her. And he knew that the Dursleys won, at least a little bit, while Harry kept their secrets. But he also knew how it felt to have everyone know your deepest secret, look at you with pity and to hear them talk about it and you. And he knew that the Dursleys had already won, and Dumbledore knowing wouldn’t change that. So he hesitated.

“Please, sir. They—they’ll send me back.”

“Potter, they won’t—“

“The Headmaster won’t let me stay anymore, I know it. Please, sir. They won’t understand.”

And Snape nodded, slowly. “Not now. But someday, Potter, you’ll need to tell people.”

“I know, sir. Thank you.” Snape heard the lie in it as Harry shifted his weight in the chair. “Do I—Do you have another question, sir?”

Snape scowled at Harry and, after a moment, gruffly said “Not tonight, Potter. You look as if you’re about to toddle off to the potions closet and make yourself a little bed on the floor.”

Harry shrunk in the chair a little. “I can answer another if you want me to, sir.”

“Go to bed, Potter. I shall hold the question in reserve, if you would.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said quietly, and he headed to the door. Before he left, he turned around. “Professor?”

“What, Potter?”

“Uhm…will you be one of my teachers, sir?”

“Yes, Potter. Now get to your dormitory.”

Harry nodded and scurried away, before poking his head back in.

“G-goodnight, sir.”

He ran then, and Snape heard his shoes hitting the stone floor of the dungeon as he stared at the door, wondering how he had earned that little boys trust.

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Seamus and Ron weren’t back at the dorm yet when Harry returned. Neville and Dean were sitting on Neville’s bed, and Neville was gushing over the pictures in the book Harry had seen him reading yesterday—had it really only been yesterday?—and Harry paused outside the doorway to further compose himself before entering.

“—that’s the common field speedwell—uhm, Veronica persica—it’s not got any real powers, but my gran loves them, puts them on the table when she can find them. Muggles call them weeds, but magic seems to repel them, that’s why they don’t flower a lot over here. I like it, though.”

“Me, too. How do you know all this stuff?”

“My grandmother doesn’t like it when I play inside, she says it gives her headaches. But I’m not allowed to go far, because she’s scared I’ll get lost, and I’m not supposed to run around, so I used to just study the flowers. Then, my mum was a herbology fan, so my grandmother gave me all her books. I just like it.”

“It’s neat Neville, truly. This flower’s really pretty. I like the little petals.”

“Three of them are bright blue and big, see? But the last one, it’s paler and smaller than the rest. It’s my favorite Muggle flower.”

Harry entered the room then, and Dean and Neville greeted him warmly.

“Was it bad? Did he—did he make you scrub cauldrons?” Neville asked, a bit of fear in his voice, as if scrubbing cauldrons was really code for him throwing cauldrons at you. Harry shrugged.

“Erm…yeah. I just scrubbed cauldrons.”

Neville shuddered and Dean gave him a small smile. “You look tired, Harry.”

Harry nodded. “It’s been—I don’t know, I guess it’s just seemed like a long couple days. When do Seamus and Ron come back?”

“’Bout an hour.” Dean checked his watch. “Curfew’s in forty minutes.”

“Do I have time to—“ Harry started to ask, then stopped. He’d had one shower already today. He probably wouldn’t be allowed another.

“Time to what?”

“No, I just wanted to shower. But I, I don’t—“

“You have time. Go before Ron and Seamus come back, Seamus’ is a regular hog with the hot water.”

Harry bolted to the shower and, fifteen minutes later, was in his crisp new pajamas and sitting on his bed looking at his schoolbooks.

“Are you coming to classes tomorrow?” Dean asked, pulling his pajama top on.

“Yeah, Professor McGonnagal said at dinner. What classes do we have?”

“Herbology!” Neville cried joyfully from where he was brushing his teeth.

“Yeah, Double Herbology and Transfiguration—that’s with McGonnagal. You’ll like that,” Dean said confidently. “She’s nice, a little strict, but nice.”

Harry nodded drowsily and got under the covers to his cozy bed. Looking around to make sure that Dean and Neville were occupied (Neville was washing his face while Dean brushed his teeth) and he hid his wand under the pillow. In case Dumbledore came to take it in the night. He propped the Herbology book in front of him, determined to read a chapter before he fell asleep. He didn’t want everyone to think he was stupid.

He woke up to feel someone taking his glasses off, and he stiffened. He didn’t move, didn’t let anything show his was awake, because if he was awake they might not stop at glasses. He wished he’d had the sense to hide them! They’d probably seen them glint under a street lamp or something. And he wondered who it was, if it was that man he still had nightmares of, and he got ready. He would kill the man, if he had to, or if it was the Dursleys, he would kill them too. With his wand, he’d kill them, and he knew he could tell the wand to do it and it would. He wouldn’t go back—Snape said he didn’t have to.

Wait—Snape? Snape didn’t live in London.

“--fell asleep with his glasses on,” he heard Neville (wait, Neville wasn’t on the streets) say, and he heard someone place his glasses on his night table.

Harry made himself relax, but he couldn’t, not until he heard Neville get back in bed.

Then he turned over, pulled the covers over him, and started to quietly shake.

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The next morning found Harry in the greenhouse between Neville and Dean. Ron had glared at Harry the next morning, next to Seamus. When Harry said hello, Ron hissed “Don’t talk to me. Now no one but Seamus will be my friend, and it’s all your fault.” He ran ahead in time to be the butt of one of Seamus’ jokes.

Professor Sprout was short, sturdy, and very dirty. Not in the way Harry was on the streets, a more natural dirty, he thought. She talked the class through planting dandetigres ( a cross between tiger lilies and dandelions) and left them to it. Harry and Dean listened to Neville, who stammered through a description as Seamus poked him in the back with a trowel.

“Mr. Finnigan, I had no idea how much you loved Herbology,” Professor Sprout said when she caught Seamus at it.

“Huh?”

“You obviously enjoyed your detention last night so much you’re ready for another one!” The class tittered and Harry smiled at Neville. “However, the plants did not enjoy it as much as you seemed to, so keep that trowel in your pot before I have to assign you to tending the stink cabbage.”

Seamus was very diligent after that.

Harry had to stay after to receive a packet of work from Prof. Sprout.

“It’s not terribly difficult, dear. Just to get you up to speed. Mr. Longbottom’s in your dorm, correct?” Harry nodded. “If you have any questions, ask him. The boys a natural.”

Harry met the other two boys at lunch, where he had grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches and told Neville how brilliant he was at Herbology. Seamus merely sulked and snapped at Ron, and when Dean asked Ron for help with the History of Magic work, Seamus snorted.

“Like he’d help you, Thomas. He’s too stupid.”

Ron’s ears burned and Harry felt quite bad for him, but when he offered a ssmile Ron glared as if he were on the verge of tears and started to pull his sandwich apart.

Harry then scurried to Transfiguration, where Professor McGonnagal seated him with Ron Weasley, who was in a foul temper all of class. He kept poking the seed they were supposed to change to a marble until it burst into flames and rolled off the desk. Harry simply watched helplessly.

“It’s not my fault, Professor,” Ron whined. “He doesn’t know anything!”

“Neither do you, Mr. Weasley, if your flagrant lack of care concerning where you put your wand is concerned. Try it again.”

Herbology hadn’t been bad, at least he’d been able to get the general gist, but in Transfiguration he was totally lost. Everyone already knew the wand movements and the spells, and Harry just sat there quietly with Ron glowering at him and poking their seeds until they exploded.

Harry almost had to stay after in that class, too, but a bushy haired girl was bothering the professor, so Harry made a quick escape.

“What now?” Harry asked as they trooped back to the dorm.

“Free time. Er, really not much before dinner. Just about a half an hour,” Neville said as he deposited his robe, tie, vest, and school bag on the bed. “I promised Professor Sprout I would come and watch her feed the Jupiter Traps—they’re wicked.” Neville looked at Harry guiltily. “You can come, if you want.”

“No, I’m fine.”

Dean had plans too—meeting his best friend from another house. “Padma, she’s brill. She’s Parvati’s sister, I’ll introduce you later—we were going to work on Potions.”

Harry smiled and said it was fine, and once they’d left, he sat on his bed for a half an hour looking at the photo of his parents before he even felt hungry.

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Hermione Granger was determined to be the smartest student in her grade before the month was through. She had to be—she had to prove herself to those stupid boys and Slytherins, and even some of the teachers didn’t think she could do it. When she asked questions in Defense, Quirell just smiled and told her that girls wouldn’t be doing the defending anyway. And Snape called her the know-it-all loudmouth every single day. But she would show them, she knew. She knew she could do it.

But that was really just the answer she gave to people that asked her why she worked so hard. Simply put, she worked hard because she loved to learn. She loved to know how things worked, why things worked, when they had first started to work, what different ways they worked. She breathed in and spat out dates and times and history like it was the grilled cheese and tomato sandwich that Harry had devoured at lunch. She wanted to learn because she loved to know. But she knew this didn’t make sense, so she stuck with the first answer a lot.

But when Professor McGonnagal approached her at tutoring another student, she jumped at it.

“Oh, Professor, do you really think me capable?”

“Of course, Miss Granger. Now, I’ve created a guide to what he needs to know and by when—“ Hermione snatched the papers and looked upon them greedily. “He’ll only be taught theory without supervision. Practicals will have to be done in the prescence of a professor or a prefect. Percy Weasley has volunteered to help you with that.”

“Yes, Professor,” and Minerva suddenly saw a small shadow following around Percy Weasley and teaching another shadow how to turn matches into pins.

“This is a great responsibility, Miss Granger. Do you think you can handle it and your own courseload?”

The only thing Hermione loved more than learning was responsibility. “Oh, yes Professor, I’m very responsible. Don’t worry, he’ll be caught up in no time! I’ll get him ahead, I know I can, there’s this wonderful book in the library called the Beginners Guide to Magic, it seemed it would be helpful—“

Minerva laughed at the joyous expression on her face. “Well then, Miss Granger, I’ll leave you to your dinner. Check in with me at the end of next Wednesday and we’ll see if this works.”

Minerva listened to the numerous outflow of ‘thank you!’ that left the small girls body and watched her dash, papers in hand, to the Great Hall.

She somehow suspected Harry’s dinner was to be interrupted.

“Come on, Harry, you know this. It’s a plant that entraps anything that rests near it in it’s creepers. It hates the dark and damp—“

“Devil’s Snare,” Neville said from where he was reading by the fire.

Hermione huffed, irritated. “Neville, you’re supposed to let Harry answer. How will he learn anything if you feed him all the answers? How will he pass his exams?”

“I’ll have to drop out of school and work as a fast food cook,” Harry said with a straight face. “And one day, on my lonely walk home from my job, I’ll be attacked by—“ Harry grabbed the book Hermione was quizing him from and read “—‘a deep green ivy-esque plant that uses long feelers that tighten until paralysis and death is iminent.’ And I shall say—“ Here Harry threw himself back into the chair and tossed a hand over his forehead. Neville chimed in with him, and they both said “If only I had listened to Hermione and passed my exams!” Then both boys started to laugh. Hermione sighed, but a smile crept on her face as she started again on the properties of Devil’s Snare.

In the past four months at Hogwarts, Harry had learned to love the school even more than he had at first sight. He loved the thick, cool stone walls and the myriad of hallways and the portraits that always pointed him in the right direction. He loved his classes and his bed and the common room, and most of all he loved his friends, Neville and Hermione.

Hermione had intimidated him the first few times they had met. She had been very business like and handed him a huge stack of papers that he couldn’t make hide nor hair of. It was Percy Weasley who had suggested to Hermione that Harry might learn more through a less—brutal exchange of information. Neville had started to take part as well, stating he needed all the help he could get, and after a few lessons Harry, Neville, and Hermione had become good friends.

The Seamus Situation, as Harry had dubbed it, was better than before but still not prime. After a particularly vicious duel (at least, Seamus had called it a duel—really it was Seamus garbling a curse, then throwing his wand to the side and leaping at Harry, who took a swift step to the left and let Seamus sail right into a shining coat of armor), they had reached an uneasy truce. Neville, Hermione, and Harry stayed by the fire in the common room. Seamus, Parvati, Lavender, and Ron stayed near the tables. And Dean went back and forth easily between the two groups, and the other houses as well. He was friends with everyone, Dean, and no one said a word to him against it.

Harry and Seamus united their groups, however, when forced to. Outside Gryffindor, they were all united against a common enemy—Draco Malfoy. Harry’s second day of classes, Draco had walked up to him, extended his hand, and offered to be Harry’s friend. Before Harry shook his hand, however, Neville had fallen down the stairs and knocked Draco down with him. Convinced the Gryffindors had started the attack on purpose, Malfoy and his little gang confronted them often—and they gave as good as they took.

Malfoy also couldn’t stand it that Harry was better than him in Potions. Harry had, after learning that Professor Snape was the teacher, read his Potions book cover to cover and begged Hermione to tutor him in that first every night. His first lesson, however, had been quite successful, even though he had taken Neville as his partner.

Harry had divised a system—Neville would work with any plant ingredients, and Harry would work with anything else. Often times it was the combined fear of Professor Snape and slicing newt tails that made Neville go useless. So Harry dealt with anything animal or mineral, while Neville kept to the plants. It was a good system, and something in Potions just seemed to come to him. Madam had said, when he’d gone for his check up, that his mother had been a fair hand at it, and Harry liked to think that it was because of his mother that he did as well as he did.

Not that Snape treated him any differently than anyone else. In fact, sometimes he treated him worse. But Harry just took it, because whenever he got a detention he would go help the professor scrub cauldrons or desks and then he could just spend time in his company, which made Harry feel rather pleasant.

Neville, Hermione, and Harry were, perhaps, unlikely friends. Hermione was a Muggle-born, Neville was a Pureblood, and Harry was half and half. Hermione was top of their class, Harry was the middle in everything except Potions and Defense, and Neville was near the bottom in everything except Herbology. Harry was a hero, Neville was a nobody, and Hermione was a genius. And yet, they fit in with each other like puzzle pieces.

Harry had taken to taking walks with Neville and Hermione after classes, going around the grounds while Neville chattered about flowers and Hermione chattered about classes and Harry thought about this whole new world of magic with friends (which was even better than the stuff he did with his wand) and he wondered how long it would last. But some days he didn’t have time to wonder—he was too busy learning magic and laughing with his friends and taking part in this great new world that was offered to him; one not of magic, but of carelessness. Of childhood.

He celebrated his first ever Christmas at Hogwarts. From Neville he had gotten a cunning little plant that made comforting, warm whistles whenever its owner felt down, and a pressed daisy. From Hermione, sugarless candy (which tasted just as good to Harry) and a large book labeled ‘From Mundane to Magical: The Muggle Born Transition’, which she had inserted a note: ‘I know this doesn’t really apply to you, but since you were raised Muggle I thought it might be useful.’ He’d also received an Invisibility Cloak from an unknown source, a pair of thick gray socks from Dumbledore, and a book from Professor Snape on the brewing of Potions.

Harry paid him a visit later that day to thank him.

“I just wanted to thank you, sir. For the book, I mean. It was awful nice of you, and you didn’t have to or anything, so I thought I would say thanks.”

“How kind of you,” Snape drawled. “Don’t look at it as a gift, Potter. You need as much help as you can get.”

But Harry knew he didn’t mean it, and he tentatively reached forward and gave him a small hug before jumping back toward the door.

“Thanksagainbyesir!” Harry yelled as he ran away, stopping when he realized he was lost.

Professsor Snape merely stood there, stunned, as he heard the boys foot steps fade away.

Harry was lost in the labyrinth of dungeon walls, and he finally started to just throw open doors at random, fear rising in his throat until he found a passageway that led upward.

When he emerged he was in an empty, unused classroom with a tall mirror.

Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.

Harry peered into it and almost started to cry.

It was him, yes, but it was him and his mother and she was hugging him, holding him around the neck and smiling and kissing his hair. And his father, kissing hiss mother on the cheek, and they all seemed happy.

Then he saw, off to the side, another man, cloaked all in black. As if his mirror image had seen him too, Mirror-Harry had run to him and leapt into his arms, laughing. Snape caught him, and gave him a quick hug before sending him back to his parents.

Harry ran from the room as fast as he could, stumbling into the dormitory and crying as he traced his parents faces over and over again, hidden behind his four poster curtains.

His parents were dead, and they would never hold him line that or love him like that. And he wasn’t good enough to have Snape love him, he knew that.

Pretends were okay, but Harry made himself an oath not to go night wandering near the mirror ever again. It hurt too much to see all the things he could never have.

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All was not perfect at Hogwarts, as that proved. Harry, Hermione, and Neville had been headed back from a late-night Herbology assignment (Night-Blooming Lilies, of which Harry had decided were his favorites) when they had taken a wrong turn and gone on the run from Filch. They had ran directly into a room (one Hermione had cried was forbidden the moment they realized where they were) and almost been eaten by a three-headed dog.

It had almost bit Hermione. Neville had screamed at it, Harry had kicked it in the nose and the two had taken Hermione by the arm and the three of them ran all the way back to Gryffindor Tower, not caring whether or not Filch caught them or not.

They had been standing in the entrance way, panting, when Hermione went “Did—you—“

Harry nodded. “Huge—three heads—“

“No! The floor—he was standing on a trap door—he was guarding something—“

After that they had made a Solemn Pact, Neville and Hermione and Harry. They would get to the bottom of the Third Floor Mystery. And, Harry had felt, they had become better friends that night, and after it they were nearly inseperable.

They had puzzled over what might be down there for days. Neville thought prisoners of war who might escape and kill them all in their sleep—he started to have bad dreams and Harry would wake him and they would have hot chocolate that Tookie brought them. Hermione thought they were ancient texts deemed to dangerous for the students to read. Harry didn’t know quite what he thought, but when they asked him, he said ‘Something magic and important and powerful.’

He had been summoned by Dumbledore three days after the dog experience (he left his wand with Neville, just outside the door, just in case) and he was forced to go there for a long tea where Dumbledore tried to make small talk about his family and Harry nibbled on biscuits and answered every question with ‘Yes, sir’, ‘no, sir,’ and ‘good, thank you, sir.’ At the very end, when Harry was yearning to get out and theorize with Hermione and Neville instead of trapped in a conversation on his relatives, the fire had roared green and an old, wrinkled head had poked through.

“Albus,” the head had rasped, and Harry had jumped back in fright.

“Ah, Harry, no need to worry. The wizarding equivalent of a telly-phone, I believe.” The old man looked at him sadly. “We’ll finish this conversation another time, Harry. Run along to your friends.”

Harry had almosst been out the door when he heard Dumbledore say “Nico, my dear friend, it is safely guarded on the third floor corridor.”

“You say that every time, Dumbledore, but Perenelle and I hear things! I want to just check—“

“Nico, I cannot show you where it is, or how to get past the enchantments. You could be tortured—“

“Our home was broken into last night.”

“Is Perenelle—“

“Yes, yes, we’re fine. They were looking for the Stone, though, that was obvious. They had every possible rock thrown on the floor.”

“It is safe, Nico. This is proof.”

“I know, Albus. I just—I wanted to check.”

Harry ran back to the common room and explained the whole encounter to Hermione and Neville. Hermione immediately squealed and ran upstairs to show them the answer in the book.

The Philosopher’s Stone.

Harry took to lingering past the door whenever he walked past it and imagining there was a third use to the stone, that it could bring people back from the dead, and he could get it and bring his parents back.

But then he realized that someone else might need to come back.

Hermione had figured it out first. “Harry,” she had blurted out when he was telling them about his pretend, “If it could, could bring people back to life, make them immortal, what if—“

Harry had felt himself drop the quill he was holding, but all he could think was that, if Voldemort came back, then they would send him back to the Dursleys. They wouldn’t keep him here, it would be too dangerous.

“We have to tell—“ Harry said numbly, and he started to run to the dungeons, to Snape, only to have Hermione tug at his sleeve.

“No, Harry, we need to go to McGonnagal,” Hermione cried, and Neville helped drag harry there.

McGonnagal listened to their story and turned, with a sympathetic eye, to Harry.

“Mr. Potter,” she started, removing her glassses and indicating that Harry sit down. “I know that you have been through some great trials, but you are safe here. You must believe it.”

“I do, Professor, but it’s not me I’m worried about, it’s the stone—“

“Mr. Potter!” McGonnagal said with shock. “How do you know about that?”

“He’ll take it, Professor, and he’ll come back. We can’t let him come back, please, Professor—“

“Enough!” she barked. “You have been through many ordeals, Mr. Potter, but that does not mean you may flaunt any rules you feel do not apply to you. That will be twenty five points each, now all three of you, get back to your dormitory. I have heard quite enough.”

As soon as Harry left, she frowned and tried to contact Dumbledore. He was at the Ministry already, and she bit her lip. Surely this matter would be fine until tomorrow. With the children in bed, she would simply take a look down there later and make sure nothing was amiss. She would talk to Dumbledore in the morning.

She didn’t know that night could be so long.

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Unbeknownst to the musing McGonnagal, Harry had snuck out of the dormitories as soon as he could, grabbing his invisibility cloak and leading Hermione and Neville to the dungeons.

“Wait here,” he hissed, and he knocked on the door.

Snape threw it open with an angry hiss that trailed off when he saw Harry.

“Potter,” he barked. “What are you doing out of your dormitory?”

“I need help,” Harry whispered, his stomach sinking. He wasn’t good enough for Snape to want to help him. He was thinking of Snape as the man who had caught him in the mirror, but the mirror was a liar and Harry shrunk into himself.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—I’ll go,” Harry whispered, and was surprised when Snape let out an exasperated sigh and yanked Harry into his chambers.

“Potter. Talk.”

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After Snape had heard everything, he waited all of two seconds before throwing open the door and yanking the cloak off of the two Gryffindors in the hallway. Neville immediately began to whimper.

“Stop that insufferable noise, you fool.” Snape was pulling out his wand and he started to take long strides down the hallway. Harry darted out of the mans chambers, running after him, and Hermione and Neville followed after one long moment.

When they got to the third floor corridor, Snape threw Neville in first, then strode in himself, the other two following.

Hermione let out a little sound when she saw the dog, but he was fast asleep and the trap door Hermione had seen was wide open, leading deep down into darkness.

Snape walked over, then turned to Harry. “Potter. You are to stay here—“

“No.”

Snapes eyes flashed. “Potter. This is not a request.”

“Sir, you can’t—“

“I can and I will.”

With that Snape took one step forward and plummeted down into the blackness.

Hermione and Neville had to latch on to Harry to stop him from plunging himself into the hole after Snape.

“Harry, stop it, please,” Hermione pleaded with him.

“It’s Snape, Harry. He’ll be fine.”

But Harry kept kicking and fighting until he let out a howl and went limp.

Snape didn’t trust him. Snape didn’t think he could help. And it hurt, it hurt more than a lot of things in his life had hurt, it hurt because he trusted Snape. He had gone to him for help. And Snape didn’t trust him.

Snape didn’t like him.

He hung there in Neville and Hermiones arms for a good ten minutes before Neville cleared his throat.

“L-let’s go,” he stuttered, and he walked to the trap door.

“Neville, what are you thinking? We would be disobeying the direct orders of a teacher, we could be expelled—“

“Harry needs to go,” Neville said simply, and Hermione shut her mouth and bit her lip before nodding.

The three plunged into the same darkness with linked hands.

“We’ve fallen down the rabbit hole,” Hermione murmered as they pulled themselves off the floor. It was strewn with ash and plant leaves, and Neville picked up a couple and scrutinised them.

“Devil’s Snare,” he muttered, and they looked at all the ashes before shuddering and moving on.

Harry, who had loved flying in class and was toying with joining the team next year (The current Seeker, Alex Rawdy, was the worst Seeker in the history of the house, and he would be gone) flew up quickly and caught the key before they moved on to the chess set, where they caught up with Snape.

Harry ran ahead to him, and Neville and Hermione waited by the side.

“Potter!” Snape spat.

“Professor, I couldn’t—“

“Yes, you could have, you very well could have if youw weren’t a spoiled, stubborn brat!” Snape was cursing. Of course Potter would leap in after him. He should have body-binded them all, he knew that. But part of him felt warm and comforted, even in the position he was in. Harry had followed him. That meant something, something important that Snape couldn’t quite figure it out at the moment. Instead he merely focused on the game and sneered down at Harry.

“Potter, Longbottom, Granger, go sit there by the door. Try to do it without unnecessary heroics,” Snape snarled, and he continued to play his way across the board.

The White Queen spoke, slowly and very gravelly. “All must play.”

“They don’t even know how to blow their nose, let alone play chess. I will play.”

The Queen stubbornly crossed her arms. “All…must…play.”

Snape growled and surveyed the board. He was four or five moves away from check-mate, he could tell. Perhaps, if he put them in useless positions…

“Granger!” he barked, and the girl was on her feet in a flash. She had been patting Potter’s arm, Snape could see, and the boy looked blank and nervous at the same time. “Take the left side bishop, be quick. Longbottom—“ The boy tripped going up to the board, and Snape sneered. “You take the rook, left side. No, you foolish boy, a castle, the rooks are castles, are you daft? Potter—“ he yelled, and Harry darted over quickly. He was biting his nail and looking at the floor, and his shoulders were shaking.

“I’mverysorrysir,” he mumbled, and Snape grabbed him by the shoulders and jerked his head up.

“We cannot do this now, Potter. We are in the middle of a game, and a course that is meant to incapacitate and kill wizards, and I need all my wits. We will address this later.”

Harry nodded, looking miserable. Snape squeezed his shoulder and propelled him to his place. “Right hand knight. Right there.”

Then Snape started to play again.

He was right, the game was nearly finished in four moves. But then he saw it—

Longbottom was right in the Queens path. Snape cursed himself and started a new plan of action, but it was too late. The Queen was taking her move. Snape had failed to remember that they were children and had let the Queen take that route.

Harry was on the square in front of him, and he saw exactly what Snape saw. “Neville,” he screamed, and he made as if to run from his square, but Snape grabbed his arm.

“We’re still in the game, Potter. We’re still in the game.”

And Harry let out a blast of raw power, unconciously, aimed at the Queen, and she exploded into rubble threww spaces away from Neville.

Harry and Snape were safe, Hermione had a few suts from flying bits of rock, but Neville had been hit in the head.

As soon as Snape collected the sword, he went to check on Neville.

“He’ll be fine, Potter. His heads thick as the marble that hit it, he’s nothing more than a concussion.”

“We—we can’t just leave him here,” Hermione said. “He’ll be so scared when he wakes up.”

Snape looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. “Granger—you will stay here with Longbottom. Potter will continue with me. Try and make your way back to the main school when he wakes up—get Professor McGonnagal immediately. You both look frightful enough that she’ll believe you.” Hermione nodded and gasped out a ‘yes, professor,’ before turning and throwing her arms over Harry. He stiffened.

“Oh, Harry, be careful. You’re—you’re a great wizard,” she said, and she hugged him tightly. “Be careful.”

And then the huge doors swung open and Harry and Snape were gone.

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Snape led them over a fully grown troll. His head had been bashed in with a rock, and he was clearly dead. Harry shivered and moved closer to Snape, before remembering miserably that the man probably hated him now and taking a step back.

The next room was filled with bottles of potions, all different sizes and shapes and colors, and the door wass blocked by flames, but Snape immediately strode to the smallest one and took a small sip.

“Drink, Potter,” he said, and Harry took another sip and gasped. It was like liquid ice. Snape grabbed him and pulled him in close behind him and they walked through the flames.

They were in the last chamber, a tall, long chamber, but the only thing in it was a mirror and a man.

“Ah, Potter.” Harry suddenly felt ropes twining around him, making him fly back into a pillar. “I was wondering if I would see you here.”

Professor Quirrell, stuttering Professor Quirrell who had once helped him find the Infirmary, who had sat and graded all his tests highly, who Harry and Neville had playfully nicknamed ‘Quirrell the Squirell’, who was a teacher and a professor and odd, it was Professor Quirrell.

“Quirrell,” Snape spat.

“So, Severus, you decided to join our little game. Brought a little present, hmm?” Quirrell said in a distinctly slick voice. Harry started to shiver.

“I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about,” Snape snarled. “Untie the boy.”

Harry was tied to a pillar right across from the Mirror, and he tried to avoid looking at it. As scary as this all was, he was even more scared that he was headed home to the Dursleys and Snape—Snape would never love him, so he couldn’t bear to see that in the mirror.

The greed, though, of seeing his parents once again, of pretending that this wasn’t happening and that there was still a chance, with Snape, won out, and Harry looked into the mirror thirstily as Quirrell and Snape argued.

It was the same as before. His mother was holding him, hugging him, but this time she was crying over him. His father leaned over and kissed his forehead. And then something more magical than anything he’d ever seen at Hogwarts happened.

Mirror-Professor Snape had walked over to the couple. His father had shaken the mans hand, his mother kissed his cheek. And Snape leaned over and smiled at him (at Harry!) and placed something in his robe pocket.

His robes suddenly felt heavier.

His parents, in the mirror, were untying him from the pillar, and he suddenly tuned in to reality.

“Our master needs him,” Quirrell was pleading, and Snape snarled.

“I serve no master,” he said, and he pushed Quirrell.

“Oh no, Severus?” came an unearthly, evil voice that permeated everything in the room. Harry started to shiver and noticed that he was no longer tied to the pillar, though the ropes were still held up.

Snape’s face had drained of color, and he was backing away from Quirrell, his wand raised, as Quirrell unwound the purple turban with a deranged smile on his face.

There was a man poking out of the back of his head.

Snape immediately grasped his arm in immense pain and fell to his knees.

“Is that a suitable reminder, Severus, of who you serve?”

Snape grit his teeth and snarled again, a snarl that sounded like an animal.

“My…my lord…” Quirrell stutted out. “May I kill—“

“No.” A bolt of power shot out, and Snape was suddenly unconsious. “Later. The boy, first.”

And Harry was suddenly more scared than he had been in a long time.

The face wasn’t more than a crude rendering of one, chalk white with glowing, tremendous red eyes. His nose was two thin, sharp slits and his mouth a gash, and when he spoke the floor moaned and the ceiling cried and Harry’s forehead burned in a way it never had before.

“Harry Potter,” he whispered, and Harry almost threw up.

“What—what did you do to Professor Snape?” Harry asked softly. The face laughed.

“Such touching concern, Potter, for your fathers enemy. He is not dead—are you disappointed?”

Harry could not speak, merely stare and breathe and think ‘he’s not dead, he’s not dead, it’s okay.’

“Go to the mirror,” the face hissed, and Harry turned back to the mirror, the weight in his pocket more pronounced than ever.

“What do you see?” he asked mockingly, and Harry stayed silent. The mans anger flared, and Harry felt pain shoot across his back.

“WHAT DO YOU SEE?”

Harry answered softly. “My, my mum and dad.”

“Ah,” the man mocked, “your pitiful mother and father.

“It is due to them, and you, Potter, that I’m like this. Mere shadow and vapour, only able to take form with those who wish to host me, living life without a life at all. But once I have the Elixer of Life, I will have a body, and power, and you will be very—“ he advanced a step, “very dead. So why don’t you make it less painful for you and just give me—“ another step “—that stone—“ another step, and Harry half-hysterically thought how funny it was that Professor Quirrell was walking backwards “—in your pocket.”

Harry slipped his ties then and made a run for the door, only to see flames and turn, gasping for breath, to Professor Snape. He couldn’t leave him.

He darted to him, then, feeling Quirrell and him, Voldemort, watching as he knelt down and tried to wake up Snape.

“Please, professor, please wake up. Please.”

“It’s no use, Potter. He won’t wake up.”

Harry spun and stared, and Voldemort chuckled. “You’re a brave boy—I have always valued bravery..Your parents were brave, but in the end, that’s all that bravery gets you—death. I killed your father first, did you know that?”

Harry saw his father in the mirror, saw him fall down, sightless.

“Oh, he fought a good fight, but he was no match for me. Your mother, though…”

Harry saw his red-haired lady, his dream mother, the one he pretended had never died and was coming for him, always for him, he watched her fall and he almost screamed.

“Your mother, she needn’t have died. She as protecting you, you know. I offered her it all, if she joined me. Just as I am offering you, Potter.”

Harry suddenly looked the man in the eyes.

“Join me, Potter, and I can bring them back. I can bring them all back, because I have the power to. With the Stone, I will be more powerful than you can imagine, and with you by my side, I will bring them all back.”

And Harry thought of actually feeling his mother hug him, of touching his fathers hand, and he weighed it against the price he would have to pay, and he remembered something important—

They were dead, and he knew they would always be dead. Even if they were brought back, they would still be dead, because the dead don’t come back, not even in magic.

“You’re lying to me,” Harry whispered, and he thought of Snape, the only man who had never lied to him or been false with him, and he firmed up his resolve.

“Give me the Stone, boy!” the being shrieked, and Harry yelled back.

“NEVER!” he yelled, and he pulled out his wand, his friend, and the pillar behind them suddenly turned to rubble.

“SEIZE HIM!” Voldemort yelled, and Quirrell came his way and latched on to his arm, and Harry was blinded with pain and more than that, with the promise of pain, the promise of much worse than this, and Harry screamed and fought and the pain lessened.

Quirrell’s hands, which had been holding Harry, were blistered and burnt, as though he had tried to hold fire.

“Master, my hands—I cannot touch him, he burns me!”

“Then kill him!”

Harry suddenly ran for Quirrell, knocked him down and the wand out of his hand, and even though his scar felt ready to split in two, he planted his hands firmly on Quirrell’s face.

His head was thudding in a wild beat, a beat that said nothing of magic but just pain, in his head Voldemort was yelling ‘KILL HIM! KILL HIM!’ and Harry was so blinded with pain that he thought they meant to kill Snape, and he started to hold on even tighter until he was holding on for his life, and all he could hear was Quirrell crying ‘Master, Master!’ and Voldemort yelling ‘Kill him, kill him!’ and some one else, someone far away and in a mirror, calling ‘Harry! Harry! Harry!’

He felt Quirrell’s arm being pulled away from him and he held on, he held on, but the pain and the noise was too much and he fell backward.

“Professor Snape,” he muttered thickly, and then he passed out.

The first thing Harry saw when he woke up was a blurred version of the hospital wing ceiling. Reaching automatically to his nightstand, he pulled on his glasses and turned his head.

He was in a crisp white bed with warm red covers and a pitcher of water was on his night stand, in blue and white striped Infirmary pajamas. On the bed next to him was Professor Snape, who seemed to be deep in sleep. He had a bandage wound around his left arm and was wearing a gray nightshirt, which normally would have put Harry in fits of giggles, but he wass simply overjoyed at that point that Snape was alive at all.

Madam Pomfrey came in at that moment and saw Harry trying to struggle out of bed.

“No, Mr. Potter. You need your rest,” she said firmly, going and tucking him in tightly.

“But Madam, Professor Snape—“

“Is quite capable of listening to you blather without you getting out of bed and destroying your health, Potter,” drawled a familiar voice, and Harry turned with the brightest, most radiant smille Poppy had ever seen on his face to the professor, who opened his eyes long enough to glare at the boy, then closed them.

“Professor! You’re all right—“ Harry cried happily, but then his smile dropped off his face and his insides sunk down deep. Snape seemed to sense this, and one eye opened. Sighing, he opened his eyes and turned to Poppy.

“Poppy, leave us for a few minutes?”

Poppy bit her tounge about he was her patient as well as the boy and neither should get overly tired or stressed, but in the end she simply left the room. It wasn’t worth it.

Harry was playing with his blanket miserably, refusing to make eye contact with Snape.

“I’m very sorry, sir.”

“As well you should be, Potter. You disobeyed my orders, threw not only yourself but your friends and I into danger, did battle with the Dark Lord, and saved my life.”

Harry shrunk in his bed, then looked sideways quickly. “I didn’t—“

“Oh, be quiet, Potter.”

“I’m really sorry, sir, that I put you in that much danger.”

“Ah, yes, apologize, I do so hate it when people spoil my death attempts.” Potter looked confused and Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. “You saved my life, Potter, from something completely out of your control. I should be apologizing to you.”

Harry looked aghast. “No—but, sir—“

“Shut up, Potter. Just nod.” Harry nodded slowly.

“What exactly happened, sir?”

“I think I would like to know that as well, Harry.”

Professor Dumbledore entered the room and stood, not overly friendly but not angrily, by the door. His eyes looked sad and his face looked tired, and he walked over and pulled up a chair.

“Please, Mr. Potter. Tell me everything.”

So Harry told it all, haltingly, from figuring it out to telling McGonnagal and Snape, to jumping down the hole after him to the chess game to the potions. He told him, softly, about Voldemort and Quirrell, about the fight.

“I see.” Dumbledore looked a little jollier. “It must have been very frightening.”

Harry nodded slightly.

“I wonder, though, Harry—how did you get the stone?”

Harry went pink and started to play with the blanket again.

“Uhm, Professor Snape gave it to me.”

Snape spluttered indiginantly. “I most certaintly did not! How would I have gotten the blasted thing?”

“I mean, in the mirror,” Harry said softly.

“Ah. And what did you see in the mirror, Harry?”

He had glossed over this part for a reason—he didn’t want Snape to know how pathetically he longed for him, for his love. Harry shrugged.

“Things.”

“What sort of things, please, Harry?”

“My—err, my mum and dad. They were, they were hugging me and stuff.”

This put a pang in Sseverus and he didn’t know why, a pang of hurt like the pang of importance he had sensed when Potter came in after him.

“When did Professor Snape arrive?”

“He—he was, he was in there the whole time, sir,” Harry said quietly. Snape would hate him even more now. That he dared, even when he knew no one could love him, that he dared to try to make it so—the gall it represented! Uncle Vernon would have locked him in his cupboard for a week, he knew, and he tried to start reminding himself that he would be getting the cupboard again soon, as soon as he got home—if they didn’t take him to London, again. “He was—doing the, the same things. And he, he put it in my pocket in the mirror and then it was in my pocket in real life.”

The pang in Snape was throbbing so hard that his heart felt like it might burst, and he wondered what it was, because it wasn’t pain any more, and he didn’t know what else it could be.

Dumbledore nodded and toyed with the idea of explaining things to Harry, about the mirror, and he stuck with a simple explanation. “that mirror is the Mirror of Erised. It shows you your deepest desires.”

Harry bit his lip and nodded.

“Now, I suppose you’re wondering what happened from then til now.”

“It would be kind for you to enlighten us, Dumbledore,” Snape drawled as he rubbed his chest.

Dumbledore explained in turn. “It seems that young Mr. Longbottom was unconcious—“

“Are Neville and Hermione all right?”

“Yes, Harry. Mr. Longbottom was unconcious for a mere fifteen minutes, then he and Miss Granger were able to make their way back to Professor Sprout’s trap, where they found Professor McGonnagal.”

“She didn’t—I thought she didn’t believe me.”

“She did. She just didn’t think it would be so fast in happening. She was working her way through the obstacles to see for herself at that very moment. She will be visiting you very shortly, I imagine.”

“Continue, Albus.”

“She went very quickly to the chamber, where Harry was lying unconcious, surrounded by splinters of the Philosopher’s Stone. She stabilized him and you, Severus, and then she Levitated you to the Infirmary, where you rest now. I returned first thing this morning and heard this story, and now I am here, talking to you. Lemon drop?”

Harry took the offered treat and started to suck on it, slowly, while watching the Headmaster.

“Uhm…what happens now, sir?”

Dumbledore blinked. “Now? Well, now you’ll recuperate here for about a week, then you’ll probably attend the feast and head home—“

Harry looked at the sheets and tried not to cry. He had hoped, but he’d always known that hope wasn’t good enough. He was to be expelled.

“—for the summer.” Harry’s head shot up and he looked at Dumbledore.

“For—for the summer?”

“Yes, and then return to school in September.”

“September?” Harry squeaked, and Snape rolled his eyes.

“No, Potter, the school year normally commences in January. Of course September, you fool!”

“I can—I can come back?”

“Of course, Harry. What you did last night was a very brave, noble thing. I won’t expel you for it.”

Harry slumped back against his pillows, weightless, his head spinning.

He could come back. He could come back.

Professsor Dumbledore rose and headed to the door, before turning back. “Oh, and Harry—Neville Longbottom gave this to my, to give to you. He thought it might make you feel better.” And he handed Harry his parents picture, then left swiftly.

In the hallway, Dumbledore leaned against a wall and took in a pained breath. He had failed that boy. He had failed that boy, and now it would take an awful lot of work to gain his trust.

At least, Dumbledore thought as he walked away, at least he had Severus.

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Harry was tracing over his parents faces drowsily as he lay in the bed. He had been filled to the brim with every type of potion, and his bed was so warm and toasty—

“Professor McGonnagal gave you that?” Snape asked suddenly. Harry nodded shyly.

“She said Madam Pomfrey took it, when my parents were young.” Harry paused. “He told me how he killed my mum and dad.”

Snape silently watched Harry as he stopped tracing the faces. “He killed a great many people.”

“He said—that my mother would still be alive, if she hadn’t tried to protect me.” Harrys eyes filled with tears and he scrubbed at them with the back of his hand.

“She would. But if she had let you die, I don’t think she could live with herself, Potter,” Snape said cautiously.

“That’s what Professor McGonnagal said. She said that, to them, life without me would be life.” Harry sniffled. “But I killed them. It was my fault.”

“No. The Dark Lord killed them. It is not your fault.”

“My mum would still be alive if not for me.” Harry sniffled again. “That’s probably why the Dursleys hate me. Because I killed them.”

“You haven’t killed anyone, Potter,” Snape said, thinking back on Quirrell.

“But it was my fault. Maybe—“

“Potter.” Snape said firmly. “Potter, you did not kill anyone. Listen to that.”

“All I ever want is for somebody to l-like me. And, and the only people that did, like me, I mean, they died cause of me. Maybe no one should like me.”

Snape knew the step he was going to take was dangerous, it was a step off of a dark cliff and he didn’t know if he would be caught or plummet down to the rocks, but he took it, because this boy had taken too many steps off that cliff, and every time been hurt.

“I like you, Potter.”

Harry looked up at him, his eyes wet with tears, and he said “W-what?”

“I like you.”

“But you didn’t—you didn’t want me to come with you,” Harry said in a tiny voice.

“I wanted you to be safe—a foolish mistake on my part. If you hadn’t come, I would be dead.”

And Harry, Harry Potter who wass the subject of almost every conversation in Hogwarts halls right then, Harry Potter burst into tears and buried himself under all his covers, unable to stop even when he felt a hesitant touch on his back and heard soothing noises. And Snape, Severus Snape who was the bane of every childs existance save one, Snape let himself go over and touch him, the first time he had really initiated contact in years. And he murmered things, nonsense things, to a little boy who could have been him except he was better.

Harry cried and cried and cried, and when he emerged he fell straight to sleep.

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The morning of the train departure from Hogwarts was a very painful morning for Harry. He had woken up at six thirty to go around and say goodbye to all the things he loved.

He stopped in the kitchens, where Tookie gave him a packed lunch for the train and several small hugs around his knees.

“Tookie will come always to help Young Master, even if Young Master not at Hogwarts,” she promised, and then she hugged him again.

He got his HARRY piece of cake from Gibley (who assured him it was still good) and he stopped by the portrait of the red-haired lady. He went to all the little nooks and crannies he had found, he went to the greenhouses and said goodbye to the Night Flowering Lilies, he said goodbe to the Quidditch Pitch, where he had rooted Gryffindor forward, and to the Fat Lady and the common room.

He stopped at every classroom and every staircase, and then he went back to the tower to get his trunk.

His last stop, after a breakfast in which he didn’t eat anything, was Snape’s office.

He was there, of course, the Professor. He was reading some big thick book, and when Harry knocked he called out ‘Come in!’ because he knew it was probably the only person he could tolerate at the moment.

Harry stepped in to the classroom and closed the door (he could remember months back, when he had shattered that door) quietly behind him.

“So you’re going back,” Sseverus said as he pretended to keep reading.

“I have to.”

“You could tell Dumbledore,” Snape pointed out, though he already knew the answer.

“I couldn’t, Professor. He wouldn’t understand.”

Snape sighed and closed the book. “Yes, Potter, I’ve heard this all before.” He looked upon the boy scrutinisingly. “You’re to keep up with your schoolwork whilst there.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And your potion—don’t show it to the Muggles, for the love of God, but keep taking it, it will improve your health.”

“I will, sir.” Harry took a tentative step toward the professor. “Can—can I ask something of you, sir?”

Snape simply raised an eyebrow and Harry continued his thought haltingly. “I…I don’t want to take anything home with me—to the Dursleys, I mean. So I was, I was wondering if you would keep my things here, sir. So they, they’d be safe.”

Snap nodded his head curtly. “You may leave them in my office, Potter. What about your homework, then?”

Harry ducked his head. “I’ve, I’ve done it, mostly, sir. Except for History of Magic, and that’s just write an essay on your favorite historical wizard and I can look up myths and stuff and the library and then get Hermione to mail me the facts.”

Snape nodded again. “Well planned, Mr. Potter.”

“And, uhm, sir—I wanted to just—“ Harry pushed forward the picture of his parents.

“Potter—“ Snape started, and Harry started to babble.

“They would burn it, the Dursleys, and it’s the only picture I have of them and I don’t, oh, I can’t bear to see it burned or locked in a trunk the whole summer, so could you, please just watch it for me?”

Snape sighed and looked at his childhood enemies, at the smiling faces that would taunt him all summer. But then he thought of his childhood and the child and he nodded briskly and put it on his desk. “I will, Mr. Potter.” Severus got up from behind his desk and put the picture on one of the book shelves. “You may come retrieve all your things before curfew when school resumes in September. I shall have Flourish and Blotts send your new schoolbooks here to be delivered to you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And Mr. Potter?”

Harry had been inching towards the door, but now he looked at Severus with his full attention. “Yes, sir?”

“I expect to have weekly updates on your health. That potion may react oddly to Muggle foods, I’ll need to stay informed. It will also probably run out in late July, so I shall need to send you a new parcel of it. Have you an owl?”

“N-no, sir, I haven’t.”

“Then I shall give you one. Merely for the summer, mind you. Think of it as a loan,” Severus said, ignoring Harry’s wide, surprised smile and the awe in his eyes as he reached on to a shelf and produced a snowy white owl on a stand. The owl hooted softly and flew to the boy.

“She’s—sir, she’s beautiful.”

“Her name is Hedwig, Potter.”

“I’ll—sir, thank you, I’ll take good care of her.”

Severus smiled thinly. “I’m sure. Since you cannot trust your relatives to be responsible for her, I shall keep her here and send her to you in three days time. Until then, I wish you luck, Mr. Potter.”

“Sir—I—thank you, sir, for everything.” Harry took two small steps forward, mindful of the owl on his shoulder, and gave Severus a careful hug.

To his surprise and happiness, he felt a slight squeeze from the other man before he ran away to catch the train, leaving behind an owl and a man who both stared after the boy as he ran off.

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As the train was pulling out of Hogsmeaded, Severus made a trip down to the chamber.

There were scorchmarks along the floor and the room felt evil and cold. In the corner, waiting, was the Mirror of Erised.

Hesitantly, Severus stepped in front of it, closed his eyes, then opened them.

It was him, all right, him and his greasy hair and hooked nose and glower, him in all his glory and nothing was different and Severus almost punched the mirror.

But then a small boy with messy black hair and a small, happy smile ran up behind him and jumped on to his back. Severus, both in the mirror and out, smiled, and Mirror-Severus started to give the boy a piggy-back ride around the frame. When they stopped, the two mirror images waved to Severus, and Severus turned away.

If this was his hearts desire, he had a lot of work to do.

Kings Cross Station was a place Harry had never been before, and it scared him a little. It was like being back on the streets, and there were people pushing at him from every angle and it was like he was going to be swept away.

Hermione and Neville grabbed hold of his arms and steered him towards Platform 8.

“Are your relatives picking you up, Harry?” Hermione asked, frowning.

“Erm…they might not know it’s today,” Harry murmered, knowing that Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia wouldn’t pick him up unless it was to pick up his corpse.

Neville smiled at Harry. “My gran might be able to take you home. You, you don’t live more than an apparition stop away,” Neville joked, and Harry let out a small laugh before going quiet and fixing his gaze on something.

Hermione turned and saw a small, dirty looking woman. Her hair was long and knotted at the back of her neck, tangled beyond repair, and her face was smudged. On her lap she held a small toddler. With one hand she kept the toddler in place, with the other she held up a cup. Everyone was walking past her, ignoring her or dropping small coins, and Harry was staring as if he’d seen a ghost.

“Oh,” Hermione said softly.

“D’you have any Muggle money?” Harry asked suddenly, turning and digging in to his pocket for two linty Galleons. Hermione nodded and pulled two neatly folded five’s from her skirt pocket. Harry shoved the Galleons into her hand and made a beeline for the woman. Hermione and Neville followed, Neville digging through his own pockets for anything resembling money and only pulling out things like dandelions and packets of candy.

Harry walked right up to the woman, something Hermione herself might not have been brave enough to do, and instead of putting the money in her cup he pressed it into the hand holding the toddler.

“Here, I’m sorry I don’t have more,” Harry said softly. The woman looked at the money, then up at the children.

“Thank you, sir—“

“Don’t call me that, my name’s Harry,” Harry said, and the woman tried to free up a hand to shake his. The toddler shifted uncomfortably and started to cry.

“I’ll hold him,” Neville said, and he scooped the little boy into his arms. “Erm—hello,” he said to the little boy, and he held out a hand of Dragon Snaps. “W-would you like a sweet?”

The womans eyes filled with tears and she clasped Harry’s hand in her own. “You’re a good boy,” she said softly. “A real good boy.”

Harry shook his head, but the woman had turned to Neville and Hermione. “You too,” she said. “You’re all good people. Better people than some ten times your age.”

Hermione looked at the toddler, who was giggling as he ate the candy and the woman, who was shaking her hand, and she wondered what she had been so scared of.

“You’re good people,” the woman repeated. Then she took her son and sat back down, and Harry, with one last smile, turned and walked away.

Hermione went back as well. “Why didn’t we stay and talk to her?”

“It wouldn’t be good for her. People wouldn’t give her as much money,” Harry answered softly. Hermione was about to ask him more, but suddenly a large, meaty hand shot out and latched on to Harry’s shoulder.

A big man, bigger than any man she’d seen except for Hagrid, with a purple face and a terrifying moustache, was attatched to the hand, and Hermione barely stifled her shock when Harry was dragged away without the man saying a word.

“Bye, Neville, Hermione. I’ll, I’ll try to write—“ he yelled, but then he was gone and Hermione and Neville were standing there, staring at nothing as their respective guardians came and picked them up.

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Harry had sat quietly in the back of the car as Uncle Vernon fumed and drove home. Neither of them said a word the whole trip until Uncle Vernon pulled over in an abandoned car-park and turned around.

“You listen to me, boy, and you listen good. I will not tolerate anything that even resembles cheek, do you understand that? You will do your chores, you will stay in your cupboard, or you will regret it. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

“Yes, Uncle Vernon.”

“If you do—“ here Harry was given a nasty smile, “Well, it’d be a shame if you ran away again, wouldn’t it, Potter?”

“Yes, Uncle Vernon.”

“Good.”

When Harry got home, he was thankful he had left his trunk with Professor Snape. He would have had nowhere to put it in the cupboard. Aunt Petunia had filled it to the brim with cleaning supplies. Harry could barely move without knocking over a cleaning solution or a dust rag. He lay there, on his cot, and pretended he was looking at his parents picture. That his fingers were tracing their faces, the way he always did. And he pretended he was on his bed in the Gryffindor Tower, with the curtains pulled tight around him so it felt very small, though he wasn’t in a small space, really.

He pretended until late afternoon, when he was expected to make dinner. Aunt Petunia had him frying fish and chopping greens like he’d been doing it all year, and he was grateful that Snape’s class had at least kept him sharp on cutting things and following directions.

As he was frying the fish he had, absent-mindedly, asked Neville to sprinkle the tomatos in and had to stifle a yelp when he received a smack to the head with a wooden spoon.

“What did you call me?” his Aunt Petunia asked, glaring.

“Nothing, Aunt Petunia,” Harry muttered, and he rubbed the back of his head as he sprinkled in the tomatos.

He missed Hogwarts the most at dinner that night. Dudley was stuffing his face and filling his plate, as usual, and when Harry reached for a piece of fish, Uncle Vernon’s fist had all but crushed his hand.

“What’re you doing, boy?”

“I was—I’m sorry, Uncle Vernon, I was just going to get some food—“

Uncle Vernon put down his fork and glared at Harry. “Since when have you eaten with the rest of the family, hmm?”

Harry looked down at his plate. “Sorry, Uncle Vernon.”

“I told you I wasn’t going to put up with any cheek, boy.”

“Yeah, no cheek,” Dudley said, spraying bits of food all over the table.

“I’m sorry, Uncle Vernon, I didn’t mean to cheek you—“

Uncle Vernon grabbed Harry by the scruff of his neck and dragged him to the cupboard, knocking Harry’s chair off it’s legs as he did so.

“You need to remember your place in my house, boy!” Uncle Vernon yelled, and Harry found himself crashing into the wall of his cupboard, knocking over three bottles of cleaning fluid and a mop.

Harry sat on his cot, imagining his parents, and sighed.

It was going to be a long summer.

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Hermione Granger sighed.

Her family was at the beach in Cornwall, where they had been going since Hermione was small. They stayed in a quaint cottage and Hermione usual spent her time there reading on the beach, splashing in the waves with her father, working on her summer homework, or going for walks through the town at night with her mother. She had never had any friends before, so she had normally relished this opportunity, but this year was different.

Sure, she still loved reading on the beach and splashing in the waves and walking and, of course, doing homework, but it was harder to enjoy those things without Harry and Neville. Every night she would talk to her mother and father, talk about school and her classes and the wizarding world, and she could never get through one story without mentioning Harry or Neville.

When he parents asked her on her grade standing, she answered “I’m top in all my classes except for Herbology and Flying. I’m top in Herbology too, really, but Neville’s top as well and his instincts are a lot better than mine. Neville’s always reading books about plants, I promised him I would pick some of that pink nettle from outside our house and show it to him, he’s crazy about learning about Muggle plants since most of the ones near his house are magic---“

When her parents asked her about the food, she said “Well, I don’t care for it as much as I do home food, but it is very good and filling. My friend Harry, he never used to eat very much, but Neville kept mothering him—he’s very sweet, Neville, and so is Harry—so now Harry eats more than Neville, and Neville eats a lot! Harry’s friends with one of the people who work in the kitchens, I’ve never met her but he says she’s nice, she always gives him treats and we eat them while we study—“

So yes, she loved her mother and father and vacation. But every day, she missed Harry and Neville and thought, with more and more worry, about Harry’s mean uncle.

It was going to be a long summer.

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Neville, normally happy as a clam after a day gathering flowers in the sun, was mopey and quiet. Augusta humphed. It was the third time that week.

“Neville! Stop slouching and picking at your food.”

“Yes, gran,” the boy mumbled, and he corrected his position slightly and stopped twirling his fork around his plate.

“Neville, what’s wrong with you? Are you ill?” She held a hand to his forehead and Neville shook his head glumly.

“No, Gran. I just miss Hogwarts.” Trevor poked his head out of Neville’s pocket and croaked his aggreement.

Gussie Longbottom sighed. Her son had been a wonderful, popular boy, always with friends over in the summer. Neville was quiet and more introverted, in part to his mother and in part to the life he had lived, and she was often at a loss of what to do. What Frank would want wasn’t always what Neville would want, but she tried her best. As she would do in this case.

“Why don’t you write some of your little friends and invite them over for a few weeks at the end of summer? I can take you all to Diagon Alley for supplies and maybe you could camp out in the yard?” August suggested, with little hope it would have any effect. Neville had never had many friends—it was probably some incredibly rare and interesting plant the boy was missing. So she was surprised, pleasantly so, when Neville sat straight up in his seat and gaped at her.

“I could—I could really invite them? Truly?”

Gussie smiled warmly at her grandson. “Of course. We’ll write the letters tomorrow, all right?”

Neville didn’t answer, just leapt up and hugged his gran as hard as he could. As soon as he sat down, he started eating and chattering about his best friends and what they would do when they came and stayed for the summer.

The summer wasn’t going to be long at all.

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Harry was scrubbing out the breakfast pots in the kitchen when he heard Uncle Vernon bellow.

“POTTER!”

Harry dropped the pots immediately and scampered to him. The last time he had ‘cheeked’ Uncle Vernon by being late, he’d been thrown into the cupboard with such force he’d gotten detergent all over himself and had needed to sneak out of the cupboard later that night to rinse his hair out with the garden hose.

Harry had taken to spending parts of his nights out in the garden. With Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia asleep, it was very easy to sneak from his cupboard to the kitchen door to the yard. He would sit there pretending, and sometimes Hedwig would come and leave him a letter and he would pet the bird and hand off his letter to the Professor and then he would read his letter, slowly in the dark so as to make every word last longer. He had fashioned, on the back of one of Snape’s letters, a little calendar, by which he figured that it was only two and a half weeks until he left for Hogwarts. Sometimes it felt like two and a half years.

As Harry approached Uncle Vernon, he wondered if he’d found out about that. He hadn’t really been doing anything wrong, just sitting. Could he get in trouble for that? But then he saw what was clenched in his uncles meaty fist.

A letter.

“So,” his uncle said, breathing heavily. “So.” His uncle seemed too angry to even get the words out.

Harry gulped and started to back toward his cupboard.

He didn’t make it.

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Neville had been sitting on his porch all day, excited and ready for the beginning of two weeks of fun with his friends.

Hermione had written him back immediately, her little handwriting taking up the whole page with her excitement and all the things she had to tell him, and had he heard from Harry, because she hadn’t.

Harry hadn’t written back, but Gran had reassured Neville. “Eleven year old boys are bad letter-writers,” she said, giving him a bit of a look. “How many letters did I get from you this year, hmm?”

Neville blushed and nodded.

He couldn’t wait for Harry and Hermione to come. His Gran had promised to be very nice to them and not bother them when they were camping out in the tent. She had bought spaghetti and hot dogs and all of Neville’s favorite foods.

“I can’t believe they’re coming today!” Neville had said happily. “It’s the perfect birthday gift, isn’t it Gran?”

“Yes,” Augusta said. “For you and Harry.”

Neville stopped celebrating and turned to his gran, curiousity written on his face.

“It’s Harry’s birthday? But he never told me!”

Neville immediately ran into the house and came back with a crudely wrapped gift.

“I knew it was in the summer, of course,” Neville said when he returned. “But he never said the date! Oh, I’m glad I have his gift already! I wonder if Hermione does?”

As soon as he mentioned her name, she arrived.

“Hermione!” Neville cried out, and he ran to her talking a mile a minute. The Grangers, who had arrived in a silvery thing that Hermione called a ‘car’ were looking at the house in approval.

“Mrs. Longbottom? Hi, I’m Hermione’s dad, Dave. Beautiful place you have here.”

“The flowers are just amazing,” Hermione’s Mum said. “No wonder Hermione goes on about Neville’s skill with plants!”

Augusta smiled at them both. Hermione looked stricken and she had run to her mother.

“Mum! Mum! Did we pack Harry’s gift?”

“No, hon, it’s in the back seat, with Neville’s.”

The girl immediately present Neville with his, but he decided to wait for Harry.

It was very dark before he arrived.

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Harry rang the doorbell that night at eigth thirty. Neville had been sitting on the couch, chewing his lip, as Hermione patted him on the shoulder.

“Neville, it’s all right. I’m sure Harry didn’t mean to be so late.”

“Perhaps there was traffic,” Dave offered as he watched the two in concern. “Or his relatives got a late start.”

Jane nodded. “Oh, pumpkin, don’t worry. He’s probably at the door right—“

The doorbell rang and Neville bolted to the door, Hermione close behind him.

“Harry!” he yelled as he opened the door, but then he stopped and looked at the boy in worry.

“What happened to you?” Neville asked.

“I fell out of a tree,” Harry said, and he stepped inside. His arm was incased in a puffy white cast and one of his eyes was blacked. Neville was nervous, for a moment, and Hermione looked like she might cry, but then Harry smiled his same shy, Harry smile, and he extended his arm.

“You can go first, Neville, since it’s your birthday.” He handed Neville a marker and let Neville sign his cast.

“Well!” said Augusta, breaking the spell. “The spaghetti’s ready, why don’t we eat?” She didn’t mention the spaghetti had been ready since six. “Toss your bag down where ever, Harry, and lets eat, we’re all starving!”

Harry blushed and looked at the floor. “I’m sorry I was late, Mrs. Longbottom, but my Aunt and Uncle got lost.”

Dave smiled and clapped Harry on his shoulder. “Well, why don’t we all go eat, hmm? Gus, is it okay if Jane and I stay as well? I’ve been smelling that spaghetti cooking all afternoon, I’d love to have some.”

“Sure. Kids, why don’t you set the table. Neville, show everyone where the cutlery is.”

As Gus and Jane ushered the kids into the kitchen, Dave peeked out the window.

Down the very long road, he could see no car lights.

Harry sat at the table, smiling hesitantly at Hermione and Neville and wondering what he was going to do.

He had been surprised at the extent of his uncle’s wrath. Harry did admit that Uncle Vernon really hadn’t meant to break his arm, he looked almost as horrified as Harry when he did it—though he was worried about the law and Harry was worried about his arm.

Uncle Vernon had made him pack all his belongings into an old ruck-sack of Dudley’s. There wasn’t much to pack, which was good, because Harry kept blacking out whenever his arm hit something. He had Snape’s letters, his wand, four Galleons, two large pairs of trousers, two shirts, a sweater, three pairs of socks, and his school shoes, which he’d been wearing all summer. He had then been driven to London (again) to a local hospital there, and had his arm set and put in a cast. Then Uncle Vernon had taken him, given him the letter he was so angry about (probably scared that he’d be caught with incriminating evidence) and then driven away.

Again.

Harry had almost started to cry, but he wouldn’t let himself. He asked people around him the way to King’s Cross, and from there he had gotten to platform 9¾. He hadn’t exactly known what he would do from there, but he was lucky. There was a Floo Network, and the man there said that he could spend a Galleon to get to York, where the letter said Neville lived. He’d asked directions there from a kindly witch who apparated him halfway, and then Harry had walked the rest of the way.

“Harry,” Mr. Granger said, and Harry was jerked out of his musings. “You haven’t eaten.”

Harry looked at his plate and was surprised to see it empty.

“I, I didn’t—“ Harry was about to say that he didn’t know he could eat, but that would sound stupid and he didn’t want Mr. Granger to think him stupid. He was a tall, handsome man with Hermione’s color hair and eyes. He laughed a lot and smiled a lot and was talking about Hermione as a little girl in a way that made Harry wish he’d had his parents picture.

“Oh, Harry’s always thinking about something, aren’t you, Harry?” Neville said cheerfully as he started spooning spaghetti onto Harry’s plate. “He always loses himself at meals, doesn’t he, Hermione?”

Hermione nodded. “Yes. He does.”

Harry looked at Neville and Hermione. He didn’t do that—well, he did, but not without putting food on his plate. What were they playing at?

He didn’t question it, though. He smiled sheepishly and dug in to the tastiest spaghetti he had ever eaten. He didn’t even notice when Neville slipped two meatballs in, or added extra spoonfuls of spaghetti. He simply tried to relax and pretend that this was they way things were meant to be for him, always.

After dinner Harry opened his presents.

“I know your birthday is tomorrow,” Neville said proudly. “But I wanted to give you your now, so we could open them together.”

He was surprised to get anything—all the Dursleys had given him was the broken arm. But he was stunned to receive a picture frame from Neville with dried daisies stuck along the edges and a picture of them three on the inside, and a Muggle set of water colors from Hermione.

He fell asleep that night wondering what he had done to get such great friends.

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Severus Snape was slightly surprised when Hedwig flew through his window mid day.

“That was awfully fast,” he said to the bird as he took the letter from her ankle. “It normally takes you a couple more hours to even get to Surrey, let alone get there and back.”

Then Severus opened the letter and his puzzlement was answered.

“Dear Professor Snape”, the letter read.

“I am writing this in a tent in Neville’s back yard! He invited me and Hermione to stay for the end of summer and I have gone and am staying with the Longbottoms. I did not want to worry you so I wrote immediately immedetily as soon as I could.

I am fine and I hope you are too. I have taken my potion every day and I feel very healthy. Thank you very much for the book, it is very interesting. Neville likes to read it and see what plants interact with one another, but I only let him look at it with me because it is special and a present.

We spend a lot of time out doors and I have collected these potions ingredients to send to you to thank you for writing me so often and being so kind. I miss Hogwarts and you very much and cannot wait to be back at school.

Neville says I can tell you that he is very sorry he got in the queens way, but I told him he was being stupid and the queen did what she wanted and it wasn’t anyone’s fault but hers. He also said to tell you that I will be able to buy my school books as we are going to Diagon Alley in three days and I am very excited because I have never been.

I can’t wait until Hogwarts!

Yours truly,

Harry Potter”

Severus put the letter down on the desk and gave a small smile at it. So, Potter had a few weeks of fun. Better than him being worked to the bone in that house. Severus sent the letter over to where he kept the others and surveyed the plants Harry had sent. Comfrey, vervain, hyssop and fennel. Nothing extraordinary, but he put them in his desk drawer and turned around to look at the picture of Lily and James.

“You have a wonderful son,” he said softly. Then he got up to get Hedwig her feed dish.

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Harry was having the time of his life at the Longbottom Estate. Located about three hours outside of the city of York, it was a flat, grassy place filled to the brim with funny plants and places to go. Harry and Neville had been exploring everywhere whilst Hermione trailed behind them, rattling off facts about the War of the Roses and tidbits on the magical world she had picked up from Neville’s gran. Sometimes, Harry would paint pictures with his water color set of flowers and rocks and sometimes Neville and Hermione. He was horrible at painting people, and whenever he tried they spent hours laughing at what he had done to them.

“That can’t be Hermione, it has to be a beaver, look at that brown spot!”

“Neville, you look like a barrel of cod fish!”

Dr. Granger and Dr. Granger had stayed over for a few nights, taking the kids in to town to get ice cream some evenings, where they all laughed at the town peoples funny accents.

“How come you don’t speak like that, Nev?” Harry asked as he ate his ice cream.

Neville shrugged. “I lived in London until I was four. Then I moved out here, and I mostly stay with Gran and she doesn’t take this way, so I guess it just never stuck.

“Lucky you,” Harry said, and they all giggled.

Dave had taught Harry and Neville how to make a campfire, and they camped out every evening. They sat around the fire and talked, then retreated to tents or, some nights, just sleeping bags.

Two days before the summer was to end (best summer of Harry’s life to date, and definitely better than last years), Neville’s gran, who had told the children to call her Gran or Gus but Harry persisted in calling Mrs. Longbottom, took them in to Diagon Alley.

Harry had enjoyed the Alley itself. He had bought all his school books and a few just for reading. Neville had discovered a brilliant book series about a boy named Liam who was a cabin boy on a magical pirate ship. Harry and Neville promptly bought the first four books, splitting the cost between them, and Hermione wrinkled her nose but Harry got the feeling she would be borrowing them all the time.

On their way out of the store, Hermione noticed something set up in the back of the shop.

“Look, they’re setting up for something.”

Neville wrinkled his nose. “Probably some boring witch who wrote some book on house cleaning. C’mon, we still have to go to Florean Fortescue’s!”

The ice cream at Fortescue’s was fantastic, and Harry was just finishing his off when in walked someone not terribly high on his list of people.

Ron Weasley had stormed into the store, followed by a gaggle of other red heads. A tall man who looked like Ron’s father was briskly trying to catch up with Ron.

“Now, Ron—“

“I hate them! I hate them all, I wish they would die!”

“Ron, I know it’s hard to have people like Malfoy do those sorts of things, but you have to be the bigger man—“

“I don’t want to be the bigger man! I want to have a bigger house, and first hand books, and I want to be able to laugh at the Malfoy’s!”

Ron suddenly caught sight of Harry and he clammed up, his face and ugly puce as he scowled.

At that moment, Percy Weasley entered the shop, and Harry smiled and waved.

“Hi, Percy!”

Hermione, who had just finished her vanilla ice cream, looked up and smiled as well, only she took it a step further and actually pulled Neville and Harry up to Percy.

“Percy, I’ve learned so much this summer! I couldn’t do any magic, of course, but I’ve learned all the things I could and I’ve read so many books—“

Percy was smiling and listening when suddenly two voices interrupted.

“Wow it’s a—“

“Mini-Percy. How—“

“Terrifying!” The twins, who were attatched to the twin voices laughed, until one of them really looked at Harry.

“Harry Potter,” he breathed out in awe. Harry suddenly found both his hands being shaken at once.

“Pleasure to meet you, m’boy—“

“We’re honored—“

“We tried all year to get rid of Quirrell—“

“But then this twidgy little first year does it for us!”

“The cheek!” Harry shivered a little at the word.

“Luckily, we don’t bear grudges.”

“Just honor the genius of the Boy who Got Rid of the Git.”

“We tried everything.”

“Everything.”

“Wish we’d gotten you in on it at first, would have been a lot faster!”

Harry felt slightly at a loss, especially since he couldn’t think of Quirrell withouth hearing him screaming. Harry gave a small smile and tried to back away.

“Fred, George, get off of him now!” Percy barked, and he seperated them from Harry with frightening ease. “Harry, Neville, good to see you both. Fred, George, Dad wants you at the counter to order.”

Ron had already given the cashier his order and was sulking near Harry.

“Already center of attention with my family,” he muttered. “Bet they adopt you and leave me for dirt, that’s how much I matter to anyone.”

“Hello, Ron,” Harry tried pleasantly. “How’s your summer been?”

Ron glared, then snuck a peek over his shoulder. His father was looking at him. “Fine.”

“What’d you do?”

Ron shrugged. “Played Quidditch, mostly.”

“Wicked, I haven’t played since class. Going out for the team?”

Ron shrugged again, but he seemed less angry at Harry now, more neutral. “Probably not. I mean, I’ll go out, but I’m a rotten seeker, I’m too tall. Probably wait to be chaser or keeper.”

“Cool,” Neville interjected.

At Ron’s side was a small red-headed girl who was staring up at Harry with quiet awe. She was holding a cauldron, and inside it were lots of books—first years, by the look of it.

“Hi,” Harry said, and the girl blushed and almost dropped her cauldron, which made a loud noise against Harry’s cast.

“What happened to your arm?” Ron asked, poking Harry’s cast. Harry shrugged.

“Fell out of a tree,” he answered, and the little girl looked even more impressed.

“Ouch. Hey, Gin fell out of a tree too. Yesterday, she almost killed herself, except she bounced.”

Gin blushed red and looked at her feet.

“Oh, I did that too,” Neville volunteered. “Only it was out of my window.”

Ginny looked back up in more awe at both Harry and Neville.

Mrs. Longbottom took them home soon after that, and Harry packed all his things into his little rucksack over and over again in anticipation for a wonderful year at Hogwarts.

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Severus Snape had never been so anxious for the students to return.

He had been pacing his office, nervous, when Hedwig had flown in through the special owl chute and hooted.

“Is it in?”

She hooted again.

Severus walked briskly upstairs, looking over the students as they piled out of their carriages and walked, chatting with each other, up to the castle. He scanned the crowds eagerly, but when he found Harry he felt cold.

The boy was walking with Neville and Hermione, of course, and while the other two were talking, Harry was just looking at the castle like he’d come home.

He reached up to push his glasses up on his nose, and the boys robes fell back to show a Muggle cast.

Snape went cold and charged to where to older students were coming through the doors. He waited there until Harry walked through.

“Mr. Potter,” he said, and Harry turned and smiled at him shyly.

“Hello, Professor. Did you—“

“Your trunk, Mr. Potter. Please come fetch it.” The boys face fell and Snape could kick himself. Of course, he would rather kick the Dursleys.

“Y-yes, sir. Erm,” he said, turning to Neville and Hermione, “Would you two save a seat for me?”

“Sure, Harry.” The two headed off, Hermione throwing a worried look over her shoulder.

As soon as they hit Snape’s office, Snape spun and lifted Harry’s arm.

“What is this?”

“Err—it’s a cast, sir.”

“I know what it is, Potter, but why is one on your person?” Snape knew he sounded angry, and he was, but not at Harry, so he tried to calm down. “How did you get the cast, Potter?”

“I—I—“ Harry stammered. He hadn’t thought Snape would be angry about him getting hurt. Was he angry that Harry hadn’t been good while at home? He’d tried, he had, but he couldn’t do it. “I fell out of a tree, sir.”

Snape slammed an open hand into the stone wall of his office. “Tell me the truth.”

“It is!” Please, Harry thought, please believe me. I tried so hard, does one little bone really count?

Snape stepped back and scrutinized Harry. “I want you,” he said softly, dangerously, “To tell me the truth in five seconds. If not, the consequences will not be pretty.” Snape circled Harry once. “There are ways to find out when a wizard lies, Potter.”

Harry swallowed and looked down at his cast. “I—I got into a fight.” And he had, sort of. Uncle Vernon had definitely been fighting.

“With whom?”

“My—my uncle, sir.” Harry bit his lip. “I tried, sir, I really did try to do everything he said, but Neville sent me a letter and it just came through the slot with the regular mail, and he just got really angry—he didn’t mean to, he took my to the hospital—Please, sir, I’m sorry!“

“Potter, calm down.” Snape sat at his desk and looked at a clock. Two minutes before they had to head back to the feast. “I’m not angry with you.”

Harry blinked. “But—what? I thought—“

“You thought wrong. I won’t be angry with you because someone decides to break your arm. I will be angry—“ here Snape let a little anger come through, “—if you ever lie to me again. Is that quite clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

And the two headed back to the feast, leaving Harry’s trunk along with the others at the stairs.

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Dave Granger looked at the phone book in his hand.

There were no Potters listed in Little Whinging. He hadn’t a clue what the boy’s relatives were called. He sighed, and he closed the phone book.

For now, the kid was safe. He’d only known him for a few days. He’d give it til the next break—and he’d get all the information he could.

Right then, it was the best he could do.

Harry was yawning at breakfast as Neville shovelled eggs onto both his and Harry’s plates. Parvati Patil had gotten a bewitched gramaphone for her birthday, and Seamus, Ron, and Lavendar had spent the whole night blasting music in the Common Room and laughing.

Everyone was bleary-eyed and exhausted and was glaring at Parvati, the only one not particularly affected. Harry, Hermione, and Neville had been the first to bed, and Harry took a certain smug delight in glaring down Seamus and tapping his plate loudly with his fork before eating. Seamus winced and transferred his glare to his plate.

“It’s the first day,” Neville said as he dug into a mound of eggs on his own plate. “We need strength, especially with Potions first.”

Seamus groaned from across the table. “As if we needed the reminder, Lard-bottom.”

“How could anyone eat after the thought of Double Potions?” Lavender said, then giggled with Parvati. Ron shot a look at her, then pushed his plate away.

“I can’t.”

Dean Thomas, who had abstained from the music as well, grinned wryly at the group. “You know, it’s your own fault, all of you. If you’d been sensible like Harry and Neville and me—“

“If we’d been sensible, Dean, we wouldn’t have any fun,” Seamus shot back.

“Yeah, well, look how much good that fun’ll do you in Double Potions with Snape and the Slytherins.”

Harry was playing with his eggs.

“Not really hungry,” he said to Neville. Neville gave him his own type of look, one that he now saw Augusta Longbottom in, and Harry put a forkful of eggs by his mouth, then into his mouth, then immediately took another. The eggs were quite good.

As the Gryffindor’s trooped down to Double Potions, they were ambushed by a tall man with ridiculously white teeth in an impossibly wide smile.

“Harry Potter!” he called out, and when Harry turned he felt himself being pulled into a fierce handshake. He stiffened and pulled his broken arm in toward his body. “Ah, my boy, no need to reign it in! It must be astonishingly refreshing to have someone who knows how to deal with a student of your caliber.”

“Err—what?” Harry said as he pulled away. Neville and Hermione suddenly flanked him.

“Come, come, Harry—no need to be shy! I know the burden that power can be. I have to shoulder it quite frequently myself.” Here he paused and flashed the Gryffindors a dashing smile.

“I’m—who are you?” Harry asked, confused and slightly nervous of this strange man.

The man threw back his head in a laugh, then reached forward and forcefully tousled Harry’s hair. Harry leaned his head away and tried to put his hair back into some semblence of order.

“Little scamp!” the man said, laughingly.

Harry narrowed his eyes in a passable impression of Professor Snape. He wasn’t little, he was twelve.

“Why, I’m your professor, of course! Hard to give up a life of adventure, but, well, Dumbledore came to me and I couldn’t refuse the dear.”

Harry stared. He didn’t think that anyone could really refer to Dumbledore as a ‘dear’. “Professor?”

“Yes, yes! You must have missed my big announcement yesterday, at Flourish and Blotts!” Seeing the clueless look on most of the Gryffindor’s faces, he shook his head, still smiling. “ I am Gilderoy Lockhart, my boy! Order of Merlin, third class, honorary member of the Dark Force Defense League, and of course—“

“Five time winner of Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile Award!” squealed Parvati, and Lavender began to squeal with her. Ron looked enlightened, Seamus looked irritated, Dean looked amused and Neville merely looked confused.

“I see my reputation precedes me!” Lockhart beamed, and Harry took an instant dislike to the man.

“Oh,” Hermione said, and she poked Harry hard in the side. “Harry, he wrote all our books!”

Harry blinked and looked at the man. He found it doubtful that the man could even read.

“Well, you little scamps better get off to your classes!” The boys all glared at Lockhart in unison. They weren’t scamps, they were second years. “I’ll be seeing you soon enough, never fear!” He boomed a laugh and ruffled Harrys hair again, either ignoring or not noticing the glower Harry was send his way. “And Harry, if you ever feel the need for a mentor—well, seeing how tragic it is, with your parentss dead, no one to instruct you in your power—you may always come to me, lad.”

With that he walked away, stopping to harass some first years who looked terrified to be addressed by such a teacher.

“Barking,” Ron said, and the rest of the boys fervently agreed. It was probably the first time since they had all known each other that they had completely agreed on something.

“Fresh meat,” said Seamus, and there was a slow grin that overtook all of them, even Harry and Neville. Sure, Gryffindors were good, but they were also twelve year old boys. The girls seemed caught up in Lockhart’s good looks and didn’t pay much mind.

It was a good thing that Neville hadn’t expected preferential treatment from Snape due to the events of last year, because Snape had decided that, to ‘ascertain their miniscule abilities’ he would divide them up into mixed house groups. Neville spent nearly the whole lesson jumping while Goyle grunted.

Their potion, which was meant to be green, was puce.

Harry worked quietly with Blaise Zabini, a graceful black boy with aristocratic features and airs, though he seemed to put them aside as he and Harry worked on the potion. Their potion turned out only a shade or so lighter than Hermione’s.

“Not bad, Potter,” Zabini had said as they waited for the professor to come and grade it.

Hermione’s perfect potion had been achieved by simply giving Pansy Parkinson a bottle of nail polish. She did her nails the whole time and happily accepted the grade.

Ron Weasley, however, was not so lucky. He was paired with Draco Malfoy, and the two seemed to spend more time cursing each other or trying to stare each other to death than actually make their potion. When it finally exploded, Ron had been blown back full force.

Draco simply grinned. “Oh, Weasley, I’m sorry. Here, let me get your things,” he said, and for a moment Harry had thought he’d seen three books in Rons bag where there had previously been two, but Ron had snatched the bag away from Malfoy and snarled at him to get off before Harry could get a proper look.

Potions was not a success that day.

Snape called them all dunderheads and sent them all out with a grand loss of thirty points to Gryffindor. Neville, Harry, and Hermione quietly made their way to the front of the greenhouse for Herbology.

“Ah,” Neville said happily as he plopped onto a stool. “Herbology.”

Harry noticed then that Neville was different then he had been at school last year. Maybe it was because he was with Harry and Hermione constantly that summer, or because he had actually gotten the hang of the castle lay out and didn’t get so lost, or because Seamus rarely picked on him, but Neville seemed happier. His eyes looked less like a kicked dog and more like a happy puppy. He smiled more, and his round face shone at times, and Harry wondered if he was the same way.

Then he looked down at his arm, where you could see the cast poking out from underneath his robe.

Harry tugged on his sleeve and sighed. He had changed, he supposed. He had friends and had food regularly and had a place to call home. But he would never change enough that the Dursleys would accept him, and even though Harry didn’t think that was what he really wanted, it would be a nice thing to happen.

He thought about the Mirror of Erised, then, and he sighed again. He’d never change enough for that.

Neville turned and looked at Harry’s face. “Harry, what’s wrong?” he asked, concern etched over his pudgy features. His eyes darted down to the sleeve he was tugging on. “Does your arm hurt?”

“My arm’s fine, don’t worry. Madam Pomfrey says she can take the cast off first week of October.”

That made Hermione sit up and take notice. “You never did tell us, Harry, what happened to your arm.”

Harry looked at the classsroom doors. “Yes I did. I told you that first night at Neville’s, remember? I fell out of a tree.”

Neville bit his lip. “Harry,” he said softly, “You told us once though, remember? The only tree on your block was that big old oak tree at the very end of it, and it got sick and they took it down and you made a little burial for it with some sticks.”

Harry froze, then stared down at the table. “I never said the tree was on my block. It was near the school yard.”

Professor Sprout entered after that, and Harry spent the rest of the period repotting Mandrakes with his ear muffs firmly on.

0000000000000000000000000000000

Hermione Granger frowned as she read a sentence in her Charms book for the fifth time without really absorbing any of the knowledge.

She was too busy looking at Harry Potter as he sat with Neville encouraging Chocolate Frogs to jump into little cups. As she watched, Neville let out a victorious ‘Got one!’ and Harry immediately snatched the cup and pushed it closer to the fire.

“Hot chocolate, Mr. Potter?” Neville said as he retrieved the cup, filling with slightly animate chocolate.

“Don’t mind if I do, Mr. Longbottom.” The two immediately started to laugh, and Nevile accidentally knocked over the cup, which only made the two laugh harder.

Hermione smiled and looked back at the book, reading the sentence the sixth time and still not comprehending it.

Harry was happy a lot of the time, Hermione knew, and he hadn’t always been last year. In the summer it had never seemed to matter, because Harry was always happy except that first night, but back at school she could see the difference.

He was quieter, she could tell, more restrained in his actions. His wand, which he had kept carelessly shoved in his rucksack the whole time, was often in his hand or within easy distance. During meals he ate less (though he still ate more than he had last year, and he no longer looked as pinched and frightened) and he kept darting looks at the head table. She didn’t even think he realized he was doing it.

Hermione wasn’t blind. She knew that, even if Harry had fallen from a tree, it probably wouldn’t have broken his arm and blackened his eye. She saw, every time she looked at Harry’s arm, the fat man with the terrifying moustache pulling him away on the very same arm Harry now had the cast. She could tell how skilled Harry was at changing the subject, how shy his smile was, and she could see how vulnerable he seemed, sometimes. The only place she ever saw him completely relax, aside from the common room with her and Neville, was in Potions. I mean, he always seemed a little nervous, but it was less so there than almost anywhere, and she didn’t know why. She didn’t know why they had gone to Snape last year, she didn’t know who Snape was, what his alliance was.

She didn’t know a great many things, and Hermione hated not knowing.

Hermione Granger scowled and re-read the sentence again.

Something was going on with her friend, and she was going to find out what it was. And she felt like the first step in her discovery would be to talk to Professor Snape.

Well, maybe not the first step. Maybe the second. She would go to McGonagall first. No—she would go to Harry.

And, her decision made, Hermione read the sentence one last time and read on.

The entire year of Gryffindor boys had a unified scowl across their faces the next morning as they went to their Defense class.

“Think of it,” Seamus said as they headed down the corridor. “We just shove the fat arse’s toad into his robes, bet he screams like a girl!”

Neville clutched Trevor in a sweaty hand, and Harry said “Leave off, Seamus. You screamed like a girl when Trevor jumped into your robes by accident.”

Seamus spluttered that he’d done no such thing, but no one was listening.

Lavender and Parvati had spent all of breakfast primping and gushing. Even Hermione looked a little dreamy eyed, which Harry hoped she would snap out of.

When they arrived at class, Harry was shocked to see a test on everyones desk.

“What? But we haven’t even had a class yet!” Ron howled, and Lockhart shook his head, smiling.

“It’s all common knowledge from the books, my dear boy! Now, hop to it, you’re running out of time!”

Neville and Harry were staring at their tests. They exchanged a look with each other.

“Is he serious?” Harry whispered, and Neville shrugged.

“I think he’s nutters,” Neville murmered back. He scanned down the page and nodded firmly. “Nutters.”

Harry looked down at Hermione, who was sitting in the front row. “How come she’s not sitting with us?”

“Lockhart Fever,” Neville said glumly.

“Boys! No talking during the test, if you please! I know it must be hard, to finally be facing the Gilderoy Lockhart, but try to contain yourselves, hmm?”

Dean, from behind them, muttered “I wish I could contain him. Just shove him in a barrell, no one’d miss him—“

Then they all got to work on their tests.

Seamus merely spent the whole time writing the filthiest answers he could think of: ‘Gilderoy Lockhart’s secret ambition is to try on all his mums underwear and run down the street wearing it.’ The name at the top of his test was Seymour Butts, which Seamus thought ridiculously witty.

Neville wrote answers that restated the question five or ten times.

‘Gilderoy Lockhart’s secret ambition is very secret and ambitious and it will change the world, it is so ambitious and secretive.’

Harry put down answers like ‘If Gilderoy Lockhart has a secret ambition, he guards it so well that no one knows at all’ and ‘Gilderoy Lockhart’s favorite color is blue, to match his eyes.’ Seamus was reading it over his shoulder, and he snorted.

“Should’ve done what I’ve done, Potter. This’ll give him a kick in the pants.” Seamus brandished his test at the back of Harry’s head.

Harry wrote down for the next answer ‘Gilderoy Lockhart’s greatest achievement to date is receiving a kick in the pants from a twelve year old.’

A half an hour later, Lockhart collected the tests and made distressed noises with his tounge.

“Tsk, tsk. Now, boys,” he said, waving Seamus’ test paper in the air, “Is this really a productive way to spend a Hogwarts education?”

Seamus was sniggering while Ron and Dean shook with barely surpressed laughter. Neville was biting the inside of his cheek in a way that made him look like he was about to have an apoplexy, and Harry had such a firm grip on his quill he nearly snapped it.

“Now, where is Mr—“ Seamus was hitting Harry on the shoulder, and Harry pushed him off irritatedly. “Mr. Butts?”

Seamus was stood up, unable to keep the laughter out of his voice.

“He’s just gone to the bathroom, sir.”

Dean piped in, then. “He thought he did really well, sir, he poured over those books of yours all night, reading up.”

Ron had put his head down on his desk and was making funny snorting sounds.

Lockhart looked even more puffed up after that. “Well, I’m sure the boy merely has a faulty memory—full marks for effort! Now, Mr. Butts—“ Seamus, now seated, was cracking up so hard his head hit the desk with a thud, “—should have taken a page from Miss Granger’s book. Miss Granger remembered my dearest ambition is to rid the world of evil and market my own range of hair care potions—Miss Brown, you were close, but it’s not to rid the world of evil BY marketing my own range of hair care potions, though that may work too, I suppose. But Miss Granger—perfectly done, my dear, perfect! Fifteen points for Gryffindor!”

Hermione looked as though she might faint.

“Know-it-all’s been brainwashed,” Ron whispered, and Harry threw him a glare.

“Don’t call her that. She’s just worried about her marks, that’s all.”

Lockhart had, while they talked, started to give a speech about the dangerous beasts that lurked within the wizarding world, circling a covered cage that rattled as he did so. Harry only payed attention when he heard Lockhart intone in a deep, serious voice “I must ask you not to scream. It may provoke them!” With a flourish, he pulled he cover off the cage to reveal—

Pixies.

Dean let a laugh escape him and Lockhart looked over fondly. “There, there, my boy, nothing to be frightened of!”

“C-Cornish Pixies?” Seamus stuttered out, trying to hold back his laughter and failing miserably. “But—but they’re not—“

Suddenly, before Seamus could finish the thought, Lockhart bellowed “Let’s see what you make of them!” and yanked the cage door open.

It was mayhem, utter mayhem. Harry immediately dove under their desk, pulling Neville with him, while a pair of pixies swooped down and grabbed Ron’s wand out of his robe pocket.

“Oi! That’s mine!” Ron howled, but the pixies just giggled nastily and flew around the room with it, sparking people.

Hermione had, at first, started to try to freeze them, but when she saw she was the only one still trying, she gave up and retreated to Harry and Neville’s desk.

Unfortunately, Neville’s ankle stuck out of the protection of the desk, and frighteningly quickly, Neville was no longer there, but floating towards the ceiling shrieking.

“Get me down! Get me down!” he cried out, and Harry felt a sudden roaring of power like ocean waves behind his ears—

Then the pixies were floating, immobilized, through the air.

“Professor, get Neville down!” Hermione cried, and Lockhart just stared at her before letting out a bark of laughter.

“Of course, my dear, of course!” he roared, and he pushed back his sleeves and cried out “Winglaudiam Leviosare!”

The candelabra Neville was hanging from suddenly disintegrated, and he plunged through the air, landing directly on Lockhart.

The Gryffindor boys waited until they were a safe distance out of the room, then Harry and Dean hoisted Neville onto their shoulders and carried him to the Great Hall, cheering.

Professor McGonagall gave them detention for foolhardiness, of course, but Harry thought it was worth it until he showed up to the Great Hall Friday night to find out where he was headed.

He barely stifled his groan when he saw it was Lockhart.

Dean made a noise as well, and Neville just looked petrified, for Professor Snape was there as well.

“Potter,” Snape said, inclining his head downwards. “You’re with me.”

Neville and Harry both looked relieved.

“Oh, come now, Severus! Young Harry and I have a lot to discuss, I’ll take him, for tonight.”

Snape sneered. “And the other two? Come come, Professor, this is meant to be a punishment, not spend time with your fellow fools.”

Lockhart preened at that, seemingly not catching that he was a fool as well, by Snape’s classification. “Well, Severus, you’re right, of course. Longbottom, you’re with me! Thomas—“

“He’ll be with me,” Professor McGonagall said sharply.

The three boys split ways, Neville looking pleadingly over his shoulder as Lockhart tugged him away.

Harry was grateful to find himself in detention with the professor. He made a bee line for the cleaning supplies, for he normally scrubbed out cauldrons or stubborn stains on the desks, and was surprised when Snape grabbed his arm and firmly led him to the chair in front of his desk.

Harry wondered what he had done now, and he remembered the question in reserve, and he looked down at his arm and tugged his robe over it.

Without speaking, Snape produced a potions vial.

“Drink, Potter.” Harry downed it and smiled faintly. It was the same cherry flavor of his other potion, but a different consistancy. So smooth it ran down his throat without swallowing.

“What was that, sir?”

“It’s a diagnostic potion, Potter, don’t you know anything?”

“N-no, sir. What’s it do, sir?

“It’s designed to go through your body and make any injuries or ailments light up.” Harry’s arm suddenly flashed a bright red.

“Oh. But, uhm, I already got checked over by Madam—“

“Be quiet, Potter, and let me conduct my own check over, hmm? After all, you’ve lied to me before—“ Harry looked at his shoes, “—and I won’t have you lying again about personal injuries, you could severely hurt yourself and others. Now hold still.”

Harry’s knee started to glow from beneath his robes and trousers.

“I did that playing in the creekbed by Neville’s house,” Harry said hurriedly. “Really, sir, his gran put a plaster on it and everything.”

Snape just sniffed and kept watching. Harry’s eye started to shine, faintly, and Snape tapped it, making Harry wince.

“And here?”

“I got a black eye.”

“From?” Harry opened his mouth, but Severus cut him off. “The tree, of course.”

Snape neutralized the effects of the potion with a flick of his wand, which made Harry relax. He hadn’t relished the idea of going back to the tower glowing like a torch.

“What happened, Potter?”

“I told you—“ Harry started, and Snape held up a hand.

“I want to know why these—“ he suddenly had a packet of Harry’s letters, “—never mentioned anything.”

Harry fidgeted. “There—there wasn’t much to mention, really. I mean, by the time I wrote you and my arm was broken, I was already at Neville’s, so I didn’t think it would matter, sir. I mean, you can’t fix a broken arm, and all the other times—“

“What other times?” Snape asked, his voice sharp, and Harry shrugged.

“You know, the other times I got in trouble, it was all over by the time I wrote. So, so I just thought that it wouldn’t matter, sir.”

“What did you get in trouble for, then, Potter?”

Harry scrunched his face up and started to play with his shirt cuff. “Uhm…mainly just for cheek.”

“Cheek?

“My attitude. Uncle Vernon said it was, er—not very good.”

“Your attitude.” Snape looked the boy over and wondered what kind of attitude the shy little boy could have. “And that consisted of?”

“Not remembering my place. He said Hogwarts—well, he didn’t call it that, but I knew that’s what he meant—he said it’d given me a bunch of bad habits and he had to, to remind me of my place.”

“And how did he do that?” Snape asked silkily. It was all he could do not to march the boy to Dumbledore immediately, point to his arm and scream ‘There’s your proof!’. Watch Dumbledore’s old face pale, watch him grip his desk and promise Potter would never go back, give Severus free reign over the Dursleys for ten minutes. He could tell Dumbledore, he knew, and all this would stop.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

“He just—I don’t know. I spent a lot of time in my cupboard. Uhm, and I had to do a lot of chores, and I kept forgetting that I wasn’t in Potions, because I was cooking, and I kept forgetting and asking Neville to hand me things and she’d think I was calling her names.”

“So your uncle merely—sends you to your cupboard when he finds you in the wrong?”

Harry nodded.

“Did you trip over something?”

“What?”

“When he sent you to your cupboard and you returned with a broken arm.”

Harry flushed and looked at the floor. “That—that was an accident. He didn’t mean to—“

“I’ve found it difficult to accidentally break people’s bones when escorting them to a closet.” Snape leaned in. “Come now, Potter, the truth.”

“He—it’s not an all the time thing, it was just the once, and he took me to the hospital—“

“That’s not an answer Potter.”

Harry exhaled. “He was just really mad, that’s all. He just got really mad.”

“Because of Longbottom’s letter.”

Harry nodded. “He thought it came by regular mail and that I’d given other wizards the address. So he just grabbed my arm and I pulled back, cause I was trying to get to my cupboard, but then he grabbed it with both his hands and something snapped. Then he took me to the hospital in London.”

“Why London?”

Harry looked at the floor.

“Potter. Why London?”

Severus, with a sickening feeling in his stomach, remembered the tiny, almost wild, angry, frightened little boy he’d found last year.

“He was going to leave you there again.” The bastard. The utter bastard. He’d kill him. Snape would kill him. It wasn’t even rage that was sinking in to him, just a terrifyingly cold wave of vengence. He would kill them, and he could wait to do it.

Harry gave a small nod. “But I, I got directions and I went to King’s Cross, and I went to Platform 9¾, it was the only place I could think of to go. But they have a Floo Network—have you ever traveled by floo, sir? I didn’t much like it, but I wasn’t about to complain—so I took the Floo to York, then a nice witch apparated me halfway, then I found Neville’s house and I went there.” Harry sent Snape a curious look. “Sir, why do you look so angry? I, I didn’t get lost or kidnapped or anything, I’m fine. What’s wrong?”

Snape closed his eyes and snapped “What’s wrong, Mr. Potter, is that you could have been killed.”

“No I couldn’t, Uncle Vernon stopped right away when he saw he’d broken my arm—“

“Not by him, you stupid boy. You could have been living on the streets again, is that really what you want?”

Harry still looked confused. “But—but I found a way out of it. Isn’t—didn’t that work? Wasn’t that the right thing to do?” He looked a little worried.

“The right thing to do was for you not to go back in the first place, or at least informed me—“

“But it wouldn’t have done any good!”

“I could have removed you from that house long before you were seriously injured—“

“But—“

“You must promise me that if you ever go back—“ Snape swore he would do his best to never let Harry go back, “You will write me the truth. Tell me everything.”

Harry looked up at his professor, and even though he felt nervous and worried and a little scared, something warm started to form in the pit of his stomach. Then he looked down at his arm and tugged on his sleeve to cover it.

He could try all he wanted, but Snape only cared he was hurt because he’d been bad. He would have to try really hard next summer.

“Yes, sir.”

Snape nodded, then nodded again. “It’s nearly curfew, Potter, you should at least scrub one cauldron before you go.” Harry stood up and headed for the cleaning supplies. “And Potter?” He turned back. “A wizard who pulls back on a promise is a very poor wizard indeed.”

Harry nodded, then started to scrub out a cauldron. It had been maybe five minutes before Harry heard a fainst voice come throught the walls.

‘…let me kill…’

“What?” harry said, dropping the cauldron, and Snape looked up from his work.

“What are you doing now, Potter?”

“I just—didn’t you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

Harry knew by the look on Snape’s face that he couldn’t hear it. He didn’t want Snape to think him crazy.

“N-nothing, sir. I’m just a bit tired, is all. I didn’t hear anything.”

Snape looked at him carefully for a moment, then gave a small nod. “all right, Potter, you can go. I shall inform Professor McGonagall that your detention has been served to my satisfaction.”

“T-thank you sir.”

Harry turned and fled the room, running back to Gryffindor Tower so fast that he had very little time to wonder whether he had heard anything or not.

After Harry’s detention with Snape, the weeks went by very quickly. Harry, Hermione, and Neville got fullly into the swing of classes, and their nights were consumed either by fooling around, or big group study sessions with Hermione. Harry was perfectly content, though a little disappointed he couldn’t fly in the Quidditch tryouts.

“I think I’d be pretty good,” he said to Neville as he watched Seamus, Ron, and Dean make their way to the pitch to try out for Seeker. “If I only didn’t—“ he waved his broken arm in the air and sighed.

“Aw, cheer up, Harry. You can go next year. Dean and Ron and Seamus won’t make the team either, you’ll see,” Neville said consolingly. He was right. A fourth year named Teddy Quincey made it.

Hermione had been watching Harry very closely, and whenever Harry caught her doing it she would open her mouth and then close it quickly. Harry thought it was weird, but he figured it must have something to do with Lockhart.

Harry had more immediate problems. Last year, he had been largely goggled over for the first few weeks, but after that people had started to accept that, even though he was Harry Potter, he was very shy and quiet and not very interesting to bother. However, the new first years seemed unable to grasp that idea, and the most persistant was one named Colin Creevy. He followed Harry and his friends constantly, day and night, until they took to studying in back corners of the library where Hermione cast little shields so they could do their work without any hassle.

After a few weeks of that, though, it was surprisingly Neville who snapped at the boy.

He had been following them, like always, snapping pictures of Harry every five seconds when Neville grabbed the camera and took six quick pictures all in a row, the flash going off in Colin’s eyes.

“What was that for?” the boy cried out as he snatched his camera back.

“Didn’t like that much, did you?” Neville replied. “Leave Harry alone. He doesn’t like it either.”

After that, Harry only had the boy following him whenever Neville wasn’t there, which wasn’t very often. Harry was impressed with this show of courage from Neville, but when he complimented him on it, Neville just shrugged and stuttered.

Classes with Lockhart followed in the same sort of vein as the firsst one. Lockhart seemed to decide that he couldn’t risk Neville landing on his freshly pressed robes again, so the classes were merely readings from his various books—often with Harry or Ron acting out the parts of werewolf, hag, or zombie. Lockhart always called roll, and at the end of the Gryffindor’s he always called ‘Seymour Butts’, which amused Seamus to no end. Ron, Dean, and Seamus had each pitched in a Galleon, and once or twice a week a Hufflepuff first year with a free period would come, say present, then leave again, leaving Lockhart to believe that there were six Gryffindor boys. Seamus thought this was the funniest thing he had ever done, and every class period you could hear him break into spontaneous fits of coughing, which was really Seamus cackling over his good plan.

The girls had latched on to Lockhart and his lessons fiercely. One day, as the boys escaped from the room, Harry muttered “Bet he bored that stupid hag to death.” Harry had played the part of the hag that day, and he had to fall down, paralysed, six or seven times. The last time he had hit his head on a desk, and he was not feeling very charitable about Lockhart at the moment.

Hermione simply tutted at him, but Lavender Brown spun around and said “Just because he’s more famous and better looking than you doesn’t mean you can make fun of him!” before stomping away. Harry looked bewildered at Hermione.

“But—I don’t want to be famous. I just want to stop being the stupid hag.”

Hermione had agreed that Lavender had gone a little bit over the line. “But Harry, he really is a very accomplished wizard. He’s only acting out his adventures because he thinks we can learn from them.”

“Yeah, learn to be big fat enormous prats,” Ron muttered.

Neville cleared his throat. “He is a bit, well, dodgy, Hermione.”

Hermione refused to talk to both of them until the end of the day, when they presented her with chocolate frogs and apologies.

The trio had gone for a walk on the last nice Saturday in October, four days before Halloween. They had been accosted by Malfoy, who had been in a pompous arse all month since he made the Quidditch team. When Hermione tactfully suggested that Malfoy had bought his way onto the team, he had turned an ugly red and spat “As if you’d know anything about it, you filthy little Mudblood.”

Hermione had responded not with magic, but a swift kick to the groin. Harry and Neville, though delighted, had pulled her back to the castle hastily.

“You know he’ll get you back for that,” Neville said.

“I don’t care. That’s a foul name for someone and if he calls me it again I shall go straight to Professor McGonagall.”

Harry and Neville were on their guards for a long period of time afterwards, especially after what happened on Halloween.

Harry kept his ears open for more of the voice he had heard, but he heard nothing. Relieved, he let that worry go and devoted his time to school, his friends, and the occasional detention with Professor Snape.

On Halloween, Harry, Hermione, and Neville made their way to their usual spots at the Gryffindor table—Harry sitting across from Neville and Hermione. Dean was chatting with Seamus as he was stuffing his face with steak and kidney pie. Ron, who had been under the weather all day, was asleep in the dormitory. Hermione was in the middle of a ghost story (an actual one, not a frightening one) when something happened.

“—and then Dame Hilda cast a curse on Frederick the Four Bellied—“

‘rip…tear…kill…blood…’

Harry had nearly fallen off his chair.

“Did you—Nev, did you hear—“

“Yeah, Hermione’s ghost stories are boring.”

“They are not, Neville Longbottom, they’re interesting and factually based!”

“No—I heard something, it said it wanted to kill something.”

“What?” Hermione looked worried, as did Neville.

“Maybe it was a, a Halloween prank. Like, like a joke.”

Harry shook his head. “I’ve heard it once before—that night we all had detention, I heard it in the dungeons—“

Hermione bit her lip. “We have to tell Dumbledore.”

Neville shook his head frantically. “No, we can’t! They’ll, people don’t hear voices, Hermione, they take them away—“ on this, he promptly shut his mouth and looked at Hermione with pleading eyes. “They’ll think he’s c-crazy. Harry’s not c-c-crazy.”

Hermione sighed, then nodded. “Fine. But we’ll tell Snape.” She turned to Harry, who this time was shaking his head.

“I don’t want anyone to think I’m crazy—“ Harry said. They would kick him out, he knew, and Snape wouldn’t like him if he was crazy. “Please, Hermione. I think it was a joke, I had one of the twin’s crisps earlier today—“

Hermione pursed her lips, then nodded.

‘Massssster…let me eat her…’

Harry resolutely finished his dinner. He wouldn’t let them send him back to the Dursleys. He wouldn’t.

But, on their way back to the dorm, they came upon a horrible sight.

They had been walking with Percy and Hermione was telling him her ghost story about Frederick the Four Bellied and Dame Hilda the Hunchback when Percy had stopped and paled.

“Hermione—you three, get behind me, right now—Prefects!” He looked down at the three children, who were now staring in horror at the sight before them.

The third floor bathroom had flooded, as it had done numerous times before (Harry remembered walking through puddles all of last year) but daubed on the wall in white paint was a message that made Hermione gasp.

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.

Dangling sickeningly from a torch bracket next to the message by her tail was Mrs. Norris.

Hermione was gripping Harry’s hand tightly. “Is she—“ she started to ask, but Percy shook his head.

“I don’t think so—you three, go get the headmaster. Hurry!”

Harry was the first one to unfreeze, and he took off at a run for Dumbledore’s office before Hermione grabbed his sleeve.

“No, he’ll be heading back from the feast like everyone else—“

The three charged down the corridor, not heeding the portraits who were yelling at them to slow down.

Finally, they found Professor Dumbledore. He was involved in a serious discussion with Professor Snape.

“Professors, come quickly, please. There’s—something’s wrong with Mrs. Norris—“

“The floor’s all flooded and she’s just hanging there—“

“—Chamber of Secrets—“

Dumbledore, on that, had looked each of them very seriously in the face. “Are you sure?”

“It’s painted on the wall, sir, please—“

“Percy told us to get you immediately—“

“Please hurry!”

On that, Snape took action by striding forward, barking at students to get out of the way. Harry ran after him, then Dumbledore and the other two followed.

They arrived to see Percy, the bottom of his robes wet, pulling Mrs. Norris down while his younger sister wailed in the background.

“Percy, don’t move her, it’s evidence!” the Ravenclaw prefect said.

“We have to see if she’s alive,” Percy said firmly. “It’s frightening the children.”

He pulled her down carefully and felt for a pulse, frowning.

“Gin, Ginny, it’s all right. She’s alive, Ginny, stop crying, you’re putting all the others in a fright—“

And that was true, for the other first years were crying now, even some of the boys.

“Mr. Weasley,” the Headmaster said, and Percy turned, cat in hand.

“Headmaster, we just—I just came upon it, sir, and I thought—“

“It’s all right, Mr. Weasley.”

“She—I got a pulse, sir, but it’s awfully slow—what’s wrong with her?”

Dumbledore sighed and looked saddened. “She had been Petrified.”

At that point, Filch had come upon the scene, screaming at Percy, and Percy had decided it was a good time to usher the children back to the dorm.

“Mr. Weasley, please come back when you have settled the others,” Dumbledore said, and Percy nodded. “Mr. Potter, Mr. Longbottom, Miss Granger, please come to my office.”

Harry, Hermione, and Neville had to undergo a long interview by Professor Dumbledore while Snape scowled at them all in the background. After about an hour, Percy returned without his robes, his shirtsleeves pushed up and little damp spots dotting his vest from where small children had been crying. He smiled wearily.

“The first years are all in bed, sir. If you need to talk with me?”

The headmaster nodded and quickly went over the three’s testimony with him. Percy nodded in all the right places, then explained what he’d done once the second years had gone to fetch the Headmaster. The Headmaster looked over all of them with his half-moon glasses, then dismissed them all.

Except Harry.

“A moment, Mr. Potter.”

Harry stood silently behind his chair.

“Is there anything you would like to tell me?” Dumbledore’s glittering eyes seemed a bit dull, and Harry swallowed and shook his head. He didn’t want Dumbledore to know about the Dursleys or the voice he had heard, and he especially didn’t want Snape to know if he was crazy. He didn’t think Snape liked crazy people.

“All right, my boy. Off you go.”

When he returned to the dormitory, he found everyone asleep except for Ron Weasley, even though Neville seemed to have propped himself up in his bed waiting for Harry and fallen asleep before Harry arrived. Ron was sitting in his bed, staring at a book with a queer sort of look on his face.

“Are you feeling better, Ron?” he asked as he pulled his pajama top on.

“Fine,” Ron grunted, and when Harry re-adjusted his glasses, the book was gone. His face changed to a surly, jealous look. “So, what, are you and my brother best friends?”

“Who, Percy?”

“No, Bill.” Harry cocked his head. “Of course Percy!”

“Well, he’s very nice—“ Harry started, and Ron snorted, pulling his blankets on.

“Only to you. He hates me.” And with that, Ron pulled the curtains around himself and Harry found himself staring at the red and gold coverings, wondering what to say.

Finally, he decided to say nothing. He just went to bed, falling asleep to sound of a mysterious voice flying around his head.

Harry tried his hardest not to think about Mrs. Norris and the strange voice he had heard, and even though Ginny Weasley was nearly always fretting up a storm in the common room, he might have succeeded. But the cat wasn’t the last.

About two weeks after the first petrification, Harry had been caught between the Weasley twins and a huge, hulking fourth year Slytherin named Warrington as they dueled. The two groups had immediately cursed each other, and Harry found himself frozen solid as he tumbled down two flights of stairs. Neville and Hermione had rushed him to the Infirmary, where Madam had tsked at him, dosed him with six different potions (none of them as nice ass hicherry flavored one) and sent him off to bed. He had only been one night, but Creevy seemed to decided this was the perfect chance to talk to Harry without Neville around. He had been on the stairs, apparently, when he had been attacked.

Neville felt terrible about it.

“It’s all my fault. If I’d let him take a few photographs, he’d probably have lost interest by now anyway and then he’d be off irritating someone else instead of in the hospital!

“Oh, Neville, be quiet. We all know that if you hadn’t done what you did, Creevy would be in the hospital a lot sooner than this, and with a black eye, to boot,” Harry said, which seemed to calm Neville a little about his cruelty to Colin and make him worry more about the Heir of Slytherin.

In all the excitement, Neville seemed to let the odd voice slide by. He was too busy jumping at nothing. Malfoy and his gang of thugs had taken great joy in sneaking behind Neville and clapping their hands loudly or screaming ‘The Heir! Run!’ Neville was beside himself with worry.

“It hit Filch first because he’s a Squib. And, and I’m almost a Squib, didn’t do magic until two months before Hogwarts—“

Hermione snorted. “Neville, stop being silly. You can’t be almost a Squib or almost not. You either are a wizard or you aren’t, and you most certainly are. Now, Harry, what are the six different types of animate flowers?”

Harry, Hermione, and Neville fell into the same sort of schedule, only Harry’s mind always seemed to wander before bed as he heard odd, sibilant voices come through the curtains of his room. During the day he listened extra hard to the chatter of Neville and Hermione and paid extra attention in class, took careful notes on everything—Hermione was pleased. But at night there was nothing to distract him but the red canopy of his bed, and so he heard them rush through his mind until he wasn’t sure if he was even in his bed, or if he was in his cupboard at the Dursley’s and the furnace was making that funny sound it made sometimes.

Harry had heard a great deal from Uncle Vernon on crazy people. They were one of Uncle Vernon’s favorite things to complain about. They all ended up homeless, turning to crime and drugs and violence to sate the voices in their head. Harry had met a good deal of crazy people, on the street. Some were harmless, like Jimmy, who went around chatting politely with an alien named Suey who hid himself as a hole in his coat pocket. But there were others, more dangerous ones, and he knew that most crazy people were classified to the public as dangerous—and Harry didn’t want that. Snape, he knew from class, held very little tolerance for any sort of empty headed behavior. What if he found out that Harry’s head was too full, that there were too many noises in it?

So Harry kept it quiet. And no one else was attacked for a while, and the voices started to blend with the gentle hum of magic, and Harry thought he was safe.

He was serving a detention with Professor Snape for tardiness when he was proved wrong.

He had been sitting in front of the professor’s desk, in the front row, with a cage of little snakes and a stack of vials. He was to get the snakes to bite down on the cork vial tops, which would extract all their venom into the container. It was nervous work, Harry found, even though he was wearing dragon-hide gloves.

He was de-venoming his third snake when it started.

‘The massster isss making usss bite again…’

‘It tastesss so bad. I sssuppossse we endure what we must for warm placesss in the cold monthsss.’

Harry jerked so violently he fell to the floor, and Snape looked at him in a mix of annoyance and mild worry.

“Potter, have you been bitten?” he asked, and Harry shook his head, staring at the cage of snakes who were watching him with bright, beady eyes. No! Snakes didn’t watch people, not like that, and they didn’t talk, either! He was going crazy, and right in front of Snape!

“I—sorry, sir—“

“What is it, are you ill?”

“N-no, sir, I’m fine—“

‘I am tired of thisss…at least the massster doessss it quickly. Perhapsss I will give the boy a bite.’

‘That would ssspeed him up.’

Harry blurted out “Don’t!” before he remembered that Snape was staring at him.

“Don’t what, Potter?”

“Nothing. Nothing, don’t—nothing, sir. Shall I start on the cauldrons sir, I’m done with the de—“

Snape stood up and advanced to Harry, his dark eyes boring into his skull so hard Harry thought maybe he was listening to his thoughts.

“Potter. What did I tell you last time we had to have a chat?”

“That I should never throw any ingredients at a simmering cauldron, but I hadn’t thrown any, sir, it was Malfoy, he threw leeches into our Breathing Brew—“

“About telling me the truth.The whole truth.”

Harry looked down at his feet. “That I was to do that?”

“Do what?”

“Tell you the truth. Sir.”

Snape sneered. “Correct. If you would please—“

“I just—I thought I heard something. But I didn’t.”

“What did you hear?”

Harry gulped miserably. “Please, sir…it wasn’t anything urgent.”

“I think that, as a professor and a housemaster of this school, I should be the one to decide what is and is not urgent. What did you hear, Potter?”

“The snakes.”

“The snakes?” Severus spared a glance at the tank. “Yes, they do dislike the milking, but a few hisses is nothing to create a fuss for—“

“It wasn’t—they weren’t hissing, sir. They were talking.”

The snakes seemed to be listening intently.

‘The ssssmall one ssspeaksss our language,’ one of them murmered, and the hissing and chattering increased ten fold.

Snape stared, curious. The boy wasn’t a Parselmouth. He couldn’t be. But Snape couldn’t stop the part of his brain that made him open his mouth and say ‘Please reply to them, if you would, Mr. Potter.’

Harry stared at Snape, agog, before he stuttered out a small noise. “H-hello.”

Snape stared as the boy hissed something hesitantly to the snakes.

Harry looked from the snakes to Snape, then bit his lip. “I—I should, should I get my things, sir?”

Snape narrowed his eyes. “Things, Potter?”

“You’ll—you’ve been so kind and not sent me home, but I—I suppose they don’t let crazy people in to Hogwarts. I’m—I’m sorry, I’ll just—“

“Every time you say you’ll get your things, you have had no need to pack them. Do you really think this time will be any different?”

Harry looked at him, astonished. “But—but it’s one thing to have bad people here, sir, because you can make them good, I guess, but you can’t—crazy people don’t get better.”

“Much as your self pity is amusing, Potter, I’ll ask you to drop it. You aren’t crazy.”

“I’m—I’m not?”

“No. You are a Parselmouth. One who can converse with serpents.”

Harry looked relieved. “So—they really are talking? The snakes?”

“Yes, Potter.”

“Is—it’s a magical thing?”

“A gift. It is—very rare,” Severus admitted. “The last known Parselmouth was the Dark Lord. It is a power associated with the Dark.”

Harry looked stricken. “I—“

“I assure you, Mr. Potter, that Light and Dark are labels, and like most labels, they mean little. One can kill with a properly controlled Tickling Hex and one can save lives by conversing with serpents. It does not make you evil.”

Harry nodded. “I do, however, advise that you do not broadcast this fact. Many people are not as—open minded as I am.”

Harry nodded again and bit his lip. “I’ll finish with the snakes now, sir.” And he did, very quickly, once he told them that if thye quite fussing he would go faster.

Once he left, Severus thought about what he had learned.

Potter was a Parselmouth. Potter had the Dark Lord’s gift. Potter—

No. Potter was still Potter. He had always been a Parselmouth, and so he was still Potter. Severus didn’t even feel fear, just an odd sense of curiosity. He would have to see if he could exploit this talent in the name of potions ingredients.

He smiled to himself satisfactorily. He still knew who Potter was. But he would have to make sure that no one else knew.

Not all of them were aas kind as he was, he thought with a smirk.

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After that, Harry was able to fall asleep faster at night. He still tried to avoid the loudest and most frightening of the voices, the one that came through the walls and he wasn’t sure was a snake or a real voice.

There were more attacks, which scared Neville and Hermione, though she didn’t try to show it. She took to walking around with her hand on her wand, muttering defensive spells under her breath so she could remember them. One night, when Neville was in a detention with Professor Sinistra for knocking some expensive astrolabes off the Astronomy tower, Hermione came up to him.

“Harry,” she said, and she looked nervous, which immediately put Harry on guard.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, and she shrugged.

“Well—well, I just, I’ve been wanting to talk to you but it’s never quite seemed the right time. And now, with the attacks, I’ve just been so worried—and now it’s almost Christmas—“

“What is it, Hermione?”

“Are you going home for Christmas?”

Harry snorted. “Not bloody likely. Neville’s invited me to the Estate, but I doubt my family will sign the form.”

She bit her lip. “I was—I was actually wondering about your family.”

“My family?”

“Yes. I was, I was wondering about your family.”

“What about them?”

“What’s your uncle like, Harry?”

Harry felt his pulse start to speed up, but he just shrugged. “I don’t know. Loud, I guess.”

“Do you—is he nice to you?”

“I suppose so.”

“Harry, I—I don’t think he’s very nice to you.”

“You’ve never met him, how would you know?”

“He just pulled you away at the station last term. He just—yanked you away. For a moment I thought you would be kidnapped.”

“He—he was just worried. About, about me being with peoople he didn’t know. He, he doesn’t quite care for magic.”

Understatement, Harry though. His uncle didn’t quite care for the bacon to be late. What his uncle felt for magic went much higher.

“That must be awful for you, at home.”

“I’m not there often, now. And this summer, when we were at Neville’s place, it was fun.”

“But still—imagine your uncle not quite caring for something that’s such a big part of you.”

Harry shrugged, but he felt a sharp, quick flash of pain. His uncle didn’t care for any bit of him, but he cared even less about the magic part. He hated the magic part.

“It’s all right, Hermione. I don’t care.”

Hermione bit her lip again, and Harry wondered if he looked this worried when he bit his lip. “All right,” she said, and she went back to work.

Hermione felt something grow deep in her bones. It weighed more than suspicion, and it took her till late that night to realize what it was.

It was dread.

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Neville had been ordered home for Christmas, he said during dinner three days before break. “Big family gathering,” he muttered as he stared at his shoes. “I—my aunts and uncles are all going to be there. Gran invited you too, Harry,” he added on at the end, but Harry could tell he didn’t quite mean it. It didn’t hurt him—if he had family, he would want alone time as well.

Hermione nodded. “Same here. Mum and Dad said you could come, if you wanted, Harry.”

Hermione was one hundred percent genuine, he knew, but he shook his head. Even if he had taken them up on the offers, he couldn’t go. “My relatives won’t sign the form giving me permission. I guess I’m stuck here. But it’s brilliant, this place at Christmas. Next year, you’ll both have to stay with me. All right?”

The other two nodded, but then Neville said “Harry? Have you seen the notices?”

Harry shook his head. “What do you mean?”

“They—they’re shutting down the school for the holidays. What with Justin last month, and that little Ravenclaw girl yesterday—“

“Samantha Moon, her sister Regina’s in our year—“

“They’ve decided to send all the students home and scour the school for—for whatever it is that’s causing the attacks. They just put the notices up this morning. So, I guess you’ll go to your relatives,” Neville said.

Harry suddenly looked up at the Head Table and saw Snape looking at him as he drank his pumpkin juice.

Harry nodded quietly. “Guess I will.”

Harry wasn’t surprised that the moment he stepped out of the Great Hall, Snape was behind him.

“Detention, Potter,” he snarled, and Hermione and Neville didn’t even put up a fuss as Harry was pulled to the Headmaster’s office by his arm.

Snape was livid with the headmaster. He could have smacked him at the table, when Dumbledore had informed him. He had looked right over at Potter, then, at Potter’s small little frame at the table, and he almost blurted it all out right then. But he wouldn’t, not without Potter’s permission.

“We’re telling Dumbledore right now,” Snape said, and Harry started to put up resistance.

“Sir, no! Please—please, it’s only two weeks. What can happen?”

“You can be deposited on a London street corner in the middle of a snow fall with both legs broken, that’s what!”

“I can’t—I won’t tell Dumbledore. You can’t make me.”

“I will tell him, then.”

Harry looked panicked for a moment. “You can’t. You don’t understand. I can do it! Please, I can, just for two weeks!”

Snape didn’t slow his step until he felt the boy’s arm shiver in fear.

He stopped right there and released the boy.

“Potter, you are endangering yourself.”

“I’m not, not really. I can handle it, sir, I promise.”

“The Weasley’s are all staying, something about an Egyptian dragon that’s escaped to Romania. Lacking as Weasley is in wits, he would make better company than those excuses you have for relatives.”

“I don’t want to tell. I can’t tell him sir, I can’t, he won’t understand, he’ll kick me out—“

“You are willing to risk your life rather than tell the Headmaster?”

“It’s not risking my life, sir. It’s just Christmas. I’ll tell Neville and Hermione not to send gifts and it’ll all be fi—“

“How much of the holiday do you expect to spend in your cupboard, Potter? Those relatives of yours don’t exactly sound like they have much Christmas cheer.” Snape was perfectly willing to fill them with cheer—he’d insert it into their abdomen after he had sliced open their miserable stomachs.

“I—I like the cupboard. It’s peaceful. I’ll bring some of the books me and Neville bought in the Alley and I’ll read them when I get shut in, it’ll be relaxing—“

“Potter, you could relax here. I’m sure the Headmaster would let you stay—“

“Please—sir, I’m not ready. I can’t yet. Please—I promise, I’ll try really hard to be good, I won’t give them any reason to put me in the cupboard!”

Severus looked down at the boy and he saw himself at a cross roads.

He cared for the boy. He did care. And that was what made it so difficult.

Betray the boy’s trust and lose him forever? Or send him into a potentially lethal situation?

He would not lose the boy. Whatever it took, he would not lose the boy.

He cast a quick spell over Harry, and a small necklace appeared around his neck.

“It’s a connection spell. It anything goes wrong, it will contact me immediately and allow me to Apparate to your coordinates.”

Harry nodded, relieved. “Yes, sir. But you won’t need to, you’ll see. I’ll be very good.” He paused, then asked shyly “May I leave my trunk with you again, sir?”

Snape nodded, his throat too tight to speak.

If the boy was hurt, he would never forgive himself.

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Harry had not expected Uncle Vernon to pick him up at the station, so he took precautions. He emptied what remained of the money he had taken from his vault that summer for the Diagon Alley trip and sent half of it in to Gringotts to be exchanged for Muggle coins. The other half he hid, taped to the inside of his trousers and shoes. He was pleasantly surprised, then, when he saw Uncle Vernon as soon as he came out of the platform.

The pleasantness of the surprise ended, however, when Uncle Vernon again latched on to his shoulder and pulled him to the car without a word.

He had told Hermione and Neville not to send gifts and he had the little chain Professor Snape had made him tucked inside his shirt. He wouldn’t get in trouble, this time. He wouldn’t let himself.

Uncle Vernon did not speak to him the whole car trip, and even when they arrived at the house he didn’t say a word, so Harry slipped into his cupboard and hid the galleons and pounds in little nooks and crannies. He had just finished that and was about to take out his book (the fourth in the series, where Liam is taken hostage by French pirates and meets another cabin boy, named Roux, who helps him escape. Harry found it thrilling.) when the door flew open and Harry found himself being pulled by his tie out of the cupboard.

He had left his robe behind, and all his other school things (except his wand) but Dudley’s clothes had been taken by Gus Longbottom and mended during his stay there. They barely looked like Dudley’s anymore, and he knew he would get in trouble for altering them, so he thought his school uniform was the safest thing. It didn’t even look magic in the slightest—tie, trousers, sweater, shirt. Completely ordinary.

Uncle Vernon took great pleasure in ripping the tie off his neck.

“What’s this trash?”

“It’s my House tie, Uncle Vernon.”

“It’s absolute rubbish. Dudley, throw it in the fireplace.”

Harry wouldn’t look as the tie went up in flames. He reminded himself, nearly desperately, of his other ties. Of his row of ties. And of Neville’s ties, and Dean’s ties, and even Seamus’ ties. Seamus’ mum had embroidered little S.F’s on the ends of his, so no one could take them. Harry and Neville were planning on taking one and changing the F to a B, in honor of Seamus’ great trick. Ron’s ties all had ink spots on them, and he tended to play with the ends of his during quizzes. Hasrry reminded himself of Hogwarts, and he had almost relaxed when he looked up at his uncle.

Uncle Vernon then proceeded to slap him.

Harry just grasped his cheek and gaped.

“I don’t want you here, boy. I wouldn’t have let you come here at all, not in my house, but I don’t need a bunch of freaks coming here and ruining Dudley’s Christmas.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Don’t interupt me. This is how this break is going to work. You will get up. You will sit in your cupboard. You will make breakfast. You will return to your cupboard. You will make dinner. You will go back to your cupboard. And then you will start the whole thing again, am I making myself perfectly clear?”

“Yes, sir.” Harry could almost sing. He could do that. He could do that! He would be so good, Snape wouldn’t even know what hit him.

“If I see you at any other time, I’m warning you, I won’t be held responsible. Petunia’s made us take you back, but don’t think that means anything to me, boy. Nothing’s changed.”

Harry nodded respectfully and almost skipped back to his cupboard.

“And get out of those clothes, you look ridiculous!”

Harry just nodded and shut the door.

He worked hard for the next few days. He made breakfast and lunch and dinner and he didn’t burn anything. Aunt Petunia begrudgingly gave him a baggy pair of jeans and an enormous grey t-shirt, which he wore day in and out. He scrubbed every inch of his cupboard until it was spotless, he read his book, he dreamt about how surprised and happy Snape would be when he came back to school.

‘You’re all right?’ he would ask, and Harry would nod.

‘I was good.’

And Snape would smile at him like he had smiled in the mirror last year, and then he would never let Harry come back to the Dursleys again. He would maybe even adopt him. They would live in a big house with a big yard and have a cat. Harry would get to name the cat, even, and it would be named Lily, like his mum, and Hedwig would fly over the table in the morning and in the summer Neville and Hermione would come and be in awe of the house and of Snape—

The fantasy broke when the cupboard door flew open and Dudley grinned down at him maliciously.

“You’re in trouble now.”

Harry looked up at him, confused. He hadn’t been out of the cupboard since breakfast. Aunt Petunia had even given him the extra toast.

“What?”

“I said, you’re in trouble now. I told Daddy what you did.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Harry said, bewildered.

Dudley’s grin widened. “You broke the computer, stupid.”

Harry sat up on his bed quickly. “No I haven’t. I’ve never touched the computer.”

“Well, I wanted a new one, but Daddy just got this last one last week and I probably wouldn’t get a new one for at least a month, so I smashed the screen and told him you did it cause you’re freaky.”

Harry paled. “But—but, Dudley—“ he said, and Dudley laughed meanly.

“You’re in trouble now. Dad’s on his way home right now, and he sounded really angry. You’re gonna get it, Potter.” Dudley slammed the door shut and pounded up and down the stairs, laughing.

Harry pulled his knees to his chest and leaned his head against the wall and tried to breathe deeply, but he was too scared.

He hadn’t done anything wrong. He had been trying so hard to be good, and he had been, but now he was going to get into trouble anyway and Snape wouldn’t love him. He could barely even remember the fantasy he’d been imagining, because now it was long gone. Long gone. As soon as Snape found out how Harry’d been in trouble, he wouldn’t want anything to do with him.

Unless.

Unless Snape never found out.

Harry hesitated a second, then pulled the little chain over his head and wrapped it in a wad of paper towel before putting it in his pocket.

He then tried to relax and convince himself it would all be fine.

It wasn’t, though.

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On Christmas Eve, Hermione Granger smiled at her parents and at their tree and at her Aunt Rachel and her Uncle Rob. She opened her presents and read books by the fire and baked cookies with her mother and laughed with her father. She worked her way through a Muggle maths workbook she had bought at the book shop, she sent Neville his gift and a letter and played a Candy Land tournament like every Christmas and had fun.

But something in her stomach kept poking her and she didn’t know what to do.

She kept looking at Harry’s present and wondering why it would be so bad to send him an owl. She thought about Harry, having a presentless Christmas tomorrow and a joyless evening tonight, and it made her stomach hurt and her fingers itch, and she promised herself that, after break, she was going to go to Snape and find out the truth.

It was time.

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On Christmas Eve, Neville Longbottom smiled at his Gran and tended to the plants and helped decorate the house. He greeted his Uncle Algie with a smile and showed him how big Trevor had gotten. He had lemon meringue and Yorkshire pudding and chocolate cake. He went to Diagon Alley with his Gran to select presents for his parents and he bought Harry his present and sent Hermione’s off. He made a card for his mother and father, he colored it in carefully as he told his gran about Harry, Hermione, and his latest escapades.

But something in his heart hurt and he knew exactly why.

Harry and Hermione always were kind and straight with him. It wasn’t fair, keeping this a secret from them. He knew Harry’s parents were dead and Hermione’s were dentists, he knew Harry didn’t care for his relatives and that the feeling was mutual and he knew Hermione’s father Dave was an excellent footballer. He knew all about their families, but all they knew about his was that he lived with his gran. So he promised himself that, after break, he was going to sit down and tell Harry and Hermione all about his parents.

It was time.

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On Christmas Eve, Harry Potter lay on his stomach in his cupboard crying quietly into his pillow. He hadn’t cried at the Dursleys home for years. He had sealed himself off from them, so that whatever they did, it never hurt him. Not inside. They didn’t matter to him, and even though it would be nice if he mattered to them, he knew it wouldn’t ever change, and he accepted that. He didn’t care if they hurt him, because it didn’t touch him inside. It didn’t touch his magic, because to do that they would have to get closer, and they would never get close to Harry Potter.

But he lay there on his stomach crying and he knew why.

It wasn’t the Dursleys that hurt him. Or, rather, it was, but it wasn’t what made him cry. The pain wasn’t even that bad, not if he didn’t touch them. He could feel his magic soothing it, and he knew that it wouldn’t hurt anymore by the next morning. But he had lost something. He had lost the dream he had, because he could never imagine he would be good enough for Snape now. But he kept trying to remind himself, Snape never had to know. Snape would never guess. All Harry had to do for the rest of break was be good, and Snape would never know. So Harry lay there and made himself stop crying, wiping his nose and carefully avoiding his wounds. He waited for a little over a week, until he could get back to Hogwarts and Professor Snape.

It was almost time.

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On Christmas Eve, Severus Snape sat in a chair in his rooms staring into a fire. He had no relatives and few friends, so all he did on Christmas Eve was sit in front of the fire and read. Tomorrow he would make a perfunctory visit to Lucius Malfoy and his brat of a son, and he wished he could be visiting Potter, giving Potter gifts. He drank brandy and stared at the fire and all he saw, playing over in his mind, was him and Potter being happy together. His hand went, for the thousandth time that day, to his wand, and he absently flicked it and saw the connection spell statistics come up.

Something in his head started to pound and he looked at it closer.

The chart looked exactly the same as it had this afternoon, and earlier this evening. That shouldn’t be possible. The boy was not suspended in time or motion, he had feelings. But the charm showed nothing, and Snape started to cast more spells at a hurried, frantic pace.

But nothing said anything. They didn’t say he was dead.

They didn’t say he was alive either.

With that thought, Severus picked up his cloak and swept to the front doors of the castle.

Dumbledore met him there.

“Ah, Severus. I was about to have some hot chocolate with the other teachers, care to join us?”

“No,” Snape snapped, and he started to pull at the door handles.

“Do you have somewhere you need to go, Severus?”

“I do, actually, Headmaster.”

“There is a blizzard outside, Severus. I believe the castle herself has sealed herself, to protect her inhabitants.”

Severus whirled around, his eyes blazing so that Albus thought for a second that real flames might leap. Then the man turned and walked away.

Severus Snape returned to his quarters and slammed the door.

He was too late.

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Harry had been sitting in the bathroom on the Hogwarts Express ever since it left the station.

He knew Hermione and Neville were probably looking for him and probably worried. But he needed a little bit, before he went to them. He needed some time to himself.

He spent nearly the whole train ride there before he fought his way past the firsties to where Nev and Hermione had claimed a compartment. He smiled at them as he slid open the doors.

“Sorry I’m late, the trains a madhouse. How was your Christmas?”

And Harry lightly chatted the whole ride, terrified of what would happen when he hit Hogwarts and saw Snape. The train seemed to try to be reassuring him—heneverhastoknow, heneverhastoknow, he neverhastoknow.

When they reached the carriages and they left the train, Harry was sweating, but determined.

Snape never had to know. And Harry wouldn’t tell him.

Harry enjoyed sitting with his friends at Gryffindor table again (though Neville had loaded his plate with far too much food) and he basked in the noise and warmth that rang through out the great room. His cupboard was always quiet, as was the Dursley house in general, and it was relaxing to hear people yelling and joking and throwing food at each other without hearing a bellow of outrage from anyone.

The teachers still looked a little worried. They had apparently turned up nothing in the school-wide search. Ron, who had stayed the whole break with his brothers, was telling them the scoop as he picked at a turkey leg.

“They had these big machines, right, and they swooped ‘em all over the building, and if there was a beep then they sent in Lockhart and McGonagall and Snape, and they had to find out what made the beep. Nothing int’resting, though. There’re Doxie eggs in the Charms room, though, don’t sit in the back. Wicked though, they attacked Lockhart and he screamed like a girl. They pulled chunks out of his hair, too, haven’t seen him since. And Snape found a whole litter of kittens. Gin took one and brought it to Filch.”

Ginny blushed and loaded mashed potatoes onto her plate. “He’s just seemed awful sad and lonely, since Mrs. Norris went to the Infirmary. I thought it might cheer him up.”

Neville and Hermione were uncommonly quiet at dinner, and Harry wondered why as he made a miniature castle out of his potatoes. He had little time to ask, however, for as soon as he had started to put green beans in the sides of it for windows, Professor Snape gave him detention for playing with his food and dragged him down to the dungeon.

“Potter.”

“Professor.” Harry was almost hyperventilating, and he gulped when Snape shoved a potion at him. “W-what is that, sir?”

“Another diagnostic potion. Drink.”

“I—I thought that some potions you weren’t supposed to take on a full stomach. Isn’t it bad for—“

“Drink. Now.” The man seemed in no mood for excuses, so Harry licked his lips and swallowed the potion.

His body lit up again, and Harry looked down to see how it looked.

His arm, the one that had been broken, was letting off a small white glow, and higher up on it darker, more vibrant purple shone through. His hands were letting off a faint green, and he looked at them with a vague sort of interest. He couldn’t remember doing anything to them.

And that was all. He looked as hard as he could, but that was all there was. Harry could almost cry in relief.

Severus frowned, then motioned for the boy to turn around. For a moment he thought he saw something, but then it was gone.

The boy was fine. The boy was fine.

Severus didn’t know whether to be overjoyed or enraged.

“Why did you take off the spell?” Severus hissed, and the smile that had overtaken Harry’s face started to creep away.

Snape didn’t need to see what happened, because Snape knew. Snape knew he couldn’t get through two weeks without doing something wrong.

“I—Uncle Vernon, he said not to—“

“And you listen to that ridiculous Muggle instead of me?”

Harry looked down at his shoes, ashamed even though he hadn’t actually done that. “He—I didn’t want to get in trouble.”

“But you did anyway, didn’t you?”

“No. No, I didn’t, I was really good.”

“Don’t lie to me, Potter.”

Harry flinched and his lower lip started to quiver. “I’m not—“

But Severus wouldn’t hear any of it. He had been fretting and worrying and blasting house elves into the air ever since Christmas Eve, had checked that bloody charm twice a day, four times that day, and it had only been once Potter had gotten on the Express that the conditions on the charm changed.

HARRY POTTER

CONDITION: Poor

LOCATION: Hogwarts Express

The word had glowed in his eyes whenever he tried to close them. Poor. Poor, what did that mean? Did that mean hurt, or ill, or dying? Was it his soul, or his mind, or what? What was poor?

“Don’t lie to me!” he hissed, and he advanced so quickly that Harry took a small step back.

“I—I’m sorry, I didn’t—I tried really hard!” Harry said, and his lip started to wobble out of control. This was it. For months he had been wishing and hoping and trying, but in the end everything the Dursleys said was true. He was just a stupid, bad kid. And no one would ever like him, or love him. And that, that hurt more than the beating he’d taken from Uncle Vernon, more than watching his family drive away as they left him on a street corner, it hurt like his nightmares did, like his parents were being killed right in front of him.

“Elaborate.”

“I—I tried really hard, I was really good for the first couple days, and I didn’t even d-do it, Dudley did it and he blamed me, and I’m sorry, I tried as hard as I could—“

“Tried to what?”

“To—to be good enough. So that you would—“ The tears brimmed over and Harry wiped at them, sniffling ineffectually.

“Pot—Harry. Stop crying.” Harry bit his lip and wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, and when he pulled the hand away from his face Snape realized he had made a gross error in judgement.

“I’m sor—“

“Stop saying that. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“But I—I got in trouble.”

“Because of your cousin, yes?”

Harry nodded.

“Why would I blame you for what your cousin has done?”

“B-because I—I didn’t stay out of trouble, even though I promised I would. And, and now you’ll not like me anymore—“

“Cease this insufferable babbling, Potter. I still like you.”

Harry looked at him in utter shock. “You—you do?”

“Yes.”

“But—but I—“

“You survived in an abomidable situation, one that I’m sure most of the students and several teachers here couldn’t survive.” Severus paused for a moment, then licked his lips and said what he longed to hear from his father, when he was young. “I’m—I’m very proud of you.”

Harry looked dumbfounded and opened his mouth before closing it again. “But I—“

“No, Potter. I am proud of you, and nothing you tell me will change that.”

“But I took off the necklace. I—I disobeyed you.”

Snape narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“Because—because I just wanted—“

“Spit it out, Potter.”

“I just wanted you to think I was good!” Harry cried out, and he started to sniffle madly to try to keep in tears. “I just—I kept seeing the mirror, and how you looked so nice at me, and you smiled at me and I just, I wanted to come back and have you smile at me like that! Because, because you were pleased I’d done something right! But I can’t, nothing ever goes right and, and I just keep wanting things that can’t happen. But I tried so hard this time, and I really thought—I just wanted you to love me!“

As soon as Harry had finished, he clapped his hands over his mouh and looked horrifed. “I’m—sorry, sir, I shouldn’t’ve said that—“

Severus felt like something inside of him was shattering in an alarmingly pleasant and peculiar way, but he tried to continue as normal.

“There’s no shame in saying it, Potter.”

“But I shouldn’t—I shouldn’t have told you, you’ll think I’m ungrateful, and I’m not. You’ve been the nicest to me of anyone ever, sir, truly. And that’s, that’s better than anything else.”

“It is not, Potter. I’ve done nothing special for you. If anything I haven’t done enough.”

“But—you got me a Christmas present last year, and you wrote me all last summer and took care of my trunk and leant me Hedwig and, and you’re very nice to me, and you saved me from the streets—“

“You should never have needed saving—“

“But I did, and you brought me here! And, and I’m thankful, I really am. It’s better than anything, Hogwarts, and the only reason I’m here is because of you. And, and you—“ here Harry’s voice became small, “—you like me. And that’s better than, than having nothing. It’s better than anything I have anyway. You don’t—you don’t have to love me, sir. You really don’t. I—I don’t know if anyone can, but you’ve come the closest of anyone. And, I am grateful for it, sir. I really am.” All through this Harry swallowed and sniffled and did everything possible to prevent the tears that seemed iminent.

“You don’t have to be grateful, Potter. I—“ Severus tried to say it, but his courage failed him. “I do like you. And I really have done nothing for you, nothing that shouldn’t have been done a long time since.”

“But you did it.”

“Potter—“

“I—I didn’t mean to upset you.”

It was then that Snape touched his face and found it wet. Well, not wet—damp. Slightly. Barely.

“I am not upset, Potter,” he snapped.

“I’m sorry—“

“Stop that.” Severus took a deep breath and looked down at Harry. “I have said I am proud of you, Mr. Potter, and I am not a man who lies.”

These words seemed to remind Harry of something, and he looked down at his feet quickly, scrubbing at his face with his robe sleeves.

“I—sir, I’m very tired—can I go to my room?”

Snape leveled a sharp look his way, then relented. “Fine, Potter. But we will talk again tomorrow. After dinner.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Harry went to the door slowly, giving Snape a small smile before leaving. Severus sat at his desk for a good ten minutes, staring at the door, before he wiped at his eyes once and started constructing the next weeks lesson plan.

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Harry felt like someone had picked him up and wrung him out as he headed back up to the Gryffindor common room. He realized, belatedly, that he didn’t have his trunk, but then he saw it stacked neatly with the others in the center of the common room.

He was about to grab his trunk and bring it upstairs when he heard someone call ‘Harry!’ He turned and saw, in their familiar spot by the fire, Neville and Hermione.

“Oh, hi.”

“Where did Snape take you?” Neville asked. He looked anxious and kept playing with something in his pocket.

“Just to his office. He—he just gave me a talk, really.”

“That’s good. Imagine scrubbing cauldrons your first day back!”

Harry managed a feeble grin. “Yeah.”

“Well, Harry,” Hermione said, and she looked nervous too and Harry started to get that feeling he always got when something was going wrong, little hairs prickling at the back of his next and his legs tenssing so he’d be ready to run. “We—we want to have a talk. There are things we need to talk about.”

Harry smiled weakly. “Like what?”

Neville cleared his throat and looked at the ground, and Hermione talked for both of them. “We’re worried about you, Harry.”

Harry almost burst into hysterical laughter. “What? Why? I’m fine.”

“We’re worried about your f-family,” Neville said. “They—they aren’t very nice.”

“No, but that’s not anything special. Don’t worry, I’m fine. Really.”

“Hermione thinks that—that they don’t—“

“I think they’re neglectful and horrid,” Hermione said. “I think that it’s not right that you have to live with somebody who hates you.”

“They don’t—“

“They hate magic and you are magic, Harry, and it isn’t fair. I looked at some books over the holiday—“

“My life isn’t a book, Hermione!” Harry said with a bit of anger and worry.

“I know it isn’t, Harry,” Hermione said gently. “But I looked at some books about British law concerning abuse—“

“I’m not abused,” Harry said weakly, but Hermione kept going.

“And they all said that schools are obligated to report it to the authorities. And—“ She stopped talking suddenly and was staring at his eye in horror. “What happened to your eye?”

Harry reached a hand up and touched his eye. “What? Nothing’s happened to it.”

Hermione took a book out of her bag and tapped it with her wand, making it a hazy silver mirror. She held it up.

Harry bit his lip when he saw his eye was just as it had looked at the Dursleys—puffy and purple.

He hadn’t understood what to think when he’d looked in the bathroom mirror that morning and it was gone. All he’d felt was relief, especially when he turned and saw all the welts on his back from Uncle Vernon’s belt were gone as well. He’d thought he might have healed them, accidentally, and he worried what Uncle Vernon would think, but he hadn’t known how or why his injuries were gone just in time. He’d hid his eye from his uncle until he got to King’s Cross, and then he focused on Hogwarts.

Now it was back, and he knew that the marks on his back were probably back as well. He could almost cry. Hermione looked like she was about to burst into tears as well, but Neville seemed angry.

“D-d-did they do that to you?” he asked, and Harry shrugged.

“I don’t—“

“Did they?” he asked again, and he took Harry’s silence as a yes. He did something decidedly un-Neville-like—he took hold of Harry’s hand and grabbed Hermione’s sleeve and started to drag them out of the common room.

“No, I’m not seeing the headmaster!” Harry said as he tried to pull away from Neville. Hermione, who had already freed herself from Neville’s grasp, answered him.

“Then we’ll go to Professor Snape.”

Harry let out a wordless groan as the other two marched him, resolutely, back to the dungeons.

Harry kept closing his eyes and then opening them slowly, trying to pretend it was all a dream, but every time he closed his eyes he just found himself closer to the dungeons.

What would Snape do? Harry didn’t even know. He’d gotten distracted, earlier, that was all, now Harry was really going to be in trouble, for lying. Snape hated liars, Harry could tell, and he had lied. Him, not Dudley or Uncle Vernon, he had lied and now—

Now Hermione and Neville would know. And they would hate him. And Harry almost freed himself then, almost ran back to the common room where he could go to sleep and not let them ever know, but Hermione grabbed his other hand and helped Neville tug him.

When they finally did arrive, it was Neville who knocked on the door, so fiercely that Harry was again surprised. He kept banging with the flat of his hand until Snape threw the door open, his face angry.

“Longbottom! Granger!” he snarled, and Harry pulled one last desperate pull against Neville’s grip. That’s when Snape saw him. “Potter. What do you think you’re doing, banging on my office door at this hour?” Then Snape saw his eye, and his face turned ugly. “What have you done to yourself, you stupid boy?”

“I haven’t—“ Harry started, but Hermione burst in.

“Please, Professor, it’s very important, and Harry won’t go to Dumbledore so we brought him here. We’re very sorry about the time, sir, but—“

“Get inside,” Snape hissed, and Harry found himself making a beeline for the chair he always sat in while Neville and Hermione hovered nervously on either side of him.

“Sit,” Snape said impatiently, and two other chairs appeared. The other two sat, and Snape fixed them all with a look. “From the beginning, please.”

“Well,” Hermione said shakily, “Me and Neville waited for Harry to get back so we could talk to him—“

“That sounds like the end, Miss Granger. I specifically asked for the beginning. Unless you are too mentally incompetent to understand my meaning—“

“My father thought something was funny when Harry got dropped off at Neville’s this summer,” Hermione said quickly, as if trying to prevent Snape from getting too mean with his words. “Actually, he didn’t think Harry got dropped off at all, that’s what he thought was funny. Neville lives at the end of a really long road, so he looked out of the window and he couldn’t see any car lights. And then, in the fall I started to get a little suspicious, because of his arm and how little he eats and everything. So, so I decided I would talk to him about it, but I didn’t know quite how to approach it. And then with the attacks—I just lost track of it, and it never seemed the right time to talk. But, but then I did talk to Harry and he told me his uncle hates him—“

“I did not,” Harry said.

“You said he hated magic, it’s the same thing,” Hermione replied. “And then I was so worried about him over break that I decided I would talk to him first thing when we got back, and then he was caught at the end of the train so I talked to Neville about it—“

“A-a-and I said I was w-w-worried a bit as well, s-s-so we said we would talk to Harry b-b-back at the common room,” Neville stammered out, and Harry patted the boys hand gently. Neville’s stammer only really came back when he was nervous, angry, or dealing with Professor Snape, but it always rattled the boy and made him even less sure of himself. “B-b-but then you took him to your office at d-d-dinner, and we waited for him to come b-b-back—“

“And when he did he looked all pale and worried, and Neville tried to cheer him up a little, except Neville’s jokes aren’t very funny—“

“They are so!”

“That one was a bit weak, Neville, you have to admit—“

“Miss Granger, if you would continue?” Snape interrupted, and Hermione blushed.

“Sorry, Professor. So, we were talking to him when I brought up that we were both worried about him, and I told him I’d done some research on child abuse—“

“I’m not abused,” Harry repeated, but Hermione ignored him again and this time it was Neville patting his hand.

“T-t-that’s when his eye got all d-dark, sir. And, I asked Harry if they d-d-did it to him, and he d-d-didn’t answer so I thought, I thought that we had to show someone, so we took him out of the c-c-common room—“

“And Harry said he wouldn’t go to Dumbledore, so we brought him to you—“

“And t-t-t-that’s how we got here, sir,” Neville said, and the three waited in tense silence as Snape surveyed them all, finally looking only at Harry.

“Come here, boy,” Snape snapped, and Harry got up slowly and walked to the opposite side of the desk. When he go there, he focused his eyes at the ground, telling himself that Snape probably wouldn’t hit him, not in front of Neville and Hermione. He was surprised, then, when he felt Snape remove his glasses careful, then prod at his bruise gently.

“Does that hurt?”

Harry looked at the man briefly, then ducked his head and nodded.

“Do you have any other injuries?”

Harry swallowed, then licked his lips and nodded again.

“Where?” Harry opened his mouth to answer, but the man had ignored him and instead cast a muttered spell which made his limbs start to glow again. Harry wondered if it was because the potion was still in his system or if the spell simply did the same thing as the potion. But then, why use a potion if you had a spell? Harry almost asked, but he didn’t want to test Snape’s temper now.

“What kind of spell is that, Professor?” Hermione asked with interest as Snape looked him up and down.

“A trigger spell, Granger, now shut your trap.” Hermione’s mouth clicked shut audibly, but then another question tore itself out of her.

“What’s it triggering, sir?”

“A potion, Miss Granger. Now, for the last time, be quiet or I shall eject you all from my office and Potter can go to the Infirmary.” Hermione stayed quiet this time, and Harry almost thanked her. He had his answer, at least.

Snape seemed to be cataloging all the glowing spots on his front, which weren’t many, Harry knew. Mostly what had shown up earlier, what hadn’t healed. Bruises on his arms from being pulled about, really. Then Snape gently turned him around.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut as he heard a low intake of breath from behind him.

“Longbottom, Granger, you’ll have to wait outside,” Snape said.

“We’re not l-l-l-leaving,” Neville said stubbornly. “Harry n-n-needs us.”

“Longbottom, if you do not leave right now—“

“They—don’t yell at him, sir, please. He—they can stay,” Harry said, then he kicked himself. It was bad enough when Dudley saw, what would happen when they did? Snape just sighed behind him.

“Fine, Potter. Remove your robe and your shirt.” When Harry hesitated, Snape’s voice became menacing. “Now, Potter.”

“But I—“

“Now.”

Harry reluctantly slid his robes from his shoulder and started to fold it with shaking hands. Hermione looked lesss certain of herself here, and Neville looked stubborn but scared. Harry tried to smile at them, but Snape snapped at him.

“Quickly, if you please, Mr. Potter. Some of us don’t have all night.”

Harry undid the buttons of his shirt and shrugged that off too, careful to show his back only to the professor. Unfortunately, this meant that he was facing Hermione and Neville, and he couldn’t quite make eye contact. He ended up staring at Neville and Hermione’s shoes.

He knew what Snape would see. He had seen it himself, looking over his shoulder in the mirror to see the extent of the damage.

He’d never been hit with a belt before. It seemed too calm for Uncle Vernon. He normally just pushed him around a bit—violence of opportunity, really. The broken arm, it had been an accident, because his Uncle wasn’t any good at premediation. If Harry was good and kept out of his way, he was fine except for a few knocks into walls and little things like that. Even if Harry did something, Uncle Vernon dealt with it the easy way, just a couple punches, nothing Harry couldn’t handle. This had been a whole different playing field from anything that had happened before.

He’d waited like that in his cupboard, his knees to his chest, for what seemed like forever before his uncle came home and threw open the door. He’d just stood there for a moment, angrier than Harry had ever seen him, his chest heaving up and down and his face an ugly, dangerous purple. He had grabbed Harry then, by the arm, and silently dragged him out of the house, through the snow (he hadn’t been wearing shoes or socks, his feet had nearly frozen off) to the old garden shed in the back corner of the yard. His uncle had taken off his belt, still too angry to speak, and hit him until he seemed satisfied Harry had learned his lesson.

“If you ever touch anything in my house again, you worthless little freak,” his uncle had hissed into his ear as he pulled Harry back to the house, “I’ll kill you.”

Harry had pushed Uncle Vernon too far, finally. When they arrived back at the house, Harry had gone, shaking, to his cupboard, where he lay on his stomach crying the whole night while Aunt Petunia served Christmas dinner and Dudley stuffed his gob. The next day he’d been up and working around the house as usual. But something had changed. Uncle Vernon was a little more smug and Aunt Petunia didn’t seem to know that anything had happened, because she took it upon herself to punish Harry and withheld his food for the rest of the week.

There were eight lines, Harry knew, going across his back horizontally. Just eight, even though it felt like eight thousand. He could feel Snape’s anger as a gentle finger touched all eight of them.

“Accio Comfrey Balm,” Snape said, and Harry could hear something whoosh behind him as he paid attention to Neville and Hermione’s shoes. Neville’s shoelaces were all knotted, he noticed, while Hermione’s shoes looked like they’d been shined. Harry could see, though, on the tips of them, the faint splatter pattern from when Neville had dropped his ink bottle and it had exploded all over their shoes. He flinched as something cold and smooth started to be spread over his back.

“What did you do?” Snape asked, and Harry swallowed.

“He didn’t do anything!” Neville said angrily. “It’s not his fault!”

“That is not what I was implying, Mr. Longbottom,” Snape snapped. “What did your cousin do, then, Mr. Potter?”

Harry swallowed again. “He just—he didn’t like the computer.”

Snape snorted. “One of those Muggle contraptions, yes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How does his not liking it equate to you being beaten bloody?”

“He wanted a new one, so he smashed the old one and told Uncle Vernon I did it. It was really expensive.”

Hermione made a small noise, and Harry knew that even though he’d tried to shield his back from them, they could probably see everything. He snuck a quick look up, then looked down.

Hermione looked like she might burst into loud, un-Hermione like tears as she looked at him. Neville, on the other hand, looked like he might throw up. He was clutching the arm rests on his chair fiercely, as though that could fix everything, and he had averted his eyes and was trying to take deep breaths.

Harry wanted to shrink down to nothing and was kicking himself for telling Snape to let them stay.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly after he let the silence go for a minute. “I didn’t want to lie to you.”

“Then why did you, you foolish boy?”

“I just—I don’t know,” Harry said in a very small voice. “Just—what I said before, I guess.” He didn’t want Hermione and Neville to know he wanted Snape to love him. He was their hated Potions Master and nothing more, not to them, they wouldn’t understand.

Snape, wisely, kept silent about that. “I see.” He seemed to have finished with the cream, and he handed Harry his shirt over his shoulder. Harry slipped it on and started to button it, then pulled his robe on and sat back down.

“What do we do now?” Neville asked softly.

“We have two options,” Snape said. “One, Potter goes to the headmaster and tells him everything—“

“No,” Harry said.

Hermione, however, seemed to finally realize something. “You’ve known all along.”

Snape looked at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“You knew all along that Harry was getting hurt and you didn’t say one word.”

“Miss Granger—“

But Hermione would hear none of it. “You—you just let him keep going back! You just kept letting him go back there when you knew!”

“Miss Granger!”

“You’re—you’re the worst person I’ve ever met! You just sent a little boy back to those horrible people and, and you left him there all alone when he could have gotten killed! I thought you were decent after the Stone last year, but you’re worse than they are! You just let him—“

“Hermione, stop it,” Harry said. “That’s not how it was.”

“It’s evil and horrid and against the law and I’m telling Dumbledore!”

“Hermione!” Harry said again, louder this time. “You’re not listening, you don’t understand!”

“What don’t I understand, then?”

Snape looked at her coldly. “I do not hit children, Miss Granger, though I am very tempted to start now, so it is more than personally insulting to be compared to those despicable Muggles. And no, I have not always known, though I have known for a long time.” He paused and looked at Harry. “Do they know of your…whereabouts before your start at Hogwarts?”

“He lived in the street,” Neville said, and when Harry looked at him, flabberghasted, Neville blushed and looked at his knees. “You—you talk in your sleep, sometimes, and after what happened at the train station last summer I just put it all together. I didn’t—no one else knows, not Dean or Ron or Seamus or anyone. I told Hermione, though, because she was worried.”

“What happened at the train station last summer?” Snape asked, and Hermione responded, her obsession with being the first to answer outweighing her anger with Snape.

“Harry saw this homeless lady and her son and we went over and gave them money and she told us we were good kids,” Hermione said, and she looked at Harry. “Did—did you know her? From before?”

Harry shook his head. “I just—I know what if feels like. When they just walk right past you and pretend you aren’t there. You start to feel like you don’t really exist at all, because if you existed then people would take notice and help, and they don’t. So I just—I let her exist for a minute.”

“His relatives—“ Snape snarled the word “—left him on a street corner. It was by mere luck that I found him in October and brought him to Hogwarts. I found out shortly after that.”

“So that’s why Harry trusts you,” Neville said softly.

“Yes. That’s why Potter trusts me. And I—“ here Snape leveled a look at Hermione, laying emphasis on his words, “—will not break that trust without permission from Potter.”

“It’s against the law to do that,” Hermione said. “To not report abuse. I checked.”

“Muggle laws,” Snape said. “Things operate differently here, Miss Granger. Child abuse is rare in the wizarding world. Purebloods are so internally linked that they children have recently become rather sickly and weak. Parents are too concerned for future heirs to do anything damaging, so the Ministry has a lax stance on it. Do you really think that Potter would live after the owl arrived notifying them they were under investigation?” Hermione shook her head slowly, with wide, frightened eyes. “Sometimes doing what is right cannot be what is legally required. Sometimes situations require more judgement and a gentler hand.”

“But—you just let him go back. For Christmas, after his arm.”

“I did not just let him go back. I tried to convince Potter to tell the headmaster—if anyone could remove Potter from their custody without a fuss, it would be him—and when he refused, I took measures to insure that I would be immediately informed of any harm.” Here Snape sent a glare to Harry. “That did not go as planned.”

“So—so what do we do?” Hermione said, seeming to accept the explanation.

“We do nothing.”

“What?” Hermione screeched.

“We do nothing, Miss Granger. Mr. Potter and I—“

“No,” Neville said staunchly. “Harry’s my best friend. I want to help.”

“Me too,” Hermione said.

“I—“ Harry said quietly.

“We shall discuss this at another time,” Snape said. “Mr. Potter will be getting a bit groggy from the balm. I advise you take him to the Gryffindor common room. Potter!”

“Yes, sir?” Harry said sleepily. The room had started to go fuzzy, and his head felt all muddled, but his back didn’t burn. At least there was that.

“Remember—tomorrow, after dinner.”

“Yes, sir.” He felt Neville help pull him to his feet and lead him out, but he turned back, his tired mind making his tounge loose.

“D’you still like me?”

“Of course, Mr. Potter. Now go to bed.”

“D’you—d’you really still like me?”

“Yes, Potter. Now, bed.”

Harry let himself be brought up to bed, then, and his dreams were filled with a smiling Snape and a Harry without bruises and their castle and their cat and their life.

It was almost worth it, Harry thought right before he drifted off.

Almost.

Severus Snape had gone straight to the teacher’s room after the trio had left him. He needed a drink, dear god, and he knew that if he drank alone he would keep on drinking until that hole inside him was filled. And that was too much alcohol for one man to take.

The room was mostly empty, save for Minerva who was grading papers by the fire and Lockhart, who was loudly telling Filius about his narrow escape from a ravenous gang of goblins who were ready to suck his bloo—he seemed to be mixing and matching his old adventures into something completely new. Snape smirked as he watched the man nervously keep combing his hair over a large bald spot. You would think, Severus wondered as he headed to Minerva’s chair, that a Defense teacher could handle a pregnant Doxie. Apparently not.

He sat in the chair next to Minerva and summoned himself a glass of Fire Whiskey.

“Bit early in the term for drinking, isn’t it, Severus?” Minerva asked without looking up from her papers. When she did look up, her face became worried. “You look horrible.”

“Thank you, Minerva. I had truly needed that comment to make my evening complete,” Severus drawled as he downed that glass. It magically refilled itself, and he took another swig.

“What’s wrong?”

Severus ignored that question and instead went for one of his own. “What happens to the Muggleborns?”

Her forehead wrinkled. “Pardon?”

“Muggleborns. What happens to Muggleborns and half-bloods under the protection laws of the Ministry?”

“They obey them, I suppose. Severus, what’s the matter?”

“They—they fall through the cracks, that’s what happens.” He took another long drink. “They fall through the cracks, just like I fell through the cracks. The Ministry lets the Muggle’s take care of it and the Muggle’s don’t notice because they’re Muggles.”

Minerva seemed to understand a little bit, then. Something had set Severus onto a memory jaunt, and she was going to have to bring him back. “That was a long time ago, Severus,” she said softly. “It’s handled better now.”

Severus snorted. “You say that, everyone says that, but that bit won’t ever change. There’ll always be kids that fall through the cracks, and they’ll grow up to be like me. Bitter and hateful to people, because they blame them for not noticing.” He gave Minerva a hard look, then, and took another drink. “Did you notice?”

Minerva felt shame burning in her cheeks, and she put down her quill. “No,” she said quietly. “I didn’t notice.”

“No one notices. And, and you can’t blame them, because they’re just naïve. They don’t want to think that those sorts of things happen. Human beings want to believe that everything’s wonderful, but it isn’t, Minerva. It isn’t wonderful.”

“Severus—“

“It’s not, especially when you slip through the cracks and nobody cares.”

“Severus, are we talking about you or someone else?”

Severus looked at her, one long, shrouded look, and he took another drink. “You need to learn to notice,” he said, “Because if they don’t notice, you feel like—you feel like you don’t exist.” He found himself echoing Harry’s words from earlier that evening. “And that’s all you want, to exist for a minute.”

“Severus, is this you or is this someone else?” Fear was making it’s way to Minerva’s heart, fear that had been growing since she perched on a wall on November 1st. “Severus, are we talking about Harry?”

Severus simply gave her another, shrouded look and finished his whiskey.

“People need to notice,” he said, and he left the room, leaving Minerva listening to the inane drivel of Lockhart and worrying about something she could never change—and something that, this time around, she could.

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Harry woke the next morning to see a blurry outline of Neville and Hermione perched at the end of his bed. He sat up quickly—his back gave a twinge of painful protest, though not as painful as it had been—and he groped on his nightstand for his glasses.

“Where—where’s everyone else?”

“At breakfast,” Neville said. “I set all the alarms for an hour earlier so we’d have time alone before classes.”

Harry nodded and pushed his glasses on. He didn’t look either of his friends in the face.

“Can—can I get dressed?” he finally asked, and Hermione blushed and stepped out of the room with Neville trailing behind her.

Harry pulled on his shirt and trousers and robe and was doing up his tie when Neville and Hermione came back in the room.

“I just want to say, we still like you and all,” Neville said bluntly, and Hermione nodded and looked at Harry.

“Of course we do. And—we don’t think of you any differently than we did before, Harry, honest.”

Harry swallowed twice and nodded. “I—I would understand. If you didn’t—didn’t want to stay friends.”

Neville looked flabberghasted, and Hermione looked gentle. “Why would we want that, Harry?” she asked.

“Because—because I lied to you. About the Dursleys.”

Neville snorted. “Rubbish. You’re my best friend, Harry, you and Hermione both, and I won’t ever let that change. So, so you had a secret. I have secrets, Hermione has secrets. Your—your secret was a bit bad and all, but it doesn’t—I still like you.”

“But I lied. I didn’t trust you.”

“Fine. But, but trust is hard to do, sometimes, and you’ll trust us plenty. You trust us more than you trust other people, right?”

“More than anyone,” Harry said, then added quietly, “Except Snape.”

“There. See? I—you don’t need to tell us everything, Harry, not if you don’t want to. But you can’t—you have to tell us if, if you’re in danger.”

Harry nodded, and he almost jumped out of his skin when he heard Hermione go ‘Oh, Harry,’ and felt her throw her arms around him. He was even more surprised when Neville joined in.

They just stayed there a moment. They they got up and Neville lead the group to breakfast, where he piled pancakes and sausage on both of their plates.

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The day went by quickly, though Lockhart’s class was especially amusing, at least in the beginning. Ron hadn’t been lying when he said chunks of Lockhart’s hair had been pulled out. He had somehow grown them back, but they were lighter, straighter, and thinner than the old hair, which made him look lopsided and spotted. He had been in a very bad temper about it after Seamus asked him if he’d been the victim of a horrific hair-trimming accident, giving all the Gryffindor boys detention. Seamus hadn’t been popular at the end of that class.

Harry’s back was throbbing at the end of class. He had, of course, been called up and had to act the part this time of an irritable and cannibalistic vampire who had fainted upon smelling garlic. Harry had to keep fainting, so he was not in a pleasant mood when he left the classroom that afternoon.

He had walked to the dungeons slowly that night, and when he knocked on the door he was not surprised to be pulled into the room with very little delay.

“Let me see your back,” Snape demanded as he summoned more balms and things in vials.

“Please, sir, it’s all better now—“

“Let me see your back now, Potter, or I will not be responsible for the raging infection that may ensue and the injections that will be necessary to rid you of it.”

Harry relented. “Madam said that wizards don’t give injections,” he said softly as he unbuttoned his shirt and turned around.

“I,” Snape said, baring his teeth, “Am not Madam.” He gave the wounds a quick look over, then smoothed the lotion over them once again and released the boy. After the boy had re-clothed himself, Severus pointed to the chair.

“Sit. We must have a talk, Mr. Potter.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The behaviour of your relatives is escalating at an alarming rate.”

“Sir—“

“No, Potter. Let me finish. Their behaviour is becoming increasingly hostile and I will not allow it to continue anymore.”

“But—you said that the Ministry couldn’t do much. That it would get worse.”

“Which is true. However, there are ways to get around the ministry, Potter, but they do involve telling the headmaster.”

“Sir—“

“Surely, Mr. Potter, you have noticed that no one seems to blame you in the slightest for this—atrocity?”

“Uncle Vernon—“

“Damn your uncle and damn you also, Potter! The headmaster must be alerted before this escalates to something serious.”

Harry could almost hear Hermione’s indignant voice protesting that it already was serious.

“But sir—“

“Potter, I have tried. I have tried to respect your wishes, but you will not allow me to make even basic safeguards over you! I cannot do it, Potter, I cannot send you off there once more without something a little more tangible than your word.”

“I—sir, please don’t tell the headmaster—“ Harry said. “Please, I can—I’ll wear the necklace next time, I will!”

“Potter—“

“Please, sir, I’ll wear it and, and I don’t want to live with Dumbledore or at school or anything, I—“

“Potter—“ Snape started again, and he sighed. “We’ll discuss this more as the school year starts to end, all right?”

Harry nodded, relief written all over his face. “Yes, sir.” He then thanked the professor again and made a swift exit.

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The rest of the year seemed to fly by, for Harry. He, Hermione, and Neville spent time working with Hagrid, the groundskeeper, on the vegetable gardens for extra credit with Prof. Sprout and learned to enjoy the mans company tremendously. Neville had almost burst into tears when Hagrid was taken away.

“But—but why? He’s not the Heir of Slytherin. It’s not fair.”

“Aw, look at the fat arse blubber,” Draco Malfoy had teased, and then he’d thrown an apple at Neville. “C’mon, fat arse, wail like that giant friend of yours did when they took him away.” Draco then proceeded to do a very poor Hagrid impersonation. “Aw, but I din’t do nuffin! Don’t take me off ter Azkaban!” He and his friends all burst into laughter at that, and Hermione had to restrain both Harry and Neville from attacking the boy.

Lockhart’s detention had been all five Gryffindor boys answering fan mail from various witches. There had been a minor fuss made over the lack of Seymour, but Seamus spun a quick lie about a terrible case of Dragon Pox and the scarring effects it could have on adults and the matter was soon dropped. Harry heard, all night long, the terrible voice whispering and making him splatter ink all over the letters. Neville had started to use the ink splatters as a connect the dots game, though, which had helped Harry. Gladys Gudgeon, he imagined, would probably not be too thrilled to see a connect the dot dragon on her letter where Lockhart’s signature was supposed to be, but it made Harry ecstatic.

Neville and Hermione had, true to their words, not changed at all in manner to Harry, except that Hermione would sometimes reach for his hand and squeeze it, tightly, before letting go. Neville had made no more mention of anything unless Harry brought it up—which Harry rarely did.

Meanwhile, all around the school the attacks continued. Hermione had taken to forcing the three of them to spend massive amounts of time in the library, reading through thick old books trying to figure out the mystery.

And through it all, they never got close. Not until one day when Harry grabbed Ron’s potions book instead of his own and dashed off to the library with it.

“Oops,” Harry said as he pulled it out of his bag. “I grabbed the wrong one. I should bring it back—“

Neville snorted. “Like Ron’s studying potions anyway.”

Harry grinned and flipped open the book to the section on Petrifing Potions. “I really don’t think that the Heir is wasting time making the victims drink a potion, Hermione, too much could go wro—“ Harry said, then stopped as a small leatherbound book fell out of the book.

“What’s that?” Neville asked idly.

“Dunno—looks like a journal.”

“Ron keeps a journal?”

“Dunno.” Harry flipped through it carefully. “It’s empty.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think Ron kept a diary.”

Hermione looked up from her latest tome. “You two should stop goggling that thing and start working. We still have to study for exams, you know.”

Harry and Neville groaned good naturedly and started working, harry putting both books into his bag and forgetting about them until History of Magic the next day.

Harry had used all his History of Magic parchment in a vicious tic-tac-toe tournament with Neville, and Hermione was finally cracking down on them for their disgraceful lack of History of Magic notes.

“Exams are in two weeks, you two, and you are going to need some proper notes to study from!” she had scolded, and the boys had meekly nodded and promised.

Neville was out of paper as well, so Harry was frantically digging through his bag when he came across the notebook, which Neville immediately snatched.

“Hermione will kill us,” he whispered as he dunked his quill into the inkwell on the desk. “We’ll rip out the pages, Ron will never know. He isn’t even in class, he’s in the Infirmary.”

Harry, thinking of Hermione’s formidable wrath, nodded quickly as Neville started to take notes.

‘Billius the Big-Headed: born in 237 BC, leader of revoluti—‘ Neville started to scrawl, but he stopped, staring, as the paper ate the ink.

“Is—Maybe it’s one of the twins pranks,” Harry whispered, darting a look to the front of the room. Both boys kept looking at the paper and Harry gripped Neville’s arm tightly in disbelief as cursive, faintly irritated handwriting began to permeate the surface of the paper.

‘I thought I told you not to write notes in here, Ron.’

Harry and Neville exchanged wide eyed looks, and Neville scribbled ‘Sorry, I forgot.’

”This isn’t right,” Harry whispered. “Ron’ll kill us.”

Neville nodded and made to close the book, but more writing appeared. ‘Have you found out any more about Potter?’

Neville looked quickly at Harry, and Harry furrowed his forehead.

‘No, sorry, nothing new,’ Neville wrote, and waited for the reply.

‘Sometimes I wonder why I bother using you, Ron. You’re such a pathetic little worm, no one would guess you were a pureblood. I still might feed you to the basilisk, you know. So find out more.’

Neville closed the book and looked at Harry.

“This,” he said softly, “is not good.”

Neville and Harry had whispered furiously for a few minutes, then Harry scribbled a note onto a piece of ratty old parchment, wadded the parchment into a ball, and thrown it at Hermione, who was sitting two rows ahead of them and listening dilligently. She shot the two a glare as she uncrumpled the paper, then a concerned look.

‘Have you ever heard of a basilisk?’ the note asked, and Hermione threw her hand in the air.

“I need to go to the bathroom!” she yelled, and Professor Binns blinked slowly at her and nodded.

“Yes, then, Miss, erm—Grinnock. In these uncertain times, though—“ He scanned the room and, purely by luck, caught sight of Harry and Neville. “Mr. Lidgetop and Mr, hum, Mr. Peddy will escort you.”

The three tore from the room and Hermione led them, running, to the library.

“I know I passed it in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, but it says that their gaze kills so I didn’t pay much attention. Oh, hurry!”

The three ran even faster, Neville in the lead now, and he tripped unceremoniously on something and sprawled forward. “Oof—oh, no.”

There, frozen solid in the middle of the corridor, was the Ravenclaw Prefect, Penelope Clearwater. She had been frozen, it seemed, in the act of checking her make up. Kneeling next to her body, holding her hand, was an inconsolable red-head by the name of Percy Weasley.

“Oh, no,” Neville said again, and Percy looked up at all of them with red rimmed eyes.

“Percy, are you all right?” Hermione asked worriedly, and the boy nodded mechanically.

“I—yes, I’m fine it’s just a bit of a shock—I—oh, God, Penny—“

“Percy, what happened?” More people had arrived on the scene, one of them the other Ravenclaw Prefect, Adam Kabbalah. “Percy, what’s wrong with Penny?”

“She—I was just headed up to the Infirmary, to visit Ron—my brother, he’s got some magical flu—and she just—Penny,” Percy whispered, and he dropped his head.

Harry tentatively advanced and placed a small, hesitant hand on Percy’s shoulder. The boy reached up with his free hand and latched on in a tough, tight grip.

“Perce,” Harry said gently. “Come on, we have to get Madam.”

“I’m not leaving her.”

“Percy—please, come with us to get Madam, she’ll need to take Penny to the Infirmary. You—you can see Ron.” Harry realized that he was still clutching in one hand the black journal, but he couldn’t move it until Percy let his hand go.

“Please, Percy, it’s not safe for us to go alone,” Neville said.

Adam stepped forward. “We’ll—I mean, me and the other prefects, we’ll watch out for her, Percy, never fear. You go get Madam Pomfrey.”

Percy stood, mechanically, taking his hand off of Penny’s as he started to walk toward the Infirmary. Harry still held his hand, and Hermione ran up and slipped her hand in his, giving him a bit of a squeeze. Neville, seeing the lack of available hands, carried Percy’s school bag.

When they arrived at the Infirmary, the first thing they noticed was a pale Ron Weasley, steam pouring out of his ears. He looked miserable, but soon his face was painted with anger and fear as he saw Harry clutching the diary.

“G-give me that,” Ron snarled, and he launched out of the bed (still in his pajamas) and snatched it out of Harry’s hand. “What—what did you tell him?”

“I didn’t tell him anything,” Harry said, slightly startled.

“You—you can’t, he’ll kill me—and Ginny, he said he’d kill Ginny—Percy!” Ron said as he saw his brother. “Wh-what happened?”

“Penny,” Percy said sadly. “Penny’s been Petrified.”

Ron’s face was a mask of horror. “But—I’ve been here,” he said softly, and he looked at the book in terror, then up at the four new arrivals to the Infirmary. Then, quick as a rabbit, he bolted out the door and out of sight.

“Blast!” Neville yelled, and the three immediately took off after him, but had quickly lost him in the winding corridors of Hogwarts.

“We—we need a professor,” Hermione said, trying to catch her breath. “Lockhart—“

“No!” Harry said fiercely. “He’s a bloody idiot!”

“But he’s right here!”

“But he’s a moron! Come on, let’s get Snape, or McGonagall,” Nevillle said, and he then charged down several hallways until he stopped and moaned again. “Oh, no!”

There, the paint still wet and glittering, was painted another message.

HIS BODY WILL LIE IN THE CHAMBER FOREVER.

“Oh, no,” Neville said again.

“But how—where’s the chamber?” Harry yelled, and he kicked the wall. “Where is it?”

He heard then a voice, not the big, mean one of his nightmares but a small, silkier one, like one of the Professor’s snakes.

‘The little massster wissshesss to find the home of our King…’

‘Be quiet, he ssshall hear you…’

Harry lunged into a corner and pulled the out—two small, shiny green snakes.

“Tell me how to get to the chamber,” he hissed, and he heard Hermione gasp. He had told them, of course, but they hadn’t asked for a demonstration. “Tell me now.”

‘He ssspeaksss like a brother…doesss the little massster wish to pay homage to our great King?’

Harry nodded vigorously. “Tell me.”

‘Sssimply talk to our brother sssnake in there,’ the other snake said, jabbing it’s tail towards the girls bathroom. ‘Put usss down, brother.’

Harry dropped the snakes. “The entrance is in the bathroom,” he said, and he threw open the door.

It called to him. That first moment, all he could do was stare at the vastness of places to hide an entranceway. He had hissed, an angry hiss, and there was a reply. A hiss back.

It was on one of the taps. Carved there, a little snake like the ones he had confronted in the corridor. ‘Open,’ he hissed, and there was an awful grinding noise and suddenly there it was. The Chamber of Secrets.

“Why is it that we’re always jumping into dark holes?” Neville asked with a sigh.

Again, they all gripped hands and jumped.

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They made their way carefully along the camber, their feet slipping in god knows what, and Hermione kept whispering to them everything she could remember about the basilisk—which, since she was Hermione, was quite a lot.

“The first one was made by this Greek named Herpo the Foul—he hatched a chicken egg under a toad and it made a basilisk. They can grow to be fifty feet—don’t do that, Neville, they’ll hear us! The, uhm, they have venemous fangs and—oh, don’t look at it in the eyes, it’ll kill you. It’s a forerunner of Medusa, in that. If you look into it’s eyes indirectly than it’ll Petrify you—that’s why nobody’s died, you see? Colin did it through his camera—“

“That little Moon girl, didn’t they find her with a magnifying glass? Remember, Gina was so upset, she thought her little sister’d been poking into something and that’s why it happened—“

“And Justin, Justin saw it through Nick! And Nick, well, he’s dead, but he was all ready dead!”

“Mrs. Norris she saw it—in the water! Myrtle had a crying fit that night and flooded all the taps! Oh, it’s all making sense!”

Unfortunately, Neville had thumped the wall on his latest revelation, and there was an ominous rumbling.

“Rock slide,” Hermione whispered, and they all dove for various forms of cover.

When the rock slide stopped, Harry looked up to see a towering mound of rocks separate him from Hermione and Neville.

“Hermione! Neville!” he yelled, throwing himself at the pile, and his throat closed up with fear. What if they weren’t on the other side of the wall? What if they were buried in there?

“NEVILLE! HERMIONE!” Harry yelled, and he heard a yell back.

“Harry? Harry, are you all right?”

Harry almost cried with relief. “I’m all right, are you?”

“We’re fine. Neville’s banged his arm up, but we’re fine. Go—go get Ron! Don’t look in it’s eyes, remember!”

“Harry! Harry, you can do it! We’ll—Hermione and I will unblock the passage, no fear!”

“All right! I’ll—I’ll try!”

Harry ran forward then, his wand outstretched, and didn’t stop until he was in a tall, dark, terrifying room.

In the front of it was Ron Weasley.

He was laying there, weak, and a few fet from him was the diary. His face was contorted in pain, but a quick scan showed that he was breathing—if only slightly.

“Ron! Oh, Ron, wake up!” Harry said, and he fell to his knees and grabbed Ron by the shoulders. “Wake up, you big prat!”

“It’s no use. He won’t wake up.”

Harry froze, and he got up slowly, his wand out. He had heard that voice before. He hadn’t—it hadn’t sounded like that, but he’d heard those words before, and that particularly manerism, the stress on ‘won’t’.

Where had he heard it before?

“Who are you?”

A boy stepped out of the shadows. He was older—probably sixteen or seventeen, and he was wearing funny robes, older ones, and the kind of tie he had seen in a Gryffindor class picture in the common room from the forties. His hair was parted that way too, old fashioned, and he looked flickery—like an old sort of projection. This boy was not from his time, Harry could tell.

“I am Tom Riddle. Slytherin prefect.” He swept into a bow. “And you are Harry Potter.”

No—that wasn’t right either. The Slytherin prefects were Montague and a girl with thick eyebrows. They had tried to give him detention once, for bothering Malfoy. And—Riddle, he had seen that name somewhere before—

He looked down and saw the journal, then looked up again.

“No, you’re not,” Harry said. “What—who are you?”

The boy smirked and took a step forward. “Tom Riddle. Tom Marvolo Riddle, if you would want the specifics. Notice that I still know who you are.”

“Why won’t Ron wake up?”

“Because it’s too late.”

“No, it’s not—“

“It’s too late, Potter. He won’t wake up.”

Harry’s head snapped forward, and he knew who it was all of a sudden. He had heard that voice and those words last year, when he’d shaken Professor Snape in front of the mirror. “Voldemort. You’re Voldemort.”

The boy laughed, a high pitched, nasty giggle, and he clapped his hands mockingly. “Oh, well done, Potter, very well done. You’re not nearly as clever as that irritating Mudblood chit, but you do alright for yourself, don’t you?” He took a step forward and thrust out a hand. “Expelliarmus!”

His wand tried to tear itself out of his hand, but Harry gripped it with both his hands. “No!”

The boy stopped laughing. “Look here, Potter. You know who I am. I know who you are. Your little friend—“ here he gestured to Ron, who moaned and spasmed, “—told me everything.”

Harry felt a deep stab of betrayal. He and Ron had never been close, but to work with Voldemort—

Then he remembered Ron’s fear, his increasing paleness. “You tricked him,” Harry said angrily.

“Not at the beginning, no. He was so jealous—jealousy is an ugly thing, Potter, remember that—of you. Mr. Harry Potter and his famous scar, how you stole his brothers love from him. You were rich and powerful and everything the little brat wanted, of course he would be jealous. I worked that, I twisted it—I’m quite good at knowing what to say. To be friendly. I was his only friend, Potter, because of you.

“He went along quite willingly, poured his soul to me, and as soon as I had enough power I repaid the favor. I poured my soul into him and let loose the monster of the chamber.

“The next morning he tried to throw me away. A Weasley, trying to throw away me, who carries Slytherin’s blood within him! That’s when I told him. The basilisk loves the mudbloods, of course, but after fifty years, anything is amenable.” The boy snapped his fingers and Harry’s wand made another desperate wrench. “That still holds true, Potter. You don’t weild the power I do over serpents.”

He’s a Parselmouth too, Harry thought, and he doesn’t know that I’m one.

A secret weapon.

“Accio!” Riddle yelled, and his wand tore itself out of his hand and landed, with a smack, in Riddle’s hand.

The boy started to laugh and aimed the wand at Harry. “Say goodbye, Potter. But before you go—tell me. How did you defeat the most powerful wizard in all the ages?”

“That’s not you,” Harry spat, and he threw himself at the boy’s knees. With an oof, the boy fell, and Harry stomped on the boys wrist twice, prying his wand out of the boys hand.

“Who else? I am Lord Voldemort, the most powerful wizard in centuries, since Slytherin himself!”

“No!” Harry yelled, and he tried to remember all the street fighting he’d seen. “Dumbledore! Dumbledore’s better than you!” And it was true. Much as Harry feared the man, he was good, and more powerful then Riddle. But saying this made Harry wish Professor Snape was there.

Then the tables turned. Sure, Harry was scrappy and gutsy, but Riddle was a tall sixteen year old. He pinned Harry, his hair mussed, looking enraged.

“You—you dare—“ he spluttered, and he fought with Harry for the wand before pulling away, laughing crazily. “I don’t need a wand, Potter. I have all the things I need.” He turned, then, to a carved face that reminded Harry of an evil magician on one of Dudley’s television shows. “Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts four.”

Harry heard it then, a dangerous, sibilant hiss that was winding its way closer and closer to Harry and Tom. Harry shut his eyes and backed into a wall.

“That won’t help you, Potter. He can smell you. And he listens only to me.” The boy suddenly started to hiss. “Attack the boy.”

Harry clenched his eyes tightly shut. ‘Please,’ he thought, trying to shrink into the wall. ‘Don’t let him find me.’

Suddenly he heard a song, so pure and beautiful that it made Harry feel like Snape was right there next to him. He even thought that under the song, he could hear Snape: I’m proud of you. I’m proud of you.

An enormous bird with wings blazing like fire swooped down and landed on his shoulder, his claws gripping his shoulder in a way that felt like Snape was gripping his shoulder. On his head, dropping over his eyes, was the Sorting Hat.

“I thought I told you to have some fun,” the hat sighed into his ear. “Watch out, now, this will sting—“

And something fell from the hat and landed on his head.

“So this is your great weapons? A bird and an old hat. Pathetic, Potter. You—“ he said to the bird, “Shut up!”

Harry took that moment and yanked the hat off his head, revealing a handle of something. He tugged on it, twice, and suddenly there was a glimmering sword in his hand. He heard that hiss again and, shutting his eyes, braced himself for an attack.

“Two steps forward!” he heard someone yell. Hermione! She and Neville must have gotten through the rubble. He took two cautious steps forward.

“Stab it forward!” he heard Neville cry out. “Hermione, help me get Ron—“

“Get the other children!” he heard Tom hiss, and he shoved the sword forward with all his might.

“Don’t!” he hissed, and he felt the sword pierce something. The being in front of him screamed and snapped at him. He narrowly missed it’s teeth, hearing Hermione’s shrieked ‘Duck!’

“You got one of the eyes, Harry! Try and hit the same spot on the left!” Neville yelled. “Argh—Hermione, help!”

“Don’t touch him! Expelliarmus!”

Harry pulled the sword back and shoved forward again.

“You got it, you got it! Harry, hurry—“

The beast snapped again and Harry opened his eyes. It was blinded, Harry’s sword lined up perfectly—he shoved again, and the beast let out one last scream and thrashed out. Harry felt a terrible pain, worse than anything he’d ever felt before, tearing through his arm, and the bird on his shoulder screamed out once, a terrible scream.

“See, Potter? Your little friends and that stupid bird, none of it did any good. You’re dying, Potter. You killed my basilisk, but it killed you.” The boy started to laugh, and Harry staggered over to where Hermione and Neville stood.

“No!” Neville yelled, and he pulled his wand and aimed it at the boy. He just started laughing harder.

“I’m a memory, Longbottom. A memory of a boy four years older and stronger, a memory of the strongest wizard in the world. What spells can hurt me?” the boy kept laughing, and Neville looked at the open book.

“Perfora!” he yelled, and an angry black line slashed through the page, and the boy stopped laughing.

“Stop that!”

“Perfora!” Hermione yelled, and another line crossed that.

“P-perfora!” Harry stammered out, raising his wand in his good hand.

“STOP!” the boy howled, and he fell to his knees. Black lines were crossing himself out, and Neville looked at the other two.

“On three! One—two—“

“STOP! I FORBID YOU!”

“THREE!” Neville yelled, and all three pointed their wands forward.

“PERFORA!”

The book broke into pieces and, with an agonizing scream and a vacuum sound, Tom Riddle disappeared into thin air.

Neville and Hermione ran to Harry, and he fell to the ground. The bird swooped over him, keening.

“No—Harry, don’t, you’ll be okay, you’ll be okay,” he heard Neville say, and he felt frantic hands smoothing his hair and face. “No, stop, you’ll be okay, you’ll be okay—“

“Neville—Neville, the bird! It’s a phoenix, let him through!”

“You’ll be okay, Harry, it’s okay—“

“Neville, move!”

Harry felt Neville being pushed away and felt four drops of liquid lightning hit his arm.

“Wh—what’s going on? Hermione, Neville? What’re you doing here? What’s wrong with Harry?”

Then he felt himself spiral into blackness.

When Harry woke up, all he knew was that someone was holding his hand. He was surprised, a little, and he didn’t know where he was or who would be holding his hand, so he opened his eyes and looked over.

Snape was there, next to his bed, holding his hand, looking at him with concern, and Harry thought he might still be asleep. “Potter,” he said, and Harry struggled to sit up.

“I’m sorry, we were going to tell you—“

“Potter—“

“We were, but we passed the wall and it just, I heard the snakes talking and we couldn’t waste any more time, I’m sorry, I’m sor—“

“Potter!” Snape snapped, and Harry stopped talking and looked down at the blanket. Snape pushed him back into a reclining position. “Lie down.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Harry said softly. “I’m not—I don’t need to lie down, I feel fine.”

Snape growled, but allowed Harry to sit up. All signs of concern were quickly leaving his body, and he looked like he was barely restraining himself from yelling. Harry reached over and grabbed his glasses, looking around. In a bed to the left, Ron Weasley was surrounded by what seemed to be a dozen red heads. A woman was holding him and crying, while a balding man who must have been his father kept leaning over and ruffling Ron’s hair. Harry turned away, a sharp pain in his chest.

“I’m really sorry, sir. I’m—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—“

“Potter, shut up!” Snape snapped again, and Harry looked down at his blanket again, but not before seeing Ron’s father shoot a look at Snape.

“Excuse me,” Harry heard, and he looked up to see the man shaking Snape’s hand. “Professor Snape, pleasure to see you again. I would like a moment with Harry, if you would.” Snape scowled The man looked at him and smiled kindly. “I’m Arthur Weasley, Harry. Ron’s father.”

“H-hello.” Harry ducked his head back down.

“I—Molly and I, we just wanted to thank you. For saving our boy.” The man sounded close to tears, and Harry looked up again to see his watery-blue eyes sparkle. “I don’t know what we would do if he—“ The man swallowed and got a grip on himself. Offering Harry another smile, he extended his hand. “Molly and I, we aren’t rich, but if you ever need anything—you, you just come to us, and we’ll do our best.”

He shook Harry’s hand, gently. “Thank you.” With that, the man retreated back to Ron’s bed.

Harry looked up at Snape again.

“How could you do something so unspeakably foolish?” Snape snapped as soon as the Weasley was out of hearing range. “Risking your own life for that pathetic brat—“

“It—it just all happened so fast. I didn’t—“

“You didn’t think, is that what you’re going to say? Well, Potter, you can’t afford not to think!” Snape sat down and glared at the boy. “You could have died.”

“I—“

“You could have died, you and your little friends, and he could have come back. There was a lot more riding on this than Ron Weasley’s life and your damnable bravery!” Snape yelled, and all the Weasley’s turned to look. Snape was so angry he didn’t seem to care.

“We—we had to stop it. We just—we put it all together, after we saw the book, and we just—please, didn’t we do—everyone’s alright, didn’t we do the right thing?”

“YOU COULD HAVE DIED!” Snape howled, and he pushed himself away from Harry’s bed. “You could have died and all that could have been prevented if you had taken ten minutes and gotten me! Ten minutes, Potter!”

“We—it didn’t feel like we had that much time—“

“See here, Snape!” someone cried out, and Harry cringed as he saw Mr. Weasley walking over angrily. “That boy did an admirable thing—“

“Yes, and his death would have made it that much more so—“

“It was foolhardy, yes, but he saved my sons life.”

“And nearly lost his own in the undertaking!” Snape came over and raised Harry’s hand in the air, pulling the sleeve of his pajama top down. Harry looked at his arm with curiousity. What had made Snape so scared?

A long, purple cut went down his lower arm. Not even a cut, just a line of purple skin. Like a cut that had just recently healed.

“Four drops of phoenix tears and his arm still looks like that. A minute later and he would have died, regardless of what the phoenix did. Can you really tell me that his death would be worth it? Can you?”

Mr. Weasley had paled, and one of the twins—Fred? George?—had stepped forward, glaring angrily at Snape.

“Well, at least he’s a decent person. He, he didn’t just leave Ron to die. He, he helped him, because he’s a good person.”

“We’ll carve that on his grave, shall we, Weasley? ‘HARRY POTTER: A GOOD PERSON.’ An epitaph worthy of him.”

Harry swallowed. “I—sir, it’s—I’m sorry.”

“Really, Snape, you’re treating this child abomidably—“ Mr. Weasley protested.

“I—sir—“ Harry said again, and Snape tore his angry eyes from the Weasleys and instead fastened them on Harry, where the anger turned to worry and—fear?

Harry, even though he was still too weak to stand, felt like singing and dancing and jumping out of bed and throwing his arms around Snape. He was scared for him. He was scared Harry might die. Harry could take ten thousand beating, endure two months of scathing scoldings, but Snape cared about whether he lived or died. Snape cared about him.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said again to Snape, and this time the man seemed to hear him. He nodded curtly once, then spun around.

“Weasley. Ten points for questioning my disciplinary tactics.” Harry peered over and saw all the Weasleys (some who looked well over school-age) gaping at Snape in horror. The man smirked. “Since I forgot to specify which Weasley, it shall have to be all of you. Ten points each.” Snape nodded once again at Harry.

“Potter. I will visit you again this evening.” With that, he swept from the room, the door banging shut behind him.

“Foul git,” he heard someone mutter.

“Charlie, that’s no way to talk of your professor!” the woman said.

“He’s not my professor anymore, and he’s just as much a git as he was when I had him, if not more so,” the boy grumbled again.

“He was worried,” he heard Percy offer. “Harry thinks very highly of him.”

“A lack of proper role models,” one of the twins cracked.

“Ho, hum, Percy, m’boy, go tell that boy what’s what!”

“Stop it, you too, Percy’s been through an ordeal,” the woman saids, and Harry pulled the blanket over his head.

“Can’t believe you’re defending that evil arse, Perce—“ one of the twins said.

“You heard him! Yelling like that at a little kid who just went through all that—“ continued the other.

“Boys, now let’s be quiet and let Harry sleep,” Ron’s Father said, and the Weasley’s settled down except for bouts of low grumbling. Percy came over and sat in Professor Snape’s chair.

“How are you, Harry?” the boy asked.

“I’m—I feel fine. A little weak, though—how’s Ron? And Penny?”

Percy smiled, but it was a tired smile. He reached up and pulled off his glasses, rubbing his eyes with his free hand before returning them to his face. “Ron will be fine—very weak, as you said. No injuries or anything, he slept through it all, thank God. Pen—well, she’ll be alright. Professor Sprout is administering the Mandrake solution tonight, you know, and she’ll—it’s only been a few hours, she’s the luckiest of the lot.”

“And you? How’re you, Percy?”

“Fine. Neville and Hermione came by for you, but Madam Pomfrey wouldn’t let them in. Neville gave me this, to give to you. I would have tried earlier, but Snape tore apart anyone who got close.” He produced the framed picture of Harry’s parents, and Harry took it gratefully.

“Thank you, Percy. What—what about Neville and Hermione? Are they all right?”

“Madam’s keeping them in observation in the next room. They’re fine, though—Neville got hit in the arm with some rubble and Hermione’s cut her face a little, but nothing serious.”

The twins came over then.

“Hey, Harry—“

“Sorry that Snape was such an absolute—“

“Git, but thanks for—“

“Saving ickle Ronniekins, we’re—“

“Grateful, all of us.”

Harry nodded, slightly bewildered, and more Weasley’s started to surround him. The woman, who had been hugging Ron, came over and hugged him. The man shook his hand again. The older boy, the one who’d called Snape a foul git, he tousled Harry’s hair and grinned, while Ginny merely blushed and whispered ‘Thanks’. The most impressive was a boy with long hair and a tooth dangling from his ear, who shook Harry’s hand solemnly then slapped his hand in a high five.

The Weasley’s stayed, carrying on about Ron, for another half-hour before Madam kicked them out. Harry had taken to his before-bed ritual—tracing his parents faces in the photograph over and over.

“Er—I s’pose my family said it all before, but I—I s’pose I should thank you,” Ron said awkwardly. “For saving my life, and all that. So—so, thanks.”

“It’s—it’s alright. Erm—thank you for thanking me,” Harry said, equally awkward.

Ron nodded. “Er—yeah.”

They both went to sleep after that.

000000000000000000000000000

Severus went straight to the headmaster’s office from the Infirmary.

The man was sitting behind his desk, staring at the sword on it and he had his thinking expression on—a vague, grandfatherly look, though his eyes seemed stormy and troubled. Snape burst through the doors and stood in the center of the carpet, unceremoniously stating his demands.

“Harry Potter is not to go home to his relatives over this break.”

Dumbledore looked up. “I had wondered how long it would be before you came to me.” Snape growled. “Truly, Severus, do you think that watching the boy keep coming back in pain amuses me? At least you have the satisfaction of knowing what happened. I look at him, some days, and I wonder what terrible things occur, and I wonder why you both blocked me out.”

“You were going to take his wand away.”

“But I did not, and I apologized.”

“He’s afraid you’ll throw him out.”

“I would never do such a thing.”

“He’s still afraid. He’s afraid of you, Headmaster, and you’d best rectify that, because that boy is the bravest child I’ve ever known. And he’ll fight until he dies, but not for someone he’s afraid of.” Dumbledore nodded slowly, reluctantly.

“You say Mr. Potter cannot return to his relatives. Is there anything that you can say, on the record, that can be cited as cause?”

Severus wanted to scream, and he saw the same in the headmaster’s eyes. “I have to ask, Severus, you know it.”

“I—nothing I can say on the record, no.”

Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully. “Severus, tell me—Mr. Potter is gifted in Potions, is he not?”

“What has that to do—“ Severus started to snap, then he looked at the headmaster approvingly. “Yes. He is.”

“Extra summer tuition, I suppose, would help increase his natural talent, would it not?”

“It would. Exponentially.”

Dumbledore nodded. “I see. Well, it will take a few weeks to arrange such a thing—“

“A few weeks? That’s too long!”

Dumbledore looked sadly at Snape. “The best I can do for this year, I’m afraid. Not longer than a month, for sure. Perhaps less.”

Severus was thinking of all the damage that could be inflicted in a month, and his dark musings were interupted with Dumbledore’s own, outloud musings.

“The family will, of course, need notification. Perhaps you could go and have a chat with them, Severus.”

Snape’s eyes gleamed. “Right now?”

Dumbledore nodded. “Right now.”

Severus gave a short nod and had tossed floo powder into the grate before anything else could be said.

“The address, Albus?” Severus asked as he stepped into the flames.

“Number Four, Privet Drive,” Albus said. “Oh, and Severus?”

Snape raised an eyebrow, and Dumbledore smiled an un-Dumbledore-like smile.

“Tell them I say hello.”

The man nodded and was gone from sight.

0000000000000000000000

Harry was leaving the Infirmary, with help from Hermione and Neville, when the Professor came to see him.

“Potter. The headmaster has expressed a desire for you to receive some potions training this summer.”

“Does—does that mean—“

“You will, however, have to return to your relatives for a few weeks. No more than a month, I am assured.” The hopeful smile that had grown on Harry’s face fell. “However, I have exchanged words with your relations, and if anything…untoward happens they are aware that the consequences are not to be desired.”

Harry blinked. “Did—what did—“ Harry suddenly had an image of Snape bellowing ‘Fifty points!’ in Uncle Vernon’s face and issuing Aunt Petunia a detention de-venoming snakes, and he let out a small giggle.

“My dad said that I could go visit Harry whenever I wanted,” Hermione threw in.

“And—s-sir, Harry can still come stay with me, can’t he? Gran said that I could invite everyone over again,” Neville said.

Snape smiled thinly. “I am sure that can be arranged, Longbottom.”

Neville nodded. “Er—what about in the mean time, sir? What if they—“

“Mr. Potter, you will wear this at all times for the duration of your stay at the Dursleys,” Snape said, holding forward the same silver chain as before. Harry took it slowly. “Do you understand?”

Harry looked up at his professor, whose eyes were slightly concerned but slightly—happy? Nervous? Harry couldn’t tell—and at his friends, who were smiling with relief and yet a little apprehensive, and Harry wondered how his life had changed so much without him noticing.

“I understand,” he said, and he fastened the chain around his neck.

Harry Potter was sitting on his bed (his bed!) in Dudley’s second bedroom, staring at the ceiling and wondering what Professor Snape had exactly said to his aunt and uncle to make them be so—well, not exactly nice, but just indifferent.

When his uncle had picked him up from the train, he’d been nervous that Professor Snape’s talk wouldn’t be enough. But his uncle merely grunted at him and the drive home was conducted in blissful silence. Harry made to get into his cupboard upon their arrival at home, but was instead grabbed by the back of his sweater by his uncle.

“What are you doing, Harry?” his uncle asked in a loud, forcibly pleasant voice. His mouth had frozen in some odd grimace and his moustache was twitching wildly.

“I—going to my—“

“Get to your room upstairs, you little tyke!” Uncle Vernon said loudly, pointing up the stairs to Dudley’s second bedroom.

Harry didn’t need to hear it twice. He darted up the stairs as quick as he could run, reaching the room and looking at it in awe.

All of Dudley’s toys had been boxed up and sat at the far end of the room, under the window. There was a much battered nightstand and bed pushed in one corner, with white sheets and a blanket on it, and Harry sat down on it immediately. A bed! His own bed at the Dursley’s! Harry could scarcely believe his luck. Sure, there was a lock on the door from the outside, but he had room to stretch out, here. Not like in the cupboard.

When he came down after laying on his bed in awe for an hour, Uncle Vernon was reading the paper in the kitchen.

“Erm—sir, d’you need me to start on dinner?” Harry asked, and Uncle Vernon jumped.

“If you feel like it!” the man said, clapping Harry on the shoulder in what could be considered a fatherly way, though his eyes were glaring Harry into the kitchen.

Had Snape bugged the house? Harry wondered as he started to slice an onion. He took little peeks around, but he couldn’t see anything. Snape was probably very good at bugging places without people knowing it, though.

It continued like that for the rest of break. He cooked a lot, then went back to his room. He broke the seal on one of the boxes, the one labeled ‘BOOKS’, and read ‘Treasure Island’. He worked on Aunt Petunia’s flower beds and befriended a stray dog that had taken to living in the hydrangeas. He wrote letters to Neville and Hermione and Snape and received letters back. Hedwig came sometimes even without a letter, and Harry would sneak to the kitchen and feed her the leftovers. After about a week, he’d gotten another blanket, one Dudley had decided was too babyish for him. Aunt Petunia had given it to him, proclaiming in a shrill and forced tone that it was ‘just the right gift for our Harry.’

Harry didn’t care how they acted, but the blanket was wonderful. Soft blue with yellow stars and silver moons all over it, and it reminded him of Hogwarts and home. He’d sit on his bed, tracing his parents faces into it, pretending this was his bed at Snape’s house, or where ever he was headed after the Dursleys.

About two weeks through break, Uncle Vernon proclaimed that they should have a nice family walk after dinner. Harry started to clear the dishes, but Uncle Vernon grabbbed the neck of his shirt and pulled him along. As soon as they left the house, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia scowled at Harry, a scowl Harry guessed had been pent in for the whole break.

“Aunt Marge is coming,” Uncle Vernon said, without prelude.

“Oh.” Harry hated Marge. He hated her dog, Ripper, even more. Lulled into a false sense of courage from the stillness of the house, he muttered “She isn’t my aunt.”

Uncle Vernon’s face turned bright red and Aunt Petunia had to latch on to his arm to stop it from swinging back. “Vernon, no, remember—“ she said fearfully, and Uncle Vernon let his hand fall reluctantly.

“Aunt or not, she’s your superior and you’ll treat her with respect!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Or there’ll be none of that—that town hogwash, understand? That—form thingy.”

One of the snobby school owls had swooped down to the table while they were eating breakfast that morning and deposited, in Uncle Vernon’s fried eggs, a permission slip for journeys into Hogsmeade. Though Harry had tried to hide his excitement, he desperately wanted to go, and Uncle Vernon had noticed.

“So—if I’m nice to her—“

“We’ve told her you go to St. Brutus’. It’s—a place where whelp like you ought to go—reformatory. You—you’ll play along with that, mind, or no—no Higglemede.”

Harry almost corrected him, then bit his tounge. “Erm—all right. What—what is this place?”

Harry was handed a pamphlet that had boys with buzz cuts and tough faces making beds and being caned by the headmaster, a man so large he gave Hagrid a run for his money. Harry read it several times, then put it under his bed. He concocted a story—really it was only another pretend, wasn’t it?—and, when Aunt Marge came, he stood by the door, waiting for her bags and hoping he got through the night.

“Still have him then, Vernon?” Aunt Marge boomed after properly hugging her neffy-poo. Ripper barked twice as if to say ‘how horrible.’

“Yes, yes, but the new school’s been working wonders,” Vernon said, nervous sweat popping out over his forehead.

“Oh? What school?”

“Saint Brutus’, top notch, really—come, Marge, sit down, Petunia’s prepared your favorite—“

All Harry had to do was really sit at the table and be sullen. Aunt Marge would snap at him and he would shrug. It was the easiest thing he’d ever done in his life.

He even got through the after dinner talk—all about drunk drivers and dropouts and everything they thought his parents were, and Harry just went away. He thought about his parents in the mirror, pretended he was looking at their picture. He thought of Snape and how nice he was, Snape and his potions lessons and his escape from Privet Drive—

He got through it all, and the moment Aunt Marge left Harry presented the form to Uncle Vernon. He let out a cry as his uncle tore it in two.

“But—I did everything you asked me to!”

“You were cheeky. I told you to show her and us some respect.” Uncle Vernon’s eyes gleamed piggily as he ripped it once more and handed the pieces back to Harry. “Perhaps next year.”

Harry gathered the pieces up and went to his room, where he painstakingly put the form back together with some spellotape he’d borrowed off of Neville.

The next night, Snape arrived just as Harry was serving up dinner. It was lasagna—Harry had been smelling it cooking all afternoon and his mouth was watering as he served up Dudley.

“I want more than that!” Dudley said, and Harry sighed and put more on his plate. “More!”

“There isn’t any more left.” Dudley looked like he was about the throw his plate in Harry’s face. Instead, he reached over and started to dump the contents of Harry’s plate onto his own.

“Hey, stop!” Harry cried, and he put down the lasagna dish and grabbed onto the plate. “That’s my dinner!”

“Get off it, Potter! It’s mine!”

“No, I’m hungry! Dudley, stop! Ouch!” Dudley had punched him in the ribs, and he staggered back into a chair, glaring daggers at the boy.

“I believe—“ came a smooth voice from the doorway, “—that Potter says that is his dinner.”

Aunt Petunia screamed, while Uncle Vernon dropped his fork to the plate with a clatter, choking on the mouthful he’d just taken. Dudley even seemed a little cowed. Harry spun around, and as soon as he saw the professor a huge smile broke out on his face.

“Professor!” he said happily, but Snape’s eyes were focused entirely on his cousin.

“That is Potter’s food. Put it down,” Snape said, as if he were talking to a spoiled puppy rather than a human being. For a moment Dudley looked uncertainly at the plate. But he was unused to not getting his own way, and so he forged forward.

“My parents paid for this food, I can eat as much of it as I want,” Dudley said, and he scraped the remaining lasagna onto his plate.

“Dudley! Give—give the boy his food back!” Uncle Vernon hissed, then he smiled greasily at the professor. His little piggy eyes kept darting from the man to Harry. “B-boys will be boys, eh, P-p-professor?”

Harry hid a grin as the plate floated out of Dudley’s hand and landed in front of Harry. “Dig in, Potter,” Snape said, and one of the austere chairs from Snape’s office appeared at the side of the table. Snape sat in it and stared at the table.

“If I am to join you for dinner,” Snape said, “It is courtesy to be offered something to eat.”

Aunt Petunia shoved her own plate in front of Dudley and glared at Snape. “Share with the boy,” she snapped, and then she fled to the kitchen. She returned a few moments later with a salad, which she ate quietly, yet disapprovingly.

Dudley had tucked into his food and was staring, his open mouth chewing, and asked “So, who are you, anyway? One of those freaks?”

Snape looked at the boy as though he were merely a squashed Gryffindor on the bottom of his shoe. “Shut your mouth while you’re eating, boy.”

Dudley scowled. “I don’t hafta. This is my house.” He made a point of eating deliberately sloppily, and a chunk of cheese and sauce fell out of his mouth onto the floor. He shoved Harry out of his chair and Harry, focused on his own food and surprised by the attack, toppled downward, smacking his head on the floor.

“Clean it up!” Dudley cried out gleefully, and he aimed a kick at Harry’s ribcage before Uncle Vernon grabbed the boy by his arms.

“Dudley, what did we talk about?”

“But it’s not FAIR!” Dudley cried out, and he started to make that pretend snivelling noise he’d always done so well. Harry got up, rubbing the back of his head, and darted a look at Snape. “I’ve had to be nice to him all summer, and he’s been horrid to me and you haven’t let me fight back! And you didn’t buy—“

“Silencio.” Dudley was suddenly mouthing angry, silent words, and Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia immediately paled and rushed to his aid.

“I would leave him that way permanently,” Snape drawled as he reached out and grabbed Harry’s arm, “But I haven’t the time and I really should get going with young Mr. Potter.”

“Go, then,” Petunia said spitefully. “You’re wicked people, to do this to an innocent child.”

Snape, who had seemed perfectly content to leave them with a silent son until the spell wore off, quickly dropped that battle plan. “I—I’m wicked people? For silencing a good for nothing brat? What does that make you, then? Good people, for disposing of trash—“

“He brought bad things upon this house, like you, and we weren’t going to have it! We swore, when we took him in—“

“Now, Pet, leave it—“

“We swore we would stamp that nonsense out of him, make him an honest member of society—“

“Or a crippled one—“

Petunia got up angrily, reached across the table, and slapped Severus across the face. She was trembling with anger and any of the fear she had had was long gone. “Get—get out of my house. GET OUT!” She threw her salad at the professor’s head, and it promptly bounced away from him and instead smacked her in the head hard enough for her to pass out.

Snape raised his wand and Stunned the remaining Dursley. “Potter—“ he said briskly. “Get your things.”

By the time Harry had returned, backpack, wand, and blanket in tow, The Dursley’s were all frozen and propped up in chairs at the table.

“What did you—“

“We’re expected at eight o clock, Potter. We should be off.” With that, Snape swept from the house and Harry, after one look at the frozen yet fearful eyes of the Dursley’s, darted after Snape, out into the dark of Privet Drive.

He caught up with Snape at the street sign and looked up to him, suddenly nervous. He tugged at his big hand me downs self-conciously.

“Those clothes are abombidable.”

Harry ducked his head and tried to re-arrange them into a more satisfactory view. “Sorry, sir.”

“You’ll need suitable clothing for the remainder of the summer. I refuse to allow people to believe I deny you the necessities.”

Harry looked up at him in awe, then back down at his shoes. “Thank you, sir.”

He was so preoccupied with his shoes that, when he heard a whooshing sound, he immediately reacted, throwing himself to the ground. Or trying to.

“Potter!” Snape caught his shoulder in a tight grip. “It’s only the Knight Bus, you foolish boy.”

“But what’s—“

“I shall explain onboard.” Harry shrugged and got on board. Severus stepped on as well, looking back over his shoulder at Number Four. He thought he heard an angry, possessive growl—

But then, nothing. The bus had taken off.

Harry wasn’t sure if he liked the Knight Bus. The only transportation he’d ever taken before was the train to and from school, which went fairly slowly and steadily, and his uncle’s car. And his uncle never drove recklessly—well, not like this. The bus swerved back and forth so much that Harry was gripping a bed post for dear life.

“Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch an’ wiza—Perfessor!” A pimply, gangly boy was reciting something by rote as he finished setting a witch up in another bed. He turned, paled, and ceased talking. His Adams apple bobbed.

“Shunpike,” Snape said distastefully as he deposited some coins into the befuddled boys hand. “Glad to see that your lamentable Potion’s grade hasn’t impeded you on your—chosen career. Spinner’s End, if you would.”

“I—I—Would—Yes, sir—” the boy stammered, then he stumbled away. “Ern! ERNIE!”

“Shunpike. Worse than Longbottom with a cauldron,” Snape muttered, then pointed to the bed. “Sit down, you look like you might be ill.”

“I—It’s just I’ve never—it’s very fast,” Harry said as he sat, clutching his rucksack to his stomach.

“It’s uncouth and common way to travel, but the only way to get to our chosen destination after the wards the headmaster put up.” They rode along in bumpy silence for a moment before Snape turned back to him. “Are you injured, Potter?”

“No. No, I’m fine. I really am. They just ignored me.”

“How good of them.” The disdain dripped off of Snape’s voice.

“Uh-huh. And they—I even got to sleep in Dudley’s second bedroom. Aunt Petunia gave me this blanket, too. I—I know she’d probably burn it or something, so I took it. Is—Should I not have done that?” Harry bit his lip.

“Potter—it’s your blanket, I don’t give a damn.” Snape closed his eyes—the Knight Bus always made him nauseous.

“Erm—Perfessor?” Shunpike was back, looking like he was about to feed himself to a band of angry lions. “Er—I—Ernie said I hadda—“ He pushed forward a paper. “Thankyouforfrequentingourservices.” He took four steps backwards, tripped, then hurriedly made his way back to the front of the bus.

“Damn Hufflepuffs,” Snape muttered, and he flipped open the paper disinterestedly, sitting down distastefully on one of the beds. Soon, though, all disinterest and distaste immediately fled and he sat straight up.

BLACK ESCAPES AZKABAN! The paper proclaimed. ALL CITIZENS WARNED: ARMED, DANGEROUS, AND INSANE! Harry looked at the picture on the front with interest.

He reminded Harry of a man he’d seen on the streets called Por. He had a thin, maddened face, his mouth open and terrifying in an endless scream. His hair was dark and scraggly and shook back and forth as he threw his head around the frame.

“Sir, who’s—“ Harry started to ask, but then he caught one look at Snape’s face and shut up, pulling his blanket around his shoulders and starting to trace his parents face into a familiar corner.

Snape’s face could have been made of stone. It was frozen in an odd position, like he was gritting his teeth and letting out a scream at the same time. His hands were clutching the paper so hard that, with a small rip, the entire thing tore in half. Snape seemed to relax a little, and he ripped the picture again. And again. And he just kept on ripping until the picture was nothing but a pile of little scraps and he looked his usual self.

Harry just stayed wrapped in his blanket and traced his parents faces and tried to think about how great the rest of the summer would be.

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The place that the bus stopped at was a far cry from what Harry had imagined, but he liked it anyway. Outside was dark and dingy and slightly frightening—worlds away from Privet Drive. He didn’t know if that was good or bad.

The inside was better. It was lit by torches spaced evenly along the walls and bookshelves went from floor to ceiling. The windows were clean, mostly, except for little pockets of grime in the corners, as if they had been recently cleaned.

“This is the central area. Before this summer there has been little need for this house to be inhabited, so several areas will be off limits, as they are poorly lit and dangerous. If you go into these areas, you will go to Hogwarts immediately for the rest of the summer, do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir. I won’t, sir, go anywhere. I can—I’ll just, I’ll just stay in my cupbo—room, I mean, I’ll just stay in my room—“ Harry was aware he was babbling, but he couldn’t stop himself.

“Potter, cease. There are five rooms that you are allowed to be in. The house as a whole is not large, so the other rooms are—no great loss. Bring your bag.” Snape swept off, grabbing a torch from the wall and leading Harry down a dim passage way.

“This is the kitchen. We’ll eat in here, it’s too much bother to tackle another room for it.” The room was small, as before, and had a funny old fashioned fridge and stove. A set of stairs led up from it, and Harry followed Snape up them. These stairs were well lit, with little floating balls of light hovering and making it seem more cheerful.

“Up here is your room.” Snape strode down a hallway, stopping briefly to knock on a door. “This is my room. Unless it’s urgent, I do not wish to be disturbed. That does not mean, Potter, that in emergencies you should not come to me. I trust your judgement and don’t come knocking on the door after ten unless there’s something the matter.” Harry nodded furiously. “This is your room.” His door, he was relieved to find, was only one down from Snape. Snape pushed the door open and Harry peeked in, then stepped in, eyes wide with surprise.

He had expected a small room with a bed and maybe a desk, since Snape would want him to study. Instead, his room was comfortably sized with a bed, a night table, a desk, and a set of drawers. It was clean, too, as though it had been recently scrubbed, and more of those little hanging globes illuminated the room—one over the desk, two over the bed. His school trunk sat at the end of the bed and—

“Hedwig!” Harry cried out joyfully, and he scampered over to the owl, stroking her softly and cooing. She was on a perch upon his desk, and a window was opened wide enough so she could get in or out. Also on the desk were—

“Presents? For—for me?”

“Yes, Potter, presents for you. Your birthday is tomorrow, after all.” Harry looked at the wrapped parcels on his desk reverently, then turned away and, after getting an approving nod from Snape, put his backpack on top of his school trunk.

“Sir, it’s—it’s the best room I’ve ever seen. Thank you.” Harry tentatively hugged Snape, then pulled back quickly.

Snape seemed at a loss, but settled for a nod and a small smile. “No need for thanks, Potter. I’ll give you time to unpack, then I believe we’ll have a late supper and go to bed. The stairwell to the lab isn’t quite lit yet, so we’ll go down there in the morning. I’ve taken the liberty of buying you a Potions text that we’ll work out of for our lessons here—it’s underneath that monstrosity of a gift from Longbottom. I suggest you look over it before our lesson tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dinner in—thirty minutes?”

“I—Thank you, sir, really. It’s—I won’t be a nuisance or anything, I promise!”

“I know, Potter. Unpack. Dinner in thirty minutes, mind.” Snape left the room quietly and Harry’s first act of unpacking was to get his parents photo out of his trunk and place it on the night stand. Then he lay the blanket over the bed.

This was going to be a wonderful summer.

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Harry woke up the next morning with sunlight coming in at an unfamiliar angle. He sat up, sleepily, and put on his glasses before remembering where he was. He jumped out of bed and hastily made his way to his bathroom (which had grubby white tiles and a little mirror that he sometimes thought was smiling at him) and washed up before heading down the stairs to the kitchen from the night before.

He remembered from dinner that there were eggs in the fridge. Should he make them? Maybe Snape didn’t like eggs. What about bacon? He was good with bacon. He should wait, and ask Snape what to make. He was satisfied to simply sit at the table when there was suddenly a loud pop behind him and he spun around in fright and then in joy.

“Tookie! What’re you doing here?” he cried out happily, and he hugged the little elf. He hadn’t seen her since the last day of school, when she had packed him a lunch and told him to be good.

“Tookie is working, Young Master! Tookie is on very important mission for Headmaster Dumbledore to watch over Young Master Harry and Master Snape so that they is eating right and going to bed at good time and not being silly, that is what Tookie is doing! Tookie just about to make breakfast for Young Master and Master! Is Young Master wanting anything special on his birthday?”

His birthday! He had forgotten. He always did. He smiled and shook his head. “I don’t care, Tookie, anything would be fine.” He stood around awkwardly as Tookie snapped her fingers and four of the eggs appeared in a bowl. “Can—d’you need any help?”

Tookie turned and squealed “Is Young Master’s vacation! He not need to help Tookie with breakfast, that is Tookie’s job.”

“But—I like to help. I’m—I can crack the eggs. Please, Tookie? I’ll go mad just standing here.”

Tookie sighed, then nodded. “Young Master is odd as duck. Can Young Master be toasting the bread on the oven and be very careful not to burn hands?”

“I can, Tookie.” Harry grabbed a knife and a loaf of bread and hesitated before slicing it. “D’you want any toast, Tookie?”

“Tookie has eaten already, but Young Master is kind to offer!”

“How—how many pieces of toast do you think the professor will want?”

“Master Snape never wanting more than two pieces. Ooh!” Tookie started to make tea and Harry cut four pieces of bread and lay one over the oven burners.

“When did you get here, Tookie? Were you here last night?”

“Tookie asleep by time Young Master and Master come in! Told Master to be back by eight o clock to have dinner, otherwise be cold. Elves go to sleep early early, not like humans. Days is very very long, need lots and lots resting.”

“Oh.” Harry flipped one of the pieces, then the others. “How’s Gibley?”

“Gibley good! Make you cake for when you go back to Hogwarts. Him want to come too and help Master Snape with cleaning, but he needing stay and clean school. Professor Master Snape ask for Tookie especially for cleaning!”

“Is it you that’s cleaned all the rooms?” He flipped the bread again.

“Tookie and Headmaster and Professor Master Snape clean! Clean, clean, clean, like busy bees! Place look almost respectabibble now, yes?”

“It does look a great deal better,” came a voice from the stairs, and harry jumped forward and pulled the bread off the stove before it burned, then turned and saw Snape, dressed in his usual attire. Harry put the toast on a plate and looked down at his own clothes. He had worn his best that day—a pair of trousers only two sizes two big and a shirt that looked more like a dress than a tent. He felt the tips of his ears go a little red, and he wished he still had the clothes Neville’s gran had mended. Uncle Vernon had thrown them out, though, and Harry settled for tugging on his shirt a little.

“P-professor!” Harry said.

“Potter. I trust you slept well.” Snape reached out, and Harry took a small step back. Snape, however, merely went for the cupboard nearby, pulling out two teacups, and Harry relaxed. Snape took the teacups over to a kettle and poured water into one. “Do you drink tea, Potter?”

Harry looked at the man, wordless. All he ever drank at the Dursleys was water and the only drink they seemed to have at Hogwarts was milk or pumpkin juice. He shrugged. “I—I don’t know.”

Snape poured him a cup of hot water. “Take.” Harry reached put and took the cup carefully. He remembered his aunt drank it with bags of tea, so he looked around, but he didn’t see anything.

“I use leaves, Potter. Tea leaves. Here.” Snape fixed him a cup of tea, then motioned that they both sit at the kitchen table. Tookie came over and served them both toast, eggs, and sausage—Hary’s plate close to overflowing, he didn’t think he’d ever be able to finish it. He turned to thank Tookie, but she had popped out of sight.

“Where did she go?”

“Probably working on the house somewhere. Don’t worry, Potter, she’ll be back.” Snape took a sip of his tea. “Do you like your tea?”

The question sounded silly coming from Snape, and Harry smiled at his sausage. “Yes, sir. Uhm, thank you.”

“What elective classes do you intend to take?”

“I—Hermione and Neville and I are taking Divination and Care of Magical Creatures. Hermione’s taking everything—“

“I did not ask about Miss Granger. Why did you pick those two classes?”

“Well—I’m rotten at maths. And, and I—it sounds fun. I like animals, I fed this dog all summer, and I—“ He tried to think of a way to justify Divination. :Percy recommended Divs.”

Snape snorted into his tea and started to cut his eggs. “Remember that after a term you may ask your head of house to drop any classs you deem ridiculous.”

Harry nodded and started to nibble on his toast.

“Today I thought we could get started on some of the more basic healing potions. I’ll show you the lab and then perhaps you could fire-call your little friends. To see if they would be interested in a birthday dinner.”

Harry dropped his toast into his lap and looked at Snape in shock. “A—a what?”

“A birthday dinner, Potter. You’re thirteen today.”

Harry still gaped at the man. “But—a dinner? For, for me?”

Snape rolled his eyes. “No, for the elf. Yes, Potter, it’s your birthday.” Snape finished his eggs off daintily and rose. “Finish that off, Potter, and come with me.”

Harry spent the rest of the day brewing potions in a dark lab. Snape never talked except to say directions or warn him to duck. Harry was sweaty, grimy, and happy by the time Snape sent him over to the fire with a fistful of powder.

“Neville!”

“Harry! Happy birthday!” Neville’s head looked cheerful and green tinged. “Hermione’s here, want to talk to her? How’s Snape’s? Is he—”

“He’s being—it’s great. He says, uhm, he says that I can have you and Hermione over.”

“Really? Gran? GRAN!!” Neville yelled, and Harry grinned into his hand as Neville chatted with his Gran, then stuck his head back in the fire.

“Gran says you’re both to come over here. Hermione just got here today—she went to France, isn’t that wicked?—so Gran says we can have both birthdays here.”

Harry turned around and saw Snape sitting at the table behind him.

“Can—I mean, is, is it okay? If—Neville says we can both—“

Snape looked on the verge of refusing. But then something went through his head and he pursed his lips and said “Fine. But no longer than two hours, I refuse to be trapped with Longbottom for any longer.”

Harry let out a whoop and threw himself at Snape again, crushing him in a hug and running upstairs to change from his potions stained clothes. Snape sighed and knelt in the grate to get the address.

He sat the entire evening with Gus Longbottom and Dave and Jane Granger. He sipped wine and made small talk and found himself enjoying the company of Muggles—something he never guessed would happen. Dave was spinning a fantastic yarn about the owner of their hotel, a little French woman with a limp, while Jane laughed hysterically and Gus let out chuckles every now and then. Snape listened with half an ear, but the rest of him was watching and listening to Harry.

He had given all this up long ago—human company. When he was about Harry’s age, he would guess. He couldn’t understand why no one could see, why no one would help him, so he decided that if they didn’t want to help, he wouldn’t let anyone close enough to help. The only reason he had agreed was for Harry. And also for the little kid in him, the one who was silent and scared all the time, the one he let live a little in Potter.

He wanted Potter to like him. No, more than that, he wanted Potter and him to live in that damnable mirror. And he would do anything to get that, even spend a night in the company of others.

Harry was sitting in front of a picture window that looked out over the Longbottom grounds. Neville and he were both exclaiming over their presents from Hermione—Harry had dashed upstairs and brought his present for Neville and his present FROM Neville (“We always open gifts with each other, cause they know I can’t open them at the Dursley’s.”). Neville was wearing a knit hat from Hermione with little frogs on it (“I know they aren’t toads, but they reminded me of Trevor!”) that she had found in France while Harry was winding up and letting romp over the floor a clockwork knight and dragon from Neville. He wore a similar hat to Neville’s, only his was blue with little red stars on it. Neville, meanwhile, was flipping through a book—one of the ridiculous ones Harry had blathered over at lunch about magical privateers or something—and laughing with Hermione.

“They’re great kids, don’t you think, Mr. Snape?”

Severus turned back to the adults. Jane Granger was smiling at him, her chin tilted a little towards the children.

“What?”

“The kids. They’re really something, huh? I mean, I don’t know if it’s the magic—“

“It’s not, I’ve met some children that are right blighters,” Gus Longbottom said bluntly.

“Well, our Hermione, she’s no dim bulb, and Neville, never seen a brighter boy with plants—gave us a tour of his garden today, it’s something, I’ll tell you. Hermione tells us that Harry’s staying with you for extra help with potions. And they all—“ Jane turned to our husband and smiled. “What is it you said, dear?”

“They’re sweet kids, all of them. Special. It’s not only smarts, it’s how they are. Gentle, like.” Dave scratched his ear. “All of them. Good kids. Me and Janey, we’re that proud.”

“Neville, too. Having those two as friends has made him much more confident, I s’pose. After his parents—“ Snape looked slightly sympathetic, while the Granger’s looked a little confused, “—well, he needed those two.”

Snape nodded. “Potter is—more than adequete,” he admitted. “Those two seem to be an—acceptable influence. At times.”

Dave gave him a long look. “Looks a sight better than the last time we saw him. In the cast still.” Dave was staring Snape in the eyes, now, and Snape held the look. “Janey, think it’s time for the cake?”

Jane seemed to sense her husbands meaning. “Gus, come on, let’s go set up the cake for the kids.” Gus and Jane made their way to the kitchen, calling to the kids, who gathered up their loot and started to chat with the adults as they headed to the table.

Dave turned and looked Snape in the eye. “The relatives. What did they do?”

Snape took a sip of his wine. “What makes you think they did anything? Perhaps they merely want Potter to be well versed in the art of potions making—“

“Cut the crap, Mr. Snape. I saw that kid when he got here last year, and if he hadn’t already have been here with Gus I would have taken him away from those people. I don’t think they even dropped him off here, last time. The kid must have walked or something, I don’t know. He—he wouldn’t even eat until Neville loaded up his plate. Kid was like—like a skittish horse or something. Took him a couple days to snap out of it.”

“Do you suspect something?”

“I do.”

Snape sneered. “Why did you not do anything?”

“What could I do? Call the authorities in Surrey—no idea what town, mind, just Surrey—and tell them that there is a child named Harry Potter who is being abused, but I don’t know what his family’s name is and he doesn’t seem to go to any school at all? I—I tried to find the relatives, but no flash.” Dave ran his hands through his hair and fastened his eyes on Snape’s again. “Tell me. Did you do something?”

Snape hesitated, then inclined his head. “I did.”

“Does he—is he going to get hurt again?”

Snape shook his head. “No. I won’t allow it.”

Dave nodded his head. “Okay. Okay.” Then he stood up, ran a hand through his hair, and let out a great whoosh of breath. “Okay.” He then turned towards the kitchen and called out that those ‘darn kids better not have finished off the cake!’

Severus merely stood there a moment, then brought his dour prescence to the cheerful kitchen.

Harry and Snape spent the rest of the summer brewing potions in the basement at Spinner’s End during the day and reading or talking at night. Snape made tea quite often and Harry started to like it a lot—especially when Snape snapped at him that he was allowed to have sugar and milk, if he wanted. They had tea in the evenings and sat in the central area, Harry reading school books and doing homework while Snape read fat potions texts and it was nice. Quiet, but Harry didn’t mind quiet.

One night near the end of the summer, Harry had finished his homework and asked Snape, at dinner, if he could read the paper.

Snape hesitated for a moment, then handed it to Harry. He didn’t turn back to his book, but instead focused on Harry’s face. He let Harry read the whole first page (which described the lack of headway in the case of Sirius Black, the escaped convict) before interupting him.

“Have you ever heard of Sirius Black, Harry?”

“He’s—he’s the man from the Knight Bus. The one you ripped up in the picture. The paper says he’s a killer.”

“He is. He killed thirteen people with a single curse almost twelve years ago.”

“Azkaban—that’s the wizard prison?”

“Yes.”

“So, he escaped from there.”

“Yes.”

“It says—it says he works for Voldemort.”

Snape nodded curtly. “He did.”

Harry bit his lip. “Is—is he going to come after me?”

Snape took a deep breath and put his book on the side table before leaning forward and talking in a very serious tone of voice.

“What I am going to tell you, Potter, is something that many people would not want me to tell you. They believe that you are too young and fragile for such things. I, however, know that this is something you need to know.” Here the man paused and licked his lips. “Do you remember what Professor McGonagall told you about how your parents died?”

Harry nodded and played with the knee of his trousers. They were new—Snape had given them to him, for his birthday. He swallowed. “They—He went to the house where we lived and he—he killed my dad. And my mum.”

“Yes. But your parents were in hiding, Potter. From the Dark Lord—from everyone. There is a charm known as the Fidelius Charm—it allows a person in hiding to be completely hidden if they entrust their location to only one person—the secret keeper. We, for example, are under the Fidelius Charm right now.”

“We are?”

“Yes. Professor Dumbledore is our secret-keeper. The only way that someone would be able to find us now is if Dumbledore told them where we are.”

“Which he won’t do unless he trusts them.”

“Exactly.”

“Who—who was my parents secret keeper?”

Snape paused. “Black was. He betrayed your parents to the Dark Lord.”

Harry felt an odd whirring around his ears and he blinked several times, very slowly.

“So…so, he’s the reason I don’t have a mum and dad. And Voldemort, I mean.”

“Yes.” There was no mercy in Snape’s eyes, and maybe a little bit of glee, though Harry thought he must be imagining things, because Snape was not gleeful about this. Harry knew that much. “He is also your godfather.”

The whirring was back and Harry was clutching his knees with his hands. “He—he—no.”

“Yes.” Snape’s eyes looked sympathetic but stern, as though he would not let Harry leave until he grasped this fact. “That man—“ he practically spat the word out, “—was supposed to be responsible for your safety, and instead he sold you to the Dark Lord.”

Harry wasn’t even aware he had stood up until Snape stood as well and grabbed his shoulders. Harry felt he was shaking, felt Snape’s hands reach out and steady themselves on his shoulders. “Potter.”

“I—I hate him.” He felt anger rush along his throat, the same way tears did, and he wasn’t surprised when his voice broke and the tears spilled over on the next word. “I—why would he do that?”

“No one has ever known, Potter. His family was one drenched in darkness, though he always felt himself above them. Greed, perhaps, or jealousy. But no one knows.”

“I need to know.”

“You can’t, Potter.” He was surprised to see Harry like this. The boy was normally so quiet, so well-reigned in. But no more. His eyes were distant, as if scanning the sky for Black, and his hands were clenched into tight fists. The eyes looked up, searching, and he started to shake his head.

“I need to know. I—he was their friend! He—you don’t do that, you, I would never do that, not to Neville or Hermione—“ He suddenly fell forward and found it was because Snape had roughly jerked him forward, and he felt the mans arms rest lightly on his back. “I—no, that’s—I need to know.”

“Black is the only one that knows. And he is, most assuredly, too mad by now to know anything.”

“But—he was their friend.”

“And now—“ Snape said, tilting the boys face up to look into his own, “—he is your enemy. Do not let yourself forget that.”

Harry looked up, bewildered, lost, and angry. “D’you think I ever could?”

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The day after the news about Black was broken to Harry, Snape took him to Diagon Alley to meet up with Neville and Hermione. Harry collected all his new books and quills quietly, and only cheered up when Hermione proclaimed that her parents had decided it was time for her to get a pet.

“I want to get an owl, I think.”

“Why? Just for a messenger?”

“Well—yes.”

“You can borrow a school one, or use Hedwig. What do you really want?” Harry asked as the three made a detour into the ice cream place.

“Mmh—you have a point. I’ve always wanted a kitten. A little fuzzy one, you know?”

“Brilliant!” Neville said, slurping his chocolate cone. “We’re getting a kitten!”

Hermione and Harry got their cones and walked towards the pet shop. Harry filled the other two in quielty as they ate their ice cream and talked about what kind of cat Hermione should get. Neville insisted that they all get to name it, since it would be all of their kitten, since Neville had always wanted a kitten and he knew Harry had too, hadn’t he, Harry?

The pet shop was filled with tame rats and three eyed toads and adorable little Jack Russel puppies with forked tails (“Crups,” Neville had corrected him, “They’re crups.”). Harry was playing tug of war with one when the bell to the store door rang and Harry looked up to see Ron, Percy, and Ginny Weasley enter.

“Er—hello,” Harry said, awkwardly standing. Neville and Hermione, who were looking at the assorted kittens, looked over and then came over to Harry.

“Hi,” Ron said shortly, his ears bright red with embarassment. “How—how’s your summer been?”

“Good. Yours?”

“Erm—excellent. Me and my family, we went to Egypt to visit my brother Bill—I think you met him in the hospital wing. After last year.”

“Er—was he the one who called Snape a prat or the one who gave me a high five?”

Ginny let out a small giggle. “High five. He says it’s a cool-o-meter.”

Harry smiled at her. “That sounds wicked. Hermione went to France.”

“It was fascinating. So much magical history! Did you know that during the Revolution there were court magicians that sent some sort of wasting disease into the sewers to try to defeat the rebels?” Hermione said, her face shining. Percy was the only one whose face seemed to shine in return.

“Yes, I read about that last year in a great book from the library—Une Histoire des Magicks Francais by Elward Wandworth, it’s in French but I can offer you a translation spell—“

“Oh, thank you, Percy!”

“Hello, Percy, how’s your summer been?” Neville asked. Harry shifted his attention from the awkward situation with Ron to his friend, Percy.

“Very good. The trip to Egypt was, of course, fascinating—completely different than European magic, a lot more of charms and amulets and crypts. Bill says you’ll never find anyone like the Egyptians with curses. He’s a cursebreaker, you know, with Gringotts.”

“Yeah, it’s the coolest job I’ve ever seen,” Ginny said, her eyes bright. “Next year I’m going to take Ancient Runes so I can be a cursebreaker.”

Harry grinned at Percy. “Sounds fun.” He suddenly caught a glimpse of a badge on Percy’s chest. “Percy, what’s—“ he started, making a vague motion to his chest, but Hermione answered his question by throwing her arms around Percy’s neck in delight.

“Oh! Percy, you’re Head Boy!” she said gleefully, and Percy blushed a deep red as Neville and Harry started to exclaim about it as well.

“Oi! You down there, either get to business or get out! No loiterin’, this ain’t a tea room!” the owner called out, and Harry, Hermione, and Neville went back to the kittens.

“They all look so adorable—I don’t know which one to pick,” Hermione said, cradling a small, fuzzy black one in her arms. It yawned, displaying a small pink tongue and sharp little teeth, and Hermione sighed. “I quite like this one, though.”

Harry was about to concur when he heard the familiar sound of Ron Weasley’s howl of outrage.

“YOU MANGY CAT, GET OFF HIM!”

The three turned to see a great ginger blur run past them, chasing Ron Weasley’s rat. Hermione stepped in front of the cat and he banged right into her legs, giving the rat a chance to escape to the outdoors.

Ginny and Ron ran after it, calling for it, while Percy apologized to the lady, took a small red bottle from her, and sighed.

“I really think Scabbers would be much better off at home. Don’t think he’s quite up for Hogwarts this year—he looks old.” Percy left the store, saying gooodbye to Harry and the others.

The ginger cat was still running about the store, sniffing for the rat, until the owner hit it with a Stunner.

“Oh, Crookie, what am I to do with you now?” the witch said despairing as she scooped the cat up.

“Does—does he do that often?” Harry asked.

“All the time. He’s really a sweetie, but sometimes he just goes off like that. Went haring after a stray mutt in the alley yesterday—well, no more of that. I’m sorry, Crook, but I warned you.”

“What are you going to do to him?” Hermione asked.

“Put him down. He’s had his chances. No one wants him anyway, been here since he were a kitten. Ahw, don’t look at me like that, Crook. S’for the best.”

Hermione seemed paralyzed, but then she lunged at the counter, pulling Galleons out of her pocket and slamming them down on the counter.

“I’ll take him!” she said shrilly, and the owner rang up the purchase as fast as she could. She even threw in a free carrier for him, and Hermione scooped the enormous cat into her arms and left the store.

“He’s a beauty, isn’t he, Neville?” she asked, and Neville looked at the cat and stroked him carefully.

“Yeah. Looks like he’s got Kneazle in him.”

“Hermione,” Harry said as he in turn patted the cats head, “Do you realize that you’ve just undone all good faith I had with Ron Weasley?”

Hermione spun on him, eyes blazing, before she seemed to realize it was a joke.

“Funny, Harry. If he isn’t able to be civil with you just because you have a friend with a cat who chases rats, he isn’t worth it anyway. Come along, Crookshanks.”

The three headed to the steps at Gringotts, where Snape, Gus, and the Grangers were waiting.

Harry was a little sad to see the summer end. No more private time with Snape, no more breakfasts with Tookie, no more—was this what summer felt like? Being fun and carefree? No more summer. He made careless mistakes all the day before in their lessons—including an explosion that burned his arm (the bad one, the one he had broken and the one the basilisk had bitten) badly enough for Snape to stop and bandage it. He was distracted.

He didn’t mind as much when Snape brought him to the train station.

“I’ll be going ahead, Potter, of course.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I—“ Snape cleared his throat and put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. This Harry would miss too. Snape seemed to be working on being able to casually touch Harry, and he put a hand on his shoulder when ever Harry seemed to need it. “You may always come to my office, of course, Mr. Potter. I trust that your tutorials shall continue, as well. And I hope—“ Here Snape’s hand tightened firmly, “I hope you remember what I have told you about Black.”

“I do. I—I won’t do anything stupid, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s precisely what I mean.” He gripped Harry’s shoulder for another moment, then released. “Go find Granger and Longbottom. I shall see you at Hogwarts.”

The train was packed that year, and the three could only find one compartment. Once they had dragged their trunks in, however, they had realized someone else was in there.

“Who’s that?” Harry asked.

“Dunno,” Neville whispered. “Looks like he’s asleep.”

Hermione pointed to the case over his head. “He’s a professor. Probably to replace Lockhart.”

Harry, Hermione, and Neville made themselves comfortable in their compartment on the train and started to talk about Lockhart’s dismissal, which had coincided with the events of last year. Some Slytherin had stumbled into his office to find him in an unflattering night shirt and with his hair all mussed, and Lockhart had promptly Obliviated them. Unfortunately, the boy had gone straight to the Headmaster, afraid he was possessed, and the Headmaster had found out the truth and fired the man. The Slytherin had ambushed him at the gates of the school, supposedly, and Obliviated him in return, though no one could conclude that. When they got bored with that topic, Hermione started playing with Crookshanks as Neville tried to convince her to change the cats name.

“It’s just plain mean to him, Hermione! So he’s got wonky legs—so what! Shouldn’t have to be his name.”

“Crookshanks is a fine name, isn’t it, darling?” Hermione cooed to the cat.

“But Tiger—he looks like a tiger, doesn’t he, Harry?”

“He does,” Harry said as he nibbled on a chocolate frog.

“But Crookshanks is his name. I can’t take it away from him—it’s his.”

“True,” Harry said as he bit the frogs head off.

The two bickered good naturedly about it until the door to their compartment slid open and two Weasley heads poked in.

“Oh, hallo,” Ron said. “Mind if we—AARGH!”

He had been holding scabbers, and the cat in question had lunged at him, growling, until Ron shut the door quickly, shutting himself in the hallway and somehow stranding his sister in their compartment.

“Er—hello,” Harry said.

The girl squeaked and ran. Hermione gave the cat a measuring grin.

“Perhaps Tiger could be a sort of—nickname.”

Neville whooped in glee.

The conversation turned to Hogsmeade, and Harry turned glum.

“I can’t go.”

“But—it’s supposed to be wicked! Candy shops and toy shops and joke shops—“

“The Shrieking Shack is the most haunted place in Britain! The whole town is an educational land mine!”

“I can’t go,” Harry repeated. “My uncle ripped up my form.”

Neville narrowed his eyes. “Bugger. Well—you could always ask Snape—“

“No, he couldn’t sign. I asked him first night of break.”

Hermione’s forehead wrinkled and she looked thoughtful. “Well—maybe it’s for the best. With Black out, I mean. But—“ Hermione said quickly, seeing the crushed look on Harry’s face, “But that doesn’t mean that we’ll go without you.”

“No way!” Neville said. “Either we all go, or we all stay. Bet it’s a good time for exploring, with only the littles around.”

Harry cheered up a bit, and Hermione turned the conversation to an amazing book she had read bout something or another. She had just started to exclaim the merits of Peppermytyn Twine, a wizard from the eighteenth century, when the train stopped.

“We can’t be there already, can we?” Neville asked, peering out the window. “W-where are we?”

Suddenly the compartment was very cold and dark.

Harry wrapped his arms around himself and shivered. Neville did as well, but Hermione was merely looking pale. She reached out next to her and started to shake the sleeping man.

“Professor,” she hissed, then she started to shake him harder. “Professor, wake up, please!”

It was then that the door to their compartment opened and some…thing floated in.

It was the stuff of nightmares. A tall, menacing shadow clad in a tattered black cloak. A single hand protruded from the folds of it, a hand that was gray and slimy and decayed—

Harry felt the cold pick up as a sucking noise came from the shadow. This was more than a wind, this was as though they had all been plunged into the ocean in winter, like the time Dudley had turned the hose on him in mid-January, this was ice freezing all over his body—

He could feel Neville going stiff beside him, hear his whimpers, but it took him a moment to figure out what was happening. Before it hit, he grabbed Neville’s hand and squeezed.

Screams filled the compartment. Pleading yells, cries of pain, and worse, a women yelling ‘Not Harry! Not Harry! Not Harry!’ He had to stop it, he had to save her, she was his mum, wasn’t she, she needed him and he tried to move, tried to yell, but it was too cold to move anything and all he could see was blackness—

He woke to someone slapping his face and crying. At first he thought it was still the woman from before, but no, this was Hermione.

“Harry! Harry, wake up! Wake up! Neville! Neville, please, Harry, wake up, please!”

Harry opened his eyes and tried to sit up, but was immediately knocked to the ground by Hermione hugging him ferociously.

“Oh, Harry!”

“What—what happened? Where’s Neville?” He tried to push his glasses up, but he found he was still gripping Neville’s hand, and Neville was gripping his right back. He looked more scared then he ever had before, even in the Chamber or when the Queen took him out in first year.

“H-harry,” Neville stuttered out, gripping his hand even tighter. “Y-y-you’re okay.”

“I—what happened? Where did that thing go?”

“Professor Lupin,” Hermione answered. “He sent it away with—it looked like a giant silver cloud, but it made it go away.”

“Who screamed?” Harry asked.

Hermione looked puzzled and nervous. “No one screamed.”

“But I heard—someone was screaming.” For a moment Harry was scared he was going mad, like last year, but Neville’s hand tightened in his.

“I—I heard it too. A man, right?”

“No,” Harry said. “A woman…she was yelling my name—“

A loud crack stopped this conversation, and the three turned to look at Professor Lupin. He was holding a bar of choclate and had snapped it in half.

“Here,” he said kindly, handing some to Harry and Neville, who snapped a bit off of his and gave it to Hermione. “Eat this, it will help.”

“What—“

“That was a Dementor. One of the Dementor’s of Azkaban.”

“Professor,” Hermione asked, her eyes still scared though she seemed a bit more under control. “What did they do to Harry and Nevile?”

The man sighed. “A Dementor makes you relive your worst memories. Harry and Neville have—worse memories than most.”

Harry licked his lips and swallowed, taking a tiny bite of the chocolate. It was like he had just drank an entire pot of hot chocolate, his stomach felt warm and so did his limbs. He looked to Neville, who still seemed frozen, and he nudged him until he took a bite. He too, seemed a bit better.

“So—so the people in Azkaban,” Neville asked shakily. “They feel that way all the time?”

“Yes,” Professor Lupin said. His eyes looked pained.

“G-good,” Neville said. Harry couldn’t help but agree.

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They arrived at the school still shaky, but none the worse for ware. Malfoy had seen them and sneered, but he seemed a bit shaken as well. When they arrived in the school, McGonagall was waiting nervously in the Great Hall.

“Mr. Potter, Mr. Longbottom, Miss Granger! With me, if you please.”

They followed her until they arrived at her office. She sat at her desk and offered them each a tin of chocolate biscuits.

“Professor Lupin owled ahead and said you’d been taken ill on the train, Mr. Potter, Mr. Longbottom.”

Harry nodded slowly, but Neville asked a question.

“I—Professor Lupin, he said they make you relive your worst memories—but I don’t ever remember hearing that.”

Professor McGonagall looked pained. “We shall discuss this at a later time, Mr. Longbottom.”

“He—the man. Was that my dad? Was—“

“Later, Mr. Longbottom.”

“I don’t remember mine either,” Harry said quickly. “It was—it was my mum, wasn’t it? When he—“

“I do not know, personally, what your memories are. If you would like to discuss this at a later time and tell me in full detail, we may do so. But now is not the right time.” McGonagall looked stern and sad on this point. “Later. I promise you.”

The boys relucatantly agreed.

At this point, Madam Pomfrey bustled in like a whirlwind, checking each of the boys for fever and shoving bits of chocolate into their mouths. She finally let them go with the stern order that if they should feel any depression or pain, to go immediately to the Infirmary, no matter the time.

While the two were being poked and prodded by Madam, Professor McGonagall was having a serious talk with Hermione. She handed her a brown paper parcel and, at the end of the talk, patted the girl on the shoulder. The three made their way, quietly, to the feast, where Neville could barely bring himself to load up Harry’s plate.

Ron Weasley seemed shaky as well. All through the headmasters speech he sat passively next to his brother Percy. When the Dementors were mentioned, he shivered, and Percy put a concerned hand on the boys shoulder.

Their dormitory was very quiet that night, and before Harry fell asleep he thought he heard Neville crying in the bed next to him.

Harry woke up in considerably better spirits the next morning, as did Neville. The three set out for breakfast, where Neville loaded twice the amount of food as normal onto Harry’s plate and his own. He even put extra toast on Hermione’s.

“We’ll need stregnth,” he said, and the three tucked in.

Divination was their first class that year, and Hermione seemed a bit preoccupied. When Neville pointed out that her bag looked a bit heavy, she merely said she wanted to be reading up for her other classes in her spare time. Harry had not liked the class, as a whole, which had consisted of Professor Trelawney seeing the Grim in his cup.

“I quite liked tea,” Harry said sadly as they left the classroom. “Never feel the same way about it, will I, not if I have to keep looking in it for portents of doom—“

Hermione merely snorted and called the whole thing rubbish, as did Professor McGonagall.

Neville seemed to have something on his mind, though, and he announced to the other two as they walked to Care of Magical Creatures that he needed to talk to them that evening.

The class started out exciting, but ended badly. Hagrid called on Harry to ride the hippogriff, which Harry did, then Malfoy got jealous and called the hippogriff stupid and got himself hurt. Hagrid had promptly brought the boy to the hospital, and the boys felt badly.

“His first class ever and that happens,” Harry said. “It’s a shame.”

That night, Neville sat down with them in front of the fire and cleared his throat.

“I—d’you know why I live with my gran?”

Harry and Hermione shook their heads.

“My—my parents were—well, they were Aurors, you know, dark wizard catchers. They were friends with your parents, Harry. And they—they were—“ Neville blinked furiously.

“Did he—kill them too?” Harry asked, suddenly feeling like a very bad friend. To think, he had been ignorant of this for three years!

“No. He—when you defeated Him, Harry, my mum and dad came out of hiding cause they thought it was safe. But, but it wasn’t, really, and these—these people came and they—“ Here Neville started to sniffle, “They tried to get my parents to tell them how to bring back the Dark Lord. And, and my parents didn’t know and e-even if they did they wouldn’t tell, so they just—they kept casting an Unforgivable on them, and—“ A little tear dripped off of Neville’s nose.

“What happened to them, Neville?” Hermione asked gently.

“They’re in St. Mungo’s.” Neville started to cry. “They’re crazy.”

Harry wasn’t sure how long the three of them sat there. Hours, it felt like, maybe days. But Neville simply sat there, crying, and Hermione moved over and gave him a hug, and Harry grabbed Neville’s hand again.

And there they stayed, until Neville stopped crying. That night, when they parted ways, Harry sat on Neville’s bed for a while before he went to sleep.

“Do you miss them?” Harry asked.

“They—they aren’t dead.”

“But you still can miss them.”

“I—I do.” Here Neville almost broke into a fresh bout of tears. “I miss them a lot.”

Harry reached out and grabbed Neville’s shoulder. “Me too.”

That night, both Harry and Neville cried themselves to sleep.

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The next day dawned, and again spirits were rejuvenated. Once Neville realized that Harry and Hermione weren’t about to abandon him because his parents were mad, it went on like it had never happened. Like last year’s discovery of Harry’s secret, things remained unchanged between the three.

Potions that day was almost fun. Malfoy had deemed himself an invalid and set Ron Weasley to doing everything requiring two hands, which was irritating, but Harry and Neville were doing wonderfully on the potion. It was a Shrinking Solution, and Harry was furiously adding everything needed, but Neville and his two left feet had spilled half a dozen caterpillars in and turned it a bright, flourescent orange. Snape had threatened Trevor with the results, so Harry was putting all the skills he’d gained that summer to good use, trying to neutralize the effects. He succeeded, thankfully, and Snape gave Gryffindor five points—meager, to be sure, but Harry felt like it was five hundred. No one ever got points from Snape in Potions.

The class that afternoon was Defense Against the Dark Arts. Professor Lupin led them to the staff room, wands out, and when they entered Professor Snape was in there, reading a book.

“I believe I’ll stay for this,” Snape said, sneering at the Gryffindors. “What better entertainment could there be—watching Longbottom try to fight off a large cauldron filled with Potions ingredientss. I personally look forward to it.” He closed his book and settled back in his chair, and Neville let out a small ‘eep!’ while Harry tried to listen to everything Lupin said about the Boggart.

What would his be? Voldemort? A dementor? How would he defeat it? How could he even begin?

He started to plan, but looked over at Snape fearfully. What if he disgraced himself in front of Snape?

Neville was called upon first.

“Now, Neville, what is your greatest fear?”

Neville bit his lip and shrugged. “I—I’m scared of quite a lot of things, sir.”

“Try to think. What would scare you the most, if it came out of the cupboard right now?”

Neville mumbled something. Professor Lupin stepped forward. “What’s that?”

Nevile cleared his throat and said again. “I—Sirius Black.”

Something went over Lupin’s face, some cross of pain and betrayal, and he nodded. “Okay. Well—you live with your grandmother, Neville, yes?”

Neville nodded and felt Hermione’s comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Yes.”

“Well—can you imgine very clearly what your grandmother wears?”

“I—she’s got this green dress she wears on Sundays.” Harry, remembering said dress, stifled a laugh. “And a—a big handbag.”

“Alright. What I want you to do,” Lupin said, and then he whispered the rest of the instructions into Neville’s ear. Neville paled, nodded, and gripped his wand tightly.

“Ready then? Okay—remember, everyone, the spell is Riddikulus! Go on, Neville!”

Neville stepped forward, and suddenly a tall, terrifying man stepped out of the cupboard.

He was exactly as in the newspaper. His mouth was open in a rusty, manic laugh, and there was bloody all down his front.

“I killed them all,” rasped Black as he stumbled forward. “I’ve gotten all of them, now I’ll get you—“ The mans arm raised, a long, flashing knife in it, and people screamed as he brought the knife down towards Neville—

“R-r-riddikulus!” Neville squeaked, and suddenly the man stumbled. He was wearing a long, lacy green dress with a large red handbag taking the place of the knife. It bopped Neville harmlessly on the head, and Neville started to laugh.

“Alright, alright, someone else!” Professor Lupin cried out, and Seamus stepped forward, his chest puffed out.

Black immediately turned into a banshee, long black hair dragging against the floor as she started to wail--

“Riddikulus!”

She threw her hands to her throat as the unearthly noise turned to a croak.

“Next!” Dean Thomas stepped forward and paled as a disfigured, bloody hand started to make its way to Dean, crawling crablike—

“Riddikulus!” Dean cried out, and the hand got caught in a mouse trap.

“Forward!” yelled Lupin, and before anyone could stop him, Harry stepped in the path of the Boggart.

He had expected a Dementor, had decided to turn it into a balloon, but instead he saw Professor Snape.

He ducked a look behind him and saw Snape was there, sitting in the chair, looking frozen.

“Worthless,” the boggart said, “Absolutely worthless. Don’t know why it took me so long to see it—should have left you with those relatives, at least they could handle you.” Harry flinched back into a desk as he saw Snape raise a hand the way his uncle raised a hand, saw it start coming down—

“Riddikulus!” he cried out, and the hand caught Harry roughly on the shoulder and pulled him in, turning into his uncle, yelling into his face.

“RIDDIKULUS!” Harry bellowed, and it was as if the enormous man had sprung a leak, the air hissed out of him and he started to shrink.

Professor Lupin stepped forward to finish off the boggart, but Harry stared at his shoes, avoiding Snape’s glance at any cost. When the class was dismisssed, he bolted from the room, Neville and Hermione hot on his heels.

Remus Lupin looked, his expression blank, at Severus Snape, who seemed frozen in the chair, his face made of stone.

Harry ran all the way to Snape’s offices and fell on the floor outside the door, pulling his knees to his chest and putting his face down. He stayed that way until Hermione and Neville caught up with him, out of breath.

“I’m so stupid,” Harry said shortly.

“No, you’re not,” Hermione said.

“I am. He was—he was sitting right there. He’s going to hate me. I must’ve embarassed him in front of all our class.”

“Harry—it’s not your fault.”

“Yeah, but I should’ve guessed. I just—I like Snape. You know? I like him. I’m not, not ever scared of him or—“ Harry thought of the look on the boggarts face, the way his hand was being raised in the air. “Not like that. I—I just want him to like me.”

“He does like you. Would he take you into his house for a month if he didn’t like you?” Hermione asked.

“He won’t now, though.” Harry pressed his hands to his eyes. “I’m so stupid.” He looked up. “D’you—d’you think Snape hates me now?”

“No,” Hermione said.

“Definitely not,” Neville said.

Harry just wished he was sure. Neville and Hermione asked if he wanted them to wait with him, but he moved them on and sat, waiting, trying to think of a way to describe what had happened and hoping he hadn’t undone all the things he’d been trying to get since first year.

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Snape was sitting in his chair, his hands clutching at the arms, his face still stone, and Remus cleared his throat.

“Severus. We need to talk.”

Snape seemed to snap out of it, then. “I have nothing to say to you,” he snarled, and he stood. “If you’ll excuse me—“ He made to leave the room but was suddenly blocked by Lupin.

“We need to talk,” Lupin repeated. “Now.”

Snape bared his teeth. “Talk away.”

“Not here. My office.”

The two men walked the whole way in silence. Severus sniffed at the condition of the room as Lupin went over to his desk and sat down.

“I want to know what you’ve done to that boy.”

Snape sneered, his heart pounding. Lupin could undo everything, but Snape wouldn’t let him ruin this. Not this time. “Nothing. What, do you mean because he’s James Potter’s worthless brat—“

Perhaps the use of the word ‘worthless’ was too much for Lupin, because the man growled and stood up. “Damn it, Snape, the boy isn’t his father! You can’t use him in your little revenge plan, he’s just a kid, how dare you—“

“I don’t remember,” Snape snarled, “Did I admit to any of that?”

“He’s scared of you, Snape!”

“Many children are scared of me.” Snape gave the man a dangerous smile. “Can you tell them not to be?”

“He’s James son, he wouldn’t be—“

“If I may quote your own words, Lupin, the boy isn’t his father.” Snape sneered, sensing he’d gotten the upper hand. “Nor his godfather or that pathetic lump who used to run with you. You think that you can come here and that boy will worship the ground you walk on, don’t you? You’re alone, Lupin. You’re all alone.”

Lupin’s eyes looked crushed, but he kept pushing forward. “You’re just as alone as me, Snape. Only you, you never had anyone to begin with.”

“On the contrary, Lupin. I have Potter.”

Lupin looked stunned, then angry. “Don’t pretend you even care about him, Snape.”

“Don’t—don’t pretend? Who’s pretending?” Snape leaned over and shoved Lupin back into the wall. “I care about Potter. And you know what? He cares about me too. And you, Lupin? You know who cares about you in this little equation? Nobody.”

Snape left the room with Lupin still leaning against the wall.

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He came to his chambers and saw Harry sitting on the ground outside.

“Potter.”

Harry jumped up and almost lost his balance. “I’m sorry. I didn’t, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I’m sorry, I’m sor—“

Snape stepped forward and put both his hands on the boys shoulders. “Why—why are you scared of me?”

“B-because I—I want you to like me.”

“I do like you.”

“I just—I don’t want you to not. Like me, I mean.”

Snape looked like he was battling some intense personal demon, but he pulled Harry in and held him tightly.

“I—I like you.” Snape licked his lips and clenched his jaw. “I care about you.”

The two stayed in that corridor that way for a long time. It was a miracle, Snape thought when they broke it, that no one had come upon them and seen.

Harry looked up at him and said “I—me too.” Snape reached out and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder again. “I’m—I’m sorry. About the boggart. And embarrassing you. I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.”

“I’m—I thought it would be the dementor, if I’d known I wouldn’t have—“

“I know.” He turned to his office door and opened it. “Let’s go inside.”

As soon as they settled, Snape got the whole story about the dementor out of Harry.

“I—d’you think it was my mum I heard?”

“Most probably. I doubt there’s another incident that would be your worst memory.”

“I—I don’t remember it.”

“Not conciously, I’m sure. You were only a baby.”

“I—I’ve had nightmares. About her—her screaming and disappearing. My dad, too.”

Snape sighed. “I’m sure they will fade with time.”

“I’m—I wish I could kill him.”

“Voldemort?”

“Black. I hate him. He—“ Harry’s hands shook, but then he got them under control. “I hate him. I mean, Voldemort—I, I hate him too. But he’s evil—he’s bad, he wasn’t—he wasn’t their friend. He didn’t betray them.”

Snape exhaled. “The ninth circle of Hell is reserved for traitors and turncoats.”

“Neville—when the dementors left, he asked Professor Lupin if that’s how the people at Azkaban felt all the time. And, when the professor said yes, he just said ‘good.’ And I, I agreed. Does—does that make me a bad person?”

“No. That is why the dementors guard Azkaban. People want to think that the people who caused grief are being punished justly.”

Harry stayed a little longer, then headed back to his dorm.

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The year started to progress as usual—classes, homework, and having fun with Hermione and Neville. Quidditch try-outs came and went, but Harry was unable to try out again. His arm was too weak, with the burn and the basilisk and how he’d broken it last year. He and Neville, instead, went to the top of the Astronomy Tower and tried to tempt birds to them with chunks of bread and seed while Hermione studied and lectured them about the futility of their exercise.

Hermione was busy a lot. Neville insisted she was taking too many classes and working herself to the bone. She took her lunches in the library a lot, bent over dusty books or copying runes into her notebook. She was busy every hour, it seemed—chanting Arithmacy equations under her breath, relating the history of runes during walks to class. She seemed to be regretting her choice in Divs.

“It’s absolute rubbish,” she said angrily after an altercation with Lavender and Parvati, who seemed to be eating everything the professor said up. “I could be doing something useful.”

Harry and Neville agreed, though it was good for a laugh. Harry thought it was a little tiring to have his death proclaimed every time he made his way into the class.

Seamus had taunted him for a few days after the boggart incident, but then seemed to drop it in favor of taunting Neville about Black. At least, he did until Harry pushed him into a coat of armor. He had a puffy lip and a pout for a week, but then he seemed to steer clear of Harry and his group. The story never seemed to leave Gryffindor house, a fact Harry was eternally grateful for.

He was able to avoid Professor Lupin, as well, at least for a little while. He left the room quickly, spoke up rarely, but he was good at Defense and it showed. He knew that, sooner or later, Lupin would tlak to him. He had a look in his eye whenever he talked to Harry, a suspicion and a thoughtfulness that made Harry nervous.

Harry was able to postpone the talk until the first Hogsmeade visit on Halloween. Hermione and Neville refused to go without Harry, but Harry said they should go.

They put up a fight, but Harry pointed out that the candy store was a necessity and that there was supposed to be a fabulous book shop. Not to mention the Shrieking Shack, which had enthralled Hermione. They left, promising to come back with as much candy as they could carry and to have as little fun as possible.

Harry was wandering towards the dungeon by way of the portrait of a red headed woman, where he often stopped and stared, when he heard someone calling his name.

“Harry!” Professor Lupin came jogging up, and Harry immediately looked at his shoes. “Harry, hi.”

“Er—hi,” Harry said, looking up quickly. Before he could look down, Lupin jerked a chin towards the picture.

“I always liked this picture. Used to remind me of a friend of mine—your mother.”

Harry looked at Lupin closely. “You—you knew my mother?”

“Yes. And your father. They were—some of the closest friends I have ever had.” Professor Lupin reached out and gripped Harry’s shoulder, and Harry resisted the urge to flinch. He didn’t know Lupin—but Lupin knew his parents. “Why don’t you come with me to my office? I have something I would like to talk to you about.”

Harry followed Lupin to his office and sat warily in the chair across from his desk. Lupin smiled brightly. “Tea?” he asked, and he started to pour a cup for himself. Harry nodded and looked around for the tea leaves.

“Here,” Lupin said, putting the two mismatched mugs down on the desk. He pulled forward a box and took out two teabags. “Earl Grey alright with you?”

Harry nodded and sipped his tea carefully. He missed tea at Snape’s. Maybe he could go to Snape’s office after this and get some real tea. With milk. And sugar.

“So,” Professor Lupin said brightly. “How are you, Harry?”

Harry shrugged and put his tea on the table. “Fine.”

“How are lessons?”

“Good.”

“What’s your favorite class?”

“Er—Potions, probably. Or Defense, I guess.” Lupin smiled at him brightly.

“Certainly your parents child, through and through. Those were Lily and James’ best subjects. Lily was always one of Slughorn's favorites—he was the old Potions Master, before Snape.” Harry felt a flush of warmth go down his spine “You’re doing very well in my class. Could speak up a little more, hmm?”

“I guess.”

“Harry, I’ve actually been wondering about that day in class.” Harry felt his stomach drop. “When we battled the boggart.”

“What about it?” Harry started to fiddle with his sleeve.

“Have—is there a reason that’s your fear?” Harry shrugged again. He wasn’t telling Lupin something he couldn’t even fully explain to himself.

“I—Hermione says fears don’t have to be rational.”

“That’s right, they don’t but this one—it is rational, isn’t it?”

Harry shrugged again. “I guess.”

“Is—is it a memory? What the boggart did?”

Harry shook his head. “None of the others had memories. I mean, Dean didn’t ever see a hand, not one like that, and Seamus doesn’t often see banshees. I mean—it’s just a fear. It’s not a memory or anything.”

Lupin sighed. He wasn’t getting anywhere, so he decided to just be blunt. “Harry, has Professor Snape ever hurt you?” The man’s eyes looked friendly, yet concerned. Harry looked up, shocked.

“What—Professor Snape? No, never!”

Lupin leaned over the desk, trying to make eye contact. “Harry—if something’s happened, you need to tell me. If he’s threatened you in any way—“

“He hasn’t, really!”

“Harry. You can tell me.”

“I am telling you! He didn’t do anything!” Harry started to get upset. Snape was the person who helped him. He never hurt him, not like the Dursleys, not even when he deserved it, like with the explosion that last day before break. Thinking about it, Harry’s hand went to his other arm, where there was still a bandage.

“Why are you getting so upset?” the professor asked.

“I—he’s never done anything, really, he hasn’t. He, he wouldn’t, not ever—“

“Harry, calm down.”

Harry shook his head. “He’s—he wouldn’t ever hurt me. He—he’s not—he wouldn’t, okay?”

As if sensing Harry needed him, Snape chose that exact moment to enter Lupin’s office. He was carrying a smoking goblet and had a distasteful expression Harry knew from Potions on his face. “I knocked, but you didn’t answer. I have better things to do than wait around with the damned potion—Potter.”

Harry got out of the chair, almost sighing with relief, as Snape came over and slammed the goblet onto the desk.

“So,” Snape said, getting a hold of Harry’s shoulder. “You didn’t take my word for it, did you, Lupin? You had to go question him yourself.”

“I don’t know what—“ Lupin started weakly, and Snape cut him off.

“Don’t take me for a fool, Lupin, you know exactly what you were doing and why. Potter!”

Harry looked up at his professor with a questioning look. “S-sir?”

“Go wait in the hallway. I’ve a need to talk to you about your Diminishing Drought, don’t go far.”

Harry nodded and made his way to the door as Lupin called out “Wait!”

Harry stopped and turned to see his professor standing at the desk, looking pleadingly at Snape. “Severus, I—I believe you. I just want to be a part of his life. If it weren’t for my—condition—I would have taken Harry in years ago, you know that.”

“If it weren’t for your condition,” Snape spat, “Quite a lot would be very different. And perhaps my opinion of you wouldn’t be so very low.” He allowed himself to look about the office, then sneered. “Then again, perhaps not. Ambushing a young boy in the corridors—“

“Severus—“

“Making him come to your office—hardly professor-like, is it?”

“I—he didn’t make me,” Harry said quietly. “I—he said he knew my mum and dad—“

Snape looked disgusted at Lupin. “Manipulating a poor orphan? Despicable.” Lupin looked a little ashamed, because he had done that. Then he had a little righteous anger.

“You’ve done more despicable things, Severus! You’ve done things too!”

“I told Dumbledore, I warned him. You can’t trust an animal, I said. They have no idea of right or wrong. Well, have you interviewed the boy to your satisfaction?”

“I—do you care about him? Really?” Harry looked down. Saying it to Harry was all well and good, but he would never admit it to Lupin—

“More than you ever will.” Harry looked back up quickly and a smile burst over his face so quickly that Lupin cursed himself inwardly. Before he could say anything else, Snape gave him one lasst sneer and, his hand still possessively on Harry’s shoulder, swept away.

“What did Lupin do to you?” Snape asked as they walked to his office.

“Nothing. He just—I think he just wanted to talk to me. He—I like him. Mostly.”

Snape pulled him to the side of the corridor and looked him in the eyes. “Like him you may, but be aware—Lupin is not all that he looks.”

“He—why did you call him an animal? He seems very nice. And he, he said he knew my mum and dad—“

“He did. Unfortunately, I am prohibited from informing you of why I consider him an animal—though his tactics today were despicable. All I can say is be careful, Potter.”

Harry nodded and had tea and discussed potions theory but thought, as he made his way back to the dormitory, that Lupin was probably worth getting to know. If he was careful. And he knew his parents.

That night, at the Halloween feast, Neville loaded enough food on his plate for six men.

“Wait’ll you see what I’ve got back at the dorm,” Neville said. “Enough candy to last us ‘til Christmas! Fizzing Whizbees and Choc’late Frogs and Slugworth’s Unmeltable Ice Cream!”

“And not a bit of it sugar free,” Hermione said as she took a sip of pumpkin juice.

“Ah, yes, Jane and Dave are going to kill us when we come to them with our cavities,” Neville said laughingly.

“Did you have fun?” Harry asked as he took a huge bite of his roll.

“No,” Neville said without thinking. “’Course not. You weren’t there!”

“And the Shrieking Shack was a dud,” Hermione said. “Really, hasn’t even had a good howl for almost twenty years! I really think there are more haunted places in Britain. Perhaps it was an outdated text—“

“Next time, though, we’ll stay here. I mean, the candy is great and so is the book place, and the Butterbeer is quite good, but it’s not as fun without you.” Harry started to intensely cut his roast beef, his cheeks turning a little pink.

On their way back to the dormitory, Professor Lupin stopped the three.

“Ah, hello, Hermione, Neville. Mind if I steal Harry away for a mo?”

Harry shrugged. “I—you can say whatever it is in front of them, Professor, I don’t mind.”

“Well—I wanted to apologize. For this afternoon. Professor Snape was right, I really handled the situation all wrong—“

“I—It’s all right,” Harry said, feeling slightly uncomfortable. Grown-ups didn’t apologize. They never needed to. “I’m—I can see you might get worried, but really, it’s—Professor Snape wouldn’t ever do that. Not to me.”

Professor Lupin cleared his throat. “I realize that now, yes. Had a talk with Dumbledore as well—well, I just wanted to apologize. I hope—perhaps next weekend you could come to tea and I can tell you about your parents.”

“Could Hermione and Neville come too?”

“I don’t see why not.” Professor Lupin smiled and Harry smiled back. It was all right, to say yes, wasn’t it? Having Hermione and Neville come too was being careful, right?

Harry related the afternoons events to the others as they made their way up to Gryffindor Tower. Slowly, the hallways started to fill up with people complaining and someone in the front of the crowd telling them to shut up. It sounded an awful lot like Ginny Weasley.

“Hey, open the Lady, I want to get into the Common Room!”

“Fred, George, is this some stupid joke? Take it off, I’m tired!”

“I need to pee! C’mon, you guys, move it up!

“Oh, be quiet!” Ginny Weasley’s shrill voice said. “Someone go get Percy—“

Percy, however, was pushing through the crowd.

“Ginny! Ron! Are you hurt?” he bellowed. “Move, out of my way—I’m Head Boy, please, let me through—“ Hermione, neville, and Harry silently attatched themselves to the back of Percy’s cloak and got through the whole crowd, where they saw what the fuss was.

“Gin—run and get Dumbledore. Ron, are you—“

“I’m fine, I just found it.”

“All right, then, you—you go get Professor McGonagall—“

The portrait of the Fat Lady had been slashed. Neville gulped at the amount of tears in the canvas. She was nowhere to be seen, and Peeves was hovering midair, cackling.

“Can—can portraits die?” Neville asked Percy as he worked on crowd control.

“What? No, I expect she’s off in some other frame getting tipsy, you know how she can get on the holidays—oh, come now, Harper, there’s no need to cry, the Lady will be right as rain, you’ll see.” He patted a snivelling first year on the head. It was then that Dumbledore arrived and questioned Peeves. Harry wasn’t really listening—Peeves didn’t seem like he was about to tell Dumbledore anything, and he was too busy trying to map the Lady’s escape route. He snapped too, however, when he heard Peeves last sentence.

“Nasty temper he’s got, that Sirius Black.”

Harry thought the world stopped in that instant, when he heard Peeves say what he’d said. He thought that everything slowed down and, that since it had slowed down, he could use that opportunity to escape, to find him and make him tell him why, but no matter what Harry thought, the world did not stop or slow, and so when he turned to go the rest of the students were in his way.

There was panic and pandemonium and Percy was yelling for everyone to be quiet, to calm down, and Professor Dumbledore just raised his arms and roared ‘Silence!’

Everyone stopped moving, then.

“Prefects, escort the children to the Great Hall. Lady—“ he was talking to the Grey Lady, Ravenclaw’s House ghost, “Please go inform the Heads of House to evacuate everyone to the Great Hall, immediately. Peeves—“ the little poltergeist was doing flips in the air, cackling at the picture of panic he had caused. “Peeves, you will tell us where Black went.”

Peeves executed another turn and Harry balked at leaving. He needed to find out where Black had gone, so he could find him. “Won’t, won’t, won’t!”

“Peeves.” Dumbledore’s voice was like verbal thunder, and Harry shivered as Percy started to shepherd all the kids away from the tattered canvas.

“Ha, Headmaster can order Peeves all he likes, but Peevesie needn’t do anything!”

“This castle has been a refuge to you for many years, Peeves, because I believe in second chances. This is your last chance. Tell me which way Black went.”

Peeves stopped doing turns and looked at the headmaster, gobsmacked. “You would turn old Peevesie out, then? Out on his ear? Out on his behind? Ooh, Headmaster isn’t so gloriously forgiving then, is he? Threatening poor Peeves with homelessness—“

“Tell me, Peeves. Now.”

Just as Peeves seemed about to cave, a hand landed on Harry’s shoulder and started to pull him away. Harry looked at the hand, furious, only to see it was rough and stained with potions.

“Professor, no—no, I have to—“

“What you have to do, Potter, is go with the rest of the school to the Great Hall and go to sleep.”

“But sir—Black, he’s here. He’s here, I can ask him—“

“You can ask him nothing. You can go to the Great Hall as you were instructed to do by the Headmaster.”

“Sir—sir, please, I need to know—“

“He would not tell you, Potter, even if you were to find him. More likely he would kill you immediately so he could go bragging to the Dark Lord.” This seemed to shake Harry out of his determination a little bit. “He cannot tell you, Potter. And you will not risk your life looking for some pathetic, crazed murderer! He is not worth it, Potter!” Snape’s voice rose to a yell at the end, and Harry bit his lip.

“I—Sir, I just—he—you won’t let him get away, will you? You’ll catch him, right?” His eyes looked hopeful and Snape felt a little stab of vengeance. Here, here it was, the truth. The truth he had looked for all those years, the little thing that proved that Black had always been wrong about him, because he mattered. He mattered more than Black did.

“If he is still here I will do my best. With each second you delay in going to the Great Hall, however, you run the risk of him finding some abandoned little hole in the walls and slipping free.”

Harry and Snape arrived at the Great Hall just as a frazzled Professor Lupin ran out of it. Harry was hidden behind Snape’s enormous cloak when the man ran towards them.

“Severus, all the children are accounted for except Har—Harry, oh thank God.” The man gathered him up in a bone crushing hug, and Harry stiffened a little before the man let him down. “Harry, thank God you’re okay.”

“No thanks to you,” Snape drawled.

Lupin glared a little at Snape and ruffled Harry’s hair. “The Headmaster’s conjured you all up some sleeping bags so you can get right to sleep. Neville and Hermione have set you all up a cozy kip in the corner between the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables. Head in, would you, chap?” Harry looked at Snape and Snape smirked.

“In with you, then, Potter, and I will go find Black.” Harry nodded and whispered goodbye before ducking into the room.

Lupin shot him a look. “Sirius knows this school better than almost anyone. If he’s hiding somewhere—“

“He won’t be able to hide from me,” Snape snarled, and he took off towards the towers as Lupin watched him from behind.

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Hermione and Neville had set up a cozy area. They had somehow gotten their hands on two extra sleeping bags, one which Harry settled into and one which was unzipped and hit with a shielding charm. “In case,” Hermione said solemnly, and Harry nodded. They lay on their backs and stared at the stars and listened to the ridiculous theories going through the air.

Hermione snorted after someone yelled ‘Apparated in!’ for the seventh time.

“You can’t Apparate in or out of Hogwarts. Honestly, has no one read Hogwarts, A History? It’s disgraceful.”

“How—how do you think he got in, then?” Neville asked.

“A secret passage. Hogwarts is like a honeycomb—passages upon passages. No one knows all of them, even though the headmasters know most. See—“ Hermione, who had brought her school bag to dinner for a little light studying, pulled out a quill and parchment and started to sketch. “See, this is Hogwarts.” She drew a big square castle with four turrets coming out of it.

“There’re a bunch more towers than that,” Neville said.

“Be quiet, Neville, it’s just a symbol! This is Hogwarts, and these—“ she drew circles on various parts of the map, “—are the common rooms.”

“Really?”

“No, Neville, it’s just a diagram! There are at least ten passages near every common area—most made by all the founders, some made only by that House founder, and some added in later by necessity. Of those ten, at least five lead outside or to safe parts of the castle.”

“What, for fire exits and things?” asked Harry, curious.

“Yes, or if the castle were under siege or something. And then each founder made their own little areas and passsages there—like the Chamber, right? So no one can know all of them. Hufflepuff passages are notoriously hard to find, actually. Supposedly there’s one that leads to Hogsmeade from the Goblin Rebellion of 1325—“

“Wicked! Lets go find it!” said Neville.

“Neville, you’re being ridiculous tonight. Sneaking out of Hogwarts is grounds for expulsion, I’ll have you know, and I won’t risk my education for a handful of candy.” Hermione sniffed. “Anyway, most of these passages are sealed from the outside, but there are at least ten that lead outside and are unblocked either way. And the headmaster is monitoring them, I bet.”

“How did he get past, then?” Harry asked.

“Well, it’s Halloween. We were all at the feast and he probably just…slipped past. He was probably going to break in and try to ambush you, Harry,” Hermione said factually.

“Don’t worry, mate, he’d never get a shot off. I’d tackle him,” Neville said, patting Harry’s arm.

Harry smiled. “Yeah.”

Percy Weasley’s voice rang out by magic. “It’s almost midnight! Go to sleep! Dawes, Goring, get out of there! I told you, one sleeping bag per person, no sharing! Go to bed!”

Harry snuggled into his sleeping bag and stared at the stars.

“Sirius is a constellation, you know, he heard a Hufflepuff a little bit away say. “See that, right there?”

Harry turned away and looked at Neville instead.

He woke up a few hours later, hot and confused and his hand pressed to his mouth to stifle the scream of his nightmares. He rolled over and closed his eyes again, listening to Hermione and Neville’s deep breathing, and suddenly he heard footsteps. Before he could panic and think it was Black, he heard the professors smooth voice.

“Mr. Weasley, you may stand down.”

He was surprised to hear Percy’s sleepy voice in reply. “Professor? I just—I wanted to make sure—“

“Commendable, Mr. Weasley. But you may stand down. I will guard Mr. Potter.” He heard Percy walking away and another set of feet coming closer.

“Severus—“

It was the headmaster.

“Severus, the whole castle has been searched with no sign of Black. I believe Harry is quite safe.”

“You also believed that Hogwarts was quite safe,” Snape spat back. “Deranged madmen breaking in, vandalising portraits—is that your idea of safe?”

“Severus—“

“Not to mention that—thing you keep on staff. The monster.” Harry knew he was talking abiout Lupin. “Once a murderer—“

“He is no murderer, and you know it.”

“Attempted. Silly of me, to split hairs between wanting to kill and being prevented—“

“There are some who might call you a monster, Severus.”

There was a dangerous pause. “You among them, I suppose.”

The headmaster sighed. “Of course not. But you, better than anybody, should understand. I received many protests when I appointed you to the staff, yet I did it. Because I believe that everyone deserves a second chance, Severus, and you never even had the first chance. Can’t you see that’s all I am doing? Giving someone with bad luck a new start?”

“If not for James’ unknown cowardice—“

“Severus, you know better.”

The man let out a sigh. “Fine. If not for Potter’s decent side—“ Harry listened as hard ass he could. His father! Snape said his father was decent! “That new start you so desperately yearn to give would be given to him in Azkaban.”

“Can you wish that on him, Severus?”

Snape sighed. “Not on him, no. But on Black—on Black, I more than wish it. I will do it. I will not let him ruin anymore lives, Albus. I will not. I’ll live to see the man Kissed and tossed away.”

“Perhaps—“ here Dumbledore sounded older than Harry had ever heard him.

“Perhaps what? Perhaps you will give the man a second chance and let him live out his life happy as a clam planting flowers on the grounds?”

“No, my boy. He has had his chances.” He paused. “You will be staying here, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

“Think about what I’ve said.”

“Maybe.”

The headmaster walked away, and though Harry yearned to sit up and ask Snape for the whole story, he merely snuggled deeper into his sleeping bag, dropped his head, and went to sleep.

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The next day was bright and sunny and Harry and Neville had great fun waking up early and laughing over Malfoy’s sleepwear. Hermione called them juvenille, but Harry saw even her laughing about Goyle’s green footie pajamas. Then all of Gryffindor trooped into the commons area and dorms and fell asleep. They were lucky it was Sunday.

Percy and a few of the other seventh years started to cast various spells over the entrance way.

“Black won’t get in here without a fight,” Oliver Wood, the Quidditch captain, said proudly.

“I hope he doesn’t get in here at all,” Percy said.

They also received a new portrait—Sir Cadogan. He was a mad knight that used to yell at them on their way to Divs and now yelled at them every morning and night. He challeneged people to duels, called everyone names, and spent his free time thinking up immensely tricky passwords. He was soon nicknamed Sir Curr-ogan, since that was what he called most people. He was Neville’s worst nightmare—Neville, who had never been good at the passswords, was near tears every time he had to enter the commons. Luckily, he scarcely had to go in without Hermione or Harry at his side.

People had started to follow Harry around, though, which alternately vexed him and comforted him at the same time. Percy Weasley, for example, walked him and Neville and Hermione to all their classes, which made Hermione happy because she could chatter to him about the complicated books she had been reading and made Harry feel safe because he remembered how Snape had relieved Percy of duty—Percy, at least, was doing it because he cared. A Slytherin boy by the name of Lawrence Dougal, however, was not.

“When Black goes for him, I’ll be there,” he was heard to brag. “And I won’t let him take that stupid kid anywhere. I’ll be a hero!”

Professor McGonagall had summoned Harry to her office and solemnly offered him Ginger Newts. As he nibbled one, she took a deep breath.

“I had not wanted to tell you this, Harry, because it might frighten you—“

“Is this about Black, Professor?” he asked.

McGonagall looked taken aback. “How did you know about—“

“Professor Snape told me this summer, Professor. He said I had a right to know.”

Her lips thinned out. “Indeed.” She sighed. “Well, Harry, now that you know, you will understand why I must ask you to be very careful. Never go anywhere alone, or out of bounds.”

“No, miss, I won’t, I promise. Professor Snape’s making me spend evenings in his office, studying, anyway.”

That seemed to comfort her a bit, and he left the office none the worse for wear.

The evenings he spent with Snape, reading old, slightly shady potions tomes and sorting ingredients. Sometimes they brewed potions and while they simmered Snape would ask Harry to recite to him all his lessons.

“No, no, no, it’s ad-epto vegran-dis, not adep-to vegrand-is,” Snape scolded him after he mangled the pronunciation of one of the spells in his Charms reading. “How do you expect to perform the spell adequetely without proper pronunciation?”

“We haven’t done this one in class, sir. Sorry.”

“Class or not, how do you expect to learn on your own without proper knowledge of pronunciation? Do you even know what the spell means, Potter?”

Harry blinked. “Erm—it’s a shrinking spell?”

“Translate it from the Latin, boy.”

“I don’t know Latin, Professor.”

The man had given a look that was part disgust and part horror. “What are they teaching you in those Muggle schools? Nothing but rubbish.”

Harry was soon learning Latin every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday evening, and Hermione, who had always wanted to learn Latin, was joining them twice a week and pulling Neville along with her. Neville was surprised at first to find himself in the top of the class.

“It’s from knowing plant names!” the boy exclaimed happily when harry asked whether his gran had taught him Latin. Neville was so excited to be the top in something other than Herbology that it even alleviated his fear of Snape a little bit, and he worked hard to not let Hermione and Harry get ahead of him. Regardless, they all advanced quickly, expecially with Snape as a teacher. Soon Neville and Harry would talk about secret things in fracured Latin and English, which was fun as it irritated Seamus to no end.

“Tisn’t English or Gaelic and those’re the only ones that matter!” he complained, which made Harry jerk a thumb in his direction and say a string of nonsense in Latin, which made Seamus throw an inkpot at his head. Harry, luckily, had wonderful reflexes, and Seamus received two weeks detention when it smashed into Professor Trelawney’s face.

Professor Lupin had made good on his word and invited Harry, Hermione, and Neville to tea a few weeks later. Hermione peppered him with questions as she looked over an item for their next class—a Hinkypunk with angry eyes—when Neville asked him a question.

“Sir—Professor, I was wondering—“ he stammered, and Lupin put down his tea cup and smiled kindly at the boy.

“Wondering what, Neville?”

“About—well, about the Dementor. You—how did you—“

“How did I make it go away?” he asked, and Neville nodded furiously. “It’s a very complicated spell called a Patronus. Most grown wizards can’t even summon one.”

Neville looked into his cup and nodded. Hermione squealed.

“Oh, Professor, I remember reading all about that! Patronus is a really handy spell, that’s what the book says—would you teach us, please, professor? Oh, please?”

Professor Lupin looked to be leaning towards no, and Harry let out a small groan. “Hermione, isn’t the Latin enough?”

Lupin looked at him questioningly. “Latin?”

“Professor Snape’s teaching us all Latin. Useful, I guess, but dead boring some nights,” Harry said.

Lupin cleared his throat. “Well, if Professor Snape can find the time, I suppose I can to, can’t I? Of course I’ll teach you. We’ll start in a few weeks, all right?”

So, even though the air was thick with worry and Harry slept with his wand under his pillow and Dumbledore watched him at dinner, Harry was happy. He had his friends and Professor Snape and Professor Lupin wasn’t dangerous or anything like Snape said. So, even though the trees were losing all their leaves and the sky was getting gray and Sirius Black was on the loose, Harry’s life was good.

At least, until the Quidditch match.

Harry loved watching Quidditch more than Neville and Hermione put together. He thought that flying was better than anything else, because when you flew you just left everything behind and you esscaped, you were free. Hermione always brought a book to the game to read in her lap, and Neville was cheerfully enthusiastic for his own team, but Harry just liked to watch the players fly and he would, the whole game, his eyes glued to them. So, on the match day, he was one of the first at the pitch and he snagged three front row seats for him and Neville and Hermione. The weather was foul, but Hermione conjured a bubble around them and he and Neville cheered their hearts out, regardless of rain. Just as Audley Wexler, a fourth year Gryffindor who had made Seeker than year, was about to grab the Snitch, the stadium became eerily silent.

“Neville?” Harry whispered. “Neville, is it—“

Neville just whimpered and Harry felt the cold sweep up him and he started to shiver. Shiver uncontrollably, almost like spasm after spasm shaking his body as he heard his mother screaming and screaming and screaming. He shivered so hard that he tumbled over the side of the stands and started to fall.

He heard only his mothers shrieks of ‘Harry! Harry!’ that he barely noticed that they were being echoed by a near hysterical Hermione at the top of the stands. All he remembered was two pairs of rough, big Quidditch hands grabbing his arms and seeing a big silver gust of wind float past him before a cloud of a darker shade rose up and covered his eyes.

After that, he heard no more.

Harry woke up to the familiar white noise of the hospital wing—Madam bustling around, people muttering in the background. For a moment he kept his eyes closed—it seemed easier that opening them and remembering those horrible screams. But someone must have noticed his change in breathing, because some unknown voices yelled in tandem “Blimey, he’s awake!” Harry opened his eyes after that. No use pretending.

There was a blur of people around his bed and he blinked, trying to find his glasses before noticing that a familiar blur of brown hair was holding them out to him. He pulled them on thankfully, then looked at the swarm around his bed. Hermione was there, looking frightened, and Neville, looking pale and shaky. Percy Weasley was calling to Madam Pomfrey that he was awake, while the Weasley twins were smiling at him and tousling his hair.

“How—what happened? There—were there—“ Harry started to stutter, but Hermione seemed to see that he was truly alright and burst into tears, throwing her arms around Harry’s neck and wailing. Harry awkwardly hugged her and pat her back. “Er—there, Hermione, look, I’m alright. Stop—you don’t have to cry, I’m really okay.” He shot a panicked look at Neville, who seemed to shrug in a way that spoke ‘you’re on your own, mate, she just finished fussing on me.’ Hermione did not notice the silent exchange, or acknowledge Harry’s attempt at comfort, but merely kept clutching at Harry.

Percy Weasley noticed that Hermione seemed to be cutting of Harry’s air supply, so he leaned in and detatched Hermione with a practiced ease. “Come, Hermione, it’s all right now.” He patted her back several times and she started to calm down, but she still sniffled a lot when she looked at Harry. Neville scooted over and patted her awkwardly on the arm, now that she seemed settled.

The Weasley twins had big grins on their identical freckled faces and were roughly messing up Harry’s hair in a way that made him feel like a Quaffle being tossed from one player to another. “Woah, Harry, that was—“ “Brilliant! Be a bit better without the needing rescue, yeah, but—“ “Still, who tries to free fall out of the stands! Way to go!”

“I wasn’t trying to free fall,” Harry said crossly. “Can—Could you stop—“

“I believe visiting hours are over, Weasley. Now, if you could stop mistreating Potter’s head?” drawled a voice from the doorway. Harry let out a small sigh and felt safe for the first time since he felt that cold in the pit of his stomach at the game. The twins scowled at the door, but removed their hands from Harry’s head and started to get up to leave.

“See you, then,” one of the twins said. “Hey, and watch yourself, Harry—“ “Next time, we might not be able to catch you!” The twins, with a double barreled scowl aimed at Professor Snape, slunk out of the room. Percy stood, Hermione still leaning on him and sniffling. He touched Neville’s shoulder and the other boy stood as well.

Percy cleared his throat. “Neville, Hermione—“

“You are excused,” Snape said, and Harry felt a flutter of fear in his stomach. Had he done something else wrong? Was he going to get yelled at like he had after the Chamber last year? He gave Neville and Hermione a small smile and wave as they left with Percy.

“Professor,” Harry said nervously. “I—I’m sorry—“ Whatever he was about to say next flew out of his head as Snape’s black robes enveloped him and he found himself pulled in to Snape’s chest.

“You could have died,” Snape said into the top of his head. Harry didn’t know what to do. Should he hug him back? He tentatively wrapped his arms around Snape. “You could have snapped your neck.”

Harry started to mutter an apology into Snape’s robes. “I’m so—“

“Don’t,” Snape barked irritably, and Harry fell silent and just let himself enjoy this. It reminded him a little bit of how Aunt Petunia smothered Dudley, except that those hugs looked stifling and terrifying while this just felt sort of warm. Comfortable, like when he was wearing his Invisibility Cloak. Safe. Snape pulled away after a few minutes, his face like stone.

“I apologize,” he said stiffly. “I should not have manhandled you like that. I was out of line.”

Harry tentatively smiled at him. “I—I didn’t—it was alright. For you to, uhm, to hug me. And, I—I liked it. I mean—“ Harry shut his mouth and bit his lip. “It made me feel safe.” He wasn’t sure, but he thought that Professor Snape’s eyes glittered a little bit more than the usually did before he blinked and turned to topic of conversation to matters like school and dementors.

When he left that night, Harry sat up for a long time, trying to think and figure out why he felt like something enormous had happened, and in the end he fell asleep just as the doors to the Infirmary opened and another patient entered.

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When Harry woke up in the morning, it was to bright sunlight in his eyes and the brisk efficiency of Madam Pomfrey, who was examining his head. “Hmm—you had quite a nasty bump on your head, Mr. Potter. Luckily it doesn’t seem to be anything serious—the bump I can fix, but head trauma?” She tutted. “Not so simple. There doesn’t seem to be any permanent damage, though, so you’ll be fit to leave after a check over and a breakfast. Now—Remus? Do you need something?”

Harry looked and saw Professor Lupin, looking wan and shaky, advancing. “Ah—Yes, Poppy, I didn’t realize you might be occupied—Hello, Harry, how are you?”

“Erm—fine, sir,” Harry muttered, studying the blanket. Madam Pomfrey took the opportunity of his bowed head and started prodding and feeling around for contusions.

“What do you need, Remus?”

“A bit more—well, Severus seemed less than willing to see me last night, so I need another dose—for tonight.”

Madam tutted and finished expecting his head. “Well, Remus, I don’t carry it—it can be toxic, you know, and it doesn’t last long enough for me to warrant keeping any. You’ll have to go to Severus.”

“Right,” he heard Lupin say distantly. Harry felt Lupin’s eyes on his head for another moment before he heard the man turn and walk away. He looked back up and saw Madam Pomfrey scrutinize him for a second, then stand up.

“Well, then, Mr. Potter, you seem perfectly fit. I do want to make sure you’re eating properly.”

“I eat fine,” Harry grumbled quietly.

“Yes, well,” Madam said, pursing her lips as if people told her they ate fine all the time and then dropped dead at her feet. “I’ll have Quiggin bring you a breakfast. You’re not to leave until you finish, understand?”

Harry ate so quickly that Madam Pomfrey made him stay another ten minutes to be sure he didn’t throw up.

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The rest of autumn passed quickly. Harry continued to have a team of followers—mostly Percy Weasley, who never made any show of hiding what he was doing, but did them with a cheerful sort of intensity that made Harry feel protected. The Slytherin’s had started to follow him too, Draco Malfoy at the lead, taunting and pretending to pitch themselves over bannisters and trip on little steps, careening downward with looks of pretend horror on their faces. Harry normally ignored them, but Ron Weasley had surprisingly taken his side and would get furious, his ears turning bright red and his mouth in a scowl. Harry thought it was probably Ron’s long standing feud with Malfoy that caused it, but he was glad enough and started to make small talk with Ron, even including him in the noughts and crosses tournaments he and Neville were involved in during History of Magic.

Professor Lupin turned out to be a very sickly man who missed class often. Professor Snape often substituted, which always made Harry feel a mix between happy and awkward. He liked Professor Lupin, really, but Snape was interesting and he liked Harry, even if he was rather cruel to the class and made mean remarks about Professor Lupin. Ron would mutter about Snape a lot, under his breath, but Ron muttered about nearly everybody under his breath, so Harry strove to take no mind.

Latin lessons continued in the evenings, though there was a minor dispute over the Patronus lessons. Hermione had asked Harry what time they were as they left Snape’s office after Latin, and Snape had overheard them and marched the three of them to Lupin’s office to tell Lupin they would be taking lessons from Snape—only Snape.

“But Severus,” Lupin had said, trying for pleasantness. “

Professor Snape in front of students, Lupin,” Snape snarled.

“Snape, then. Really, this is ridiculous. I’m the defense professor—this is my subject. Besides Harry and Neville approached me about lessons, not the other way around.” Harry thought it was the mention of defense as his subject that pushed Snape over the edge. Everyone knew that Snape wanted the Defense position more than anything.

“Potter will not be taking lessons from a—a beast. That is your classification, is it not, Lupin? Dangerous beast?”

Lupin lost his smile. “See here, Snape—“ Harry snuck a look at his friends. Neville looked as lost as him with the ‘beast’ comment, but Hermione looked thoughtful, as though she were filing it away for later contemplation.

“That’s unnecessary. I’m teaching it, that’s that! The kids asked for it themselves—“

“I will not allow Potter to accept instruction from an animal! A—a no good mongrel? Who knows what sort of damage you might inflict on him!” Snape had thundered.

“Severus—“

“You’re an animal, Lupin! I will not allow Potter to accept instruction from a—a monster!”

Lupin’s face got angry. “I will not allow James’ son to accept instruction from—from Snivellus!” he yelled back, and Snape had drawn his wand as Lupin looked slightly ashamed, yet still angry and leveled his own at Snape. That’s when Harry and Hermione had stopped the fight. Harry pulled Snape’s wand arm down while Hermione jumped in the middle and started to recite, in a high pitched voice, the rules concerning professor conduct.

Professor Lupin had calmed down quickly, but Neville had to aim a Calming Charm—one of his specialties—at Snape’s back as he marched the three of them to the headmaster.

Dumbledore had regarded the group with slightly amused eyes that lost their twinkle as Hermione recounted the fight. He sent them outside the door, where a disapproving Hermione watched as Harry and Neville pressed their ears to the door.

“Severus, my boy—“ Dumbledore said gravely.

“We had come to an agreement.”

“I have upheld it,” Snape said stubbornly.

“The phrase did not pass my lips.”

“Everything but!” Lupin interjected angrily.

“Ah, but the agreement was not for ‘everything but’,” Snape said smoothly. “The agreement was I would not utter certain truths about Professor Lupin and I have not. The agreement was I would brew him his little potion, and I have. The agreement was not that I would allow my—“ Snape faltered here, then caught strength and continued. “The agreement was not that I would allow Potter to have lessons with a dangerous—“

“He arranged them, not you! You have no authority to terminate—“

“I have authority!”

“What?” The two men had completely forgotten Dumbledore’s presence and were facing each other. Professor Lupin had completely transformed, Harry thought. Normally mild mannered, polite, and kind, he looked rather fierce and angry. Territorial, almost, he remarked later that night to Hermione. “What right do you have? He isn’t your son, or your ward. He isn’t—he isn’t related to you, you’re not even his head of house! What are you to him, Snape? What right do you have over him?”

“I have every right!” Snape bellowed. “I am the only person who has ever looked out for the best interests of that boy—“

“James and Lily looked out for his interests, Snape, long before you even saw him—“

“And now they’re dead, aren’t they? That boy has no one else to look out for him, so I do!”

“I—“

“You! What have you done for him? Offered him a smile and a bar of bloody chocolate? You didn’t even check up on him, not once in ten bloody years!”

“I wanted to!” Lupin cried out. “Of course I wanted to, but the wards—and I was under orders not to, how could I—“

“You could have thought about the best interests of the child instead of Dumbledore’s damned orders!” Snape yelled, and that was when Dumbledore stepped in.

“Cease this fighting at once. I’m sure that Harry and the others have heard you outside.” The two stopped fighting and merely started to glare at each other. “Severus, Remus is the Defense professor and the most qualified—“

“Headmaster!” Snape interjected, but Dumbledore continued.

“Severus, it’s true. It is also true that Remus is certainly not a danger to the children of this school, and I will not have you referring to him in such a way in front of the students, is that clear?”

Snape glared and inclined his head slightly. “Fine.”

“Remus, now, you must accept that Severus has a right to Harry as well.”

“I do, Albus.”

The Headmaster had dismissed them, but before Professor Lupin could take them to their Patronus lesson, Snape had grabbed Harry’s arm and pulled him down the corridor.

“Sir, I’m sorry—“

“Potter.” Harry focused on the professor and was surprised to see that there was not only anger in his eyes. Also—fear? But what did Snape have to fear of Lupin?

“You do need to learn to protect yourself from Dementors. If—If Lupin tries anything—“

“I’ll tell you, sir. No worries,” Harry said, and Snape looked a little relieved.

The lessons were hard, though, and the first challenge was what they would practice on. Lupin had the idea to start with a Boggart, but they were no one’s greatest fear. He ended up setting up a sort of target that they practiced sending little puffs of mist at. Neville gave up first. He had been having awful nightmares, and after Lupin decided that they could try shooting their silver clouds at Lethifolds he broke down completely and retreated. Harry and Hermione had offered to quit too, but Neville shook his head. “It’s not y-y-your fault I’m too scared,” he said. “You should still do it. T-then at least one of us can protect me.”

Hermione gave it a valiant try, but in the end could only summon a vaguely animal-shaped cloud. She gave up as well, she said in support of Neville, but continued to practice on her own. She was very discouraged, because this, like flying, was one area in which all the books and practice in the world couldn’t help her. You had to be a natural, Professor Lupin said to her kindly many times, and Hermione resigned herself to being able to shoot animal-shaped clouds of mist, which would probably hold up a Dementor long enough to summon help.

Harry never gave up. He kept working at it and working at it and could never forget that horrible feeling he’d had of falling through time when he tumbled out of the stands hearing the screams of his mother in his head.

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The next Hogsmeade weekend came soon enough. Hermione and Neville insisted that they weren’t going, but Neville knocked over his trunk and smashed all his ink bottles over his ties, so he needed to replace both.

Slightly shamefaced, he went to Hermione and asked her to join him, because he would certainly get lost without her. She agreed and took a list of things Harry needed and went off.

Harry didn’t much mind—he had a passage of Vergil to translate and a Transfiguration paper to finish. Just as he was about to head back to the commons area to start his work, the Weasley twins leapt out of a corner and pushed him against a wall.

Barely restraining a yell, Harry shook them off of him. “Get off me! Haven’t you two got anything better to do?”

“Nope!” one twin said cheerily. “Besides, Potter—“ “Might want to attempt a nicer tone.” “Not every day that we offer someone something like this.” “Not every day at all.” Beaming, the two handed him a sheet of ripped, ragged parchment. Blank. Harry flipped the sheet over to see if it had anything written on the back. Still nothing.

“Piece of parchment? Thanks, but—“ Harry tried to hand it back and the twins looked affronted.

“Piece of parchment? Why would we give you just a piece of parchment?” Harry looked at the paper with a little alarm, then, and tried to hand it back even harder. Things that had been left for periods of time in Weasley hands were not to be trusted.

“Aw, come on, Potter, attempt some enthusiasm! That there—“ “Is the secret to all our wisdom.” “The cause of our greatness.” “Look upon it in awe.”

Harry looked upon it with a mixture of fear and curiousity. “If it’s that important, maybe you should keep it,” Harry ventured. “Here—“

“We owe you, Potter!” one of the twins said. “You saved ickle Ronniekins—“

“You don’t owe me anything,” Harry said. “You saved me when I fell from the stands, we’re even, okay?”

The twins looked scandalized. “That was just us being decent. This—“ the twin in question tapped the paper. “This is special. This is worth our brother.”

Harry accepted the paper, since the twins seemed like they weren’t taking it back any time soon. “Erm—thanks.” He looked at it. “What is it?”

“That, Harry—“ “Is the Marauder’s Map.” “Oh,” Harry said. He squinted at it. “What—what does it do?”

The twins smiled at him enigmatically—or as enigmatically as the twins could. “Tap your wand to it—“ “And say ‘I solemnly swear I am up to no good’ to unlock it.” “When you’re done, tap it again and say—“ “Mischief managed,” the twins chimed together. “We had to figure that out ourselves.” “Always thought we were brilliant for figuring it out, weren’t we, Fred?” “Too right, George. So there you are, Potter—“ “Debt repaid.”

The twins turned and walked away, and Harry spared the paper one last, curious look before tucking it into his pocket. He’d give it a longer look later, when Hermione and Neville came back from Hogsmeade. Then he went to the commons, collected his work, and went to Snape’s office for help with his Vergil.

Harry forgot all about the old bit of parchment until the day after Hermione and Neville returned from Hogsmeade. Hermione had brought him back all the sweets he’d asked for, while Neville had ended up just buying six bottles of ink and a magical cleaner that made the ink run off of his tie and onto the floor of the dormitory and his shoes.

Harry thought that it was a good thing that the required shoes were black, because otherwise he, Hermione, and Neville would have all sort of splatters on them. At least this way the splatters weren’t as visible.

Hermione had also bought some mysterious parcels that she claimed were for Christmas, treats for Crookshanks, and a very big book titled ‘BEHEADING AND BEWITCHMENT: Famous Court Cases Involving the Control of Deadly Creatures.’ She had been popping off to Hagrid’s shack in her free time to try and help him with Buckbeak, the hippogriff that had clawed Malfoy earlier in the year.

Harry and Neville almost confiscated the book from her, because she had been looking worn to the bone, lately. Hermione had been the only Gryffindor that had listened to a word Binns said since the beginning of second year. Now, she silently gave in and spent the period scribbling out her Runes homework or trying to solve equations with imaginary numbers.

“But Hermione,” Harry had asked her once at dinner. “If they’re imaginary numbers, why do you put them in equations at all?”

Hermione had launched into a long discussion on the balances between numerical properties and how it related to the balance between Muggle and magical worlds and had started to dig several complicated looking charts out of her bag before Neville distracted her with a well placed question on the History of Magic essay.

The morning after the Hogsmeade visit, Hermione fell asleep in her toast. She woke up with a start, cinnamon and melted butter all over her face, her eyes bleary, and an odd gold chain poking out of her robes.

Neville immediately took over. “Hermione, you’ve got to rest today.”

“Neville, I have so much work—twelve inches on Greco-Romanic runes due on Tuesday, and then I have the inanimate to animate transfiguration spells to research so I’m properly prepared for class, and then I still have the Vergil—“

Harry frowned at her. “Hermione, it’s a Sunday. You can do all that later. You’ve got free periods tomorrow, haven’t you?”

She let out a short bark of slightly hysterical laughter. “Of course not! I have classes every period! Double periods!”

Neville looked her up and down worriedly. “Hermione, you’ll make yourself sick if you keep pushing like this. Just rest today, what harm can one day do?”

“But I have to get ahead! I can’t fall behind! I’ve done everything I need for tomorrow, except for the Vergil and—oh, I promised Hagrid I would meet so we could strategize, and then there’s those blasted Divination charts—I hate Divination!”

Harry suddenly remembered what Snape had told him in the summer. “Hermione, let’s go to McGonagall. You can drop Divs, Snape told me, after a term, and it’s—well, it’s almost a term.”

Neville looked at Harry. “We can?”

“We can?” Hermione asked dazedly. “Oh, oh, thank God!” She immediately got up from the table and ran to the Head Table, dragging Harry and Neville behind. They were lucky it was a Sunday morning, because had the Great Hall been full Harry was sure he and Neville would never hear the end of it.

The Head Table, also, was mostly empty, except for the Heads of House, who made a point to be there and available, and a few early risers. Professor Flitwick was sipping a large cup of tea and chatting away to Professor Sprout, who looked half-asleep and was nodding every now and then. Professor McGonagall was involved in a conversation with Professor Vector, while Professor Snape was pointedly eating his eggs and ignoring Professor Lupin.

“Professor McGonnagal!” Hermione cried out, which drew Snape’s attention away from his eggs and to the threesome. “Is it true?”

McGonagall looked quite perplexed. “Is what true, dear?”

“Divination! I can drop Divination?”

McGonagall gave the girl a small smile and inclined her head. “Yes, Miss Granger, you may drop Divination. I must say, I’m quite glad. It’s really a load of—“

“Potter,” Snape asked, and Harry turned his head to him. “Are you joining in with Granger on this unspeakably wise move?”

Harry shrugged and mumbled “Erm, no, sir,” which earned him a glare from Snape, who turned back to his eggs. Lupin gave the group a small wave.

As soon as McGonagall confirmed that, Hermione was far too happy to protest when Neville and Harry covered her with blankets on a couch in an unused nook in the common area. She was dozing within minutes, Harry and Neville sorting through her notes and things to try and determine what she needed to do.

“How is she taking all these classes?” Neville asked in horror as he unearthed another roll of parchment. “There aren’t enough hours in the day!” Harry had to agree. Instead of helping sort out her work, they settled for copying their translations of Vergil for her, hiding her copy of ‘Bewitched and Beheaded’, playing a game of noughts and crosses on her History book, and scribbling little smiley-faces and imaginary numbers jokes on the inside cover of her Arithmancy text.

She pretended to be cross when she woke up, but Harry and Neville were convinced that it was a morning well spent. They spent the afternoon writing Transfiguration papers, practicing Flowering Charms on each other’s fingers (Colin Creevy took a wonderful picture of Hermione with lilies and lilacs sprouting from her fingertips and Neville with pansies coming out of his ears), and classifying the flowers for Herbology extra-credit. They consumed eight Chocolate Frogs and Harry tried all the odd candy Hermione had bought him the day before. It was the best weekend Harry had spent in ages.

The next day, at breakfast, Hermione was her usual, workoholic self and fell asleep in nothing. Rather, she was fretting all about her schedule.

“Harry, do you have a spare bit of parchment? I need to try and figure out where I’ve got gaps now, thanks to Divs.”

Harry scrambled through his pockets, but all he turned up was the Marauder’s Map.

“What’s that?” Neville asked curiously.

Harry shrugged. “Dunno. The twins gave it to me. Reckon I should risk it?”

Neville shrugged, but Hermione looked horrified. “Risk it? The twins? Don’t touch it!”

“Well, it’s been in my pocket all weekend and it hasn’t done me any harm,” Harry pointed out reasonably. “Besides, they said they gave it to me because of what happened with Ron last year. I don’t think that they would prank me after that.” Harry paused. “At least, not citing that as the reason I should accept it.”

“What’s it do?” Neville asked, prodding it with his wand.

“S’posed to figure it out for myself, they said. You have to say something to it, though.”

Neville scrunched up his nose and held his wand in front of his face for protection. “Erm—what are you?” he asked, then he tapped the paper.

“No, Neville, like a password.” Harry was about to demonstrate when Hermione dragged the two to History of Magic.

Sitting quietly in the back and feeling slightly ridiculous, Harry tapped the parchment with his wand and muttered “I solemnly swear I am up to no good.” The top of the parchment exploded into action. Where it had been merely wrinkled and stained faintly brown with age, little runs of ink appeared on the surface. Harry was scared it had all been an elaborate joke and that the ink would rise up and soak him and Neville, but the ink stayed confined to the paper, forming—

“Hold on,” Neville said, squinting at the abstract lines. “That—Harry, I think that might be Hogwarts.” And it was. They picked out the Great Hall and the Defense classroom and the History of Magic room they sat in right then before noticing another feature. “That’s us!” Neville exclaimed softly, pointing to two small little dots labeled Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom. Other little dots swarmed all along the page. A massive dot representing Hagrid was walking the halls to Dumbledore’s office, while Harry grinned at seeing Professor Snape’s dot pacing in the Potions classroom in front of many still Hufflepuff dots.

“What is this thing?” Neville asked, and Harry wordlessly pointed to a flourished note at the top of the page. Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief Makers are proud to present THE MARAUDERS MAP

Harry and Neville spent the rest of the period gasping over the new corridors and passage ways the map revealed. Hermione merely sniffed and kept working on her Muggle Studies paper—‘Electricity—Muggle Magic’—though, when learning of it’s existance at lunch, she became quite worried. “You don’t know it’s not like that thing that possesssed Ron last year,” she whispered as she picked at a plate of macaroni and cheese.

“Well, a pretty good hint is that we’ve not been possessed yet, have we?” Harry said, and Hermione turned an angry red.

“I’m only trying to look out for your best interests, Harry Potter!” Hermione said shrilly.

“Sorry,” Harry muttered before she could go off completely. “But—it’s such an interesting bit of magic. Don’t—erm, wouldn’t it be a great side project? To study it?”

Hermione looked half intrigued and half suicidal at the idea of another side project. “Let me and Nev research it,” Harry coaxed. “It’s like that talk we had on Halloween, isn’t it? We can—can look for secret passages with it, can’t we? And—“

Hermione had waved a hand at him. “Fine. Go—go exploring like stupid boys. But if you end up taking out Muggleborn’s with—with some sort of deranged badger or something, on your head be it!”

Harry and Neville cracked jokes for the rest of the meal about the Heir of Hufflepuff and the great and mystical power it wielded over the legendary Great Badger.

In the days before Christmas break, things started to get tense. There had been another Black sighting, this one dangerously close to Hogwarts, and Harry had been spacey and short tempered all week.

In Potions, during another of Snape’s ‘forced partners’ lessons, Harry had been grinding up caterpillar eyes (which seemed rather pointless—the eyes were already so small that grinding them couldn’t do anything. Harry didn’t complain, though—it was nice to get his anger out of defenseless Potions ingredients) when Malfoy had leaned over.

“Zabini, mind if I borrow your ladle?” he drawled, and Blaise—one of the easiest Slytherins to tolerate, Harry thought—shrugged.

“Whatever, Malfoy.” He tossed it to the boy, and after Malfoy caught it he hung about for a moment, smirking at Harry, which wore on Harry’s already shot nerves.

“What?” he barked at the boy, and Malfoy’s smirk got even bigger.

“Just getting a look, Potter. You know—so I remember what you look like.”

“I’m touched, Malfoy,” Harry snapped. Hermione, working furiously behind him while Pansy yammered on about the deplorable state of her hair, put a hand on his shoulder. He tightened his lips and got back to grinding, pretending it was Malfoy’s stupid head he was pulverizing.

“After all,” Malfoy continued, determined to get under Harry’s skin, “Who knows what you’ll look like when Black gets through with you?” Harry tightened his shoulders and started pounding the caterpillar eyes. “They never even found Pettigrew, you know. Just one finger.” Malfoy let out a nasty snigger. “Bet they don’t even find that much of you, Potter.”

“If it was a finger, Malfoy,” Harry said tightly, “Which one do you reckon it would be?” With that, he flippped Malfoy off and continued pounding.

Malfoy flushed an angry red. “I’d say I’d make you regret that, Potter,” he hissed, “But I’m sure Black will make you pay worse than I ever could.” He regained a little composure. “Bits of you scattered from here to Wiltshire. And I’ll be there, Potter.” He jabbed a finger into Harry’s chest, and Harry snarled and almost leapt for the arrogant boy, if only Hermione weren’t restraining him.

“Don’t, Harry!” she said. “He isn’t worth it.”

Malfoy was pulled away by a livid Professor Snape. “What is this?” he yelled at Malfoy. “You leave your cauldron unattended, simmering, in the vital last stages? Look at this!” He pointed to Malfoy’s cauldron, which was filled with a useless, dull orange sludge. Ron was grinning broadly, uncaring that it was his potion as well. “Thoughtlessness, Mr. Malfoy! I will not have it in my classroom. Twenty points!”

Malfoy goggled at the professor. “What?” Harry was fighting the urge to laugh. He doubted Snape had ever taken so much as a point off of Malfoy, and it was good to watch him get it, finally. “You can’t take points from me!”

Snape narrowed his eyes. “I will thank you, Mr. Malfoy, not to tell me what I can and cannot do in my own classroom! I am your professor and your head of house, and I can take as many points as I want from you! You just made it twenty five, and a detention!”

Malfoy looked like he was in the middle of an extremely bad dream. “My father—“ he started, shutting up rather quickly when he saw the dangerous look on Snape’s face.

“Detention, Mr. Malfoy! Tonight!” The whole classroom had ceased it’s action, and Professor Snape swung a deadly look around the room. “What are you looking at? Back to work! Thirty points!” No one asked what house the points were from and there was a great flurry of activity.

Zabini cleared his throat. “Erm, I think the eyes are sufficiently ground, Potter.”

Harry looked down at the fine white powder and blushed. “Oh. Sorry.” He tipped the container in and class continued as usual. He tried to meet with Snape after class, but Malfoy was there whining about his father, who was on the Board of Governors.

He tried before his Patronus lesson that night, but Snape had Malfoy scrubbing out the first year’s cauldrons the Muggle way. Dismayed and wondering, Harry went to his lessons with Professor Lupin. However, it was glaringly apparent something was weighing on his mind. Lupin stopped the lessons.

“A break, I think,” he said kindly, and he poured tea for both of them. Harry sat down, sweating. He hadn’t been quick enough that lasst time, and since they were practicing his Patronus against a Lethifold, it had twined itself around his neck before he had garbled some variation on the Patronus and it had fled. He accepted the tea thankfully, gulping down half of it in one sip.

“I’m rubbish at this,” Harry said angrily. “I should just quit.”

“You’re not rubbish,” Lupin said kindly. “Many adult wizardss are unable to get this far—or even to the level Hermione reached.”

“But it’s not working. Every time I go out on the grounds—“ Harry said, and he shuddered. “I just want it to stop,” he said miserably. “I hate hearing it. Neville, too, he hates it. We all used to go on walks, even when it was cold, but now—“ Harry shrugged.

“Perhaps it’s not you that’s the problem. Are you focusing on a happy memory, like I told you?” Harry shrugged. He didn’t know what his happiest memory was. It was very hard to think of one on the spot—all he could remember was nights on the streets when it was cold, or when Uncle Vernon broke his arm, or when Dumbledore had tried to take his wand. Nothing happy came to mind. “What are you thinking?”

Harry looked down and cast about for any happy memory—anything even slightly happy. All he could remember was life at the Dursley’s—wait! That was it! “When Professor Snape came to get me at the Dursley’s,” he said happily. That was the right sort of memory!

Lupin pursed his lips and nodded. “Hmm…well, why does that make you feel happy?” Harry shrugged and ran his hand through his hair. “Well,” he said slowly. “He came to get me, like he said. That was good. And that he—you know, he cared enough to come. And—well, I’m leaving the Dursley’s, that’s always happy—“

“Harry,” Lupin said very softly. “What happened at the Dursley’s?” Oh, no. No, no, no. He wasn’t talking about this. No way was he talking about this. He liked Professor Lupin and all, but the man wouldn’t understand. It—he wouldn’t understand.

Harry shrugged and tried to keep it cool. “I don’t know. Nothing much. Just—it’s more interesting with Snape.”

“You—you know what I thought at the beginning of the year? After the Boggart?”

“I told you,” Harry said quickly, “Snape wouldn’t do that to me. He—he likes me. He really does.”

“I—I believe you, Harry. But—but you said, you said he would never do that to you, not him. So—did they?”

“They who?” Harry said, slightly confused.

“The Dursley’s. Did they—do that to you?” Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“No.” Lupin didn’t seem to believe him. “No, sir.”

Lupin chose to leave it. “Well, focus on the happiness of that memory now, Harry, and we’ll give it one more go.” He got out of his chair and watched as Lupin went to the charmed box where the Lethifold was kept. “Alohamora!”

Harry tried as hard as he could to remember that moment—tried to remember the happiness of all his moments with Snape, the talks and the potions and the Hospital Wing chats. Snape saying he was proud of him, the recent hug-- “EXPECTO PATRONUM!” Harry yelled, and something exploded from his wand and the Lethifold let out a sort of cry and turned and fled right back into the box.

Professor Lupin slammed the lid down after it and gave Harry a wide smile. He came over and ruffled Harry’s hair. “Well done, Harry, well done! Brilliant showing, not even your father—“

“My—my father?” Harry said, and Lupin looked guiltily at the ground. “Did—did you know my father?”

“Yes,” Lupin said quietly. “Your mother, too. Both were—extraordinary people, Harry.” He patted Harry awkwardly on the shoulder. “I—you do them credit.”

Harry suddenly felt torn between being extremely happy and being extremely sad.

Lupin seemed to be able to tell, and he squeezed Harry on the shoulder comfortingly. “I’m sure many people have told you this,” he said, offering Harry a small smile. “But you really do look like James. Except for the eyes—Lily’s eyes.”

“Professor,” Harry said as the thought came into his head. “If—if you knew my father, than you must have known Sirius Black as well.”

Lupin’s face tightened. “I—I thought I did. But—I suppose you can never really know anybody, now, can you?”

“Do you—sorry, this’ll sound odd—but Malfoy was baiting me today—“

“Something he seems to do often,” Lupin remarked, seemingly relieved to be off the subject of the past.

“Er, yeah, I guess. But he was—well, he was really trying to scare me about Black, but he kept saying that all they’d find was a finger, like Pettigrew—do you know who that—sir? Are you all right?” Lupin had gone pale as a sheet.

“Fine, Harry,” he said weakly. “Just fine. Did—Pettigrew? That’s—is he giving you a lot of trouble over this, Harry?”

“A bit,” Harry admitted, but then grinned. “Be less now, though, Snape’s got him serving detention scrubbing out cauldrons. But—I was just wondering who—“

“Peter Pettigrew was—was another friend of mine. Of—James and Lily’s, as well. He—he was a very quiet sort of boy, and we never—well, it’s just another example of how you never really know anyone. None of us thought that Petey Pettigrew would ever—“

Here Lupin stopped and swallowed. “I will tell you, Harry, because I don’t want you hearing from somewhere else and hearing wrong.” Harry nodded. “Peter heard the news about Ja—about your mum and dad and he—I was out of the country, but he went and he tracked down Black after wards and Black—well,” Lupin said with a forced sort of smile. “He was always helpless with duels. Black destroyed him, of course. The—the largest piece they found was—“

“A finger,” Harry said. “I—Thank you, sir. I’m very sorry for—for—“ Harry tried to think of how to say he was sorry that all his friends were dead. “I’m just very sorry.”

He retreated, and he thought he heard Lupin give a sharp, short sound before he closed the door and hurried away.

After Harry’s discovery, he spent five hours in the dorm, looking at his picture of his parents and thinking. When he emerged, Neville gave him a small smile and Hermione patted him on the arm. They had gone to ask Professor Lupin why Harry seemed so shaken, and after Hermione’s hesitant “Do you want to talk about it?”, the subject was dropped.

Harry wondered how his parents had been fooled.

But after a few days, he let it go and concentrated on the festivities. Christmas was just around the corner and most of the students were headed home. Harry, of course, was staying, after the disastrous events of last year’s Christmas, and Neville had agreed to stay to. At first Hermione had been headed home—“I don’t know how to ask my parents to let me stay, after I haven’t seen them for so many months,” she fretted—but after Dave heard, he told her to just stay put with her friends. “Your mum and I would love a Christmas to ourselves,” he said. “Stay with your friends, we’ll be fine.”

Harry had great fun showing Hermione and Neville all the secret passages he’d spotted on the map, and they spent the days leading up to Christmas exploring all day and turning up to the kitchens, coated with grime, for Tookie to fuss over and feed. Hermione also had found a hidden nook in the library filled with books and cushions, and the three spent a couple hours there one Saturday hiding from Peeves.

Christmas dinner was, as always, amazing. There were only four other students staying, mainly a pack of tough faced Slytherin seventh years who were cramming in extra study time for their NEWTs, and they didn’t even bother to talk at the table, just mumbled to each other in between mouths of food. Harry and Neville and Hermione pulled crackers and ate food and laughed and talked with Professor Snape—who, though a bit surly under all the spirit, still engaged them in a theoretical discussion on magical creatures.

“I don’t understand why wizards need things like elves and brownies,” Hermione said as Neville loaded up her plate with more food. “I mean, with magic, it’s already ten times easier than it is for the Muggles. Why do they need more?”

Snape gave a tight smile and took a sip of pumpkin juice. “Magic is about power, Miss Granger. And the more magical beings under your control, the more power. It’s a status symbol, really. A bit unnecessary, at times, but the elves themselves do not object.”

“That’s because they’ve been conditioned! It’s brainwashing!”

Hermione and him continued the argument all through the night, with Neville and Harry joining in every now and then. The discussion eventually turned to whether half-humans, like centaurs and merfolk and werewolves, were considered as wizards or magical beasts. Hermione fought that of course they were wizards, but Snape put forth a pretty convincing argument that they were beasts, and Harry had said that it depended on the situation. Snape’s eyes looked triumphantly at Lupin after that, and Harry couldn’t figure out why.

After Christmas the days sped by. The students returned, and Harry soon noticed one Gryffindor that had a familiar, unwelcomely surly look on his face. Ron, muttering monosyllables and picking at his food while glaring at Hermione, had foolishly left his rat at the school over Christmas. Crookshanks had, apparently, slipped into the boys dorm one day and devoured Scabbers raw. Ron seemed to just be angry at Hermione for wrecking his possessions, but Percy was crushed.

“That rat was my best friend for years,” the boy said glumly. Harry patted him on the arm and Hermione felt just awful, though Percy didn’t blame her in the slightest.

The good will between Harry and Ron ended, though, and the weeks flew by. Divs continued to be awful, while Hermione seemed slightly less overworked. Malfoy continued to taunt Harry in class about Black, in cryptic statements, though never loud enough for Snape to hear. He never gave Malfoy another detention, but Harry just had to remember the shock on the prissy boys face to feel a slightly warm glow inside.

However, imagining Malfoy’s face beaten to a pulp would have been better. Hagrid had lost his petition and his hippogriff, Buckbeak, was to be sentenced to death. Hermione had spent the whole afternoon after they had found out crying into Hagrid’s heavy coat, while Neville and Harry had pet the animals beak sadly. They took to spending a great deal of time with the condemned creature and Hagrid, stroking the bird-half’s feathers and studying.

Ron Weasley continued to be a harbinger of doom to the trio. Not only did he glare at Hermione and loudly talk about how rude it was for people to sic their animals on other peoples poor defenseless rats, he had cornered Neville outside in one of the gardens and started to tease him about not knowing the passwords to the common room. He chanted the whole weeks passwords at the boy, only stopping when he was distracted by Crookshanks running through the garden, hissing.

Later that night, after Harry had scolded Ron (“It wasn’t his cat, was it? Leave him be.”), he and Neville had lingered in the common area with Hermione, finishing their paper on aconite for Professor Snape. As soon as they hit their beds, they were fast asleep. Harry woke up in the middle of the night thinking he had had another nightmare. There was an awful keening happening, a noise that sounded like—

“Neville!” Harry yelled, and he threw himself out of his bed. Neville, his face pale and scared, was sitting up in bed, holding his wand and crying. The curtains over him were ripped and torn, and on the floor was a knife—rusted and deadly looking. The other boys were waking up as well.

“Longbottom, shut up!”

“Lardbottom probably had a bad dream!”

“Neville, are you all right? Be quiet, it’s three in the morning!”

Harry had immediately checked the boy over—unharmed, except for that terrible look on his face and that awful, terrifiying wail—and pulled him into a hug. The boy was frozen and did not move.

“Someone, quick, go get Percy! Dean, please!”

Dean and Ron, scared at that point by the detatched, frightened look on the boys face, had run and fetched Percy, Hermione, and Professor McGonnagal.

By that point, Neville was just whimpering. He would drop his wand, and Harry had his wand drawn as well and was rubbing the boys back with his hand. Hermione immediately did the same, and the boy finally stopped making any noise and was suddenly, scarily, silent.

“Mr. Longbottom, what’s the meaning of this?” McGonagall had asked, and Percy had said “Neville, what’s happened? Come on, chap, tell us.”
Neville had just swallowed several times, then whispered the answer.

“Black. It—It was Black.” He swallowed again, then started to cry.

“Professor, he must have had a knife—look, this isn’t any of ours, and the curtains are all ripped!” Harry said, and McGonnagal had looked concerned and then immediately took charge.

Black had indeed been there—let in by the portrait.

“Recited all the passwords of the week! I am the very model of a modern major general to Rex Laudanum!” Sir Cadogan had said, and the castle had been combed top to bottom, but no Black was found.

Neville had later told Harry and Hermione, while they hid by the corner fire in the common room, that Black’s cousin Bellatrix was one of the ones responsible for his parents mental state.

“Gran told me this summer,” he said. “S-showed me all the newspapers about the trials and stuff. She—“ he shivered, and Hermione bundled a blanket around him, “She looks like him.”

Neither of them knew quite what to say or do, so it was a very quiet week for the three before it all blew over.

Professor Snape continued to teach them Latin, and Neville was always the best at it. It helped him in remembering the passwords, and soon he was as cheerful as normal, if a little bit warier. Snape had also taken to teaching them basic defensive charms, like expelliarmus, in case Black caught them unawares.

With regular lessons, extra lessons, playtime with Buckbeak, and studying with his friends, the rest of the school year went quickly for Harry. He worried about his grades and dreamt about Quidditch and talked to his friends and was, mostly, an average thirteen year old boy. Sometimes, though, a look that was half worry and half rage would come over his face, and you could tell his mind was on Sirius Black, should he show himself again. But he never did, and before Harry knew it, it was the end of May and he was meeting with Professor Snape for one of his last Latin lessons of the year.

“First declension?” Harry guessed as the man pointed out a word. He yawned. “Sorry, Professor, Hermione has us up late studying every night.”

Snape inclined his head, frowning. “Quite. Gender?”

“Feminine. Erm—sir?” Snape looked at Harry wordlessly, waiting for him to continue, which made Harry nervous. He looked at the floor. “I was—I was wondering if I—“

“Spit it out, Potter,” the man drawled, and Harry blurted it out.

“Where am I going to stay? This summer? The—are the Dursleys—“

Snape looked at the boy and sighed. He had fought, yes, and fought hard, but Dumbledore would not budge.

‘The same deal as last year, then, Severus—after a few weeks. It’s too dangerous, with Black on the run, to leave him without the blood protection.’

‘It’s hardly a protection if his blood ends up splattering the walls that protect him.’

Nothing he said had changed it. The boy was going back.

“You’ll be with your relatives, yes, for a few weeks.” Severus saw the boy deflate and continued, wishing he could say different. “Then with me again. The same as this past summer. You’ve still got a lot to learn.”

Harry brightened at that. At least it wasn’t the whole holiday—and if it was anything like last years break, it’d be easy. He grinned and wrote ‘imperative’ on his chart, then crossed it out.

“Thank you, sir, really. For—for the summer.”

“Finish your chart, Potter, and shut your mouth.” Harry did both.

After Harry handed in his Latin and went over a few theoretical questions for potions. Snape gave him a rare smile—he’d revised all his Potions stuff for hours with Hermione and Neville—and poured tea for the both of them.

Harry gave a happy smile. “I like tea,” he said, taking a long sip that scalded his tongue. “You’re tea’s the best. Professor Lupin’s tea’s all right, but—“

“When have you had tea with the beast?” Snape snapped, and Harry looked down in his cup.

“Er—after Dementor lessons. To—to warm me up. Sorry—“

“And how have those been going, Potter?” Snape asked, and Harry shrugged.

“Well—I’ve gotten so I can make an umbrella cloud—just a shield, really. It doesn’t repel them, or anything. Professor Lupin says I just need more practice. But I haven’t really had many lessons with him lately, since he’s always so ill and I think he feels all awkward because I asked him about Pettigrew—“

“You asked Lupin about Pettigrew?”

Harry nodded and took another sip of his tea. “Yes, before Christmas holidays. I think it upset him, though, so I didn’t ask again.” He put the cup on the table. “Could—sir, how did that happen?”

“How did what happen, Potter? Black’s madness?”

“No. How did—if he was working for Voldemort, how did he trick my parents that bad? How could he fool them into thinking he was still—I just don’t understand. I mean, if—and he never would, but if Neville had betrayed me and gone dark, I would know. Didn’t he ever—weren’t there signs, or something?”

Snape had a look on his face like he was debating something, and he too put down his tea and started to talk seriously.

“Sometimes there is a madness in the human soul that people never see until it is too late. Sometimes there are signs—things that happen over the years that make people doubt, things that show you a person’s true colors—and people ignore them, because they tell themselves they know that person. But the truth is, Potter, you never really know a person.” Harry thought about how Snape would hate it if he knew Lupin had said those exact words to him. “I knew, though. I was never fooled by Black.”

“You—you knew him?”

Snape sneered. “He was my school day equivalent to Finnigan and Malfoy, only much worse.” He leaned in, and ugly, angry look on his face. “He tried to kill me once, when we were young.”

Harry, who had taken another sip of tea, choked on it. “But—why didn’t they arrest him then?”

Snape’s ugly look got darker. “Because the Headmaster believes in second chances.”

“What did he do? How—why?”

Snape had a considering look on his face. “He played a prank on me, a prank that nearly cost me my life. He sent me down into a place where a monster was waiting, and if it hadn’t been for one boy’s bravery, I would have died.” A strange look came over Snape’s eyes, and he said shortly. “Your father saved my life that day.”

Harry was filled with a sudden pride—his father!—and a feeling of hate towards Black. “But he—if they’d arrested him then, my parents would—“

“There’s no guarantee they would have lived much longer,” Snape said, then quickly added, “But they could have.”

When Harry left Snape’s quarters for the dorm that night, he found that instead of burning hot, his anger burned cold.

He hated Sirius Black. He hated him.

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The next day, Harry went to breakfast to see Hermione sadly stirring her oatmeal and Neville solemnly salting his eggs.

“Why so quiet?” Harry asked as he helped himself to some bacon, and Neville gave him a small glance.

“Hagrid sent a letter,” he said, pushing over a rough piece of parchment with runny ink. “Buckbeak’s execution’s today. After our Divination exam.”

Harry morosely moved his bacon around his plate. With the news of Buckbeak’s upcoming death and the reminder of the Divination final, he was no longer hungry.

The whole Divination class was sitting unhappily at the bottom of the ladder.

“She’s seeing us one by one, she said,” Ron grumbled. He had let up on Neville and Hermione after whole incident with Black—though Harry suspected that Percy may have given him a few sharp words as well. Now the boy was only perpetually grumpy. “The bat. Should’ve pulled a Hermione here—I’ve never even seen anything in those stupid crystal balls. Have you?”

Harry shook his head. Neville shrugged. “I always see the other side of the table through it, does that count?”

The boys settled themselves down for waiting. Harry, and Ron were the last ones seen and were playing a tense hand of Exploding Snap when Neville came down the ladder, falling the last few steps and landing on Harry.

“Oof—oh, sorry—oh!” The cards exploded as soon as Neville got off Harry, leading to him toppling down again.

“How’d it go?” Harry asked as they untangled and Ron headed up.

Neville shrugged. “I told her I saw the Grim—that made her happy enough. I tripped, though, on my way in, broke the orb. Bet I get marked down for that—unless she Saw it and put out a shoddy one on purpose.”

Harry snorted and started to gather up the singed cards. “Doubt it.”

Ron came down looking surly and kicked the ladder before telling Harry to go up and storming away. Harry shrugged and headed up the stairs, with Neville promising to wait for him.

“Don’t worry,” he said before disappearing into the heights of the classroom. “I don’t think I’ll take long.”

The room was hot and the air was thick and Harry was immediately tired. He kept glancing out the window, where the Hagrid’s hut could be seen, and thinking of what the giant man would be doing for Buckbeak, which made him predict that Buckbeak would escape the knife and fly away.

Just as he was about to leave (with a grade far less than spectacular, he thought), he heard Professor Trelawney start to speak. Or, he assumed it was Professor Trelawney. It sounded like she’d swallowed embers and burned her throat.

“It will happen tonight.”

Harry turned and saw her standing, her face tight and her hands clenched, her eyes staring straight through Harry. She looked like a tightly pulled rubber band, and Harry thought she might have some fit.

“Professor? Are you—“ But Trelawney did not acknowledge him, just kept talking in that horrible, rasping voice.

“The Dark Lord lies alone and friendless, abandoned by his followers. His servant has been chained these twelve years. Tonight, before midnight…the servant will break free and set out to rejoin his master.”

Harry felt like it was hard to breathe. Was she really having a vision? He listened very hard as his mind raced.

“The Dark Lord will rise again with his servant’s aid, greater and more terrible than he ever was. Tonight…before midnight…the servant—“ here she started to wheeze and her voice became more strained. “The servant…will set out…to rejoin…his master…”

Harry ran from the room and was bound straight for Snape’s quarters. His feet seemed to be pounding out the prophecy as he ran—tonight, tonight, tonight, tonight.

Neville ran after him, calling out and asking what was wrong, and they were joined with Hermione as they ran into the depths of the school. Harry was about to throw open the door to Snape’s classroom when Hermione grabbed his hand.

“Harry, no!” she hissed, and she pointed to the sign on the door.

EXAM IN PROGRESS. DO NOT DISTURB.

Harry had never been so willing to bear Snape’s wrath in his life.

“We’ll wait, and you can tell us what’s wrong,” Neville said firmly, dragging Harry away from the room.

The group ended up making their way to Hagrid’s as Harry described the woman’s vision.

“The servant has to be B-Black!” Neville said, a scared look on his face. “We need to tell somebody—he’s going to bring You Know Who back!”

Hermione was skeptical. “But it says that the servant will escape, doesn’t it? And Black already escaped Azkaban months ago. That doesn’t make any sense. Besides, she’s a nutter. Has she said anything worthwhile all this year?”

“She does know when I’m about to break something,” Neville pointed out.

“That’s because you get this look on your face like ‘Dear God, I think I’m about to break something!’” Hermione snapped. “She’s a fake.”

“But what if she’s not faking this time?” Harry asked. “What if it’s real?”

”Then it will keep until Professor Snape finishes his exam.” They were near to Hagrid’s house and could hear the giant man wailing, so Harry nodded. Hermione seemed relieved.

“Can you imagine if we busted in on his exam?” Neville asked, faking a shiver. “Never mind being scared if V-Voldemort came back, Snape’d skin us.”

They went for tea with Hagrid with comforting smiles on their faces, but deeply worried within.

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The visit with Hagrid was depressing. The man spent the entire time snifling and telling them what a good hippogriff Beaky was. They tried to comfort him, but Hermione was so upset she started to sniffle. They were ejected from the house by Hagrid, who didn’t want them to witness the actual act. They waited nearby, Hermione bursting into tearss when they heard the dull thunk of the axe, and they were about to head back up to the castle to get Snape when Neville noticed something darting over the ground.

“Hermione—Harry, look—Scabbers!”

And Scabbers it was. Hermione had a look on her face, a look that said that this was the chance to make it up to Percy, and she set off at a run immediately. Harry took off after her, and Neville followed them, and they chased the rat until Neville did a flying tackle and snatched it up.

“I got it!” he said, his face pink with happiness and exertion. “Look, now we can give it to Percy and Ron won’t make—agh!”

For just as Neville was about to finish his sentence, a large black dog—a familiar dog, Harry thought, and dismissed it—leapt upon the boy, grabbing hold of his arm, and dragged him away, into the Whomping Willow.

Harry suddenly knew they were about to dive down the rabbit hole again.

The inside of the tunnel was dark and dank, and Hermione was clutching Harry’s hand as they rushed forward. Even with wands lit, the place was terrifying, with the flickering light making the walls look as though they were wriggling. Hermione was calling out gently to Neville, while Harry just kept forging his way forward. It smelled wet and earthy, like an animal nest, and the floor was cracked and hard to navigate. It took all Harry’s concentration not to fall.

They both looked up as they heard Neville yell and grew unconcerned about anything other than running upwards.

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In the castle, Severus Snape frowned at the door to his office. Tonight was his last scheduled group Latin lesson for the year, and all three students had not shown up. It was unlike them to be late—Neville might be a few minutes tardy, yes, but both Harry and Hermione were punctual, and Harry had always been prompt, even early, when it was his turn to spend time with Snape.

Snape sighed and cast a look around the room, hoping that when he next looked at the door it would burst open and three children would barge in. His eyes settled on a goblet filled with steaming Wolfsbane—

He leapt to his feet, then, and his face drained. He started to frantically rumage through the papers on his desk, finally coming upon one labeled ‘POTTER’.

It was the same charm that had been on the necklace he’d given to Potter, the chain he still saw the boy wear under his robes every day. Harry never took it off, and it gave Severus a little thrill, to see the boy wear it, but now it seemed to have a much better purpose.

He flicked his wand and his stomach quickly plummeted. Then he stood up and, as quickly as his stomach had plummeted, he left the room.

Harry’s status read:

HARRY POTTER
Condition: In Peril

Location: The Tunnel

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Remus Lupin looked at his wrist watch and frowned. Severus had never been late with his potion before, never. The man seemed to take an almost perverse pleasure of being on time—early, even, some days. He looked on in dour loathing as Remus swallowed and politely thanked him. He was always on time—but this time he was almost ten minutes late. Not that ten minutes would make such a difference—but something big had to be happening, that Severus was late. Something bad, probably.

Lupin’s stomach contracted, and his mind went to Harry. Little, shy Harry—Harry, who Severus protected, who Severus cared about. What if something had happened to Harry?

He started to make his way to the dungeons and Severus’ office, telling himself it was only for his potion—that was reason enough, really. And, if Harry was in trouble, maybe he would be of some service—

He arrived and the door to Snape’s office was left slightly ajar. That’s what tipped him off that his suspicions, aided a little by his problem, were spot on. Snape never left his door open—he always had wards extending several feet in each direction, even. But there were no wards and the door was slightly open. Not enough to even attract a passerby’s attention, by Remus was looking and Remus saw and Remus’ stomach sank and twisted.

When he entered, he half expected a lightning bolt to strike him down in the doorway. He half expected Snape and Harry to be lying there, dead, on the floor. He consoled himself that, this close to the moon, he would be able to smell them, if they were dead. He didn’t know if he was relieved to find no one there.

When he saw the status sign, still floating ghostly in the air, he did the same thing as Snape. He exited the room, heading for the first tunnel he thought of. However, where Snape had gone left, to a set of tunnels near the Hufflepuff common room, three corridors and a stairwell away, Remus made a beeline for the outside and the Shrieking Shack.

Forgotten by both, a goblet steamed and bubbled in the corner.

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The first thing Harry heard, as he broke out of the tunnel and into a dusty, deserted, destroyed room, was Neville’s scream again. This time, though, it was much, much closer, and he turned to help Hermione out of the tunnel and into the room as he listened. There was a doorway and, rather like Snape’s deserted office door back at Hogwarts, it was ajar slightly. Both Harry and Hermione looked at it with trepidation.

“Wands out?” he asked, and she nodded, pulling her wand out of her robe pocket. She looked around a little, though, and she seemed to realize something as she looked at the room.

“The windows,” she whispered, and she went to one and tried to pry the boardss away from it. Harry went to help, and after a few moments of worthless tugging she gave up and settled for boring a small, eye sized hole in the wood. She peered out, then pulled away, her lips set in a grim line. Harry peeked out—all he saw was a fence and some trees.

“We’re in the Shrieking Shack,” she whispered, pointing to the fence and a small sign bolted to it that read ‘NO TRESPASSERS—HIGHLY HAUNTED TERRITORY.’

“Brilliant,” Harry said. “The one time I make it into Hogsmeade…”

He stopped, though, as something far less terrifying than a yell floated to them. A whimper, undeniably Neville’s, a whimper they had heard when he ran into doors or when he cut himself with the potion’s knives or when he dropped a crystal ball on his foot, a whimper Harry heard late at night when Neville had a nightmare, it was that whimper only ten times more scared and hurt, and Harry almost ran up the stairs.

“We should have got Snape,” he said, then he made his way to the door and up the stairs.

The stairs were dusty as well, except for dog footprints and a big, Neville-sized smear leading them to a room at the top of the stairs. The door was closed, and Harry heard again that whimper. Hermione, though, looked puzzled.

“That pur…” she said slowly, softly. “It almost sounds like Crookshanks, when he’s trying to cheer me up…”

Harry gave her a puzzled look, then he looked at the door and tightened his grip on his wand. Hermione did as well, and Harry could see, in the dim light, how frightened she looked, and how determined. Another whimper came from behind the door.

The last thought Harry had before he forced his way into the room was that he didn’t deserve his friends.

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Remus Lupin was a great deal older, taller, and his eye sight was a little less than the last time he had traveled his way to the tunnel. His left leg was stiff—it always became stiff around the full moon, a reminder of a particularly vicious change when he was twelve when he’d nearly shattered the kneecap. In his mind, he was already in the tunnel, but in his body, he was barely out of the castle.

Severus Snape, to be fair, was very quick on the uptake. After a thorough search of the Hufflepuff tunnel, he had been half-way to the North Tunnel, a tunnel that ran through the entire outer wall, then under the school, when he had spotted a familiar sight and a sense of deja-vu. Remus Lupin, limping his way across the grounds. Typical.

He would have continued to the North Tunnel if he were an idiot or a fool. Instead, he started to run outside. To Lupin.

Hopefully, to Harry.

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What Harry found, upon his entrance to the room, was not nearly as bad as he had imagined, but not as good as he could have hoped.

Neville was, indeed, whimpering. He was laid out upon a bed that must have at one point been very grand and comfortable, though it was currently dust-ridden and ragged. There were deep slashes across the pillows, and in between whimpers Neville let out a little cough from the dust. He seemed to be mostly unharmed, except that his leg stuck out at a bit of a funny angle and his face was dead white. Harry remembered that odd sort of angle from when he had broken his arm, and he winced. Neville must be in a terrible amount of pain, he thought, and he stepped forward. Sitting on Neville’s chest, purring and allowing Neville to grip his fur quite tightly with his left hand, was Crookshanks. In his mouth lay a wriggling, squeaking rat that harry immediately knew was Scabbers. He almost wanted to let the cat eat the stupid thing. That’s what had gotten them into all the trouble in the first place—the stupid rat.

As Harry stepped forward, onto a creaky floorboard, Neville’s eyes shot open and he started to shake his head furiously.

“Harry, no, run—no, it’s a trick—“ He sat up, and though Harry would never have thought that Neville’s face could grow paler, grow paler it did. Hermione ran forward, and Harry scanned the room for the dog.

“What’s a trick? Oh, Neville, your poor leg…” Hermione moaned.

“Where’s the dog?” Harry asked.

“It’s not a dog, it’s an Animagus—he’s there, run!”

Harry heard the door close behind him and he spun around, wand out, and felt it fly from his hand. From Hermione’s squeak, he’d gotten hers as well. For, standing before them, with Neville’s battered wand, was Sirius Black.

Neville let out another whimper, and Harry backed up towards him. The man’s eyes were sunken and glowed unnaturally bright. His face wore a twisted parody of a smile, and his teeth were yellowed and jagged. He looked quite fearsome, but Harry didn’t feel scared. He felt an odd blankness, the sort he’d felt right when Uncle Vernon had snapped his arm. For three moments, everything had been blank and empty. And then…

Then a dam broke behind Harry’s eyes and he felt the rage come boiling in.

“I knew you would come.” The man’s voice was hoarse and snapped, as if he had screamed and screamed and could scream no more. Harry felt his fingers twitch, then clench, and he knew without a doubt that he could hear that man scream and feel nothing, feel blank.

“Honorable, like your father, loyal. You’d never leave a friend like that.” The man swallowed, and Harry found his eyes drawn to the man’s throat. It was thin, like the rest of him, a forced, unnatural skinny. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and Harry thought about how easy it would be to wrap his hands around the man’s throat and not let go.

“Don’t you talk about my father.” Harry didn’t even know that it was his voice. It sounded so low, and angry—it sounded like Snape at his most threatening, and Harry felt himself shiver.

“Harry,” Hermione whispered, taking hold of his arm and pulling him back. Neville reached out as well and grasped Harry’s shoulder. Then he pulled himself out of the bed and supported himself on Harry and Hermione. Distantly Harry could feel his arms shake as he tried to keep himself upright.

“You—you’ll have to g-g-get through us,” he said. His face was the color of snow and his eyes were bright with pain and his lips trembled. “We won’t let you t-t-touch Harry.”

Something in Black seemed to soften, and he took a step forward and spoke, with Neville’s wand still aimed at them. “You’re Frank Longbottom’s boy, aren’t you?”

Neville started to shake even more, and Hermione tried to take more of his weight. “I am. You—You’re cousin—“

The man’s face twisted. “Sit down.”

“Your cousin t-t-tortured—“

“I said sit.” But Neville did not move, and Black made a threatening motion with the wand. “I said SIT!”

Neville toppled over onto the bed, not so much as to obey Black but because he was shaking too hard to stand, and Harry felt the anger burn hotter.

“Don’t talk to him like that,” he said, and he took a step forward. “He’s a better person than you’ll ever be, don’t talk to him like that!”

“Harry,” Hermione whispered again, and he felt her trembling hand tug at his shirt, try to pull him back. “Don’t provoke him—“

“He’s just going to kill us anyway,” Harry snapped.

Black’s eyes shifted, turned brighter. “Only one will die tonight.”

Harry’s jaw set, and he tried to be happy—at least Neville and Hermione would be okay. But Neville spoke again from the bed.

“We t-t-told you,” he stuttered, and Harry idly thought that he’d never heard a more heroic sound. “We won’t let you kill Harry without killing us first.”

“R-right.” Hermione had apparently given up all hope of pacifying the man, and she flung her hair over her shoulder and straightened her posture, though her lower lip was wobbling madly. “Us first.”

Harry knew he didn’t deserve his friends.

The man took a step forward, his eyes too bright and his wand raised steady. “Only one.”

Harry felt something snap behind his eyes. “No,” he said. “I won’t let you even touch them.”

“You’re a good friend,” the man said in that cracked voice, and Harry knew the man was taunting him.

“Not like you,” he snarled, and he threw himself at the man.

Every fight he had seen on the streets flooded back to him, every dirty trick, and he felt the man tumble down underneath him. For a second Harry had the upper hand, and he didn’t even bother with getting the wand, he just forced his hands around the man’s pitifully thin throat and tried to squeeze. His legs were kicking, and he thought for a moment he would win, would squeeze the life out of Black right there on the floor—

But then he felt something in the man break too, and Harry felt thin, wiry hands wrap around his own neck and found himself pinned.

“No—“ the man rasped, those eyes gleaming so that Harry almost loosened his grip. “I’ve done too much—“

They lay there, in a sort of hopeless deadlock, both staring into the others eyes and feeling both unclean and terrified and unable to look away. The world was going fuzzy around the edges for both, black starting to eat into their vision—

Then a foot in a black Mary-Jane swung directly into the side of Black’s face.

The man let out a choked sound, and his hands loosened from Harry’s neck. Harry was forced to let go as Hermione leveled another kick, this one at the mans shoulder, and pushed him off Harry. Harry felt himself being pulled backwards, and he looked up and saw Neville’s pale face.

“No—go—your leg—“ Harry gasped, and he pulled himself up just in time to see Neville fall backward onto the bed, his leg at an even funnier angle and his chest heaving as he took shallow little breaths.

Harry turned to Hermione just in time to see the girl stomp on the man’s wrist and the wand in his hand go skittering across the floor. Hermione lunged for it, only to have Crookshanks, quite forgotten, dart in front of it, rat still in mouth. He regarded the wand with serious eyes, for a cat—should he drop the rat and take the wand? Or leave the wand and drop the rat? And Harry was never as pleased with the spiteful feline as when he decided the rat was more important and he backed away from the wand.

Harry jumped at the chance, lifting the wand and leveling it directly at Black. Hermione was over with Neville, doing something to his leg, and Harry pointed the wand at Black’s chest.

“You don’t understand—you don’t understand—“

Harry glared at the man. “I don’t—I don’t understand? How could—understand?” Rage was making it hard to think, hard to be aware of anything other than this was Sirius Black, who had killed his parents, who had tried to kill Snape, who had killed Peter Pettigrew and who had left him an orphan, left him with the Dursleys—

“You don’t know, you don’t know what it was! You don’t understand, please, I know, I know you’re angry, but you don’t—“

“I don’t UNDERSTAND?” Harry yelled, and he took a step closer. “I’ll—I’ll tell you what I do understand. You—you killed my mum and dad.” He thought of their picture, of his mother’s happy eyes and his father’s cheerful smile and how all he had was a picture that moved but wasn’t real. “You killed my mum and dad and, and betrayed them. To Voldemort. And you—you made—“ Suddenly all he could remember was his life with the Dursleys, which he had never thought was totally terrible, just not desirable.

But all he could think of was those nights when he was younger, when they first locked him in the cupboard, when he had a nightmare and had woken and cried out for his mum—they had left him, crying, in Dudley’s second bedroom, and then Uncle Vernon had burst in and hoisted him from his crib—he had outgrown the crib, but the Dursleys had refused to buy another bed for him—and carried him down the stairs, him crying all the way, and sat him in the cupboard and locked the door. And Harry had cried and cried all night, for his mum and his dad and the bedroom he should have had and the dark that would never go away.

And that was all. His. Fault.

“You killed them, and you—you made me an orphan. I understand that. I—I think I understand all of that.”

He closed his eyes, because suddenly the rage behind them had turned into something less hot and fierce and more—sad.

“I hear her, you know,” he said. “When the Dementors come…at night, when I sleep, I hear her yelling…”

“I’m sorry,” he heard that voice say, and it sounded sorry. But that wasn’t—it wasn’t enough, for this man to be sorry. This man had to pay, pay for all the things he had done to Harry and to Snape and to that little boy, barely more than a baby, who was still crying in the cupboard for his parents, for someone to let him out—

“That’s not good enough.” Harry raised the wand again, leveled it between the man’s eyes, and he waited for the man to make some move, flinch, close his eyes. But the man’s eyes stayed open and stayed so bright—and Harry thought for the first time that maybe he couldn’t kill Black. Maybe he couldn’t kill anybody.

“How could you do it?” Harry heard himself ask, and he almost kicked himself. Snape had told him that Black probably wouldn’t know. Black wouldn’t know, and now he was just asking questions to put it off, and part of him was all right with that, but the other part of him was screaming that he had to kill him, kill him now, and maybe then everything would go to how it was supposed to be, with his family and his own bedroom without bars or locks and his life—

But then he wouldn’t have Snape.

“I—you don’t understand,” the man said again. “We—we all thought it was the right thing.” The man’s eyes grew brighter, if that were possible, and a tear rolled down his cheek and Harry wondered why his cheek felt wet, because Black was the one crying, the one who was mad and unhinged and crying. “You look so much like him.”

That made Harry push the wand forward, and he hadn’t realized how close he had gotten to Black. The wand pressed into the man’s forehead, and Harry had never known a forehead could be thin, but Black’s was. The wand pressed into it and Harry tried to think of a curse, of any curse, because at this range Black would surely die. A Blasting Hex, or a Slicing Charm, and Black would be dead.

But all Harry could think of was the picture of his parents. He could never look at them again without remembering this, he knew, and he knew that he didn’t want his parent’s picture touched by this. Their picture was pure and light and it wasn’t this, it was a man crying with a wand held to his head, it was better than this.

Harry was better than this.

He let himself linger a moment more, than took a step back, the wand still aimed at the man’s head. But the man reached forward with one gaunt head and pulled the wand away from Harry.

As Harry was about to lunge and get it back, all four of the occupants of the room were distracted by the bang of a door being thrown open. Even Crookshanks stopped playing with Scabbers in the corner to listen.

While they all looked at the door, Hermione regained her wits, opened her mouth, and screamed.

“HELP! HELP! WE’RE UP HERE AND SO IS SIRIUS BLACK! HELP!”

There were footsteps climbing up the stairs, racing, and Harry hoped that meant everything was over.

It was obvious, when Professor Lupin entered the room, looked at Black for two seconds, than swept the man up into a deep embrace, that this was a stupid thing to hope.

The embrace was brief—it only lasted a moment, really, and Black seemed as stunned by it as the other people in the room. Neville looked deeply hurt. Hermione opened and shut her mouth several times. Harry was shocked.

But when the embrace ended, Black looked at Lupin and choked out “Remus?”

The man nodded. “I wanted you to have that,” Lupin said, and he swallowed and the wand flew out of Black’s hand and into Lupin’s. “Before the Dementors get you.”

Black’s face paled and twitched into a horrified mask. “The—no, Remus, not them—“

“Yes.” There was a fierce, vigilante form of justice in Lupin’s eyes, but also a deep, lingering pain. “Yes.”

“Remus—no, you don’t, you don’t understand—he’s alive!”

The words hung in the air, dangerous, and Harry let himself believe for a minute they were true. That his father was alive—it was all a trick, a trick on Voldemort, and his father was alive, and his mother—

But he had said ‘he’. ‘He’ is alive. And that meant his mother wasn’t part of that.

Lupin seemed to wonder for a moment as well. “James? James is dead, Sirius.”

“No,” the man rasped. “No, no, not James—Pettigrew! Petey! He’s—“ Black launched into a detailed account of what had happened, babbling and plucking at the front of Lupin’s robes desperately. Lupin looked skeptical, at first. But then Black lunged forward, desperately clutching at the front of the man’s robes, and said “Look—look at him. In the corner—the cat has him. Just look at him—if, if it’s not, I’ll go, I’ll—but the finger—the—look, please—“

Lupin looked skeptical and suspicious. He sighed, keeping his wand steady. “For—for our friendship—please, Remus, for—for James and Lily—“

And Lupin walked to the corner, backwards, his wand still aimed at Black, and he took a quick look at the ground where Crookshanks and Scabbers was, then looked back at Black. But his eyes widened, and he looked back down, then he knelt and plucked the rat by the tail and lifted it into the air.

He then dropped the rat with a mix of hate and disgust—emotions which seemed a bit strong for a rat, Harry thought—and he went back to Black and looked at him for a long moment. The man’s eyes were pleading, and his hands were plucking through the air nervously, and his hands were crushed into his body when Lupin put away his wand, grabbed the man’s shoulders, and pulled him into another embrace.

Harry and the others watched for a moment, wondering if this was the same as the first. It proved immediately different, though, when both men emerged with tears on their faces, smiling, and the wand didn’t come back out.

“But you—“

“James—it was Peter, he planted ideas in everyone’s head, how we couldn’t trust you—“

“Him—him all along?”

Black nodded, and he leaned back in, weeping. “So—so long, it’s been so long—I never thought you would—oh, Remus, it’s—“

Lupin patted the man on the shoulder, and that was when the three realized that Lupin wasn’t faking it. It wasn’t some plan to get them lose.

Hermione jumped to her feet and screamed. “HOW COULD YOU?!”

Lupin turned. It was the first time he had acknowledged the three since he had entered the room. He seemed startled by Hermione’s shriek.

“Hermione—“

“I covered for you! I—I told Professor Snape I didn’t know! I lied to him for you! And all this time you’ve—you’ve been his friend! How could you?”

“Hermione, this isn’t at all that—“

“It is so that! It is so! I—I did that essay he set and, and when the others asked for help, I told them everything they needed for the essay and I protected you! Even from Harry and Neville!”

“And I appreciate it, Hermione. You’re—you’re completely off base here, let me explain—“

“How—I kept your secret! All year, all since—I kept it, even when Professor Snape—and you’ve just, the whole time, you’ve—I can’t believe you!” She turned to Neville and Harry, who both felt rather in the dark. She flung an accusatory finger out at Lupin, who flinched like she was aiming a wand. “He—He’s a werewolf! That’s why Snape’s been calling him all those things, and he’s missed all those class. He—He’s been helping Black into the castle, he’s on his side!”

“Low points on that, I’m afraid, Miss Granger,” Lupin said in a falsely cheerful voice, though he looked rather upset around the eyes. “I haven’t spoken to Sirius before this in almost thirteen years. And I’m on Harry’s side, here, I promise you that.” He fell quiet then, and gave a bitter grin that made his face looked terribly off center with his upset eyes. “As for the werewolf—“ he said, and he turned his hands palms up and offered something that might have been a shrug.

“You—it’s true, then?” Neville whispered. “You’re—you’re a werewolf?”

Lupin offered a brief nod, his eyes focused on Harry. “Harry?” he said quietly, and he took a step towards the boy, hand offered out.

“That’s why Snape calls you a monster,” Harry said. “You—you are a monster. I thought he was just being—being Snape, but—“

“I’m not a monster, Harry.” Harry didn’t move a muscle.

“You’re—You believe him!” This time Harry flung his finger out and Black flinched. “You—even if you weren’t a werewolf, that would make you a monster!”

“Harry—you don’t—“

“I UNDERSTAND!” Harry yelled, jumping to his feet. “He KILLED my PARENTS! He killed your best friends, and you don’t even care! You don’t even CARE!” Harry threw himself at someone for he second time that evening. This time, however, Professor Lupin caught him by the arms before he could do any damage and all he could do was scream. “He killed them! He did it, he said so!”

“Harry, Pe—“ Lupin started, only to be cut off by a wail from Harry.

“PETTIGREW’S DEAD! THEY’RE ALL DEAD AND IT’S ALL HIS FAULT!” Harry yelled, and he tried to twist free of Lupin and kicked his legs at Black, who looked enthusiastic to the point of mania.

“No, no, that’s what everyone thought,” Lupin soothed, and Black broke in.

“Everyone was wrong! I didn’t kill Lily and James, but it was—“ here the man choked up a little before moving on. “It was my fault.”

“Who killed them, then? Pettigrew? And who killed him, huh, McGonagall?”

“No, Harry, remember? Remember what I told you, about Pettigrew? The biggest part of him they found was his—“

“Finger! What has that to do with anything?” Harry roared, and he pulled away from Lupin. Hermione touched his shoulder.

“Harry,” she whispered, her eyes wide and set on Crookshanks and his prey. “Scabbers…Scabbers is missing a toe…”

For a second, Harry’s mind clamored and rung and screamed. Then it all went silent.

“Are—Are you saying that Ron Weasley’s rat—Ron’s rat is Peter Pettigrew?” Neville looked incredulously at the cat, who was batting the rat back and forth between his enormous ginger paws.

“How is that—that’s impossible,” Hermione said, and Lupin gave her a small smile.

“Ah, come now, Hermione, surely you can see how it would be possible?” Hermione bit her lip. “Come—share with the class. Top ways that this situation would be possible.”

Hermione chewed on her lip, than hesitantly said “Well…if, if Black is an animagus…”

Black let out a rough guffaw and Lupin’s smile increased marginally. “Right on one, Hermione. Fifty points.”

“In that paper for McGonagall, though—I looked it up, he wasn’t listed! There are only seven Animagi in this century—he’s not on the register!”

“None of us were,” Black rasped. “It was…was our very best secret. The only one all of us kept.”

“They worked for years on it,” Lupin said. “To…to help me.”

Harry heard Hermione’s sharp intake of breath. “Oh. Because you’re—oh.”

“Yes. Animals are fit company for—“ here Lupin’s face twisted and he attached his eyes to Harry’s face pleadingly, “—for the beast.”

“I was bitten when I was very young, you see. And I—even though I showed magical talent, my parents never thought I would be able to attend Hogwarts. But then Dumbledore became Headmaster and—well, you can’t see a little thing like lycanthropy stopping Dumbledore, can you? So the impossible happened there as well—I was accepted to Hogwarts. I was sorted into Gryffindor, where I met the best friends of my life, Harry—your dad, Sirius, and Peter Pettigrew.”

Harry felt the man’s eyes pleading with him, and instead he stared at Black. Black, who seemed to be getting impatient.

“Hurry, Remus—it’s been too long—twelve—too long, I need—“

“Hold on, Sirius,” Lupin said. “Patience, Harry needs to understand—“

“I’ve been patient!” the man yelled, and the brightness in his eyes returned. “Azkaban is all about patience! But I escaped and came here and I can’t wait much longer, Remus! I can’t!”

Lupin turned turned to the man, put both his hands on the man’s shoulders and looked into his eyes and whispered “You’ve got to wait. Just a minute more.”

The man shuddered and disengaged from Lupin’s eyes. He watched Black a moment, then turned back to the Gryffindors.

“When they found out about the beast they never cared. They found out rather quickly—James was always very good at that sort of thing. But once they found out, they told nobody. They kept my secret, and they—They helped me, the way that Neville and Hermione would help you. They learned to transform so that I wouldn’t be alone.” The look on Lupin’s face was desperate. He took a step forward, letting go of Black and resting his hands instead on Harry’s shoulders. “They were my dearest friends.”

“Was hard, I’ll tell you,” said the bedraggled man. His eyes shone with a different sort of light, a remembering light, and his voice was hoarse and gruff. “Figuring out how to transform, keeping it a secret from the teachers and the other kids—only one who ever caught on at all was Snivellus—“

Remus jumped in quickly. “In our fifth year they finally managed it. They could each transform into an animal at will.” He smiled and touched the side of Harry’s face very gently. “Your dad was a stag, Harry.”

A stag. Harry thought about what a wonderful stag his father would have made, and he allowed a momentary smile to cross his face. “Really?”

Lupin nodded. “Yes.”

Black spoke again, his voice gravelly from no use and supressing tears. “He’d gallop you ‘round the living room sometimes, you holding his antlers and your mum screaming so loud it’s a wonder the neighbors didn’t hear…”

Harry wished he remembered, and the smile left his face as he remembered that this man was the reason his father couldn’t still gallop him anywhere.

Lupin seemed to realize the moment had passed and continued with the tale.

“Sirius is a dog, as you saw. Peter—“ a spasm of hate twitched over the man’s face “was the rat. We never told anyone about it.”

Hermione finally interjected. “That was terribly irresponsible of you! What if you had bitten somebody, or if you’d been injured? It’s illegal not to register!”

Lupin nodded. “We were young, and we were stupid. I feel like we all might have registered after we realized how reckless it was not to—but we never reached that point. Not together, at least.” He closed his eyes for a moment, then reopened them and fastened them to Harry’s. “Do you understand now, Harry? Pettigrew—he did it all himself. The betrayal, cutting his own finger off, framing Sirius. It was all his own plan.” Lupin looked at Harry’s still not sure face. “Sirius is innocent, Harry.”

“What—what’d you do to Snape?” Harry asked suddenly. Lupin stiffened and Black let out a raucous, rough bark of laughter.

“So, he is his father’s son, isn’t he?”

Lupin paled. “Sirius, no—“

“What’d you do to him?” Harry asked, this time of the crazy man.

“Gave him what he wanted, that’s all. Gave the greasy git what he deserved. Never—he never knew when to stop pushing, the sod, did he, Remus?”

Lupin was talking right to Harry. “We were very young, Harry, we were young and stupid, no one knew the plan but Sirius and we were all just very young—“

“What happened?”

Black grinned an awful, yellow toothed grin. “He was always snooping where he didn’t belong, trying to get Remus in trouble. He’d have been expelled if anyone knew. So one night—“

“We were young and it was a mistake, Harry, please—“

“One full moon, I just gave him what he wanted.”

There was a horrible hanging silence, and Black gave an odd sort of grin.

“Always on about ‘What are you keeping in the tunnel, Black?’ and ‘Where’s Lupin, Black?’ and ‘Heard some funny howls last night, Black.’ Always with the ‘How d’you get into the Shrieking Shack, Black?’ So I just gave him what he wanted.”

Harry’s ears felt funny and his veins were like ice. “You—you made him go into the tunnel when Professor Lupin was transformed.” The noise in his ears grew. “You—You tried to kill him.”

Black shrugged—a careless, horrible way to refer to a human life. “Wouldn’t’ve been any loss. Snivelly bastard.”

Harry, Harry who was never violent, who was rarely angry, Harry Potter leapt through the air for the third time that evening. He crashed into Black’s chest, heard the man grunt in surprise and pain, but from there he was overtaken again. Lupin was yelling and so was Hermione, Neville was screaming for Black to let him go, and Black just seemed confused as he pinned Harry. That was all he had time to do before a soft voice broke through the crowd like a knife.

“Get your hands off him, Black.”

Black loosened his hold in surprise and Harry took that opportunity to wriggle free. He would know that voice anywhere. That was the voice he heard in every Potions lesson, in most of his detentions, whenever he needed to talk. That was the voice that had soothed him when he was scared, that gave him small noises of approval, that had said he was proud of him. It was Snape. He ran to him and he buried his face for a moment in the comfort of Snape’s robes, robes that smelled like pewter and cupboard and spicy herbs, and he let himself for a moment clutch the man and he felt the man clutch him back.

“Snape—He—I don’t—“ Harry couldn’t get the words out and he just tightened his grip on the man. “Sirius Black—“

Black had an ugly look on his face. “Let him go, Snape.”

“Professor!” Hermione cried out in relief. “Professor—Neville, sir, he’s hurt—and Black’s innocent, sir—“

“Granger, be quiet,” Snape snapped, and he pushed Harry out of the embrace, his wand before him and a terrible look on his face. He pushed Harry behind him and Harry twisted a hand in the man’s robes and tried to breathe. It was over. Snape would make it all right.

“So,” Snape said, that terrible smile on his face. “I had hoped, Black, to be the one to find you.”

“Let go of him, Snape.”

“Who’s holding him?” Black looked confused. “I’ve dreamt about this day, you know, ever since I was Sorted. Dreamt about the day that the great Sirius Black would be revealed to the whole world for what he really was—nothing but a common liar and murderer. Oh, I’ve waited and bided my time and now I’ll get my reward.”

Lupin cleared his throat. “Severus—Severus, you don’t understand, Sirius—“

“And I did so hope I’d catch you in the act of it, Lupin.”

“The act of what?”

“Of letting him in. I knew, I knew that no matter how much Dumbledore swore your innocence that he’d be wrong. You’re nothing but a beast, Lupin. You don’t know the difference between right or wrong.”

Harry felt a hot stab of shame. This was Professor Lupin, kind Professsor Lupin who had given him chocolate and taught him how to fight dementors, who had told him a little about his parents, who had worried about him and cared about him, and Snape was—

Was telling the truth. A cruel kind of truth, maybe, but a truth all the same. Because Lupin was a beast. He was an animal. He was kind and nice and good, yes, but once a month he was a monster. A part of him cringed in fear of what claws and teeth could do to him.

Lupin looked pained. “Severus, you must listen to us—“

“I must do nothing.”

“Oh, no, there’s something you must do,” Black broke in angrily. “You must get your bloody hands off my godson, that’s what you must do!”

“Sirius,” Lupin whispered, “That isn’t going to help.”

Snape’s eyes glinted and he reached back and took hold of Harry’s wrist almost painfully tight. “Him? You want me to take my hands off of Harry?”

“Don’t touch him, you filthy, slimy bastard! Don’t!”

“Don’t you two do this!” Lupin said angrily. “Don’t you both fight over a boy! Don’t do that to him!”

Snape seemed incapable of hearing, his eyes fixed firmly and maliciously on Black’s. “He doesn’t want you, Black.”

“He doesn’t want you either, you greasy git, get off him! He’s my godson, get off him!” Black advanced, only to be met by Snape’s wand to his throat.

“Give me a reason,” Snape said, his eyes lit up with a fanatical gleam. “Give me one more reason on top of all the ones I have already, Black.”

The man glared at Snape, then turned his gaze pleadingly to Harry. “Harry—Harry, get away from him, he’s—“

Harry leveled a fierce glare at the man, one he’d learned by watching Snape. “I know what he is! He’s—He’s my teacher, and– you’re—you’re a killer! I don’t—“

“Harry, no, it was Pettigrew—“ Lupin interjected.

“If it was Pettigrew, where is he?” Harry yelled. “Say it’s a rat all you can, but the only rat I see here is him!”

Black stagged back as if the words were rocks. Snape sneered and said in his silkiest, most dangerous tone “Come now, Black, I thought Gryffindors were supposed to be brave. Face the Dementors like a man.”

Black lunged forward, then, and Snape jumped backwards, wand still outstretched and a curse out of his mouth. With a movement like a cobra, Black ducked the curse and tore the wand out of Snape’s hand and spun, spun to the corner where Crookshanks was still playing with Scabbers, words flying from his mouth. Snape lunged after him and regained his wand, knocking the man to the ground, but Black didn’t seem to care. He had eyes on for the cat, for Crookshanks was letting the rat run away from him, then easily pulling him back in by the tail. Suddenly, though, he went in to put his paw down on the rat’s long tail, and instead of a tail, swiped his claws through the back of a short, pudgy, sweaty man.

When Harry had heard the name Peter Pettigrew, and the story behind it, he had imagined someone brave. Someone who had given his life for his friends—who had squared his chest and thrown back his head when Black went mad and blasted him to smithereens. But this man was nothing like that at all. He was short and stubby, almost, and he seemed pinched around the face. His nose was slightly pointed, his eyes watery and darting from person to person in the room nervously. Even if Harry had not just seen him transform from rat to man, the first word to come to mind with this man would be ‘rat’. It was in everything about him—the set of his shoulders, hunched slightly forward, the dart of his eyes, the way his teeth slightly protruded from his mouth. And the air about him, the slick, greasy air of a person who cannot be trusted.

No, this was not the man Harry had imagined giving his life for the cause. And rightly so, it seemed, because Peter Pettigrew was alive, well, and sitting rather stupidly on his bottom in the corner.

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Severus Snape was charged with the most difficult choice of his life thus far. He remembered the choice of whether or not to join the Death Eaters—simple. This was different, this meant everything, this choice, and he had only a few seconds to make it. That was the worst part. Severus was the sort of man who carefully prepared all his ingredients, who could spend hours arguing the pros and cons of different cauldrons to himself without starting. He was not a man for quick action, but here it was and he could not escape it.

Choice one: He could pretend Pettigrew wasn’t there and let him escape. Let him escape and let Black take the blame. And oh, it was wrong, but oh it was tempting. Black was the one who had constantly mocked him, the one who’d pushed him down the stairs and tripped him and tossed things in his potions, Black who had taunted and teased and pranked and pounded on him until he thought seriously about hurling himself off of the Astronomy Tower. Black, who never stopped. Black, who had to be stopped now, when Severus had the power, when Severus had the chance. Of killing Peter Pettigrew he was innocent, yes, but of killing of bits of Severus Snape? Oh, he was guilty.

But then there was choice two: He could bring Pettigrew back to the castle and let Dumbledore take care of it. Let Black’s name be cleared and let the world go to adoring him and praising him and let Pettigrew be Kissed and let the only good thing he had vanish. HHhHh Black would regain his house and his funds and his life, and that meant Harry too. He’d regain Harry and Snape didn’t know if he could take that. It would be Black finishing the job he had started in Hogwarts, and one morning some pitiful Ravenclaw would run into breakfast yelling that the Potions Master had finally lost it, finally cracked. And Harry would not care, because he had Black.

And Snape would not let that happen.

Everyone was staring at Pettigrew and Pettigrew was staring at everyone else, licking his lips and breathing nervously until a nervous sort of smile broke across his face.

“R-r-remus! S-s-sirius! My old f-f-friends!”

He had to make a choice and the moments slowed to hours and he thought. He thought and thought and he knew, he knew that lossing Harry was the one thing he could not do, so he was about to cast the strongest rope spell he knew on Black when he felt something happen to his free hand.

He looked down and saw that a small, thin hand, a child’s hand with bitten fingernails, was clutching at his as hard as he could. Harry was squeezing his hand almost to death, really, the boys eyes fixed on Pettigrew and Snape could feel the trembling, through Harry’s hand into his already shaking one, and he realized he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t let the murderer of Harry’s parents go free. Not for James or Lily, not for Lupin or Black or even for Dumbledore, but for Harry. He couldn’t let that man go free because that would break Harry’s heart.

And even if it meant losing Harry, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t do that to Harry, and Snape let his binding curse fly at Pettigrew, pinning the man to the floor. He gave Harry’s hand one last squeeze and hoped the boy would someday appreciate what he had done for him.

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Pettigrew looked like a trussed pig, his hands and legs tied elaborately with ropes that didn’t need knotting. The tightened until the man was unable to move an inch, but they did not bind his mouth, and all the while he was yelling. Harry still gripped Severus’ hand.

“Remus! Remus, you must believe me, I didn’t know! It was Sirius, it was Sirius and his only aim is to frame me—Remus, you must believe me! Remus!”

“I think I have believed in you all I can, Peter,” Professor Lupin said in his most quiet voice. “I believed in you for twelve years. Now I think it’s time to believe in Sirius.”

Black was crying. There were tears dripping down his face, but his mouth was twisted into an outraged ‘o’. “You—you killed James. You betrayed them!”

“No, no!” the man wailed. “Remus—it was S-s-sirius! S-sirius was the Secret-Keeper! Sirius was the s-spy!”

Black’s face turned ugly and he almost lunged for the man, but Lupin put a calming hand on his shoulder. “Now, tell me, Peter,” he said in a terribly calm voice, though Harry could see how hard he was gripping Black’s shoulder. Almost as hard as Harry was gripping Snape’s hand. “That doesn’t really sound like Sirius to me.”

“The—the B-blacks have been Dark since the c-c-creation of magic!” the man whined. “H-he was the obvious c-c-choice!”

“Ah, but Sirius never did like to conform to the obvious now, did he, Peter? Bit of a Black sheep, isn’t that what we used to call him?”

Pettigrew’s face grew terribly panicked. “R-r-remus, you—you can’t possibly believe—“

“As I said before, Peter, I have believed in you for too long.”

The man started to frantically pull at the ropes. “No! No! It was—“ He seemed to realize that tactic was getting him nowhere. “They were d-dark times, Remus! P-p-p-people were always scared—I was f-f-frightened. I f-f-fought him!”

“You liar!” Sirius yelled. “I went to your home, went to check on you—you’d locked the door! You’d folded out your funeral robes, the ones you wore to the Prewett’s and the Bone funeral—you knew what was going to happen!”

“No—“

“You knew! You betrayed them, Peter, you betrayed us all!”

“But the Dark Lord!” Pettigrew whimpered. “He was very powerful! He—he’d have killed me if I hadn’t—“

“THEN YOU SHOULD HAVE DIED! DIED RATHER THAN BETRAY YOUR FRIENDS, AS WE WOULD HAVE DONE FOR YOU!” The look on Black’s face was fiery and terrible and made Harry shiver just looking at it.

The man cast his look desperately around the room. “I—haven’t—girl, please, they’re bewitched! They—they’re servants—“

But Hermione backed away from his look, turned to face Neville on the bed instead, which brought Pettigrew to him.

“You—you’re the Longbottom boy—he—he’s just like his cousin, he’ll torture you all until you’re too mad to speak—“

Neville’s face went a shade paler and his gaze shot up to Black’s face for a moment, utterly terrified. Then he shook his head and averted his gaze.

“Severus! He—Sirius, you always knew better than the rest of us—a killer, from the start! A killer! He—he tried to kill—help me!”

Snape sneered. “A killer, yes. They should lock him in Azkaban for what he did.”

Pettigrew looked hopeful. Then Snape went in for the kill like he did in class.

“I would say share a cell, but they keep the Demented prisoners in an entirely separate wing…”

The man’s face paled and he set his eyes on the only remaining person in the room. Harry, who still had not spoken, who had his eyes fixed on Pettigrew’s head as though he would very much like to tear it off.

Pettigrew didn’t seem to pick up on that. “Harry—please. Your father, he wouldn’t want me Kissed—he would forgive me. Forgive me—“

“How dare you talk to Harry!” Black spat, and Snape muttered a few words and the ropes tightened. Harry just stared at him. Then, very deliberately, he dropped Snape’s hand, took a breath, and took a step forward.

He didn’t hear how Snape’s heart fell with the loss of contact.

“You—“ Harry took another shaky breath and swallowed. “You—you said that my dad would have forgiven you?”

The man nodded frantically. “He was forgiving, James, a forgiving soul—you look so much like him, like James—he would forgive me, Harry—“

Harry swallowed again. “You’re saying that,” he said. “But—but the only reason you have to say it, the only reason I don’t know for myself is because they’re dead.” He paused a second and all the hopeful color that had filled the man’s cheeks left again and his lips started to tremble. “Because you killed them.”

Pettigrew burst into tears, pleading, but Snape snapped a spell and a gag suddenly appeared. Harry turned away from the man and wiped at his face self-consciously. Snape put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed hesitantly. Then he addressed everyone else.

“Lupin, as Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, perhaps you would bear charge of that thing?“

Lupin nodded and removed his wand, leveling it at Pettigrew’s head. “Surely.”

Hermione finally dared to speak. “P-professor? Could—Neville really is hurt, sir, his leg—“

Snape was by the bedside in moments, prodding the leg expertly with his hands. Neville started to whimper.

“Hm. Broken, I suspect.” He shot a nasty glare at Black, who had the decency to look ashamed. “Are you in much pain, Longbottom?”

Neville whimpered once more. “Er—what’s much, sir?”

Snape resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Are you able to walk?”

Neville started to push himself up. “I—I can try—oh, ouch—bugger…” His face was pale and drawn and he left himself fall again onto the bed. “Er—I guess not, sir.”

“Five points for language, Longbottom,” Snape said in a way that made Hermione look at him reproachfully and Harry and Neville laugh because they couldn’t tell if he was serious or not. Black was gritting his teeth in the corner. “Ferula.” Bandages began to spin around Neville’s leg until it looked like his leg ended at the knee and below that was a big, fluffy white pillow. Neville tested it again and winced.

“I—it’s much better, sir, I could walk—“

“Are you daft, Longbottom? Have you inhaled poisoned fumes from one of your many failed elixers?”

“N-no, sir. I—er, no.”

“You never attempt to walk off an injury—especially not one where shattered bones are concerned. We’ll levitate you.” Snape muttered a charm and Neville was floating above the bed. He attempted to swim his way to Harry, but Snape grabbed hold of his good ankle. “That’s enough. Granger!”

“Yes, sir?” Hermione had herself quite under control, and she stepped forward. Snape attatched the two with a piece of rope at the wrists.

“You’re in charge of Longbottom. See to it he doesn’t break the other leg.” Snape turned then, to Harry, who was standing rather awkwardly next to Snape.

“What about me?”

Snape considered him for a long moment, then sighed. “You’ll end the line. I’ll lead it. Longbottom in front of you, Pettigrew behind me.” He leveled a liquid poison glare at Black. “I don’t care where you go as long as I can pretend you do not exist. Am I quite clear?”

Black looked a bit sulky. “Don’t expect me to snap off a sir to you. You’re still nothing but Snivellus to me.” He saw Snape’s wand start to twitch, and he quickly added “I’ll take the back with Harry, then.”

Snape gave a tense nod, and the group made their way down the stairs and into the tunnel like some sort of odd parade. Behind them, forgotten, Crookshanks hopped off the bed, pattered down the stairs, and squeeze himself through a hole in the wall. The night was still young, after all, and it was no longer any of his responsibility.