Severus Snape was not a morning person. Nor an afternoon person, and he was certaintly not a nigt person. In fact, he was rarely any sort of person at all. If he had to state a time in which he was at his most pleasant and most agreeable, he would glare at the wall for a good twenty minutes trying to think if there ever was a time. Then he would state five or ten minutes after four in the morning after working on an extremely complex potion. But only for about five seconds, and then he would revert to his dour, unhappy self.

Though he was rather agreeable after finishing a mystery novel. But he did not admit to anyone that he read such a thing, and no one ever knew he was agreeable after that because he most often read them about five or ten minutes after four in the morning, and if you happened to run across him and he did not snarl at you, you would most likely assume he had just been working on an extremely complex potion and never suspect he was really patting himself on the back for pegging the killer in the first two chapters.

So, on the morning in question, you can assume that Severus Snape was certainly not any more agreeable than he normally was in the morning. He was doing exactly what he did every morning—he woke up, had a shower, brushed his teeth, growled at the mirror, and made his way to the Great Hall for breakfast. One thing that did make his dour face less sullen was the fact that it was summer holidays, so he didn’t need to wade through whiny, snot nosed children on his way to the head table. One thing that made his lip curl was the fact that, as soon as he sat down, he heard Hagrid twittering on and on about Harry Potter.

Mentions of any sort of Potter, or Lupin, or Pettigrew often made his lip curl (though mention of Black often made his lips twist into a smug grin), and it was that way that his lip remained as he helped himself to eggs.

“—las’ time I saw ‘im ‘e was only a baby, but wi’ the sweetest eyes an’ smile yeh ever could see! Even after all tha’—“ (here Hagrid started to sniffle, and Severus guarded his plate from the massive tears that were rolling down the giants face) “—tha’ had happened afore it, ‘e was sweet as an’thing yeh could imagine, an’ quiet. Wailin’ up a storm at firs’, a’course, but fell asleep jus’ over Bristol.”

“I remember, Hagrid,” Minerva said kindly, and Severus sneered. Just like the woman to coddle the giant. Severus respected his old professor, could even stand a conversation with her now and than, but her main failing was that she was soft. Oh, you wouldn’t guess it, the way she treated the students—stern but fair McGonagall!—but in private, she was soft as a marshmellow. Severus tasted his eggs, then pulled a face and reached for the salt and pepper.

“An’ wasn’ ‘e jus’ the sweetest—“

“We’ve heard how sweet the boy is, Hagrid,” Severus ground out as he angrily shook the salt over his eggs. “Any sweeter and he would melt in the rain, we understand! Something that sweet—“ the way Severus said it made it sound like he was intoning the deadliest potion on Earth, “—should not be conversed about at breakfast, do I make myself clear?”

The entire table glared at him, and Snape scowled back as he retasted his eggs. Worthless.

Hagrid continued in that vein the entire meal, delivering a detailed account ofhow he had rescued the boy from the ruin in Godric’s Hollow. Minerva fretted about the boys relatives—if they were actually as bad as Minerva had said, he felt he ought to award them a medal—and Dumbledore merely smiled genially and said he was happy to finally be able to see the boy again.

Severus felt about ready to puke.

The weather above his head seemed to share his view, for the sky turned thunderous, stormy and windy and black, and Snape allowed himself a small smile. He had always loved storms, and he planned to remove himself to some abandoned tower with his latest mystery novel—disguised as a potions treatise—for a day of reading and silence.

His plans were shattered when he saw Hagrid rise from the table and promptly slip.

He fell with a great crash, echoed moments after by a roll of thunder. His enormous leg lay at a sickening angle, and Severus allowed himself a moment of rejoicing—he wouldn’t have to hear about Potter for the rest of the damnable day!—before looking at the man with concern.

Poppy was over him, waving her wand and administering diagnostic charms, and Severus slipped out of the hall to retrieve his book and scout out a tower. The man would be fine in Poppy’s hands, he knew, and what was there to be gained by hovering?

He was entranced and in a better sort of mood than normal, tucked in the hidden West Tower and most un-Snapely curled in an armchair when Dumbledore hunted him down.

“Whatever you are about to ask of me,” Severus said, slamming the book shut before Dumbledore could see it had nothing to do with the latest steps with the Wolfsbane Potion, “I firmly refuse.”

“You don’t know if I am to ask you anything, my boy,” Dumbledore said with a frustrating eye twinkle.

“I do so. Now ask it, and I will answer no, and you will leave and I will get back to my treatise.”

“Harry Potter—“ the man started, and Severus shook his head.

“No. Good day to you, Headmaster.”

Dumbledore conjured a chair. “Severus, I wouldn’t ask you, but no one else can go.”

“Delay it a day. Hagrid will be up and about by then.”

“Poppy’s afraid that the Skele-Grow she used won’t be potent enough for his bone structure, he’s confined to his hut for the rest of the week.”

“And Minerva?”

“She’s receiving the owls and overseeing the elves.”

“I could do that and she could go.”

“She cannot—the owls are keyed to her specifically, to prevent interception. You know that.”

Severus rolled his eyes and thought. “Flitwick?”

“Too excitable,” was the answer.

“Pomona? Oh, I know, too round. And Poppy is too busy and you are too old—“

“Severus, please.” The old man’s eyes were pleading with him, and Severus held backa snarl. “I am asking you as my friend. Do this one favor.”

“Headmaster, no. Now, if you’ll excuse me—“

“I’ll tell the staff.”

Severus blinked. “Tell them what, that I refuse to go? Go ahead, though I doubt it will be a surprise.”

“I’ll tell them about that delightful treatise you’re reading—Christie, isn’t it?”

Severus gave Dumbledore a frosty glare. “Excuse me?”

“Agatha Christie, isn’t it? Murder on the Orient Express—well, that’s been a favorite of your for years, hasn’t it?”

“I haven’t the slightest—“ Severus started, but the old man just smiled at him and his damnable eyes just twinkled.

“Severus.”

“I hate you,” Severus snarled, throwing the book at Dumbledore. The man smiled as if Severus had just professed undying devotion to him.

“Quite right, my boy. Now—I’ve located Mr. Potter in—“

Severus sulked and listened and swore that Potter would reach the castle whole—

But only just.

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The weather continued to be miserable and that suited Severus just fine. He was levitating himself over a damned ocean, following a weak tracking pattern in the middle of a bloody thunderstorm, fuming and plotting what he would do once he located Potter.

He was to take him—shopping. Severus Snape, take a worthless brat like Potter shopping. Severus Snape, taking anyone shopping, was a stretch. He ordered everything by owl-order except for his clothes and shoes, which he bought froma reliable tailor in Hogsmeade. He hadn’t set foot in Diagon Alley for years. Years. And he was to spoil the Potter boy rotten and treat him like a bloody king, bringing him around to all the shops and fawning over him.

Well, Severus wouldn’t do it. He would not. He would get the boy as far as Gringotts, then let him fend for himself while he helped himself forget this day with a few pints in the back of the Limitless Night—only good thing about Diagon Alley. See how smart the boy was then.

The tracking pattern seemed to strengthen up a bit and it was leading down to a little rock.

What was Potter doing on a rock? Why the bloody hell had Potter brought him to a rock?

He then noticed a small, weather beaten shack on the rock, and he smirked. Probably meant to be some sort of vacation, ruined by the weather. He gloried in Potter’s ruined vacation as he landed on the rock, cast a quick drying spell, pasted his most menacing scowl on his face, and apparated inside.

It was just after midnight.

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Harry Potter was not a morning person, an afternoon person, or a night person. He tended to be small, thin, messy-haired, knobbly-kneed, bespectacled and quiet at all times. If you had asked him what time of day he was most agreeable, he would probably offer a tentative smile and say that whatever time of day he was not with the Dursley’s was the best time of day for him.

He was, of course, rather agreeable whenever he was left alone in his cupboard. But other people weren’t technically supposed to know about the cupboard, so he doubted that he would say that to anybody, however much it was true. He was decidedly not agreeable, however, when being chased by Dudley’s gang, being scolded by Aunt Petunia, smacked around by Uncle Vernon, or having his letters stolen and his whole life overturned.

That was not exactly agreeable for him at all.

So, the night in question (for it had been several hours since Hagrid had been proclaiming his sweetness in the great Hall), Harry Potter was basically agreeable, but not at all so to his relatives, and he was also very damp. It was good that he was not quite as sweet as Hagrid had been proclaimed, because the hut’s roof was not very well patched and Dudley had shoved him right under a hole, so the rain had been pouring in on him all night. The back of Dudley’s shirt was soaked, and Harry rather wished that the crisp bags Uncle Vernon had tried to light had caught, because he was freezing and slightly miserable.

This was not what Harry did every night—normally he stared at the ceiling in his cupboard—which, though small, did not have any holes in it and could be quite warm in the summer, though cold in the winter—and wondered what it would be like if his parents were alive. Not in a missing way—though he did miss them—but in a curious way. Would he be taller? Would he be smarter? Would he be like Dudley, because he had parents who loved him? Would his parents love him? Would he love them? Would his father have a mustache like Uncle Vernon? Would his mother have a face like Aunt Petunia? Would he have two bedrooms, or one, or three? Would he still have to cook breakfast?

Currently, he was too damp, miserable, and less-than-agreeable towards his relatives to focus on that. Instead, he thought about his letter. What did it say? Was it from his parents? Were they alive?

Harry quickly dismissed that and sighed. His parents, he knew quite well, were dead. He used to think about relatives that would come and fetch him, mysterious kings and long lost aunts, but it was really only the Dursleys, and thinking like that would give him a funny pain a little above his stomach, so he stopped.

It was almost his birthday, he noticed, tring to read Dudley’s watch out of the corner of his eyes. 11:48. Twelve minutes. He briefly entertained himself wondering what he would get if he had parents—a computer? Books? A hug?—but then he dismissed it. He probably wouldn’t get anything at all this year, not with all the trouble his letters were causing, although Dudley would give him birthday punches. Harry winced and touched his eye. Dudley had take his glasses, snapped them, and punched Harry in the eye earlier when Harry refused to give up his bag of crisps. “A taste,” Dudley had sniggered. “For tomorrow.” Harry had mended his glasses with a bit of sellotape and had been feeling his eye bruise all night. He pulled his ragged blanket tighter around him and sighed. He’d give anything to get a letter for a birthday present.

Dudley’s watch said eight minutes. He wondered if Uncle Vernon had gotten any food for tomorrow, he was starving. Though there probably wouldn’t be much for Harry, anyway. Six minutes. He wondered when they would head back to Privet Drive. Maybe there would be so many letter there that they wouldn’t notice if he took one. Five minutes. What did those letters say, anyway? Who was so desperate to talk to odd Harry Potter, with his baggy old clothes and funny bruises and the odd things that happened to him? Who cared?

Two minutes. The whole shack was making the worst sorts of noises, grinding and howling and dripping from the storm. Maybe the whole place would fall to pieces. Maybe they would have to return to Privet Drive that very night! Maybe he could have a letter by sunrise! That would be the best sort of birthday present.

Thirty seconds. Maybe he’d wake up Dudley, just to irritate him—of course, he didn’t particularly want Dudley to remember it was his birthday—maybe he would go into the loo and sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to himself—that was the only way it would be sung at all. Ten…nine…eight…he was eleven now, at least, or almost…four…three…two…one…

The little alarm on Dudley’s watch started to beep, and Harry shut it off quickly before Dudley woke up. He lay there a moment, shivering under a blanket, and wondered if this was all that being eleven felt like.

Suddenly, a dark shadow appeared right in front of him. It looked like a vampire with the most menacing look Harry had ever seen in his life of his face. He was almost as scary as Uncle Vernon was that time Harry found himself on the school roof. Harry let out a little sound—not a scream, though, he was too agreeable for that—and skitted backward, away from the specter.

It was just after midnight.

Just after midnight, Severus Snape and Harry Potter met eyes. Just after midnight, Harry Potter let out a rather undignified yelp and started to skitter away, and Severus Snape bared his teeth in an animalistic sort of fashion and started to advance. Harry was terrified. Severus was triumphant. Neither one particularly wanted to be in the hut on the rock, and neither one knew anything about the other except that the situation was dangerous.

Severus had longer legs than Harry, however, and one moves faster when walking than when skittering, so it was no surprise to either of them when Severus’ hand shot out and grabbed Harry by the collar.

Harry froze, not moving an inch, and looked up in fear.

“Wha—what do you want?” he asked in a whisper, and Severus almost snarled at the boy.

“You’re to come with me, Potter,” Severus spat, taking cruel pleasure in the look that was blooming in the boy’s wide eyes, “—And I’ll thank you to keep that ignorant trap of yours shut, if you haven’t anything intelligent to say.”

The boy paled and the man smiled dangerously. Harry gulped. He was being kidnapped, like that movie Dudley had been watching in the hotel they’d been in before the hut! He shifted to his knees—the pressure from the collar of his shirt was hurting him, though he made no move to flinch away. “I—go with—sir, please, I don’t—they wouldn’t pay anything.”

Severus blinked once in confusion, then tightened his grip on the boys shirt. “What are you on about, you ignorant boy?”

“The—The Dursleys, they wouldn’t—they’d never pay a ransom.”

The man let out a sharp bark and curled his lip. Harry trembled.

“Isn’t that just typical of a Potter?” Severus spat. “Ransom—you really think you’re that important?”

“N-no,” Harry said softly, equal parts curious and frightened. “But why else would I have to go with you?”

Severus jerked on the boy’s collar and Harry got to his feet quickly. The man reattatched himself to his shoulder, gripping him harder than Uncle Vernon normally did. He seemed about to toss out another biting phrase, but thunderous footsteps from the other room made Harry’s heart sink. Uncle Vernon had awoken.

Severus stared as the largest Muggle he had ever seen and snarled. He didn’t have to deal with the lump. Dumbledore had sent him to deal with the brat only, so Severus wasted no time in producing a wand, which had the effect of making the blobby man’s eyes cross, and stunning him, all without loosening his grip on the whelp’s shoulder.

Harry looked at Uncle Vernon with half-terror, half relief. The man seemed to have just crumpled to the floor, and Harry severely hoped he had been sleepwalking. He darted a look at the man gripping his shoulder.

He was tall, taller than Harry by far, which wasn’t very difficult, but still. He had long hair, for a man, that was greasy and limp and hid his face from view. Harry tugged at his fringe, wondering if he could grow it that length and if that could hide him, if his uncle came looking. Then he looked at the expression on the mans face and decided that, if people left him alone, it was due to the dangerous glint to his darkened eyes and the freezing scowl that made Harry’s back shiver. He was dressed funny, Harry noticed, underneath his cloak. He had on what looked like an old fashioned, poofy-sleeved shirt, vest and trousers, but with a lot of buttons and in very dark colors. He looked a little like the man in one of the videos Dudley rented—the one with the flying car. The man who caught children. It had been Dudley’s favourite movie for a few months, and Harry had always been slightly frightened of the child catcher, which made him even more scared of the man who had a grip of his collar.

Snape’s lip curled as he looked the boy in his grip over. He was short, shorter than Potter had been when they started Hogwarts. Part of him was whispering that he was really was only a little boy and that the reason he was so much smaller than Potter was because he wasn’t really Potter, but Snape silenced that voice with an ease born of years of practice and continued his study. He was impossibly grimy, especially around the face, probably due to sleeping on the floor, and his glasses were askew. One of his eyes had a rather severe bruise on it, while the other looked wide and scared. His hair was rakish and scruffy, worse than Potter—it made Snape clench his teeth, when the boy reached up and fiddled with a tuft of it, as if he were trying to ruffle it in that same arrogant manner as his father. He reached out and slapped the boys hand away and he thought (maybe even hoped) that he would be hurt, or surprised—surely no one dare touch perfect, precious Potter that way! But the boy just pulled his hand down quickly and lowered his eyes to the floor. Snape bit back a snarl.

“False humility will get you nowhere with me, Potter,” he snapped, and a part of his mind wondered if he should find some way to make a distinction between the two—Potter the Father and Potter the Son. But he would rather die than call a Potter by anything but his surname, and Snape thought idly that it didn’t really make a difference—there was no need to make distinctions, he thought, between two people that were so alike that they could be the same.

Harry was confused and scared and so he just stared at the floor and nodded and darted a quick look to Uncle Vernon. Half of him wanted his uncle to wake up and pull him from the stranger’s grip, but another was pleased and relieved and, well, agreeable to leaving him there on the floor. He looked up at the stranger again and weighed his options. He could stay there, with the Dursleys, the only family he could remember—Harry privately wondered if his lack of memory of his parents was because of the frequent cuffs to the head—or he could leave, with a stranger, which they were never supposed to do.

It couldn’t be much worse than the Dursleys, Harry thought, but then bit his lip and retracted the statement. He had a place to sleep and a roof over his head and food, most of the time, at least, and he was getting an education and it wasn’t all that bad except that Dudley teased and Uncle Vernon knocked him up a bit and Aunt Petunia never said one kind word—well, the Dursleys were an alright situation, he guessed, and the only real problem was that they didn’t like him.

Of course, this man didn’t seem to like him either.

He looked up again and almost squeaked in terror at the look the man was giving him. He took a shaky, slight step backward that did nothing except make the man tighten his grip on the boys shoulder.

“I—I think I should stay here, sir,” Harry said quietly.

The man bared his teeth—the most ferocious Harry had ever seen—and Harry’s eyes widened—wider than Snape would have thought it possible for human eyes to go—and gulped.

“Too bad, Potter,” the man said, and Harry felt the grip on his shoulder tighten so that he though his arm might just fall off and suddenly there were colors all around him and he felt nausea rise in his throat and his stomach like when he hadn’t eaten for a few days, and everything was spinning and spinning and spinning and he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to breathe deep, but it was hard—

And then he didn’t know anything else until he landed.

He felt his legs give way underneath him and he fell to his knees, looking at the bottom of the mans odd pants, with loads of buttons and funny, button up boots, and Harry suddenly knew that—

“I’m going to be sick!” he gasped out, his face a sickly whitish-green, and he promptly threw up all over the man’s shoes.

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Harry had always known the Dursley’s didn’t like him. It was a little hard to miss, with the chores and the cupboard and everything. It used to bother Harry, but now he expected it as a fact of life. As sure as the sun would rise tomorrow, no one ever liked weird little Harry Potter. Not the Dursleys, not his teachers, not the kids. The only one who ever seemed to vaguely care for Harry was Mrs. Figg, an old woman who lived near him and took care of him whenever the Dursleys went anywhere, and Harry privately thought that was because she couldn’t remember who he was all the time and was just content to pretend he was her son or grandson.

No, Harry was under no delusions that no one on earth except for batty old ladies liked him. But this was something quite different. The man with the cloak not only didn’t like Harry—he hated him. And Harry was terrified.

The Dursleys looked on Harry as something that was always in the way, always, even when he was doing something for them. And when things are in the way, you get them out of the way, which they did, though never in a permanently disabling way. They just tucked him away in the cupboard, or pushed him out of the way, or told him in no uncertain terms to move. Harry felt that if the man had to get him out of the way somehow, he would probably be blasted out of the way rather quickly with that stick he had used on Uncle Vernon.

Harry remembered the look on the man’s face after he’d thrown up on his shoes—disgust. Anger. But most of all, hatred, as if Harry had been ill on purpose, which he never was—he was rarely ill at all. His eyes had made Harry want to run away as fast as he could, and if he hadn’t been so weak kneed, he would have. Instead, he cringed and muttered apologies and pulled into himself so he presented a smaller target and also to ease his still churning stomach.

The man had glared and spat out some funny sounding words and waved the stick and Harry had wondered if he was going to hit him with it—he started to dart out of the way, but the man grabbed the scruff of his neck and suddenly there was a flash of blue and all the sick was gone from the mans boots. Harry found himself being shoved into the arms of a kindly looking woman.

“Set him up in the room next to mine,” the man had snapped, and strode off, still radiating anger.

The woman had been kind, at least. She had taken Harry up to a room with a fire in the fireplace and a warm bed that was just for him, and had run the tap and tutted over him as she stroked his face with a warm cloth.

“Och, the poor wee laddie,” she had cooed in a funny sort of accent. “Was tha’ your first time Apparatin’?

“Appa—appy what?” Harry asked weakly. The woman let out a disappointed noise.

“Apparatin’, boyo, when you poof from ‘ere to there by magic.” Harry had just looked at her and wondered if he was dreaming, or if he’d cracked his head.

“I—magic’s not real,” he whispered, but he didn’t know if that was true anymore and he felt lost and scared.

The woman let out an outraged cluck and bundled him into a hug. “Oh, the poor little pigwidgeon! Raised by Muggles, his first time Apparatin’ wi’ tha’ no good Professor—“ she gave him another hug and smiled. “Well, don’ ye worry, it’s all over now. What’s your name, duckie?”

Harry looked at her and gave her a small smile. He’d never been called ‘duckie’ before. “Harry,” he said shyly.

“Well, Harry, I’m goin’ to fetch ye some night clothes and then I’ll leave ye to some rest.” She ruffled his hair and then made a dead stop, staring at his forehead. He wondered if he’d gotten another bunp there, or if she’d just never seen such a queer scar.

“Blessed Virgin Mary,” she breathed. “Are ye—“

“That will be enough, Priscilla,” came a cold voice from the doorway, and Harry paled and the kind woman merely stammered and edged away.

The tall man looked down at Harry, his face like stone except for his eyes, which were blazing and terrifying. Harry swallowed and stood up.

“I want to go back to the Dursleys,” he said, his voice shaking. “Please.”

After all, he may not be liked there, but at least he wasn’t hated.

Snape ignored him and started to talk. “I will no longer brook any disrespect from you, Potter,” he said icily. “You will address me as sir, or professor. Tomorrow I expect you to be awake, washed, dressed, and ready to leave the inn by eight thirty. The sooner I’m done with this the better.”

“I don’t know who you are,” Harry said, his voice getting a little stronger, fueled by fear and a little anger. He’d just been taken from his home, probably drugged or something, and that—it wasn’t nice! He felt tired and his head pounded and all he wanted was his cupboard and to be making sausages tomorrow for the Dursleys. Better, he decided, to know where you stood and have the necessities than not know anything. “Please, let me go. I don’t want to be here!”

“What did I just tell you, Potter?” the man spat, and he took four steps forward until Harry started to faintly shake.

“S-sir,” Harry said belatedly.

The man assessed him for a moment, then turned and left the room. Before he left for good, however, he turned back and gave Harry a withering look.

“You will find, Potter, that I do not dote on rude, arrogant, stupid, selfish little boys who don’t know their place. And, on this little adventure—“ he said the word like it meant journey to hell, “—if you cross me, you will not enjoy the repercussions.”

He left then, and closed the door, and Harry waited a moment too long before running to it and pulling at the handle. As if by magic, it melted in his hands, and Harry pounded on the door for a few minutes before giving up and going back to his bed.

He stared at it for a few seconds, then crawled under it and took off his shoes. He fell asleep there plotting ways to get away from the professor the next day.

He wasn’t with the Dursleys anymore, and he wasn’t going to let that man take him anywhere. He was on his own now, he supposed, and that meant he had to look out for himself. No more playing it meek so that he wouldn’t get in as much trouble. No more trying to see what the man wanted. Harry was going to do one thing—survive.

It was what he did best.

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Severus had never hated one person more than he hated Potter. He was all Potter’s now, his mother and father’s worst traits all meshed into one intolerable being. He was seething—he was fuming—he was about to go into the room next door and rend the child limb from limb. How dare he! How dare he?

After pacing his room angrily for about ten minutes, he went and let some of his anger out on that worthless maid and the boy himself. Then he returned to his room, drank a good half a bottle of Firewhiskey, set the bed curtains on fire (they were red) and kicked the bed seven times. Then he collapsed into a chair, staring into the fire, and wondered what the hell he was doing with a spoiled little brat on some damnable mission from Dumbledore, drunk and with a fierce headache and the faint smell of vomit in his nose.

He wished he’d brought the Christie novel.

Something wasn’t fitting right here, he knew that. He sensed it in the back of his mind, some little things that he just couldn’t put his finger on. It made him antsy and uneasy and he took another shot of Firewhiskey to make those niggling little thoughts go away. After a few more shots, the fire was pleasantly blurry in front of him and all he could think of was the years of revenge he had to take out on Potter.

After all, he thought with a sharp smile, it was what he did best.

The next morning Severus woke with a pounding headache and a mouth that felt like he’d eaten cotton fuzz. Despite this, he was no more or less agreeable than he normally was in the morning. He got up, splashed water on his face, growled at the mirror, brushed his teeth, then remembered that he’d locked Potter in the room next door the night before and became a great deal less agreeable than he normally was, which meant he was barely able to breathe without feeling as though flames should be leaping from his throat.

He stormed next door, muttered the counter charm, and flung open the doorway. Then he promptly snarled for Potter to wake up, only to realize he was snarling at an empty bed.

Potter was not there.

He thought of what Dumbledore would do if he’d lost the boy, though he couldn’t find himself sorry that the boy was gone, only that he would get into trouble for it. He was about to leave the room and firecall Dumbledore when he saw a small foot in a hole-ridden sock poking out from under the bed.

With a great deal of malicious glee, Snape marched over, grabbed the boys ankle, and gave it a hard tug.

The boy slid out from under the bed, waking from what must have been a most uncomfortable slumber, and seemingly oriented himself immediately to his new surroundings. He kicked at Severus’ grip immediately, grabbing at the floor and trying to pull himself under the bed.

Harry had woken up, very disaggreable, to find himself being tugged from his dark, slightly dusty sanctuary under the bed in his room. His head felt thick and his eyes were tired—it had been after midnight when he’d arrived at the inn, remember—but he remembered at once what had happened the night before. The kidnapping, the man locking him in and telling him to be up by eight thirty. He hadn’t a watch, but he supposed this was as good an alarm as any.

Instinctively, he started to thrash in the air, being pulled by one foot, and his hands scrabbled over the floorboards in an attempt to anchor himself. He felt as the professor caught his other foot and pulled him with even more force, his hands still panicked and feeling for anything. He latched on to the leg of the bed with both hands, holding as tight as he could, but Snape just pulled harder and harder. Harry knew he couldn’t keep it up much longer, and he remembered what he did when he was fighting over something with Dudley—his food, mostly—and he did one of the cleverest things in his young life.

He let go.

He let go with such fabulous timing that Snape had just pulled all his strength in for one stupendous tug and the two went flying through the air, man and boy, and fell in a tangle near the fireplace. Harry, who’d been expecting that result, was a little more prepared than Severus, who was not. So when they landed, Harry threw his whole body and all his might forward. He came loose! He landed on his feet and was running, past the door with the melting handle, past the hall where he’d sicked up last night, and he was almost at the stairs—

Severus had not been a Death Eater for nothing. He was only moments behind Harry and he ran only far enough so that he could take good aim and fire off a very tidy Petrificus Totalus.

The boy fell with a crash and Severus walked over to him slowly, panting with effort and with a dangerous look on his face. He took very little pleasure in the wide, panicked state of Potter’s eyes (except to look at the bruise marring his face and wish he had been the one who’d done it) and Levitated the boy back to the room just as Tom poked his wrinkled face up from the stairs.

“All right there, Professor? One of your ingredients get away from you?” the man asked, then chuckled.

Severus gave him a thin, forced smile, asked for breakfast to be sent to his room, and turned to Potter’s room where the boy lay Petrified on the bed.

He closed the door.

Leaving the boy’s legs frozen, he freed the rest of him and immediately lunged at him, wrapping a hand around his throat—not enough to kill him, no, Dumbledore would never stand for that, but enough to scare him. And that seemed a very good idea to the fuming Severus Snape.

“What in blazes do you think you’re doing, you fool?” he hissed. “Do you want to bring the whole bloody inn around our ears?”

The boy glared at him—he certaintly wasn’t as meek as last night, no, not with those eyes, but he was still afraid of Snape. Snape could always tell. “Too right I do! Then you’d have to let me go!” Snape snarled and the boy paled, but kept talking. “Y-you won’t get away with it! I won’t let you! Get off of me!”

“If I have to silence you with magic,” Severus said slowly, “It will be very painful.”

Harry opened his mouth, then shut it into a thin, angry line.

“If you try anything like that again,” Snape said, in that same slow, dangerous tone, like all the violence and hatred in the world need to soak into them before they could leave his mouth. “I cannot be respobsible for the consequences. If you die—“ Here Harry gulped, and Snape allowed a slow, terrible smile to spread across his face, “All the better. I will not bear the blame for it, if you bring it upon yourself.”

“T-t-they’ll put you in gaol,” Harry stammered out. “For y-years and years, that’s what they do to kidnappers!”

“Ah,” Snape said in that same tone, “But they’ll have to catch me, won’t they?”

Harry stayed silent at that, his face pale from fear except for two faint tinges of pink that burned in anger. Just like his father, Snape thought in disgust. The arrogant little rat.

He got off the boy and Harry pushed himself into a sitting position, one hand rubbing at his throat as the other felt at his legs.

“Take it off me,” he said softly. You could hear it in his voice, the hatred and fear, and Snape drank from that like he had drunk from the Firewhiskey bottle the night before and it filled him with that same feeling. He flicked his wand and caught the boys arm as he darted for the door a second time.

“What did I just say?” he said, squeezing Harry’s arm for emphasis.

Harry looked at him and looked at the ground and swallowed and breathed through his nose. “L-let me go.”

Snape clicked his tongue against his teeth, his smile mocking. “Not when you ask like that.” The boy’s head snapped to his, those eyes burning, and Snape’s smile evaporated and he pulled the boy closer to him. He could feel him trembling in his hand, out of hatred or anger or some potent mixture of the two he could not say. It felt like power in his hands. “I told you last night to call me sir, Potter.”

The boy’s mouth tightened and Snape could see the refusals gathering in his head. He let his hand drift threateningly to his wand, and the boy looked at the ground and muttered, “Let me go. Sir. I won’t do it again.”

Not here, Harry thought in his head. Not until we’re outside and I can run to some police officer.

Snape let go of the boy and Harry darted back to his bed, perching on it and rubbing at his arm.

“I am going to have breakfast,” Snape said. Harry’s stomach growled a little at the thought, and Snape smirked. “I will return in twenty minutes to take you to get your things. I suggest you be ready to go.”

“Things?” What? How? He let himself wonder about the man for a moment, what things he would need while he was in his care, and he shivered. “I—I don’t need things, my things are fine.”

Snape sneered. “Your—things,” he said, disdain dripping off the last word as he looked at the boy, whose shirt wass smeared with dirt and grime and whose pants were torn from the scuffle and both of which were about three sizes too large anyway, “—are disgraceful and abhorent. No self respecting wizard would be caught dead wearing trash like that.”

Harry’s head was spinning. The magic was real, it had to be, all the things he’d seen and that had happened to him, it was real, it was all real—

Snape’s mouth curled and he left the room.

Harry sat down on the bed, hugged himself, and started to plan.

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Never let it be said that breakfasts at the Leaky Cauldron are unsatisfactory. Tom, the owner, puts great stock in the idea that breakfast really is the most important part of the day, and he always sends up a feast worthy of the Hogwart’s tables. There were sausages and bacon strips and toast and eggs and Snape picked at it. He was that sort of eater. He picked at the eggs and nibbled on the toast and poked at the bacon strips disdainfuly with a fork as he brooded.

He knew that, whatever Potter had said in that room, he would not cease his escape attempts. He knew that, if Potter ran from him in Diagon Alley, he would most likely run full frontal into either Lucius Malfoy or Knocturn Alley itself. And he knew that, if Potter ended up there, he would die.

Albus would be dreadfully displeased.

No, something would be needed to keep the boy under control, since threats seemed to roll off his skin like water off a ducks back. Severus nibbled his toast and picked at his eggs and thought and thought and thought.

He had his best idea when he saw the untouched sausages.

Perfect.

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Never let it be said that Harry Potter is an idiot, for though he can be slow on the uptake sometimes, he has always demonstrated a wonderful presence of mind when it matters most. While his stomach rumbled and gurgled and his body shook from fear and supressed rage, he planned. He planned staring into the fire, he planned pacing the bedroom, he planned as he ran the old tap in the bathroom and tried to clean himself up a bit with a flannel.

He knew that, whatever the man intended to do with him, it wouldn’t be pleasant. He knew that, even if he could get away from the man in the town where they were to get his things today, he probably would not get far. And he knew that, even if he did get away, he had no place to go and no funds.

This was not a very good situation.

But still he plotted and planned and thought of anything and everything he could do. He paced the room a million times and bit his lip and washed his face and planned and planned and planned.

He had his best idea right before the man walked in, bearing a piece of sausage sandwiched in between two pieces of crumbling toast.

Perfect.

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Snape pasted an indifferent look on his face as he opened the door, warding the corridor outside in case the boy tried to bolt again. The boy just stood near the back wall, however, his eyes planted warily on Snape and his arms wrapped round his chest. His face bore signed of a recent scrubbing, but Snape put down the little sandwich and marched over, grabbing the boys ear and getting him over to the tap.

“Atrocious, Potter,” he said, and he forced the boy’s head under the sink. The boy spluttered and kicked and Snape held him there quite maliciously until all the boys hair was soaked and sticking flat to his head. Snape was rather pleased of this, though the boy was still spluttering and glaring.

“Barely presentable,” he proclaimed, “But it will have to do.” He went to the table, drying his hands elegantly on the towl near the tap, and gestured to the little sandwich.

“Eat, Potter.” The boy looked at the sandwich, then at Snape, then back at the sandwich. Snape let out an impatient huff. “It’s not poisoned, you fool, I just don’t want delicate little Potter fainting on me.”

“’M not delicate,” the boy mumbled, and then he stuck on a very insincere, “Sir.”

“Nonetheless, Potter, you will eat.”

No way was he allowing Potter out of the room without touching that sandwich.

Harry looked at Snape, then back at the sandwich. “I—I’m not hungry, sir.” His stomach let out a ferocious gurgle then and Snape sneered.

“Ah, yes, that abomidable noise that arose from your stomach backs up your statement. Come, Potter, eat.” The boy made no move. “Eat it!” Snape barked.

No way was Harry touching that thing.

He didn’t know what the man had done to it—drugged it somehow, he supposed, with poisons or something. He knew that sort of thing could happen—Dudley watched the telly too much for Harry to think otherwise. And he seemed so eager for Harry to eat it when before—before he’d said that if Harry died, he wouldn’t mind terribly.

That settled it. No way was Harry touching that thing.

Snape picked up the sandwich and walked to the boy. He thrust it into his hand, the toast leaving crumbs, and gave another snarl. “Eat it!”

Harry shook his head. “N-no, I’m fine,” he said, and he took a step back. Then another. Snape followed him, until Harry was back against the wall, his mouth turned to the side and squeezed shut as he shook his head furiously.

Snape had lost patience. He grasped Harry’s head, turned it so it faced him, pinched the boys nose shut, and shoved the sandwich into his mouth.

A fog was filling up Harry’s brain, and he started spitting out everything, the sandwich and all, and the fog got a little thinner and then refused to budge. It was as if he was barricaded in, and he started throwing himself into the walls of his mind, but it didn’t do any good.

“There,” he heard that filter through. “That’s better. More your usual brain capacity, eh, Potter?”

His mouth wouldn’t move fast enough for the response, so he glared and tried to beat the barriers down, but they wouldn’t go.

“Stop panicking, boy, it’s a simple potion any fourth year can brew. Simply gives you something else to think about so you’re not trying to run away the whole time.

Harry’s mouth wouldn’t move unless he concentrated really hard.

“Whuh—“ he started, and then he took a deep breath and tried again. “Whuh-re’re yeh taking me?” His voice was slurred.

“I told you, Potter—to get your things. Don’t talk, you’ll just tire yourself out.” He felt something happen to his forehead, then he was following Snape out of the inn and to somewhere else.

The whole day was a blur of Harry throwing himself into removing the fog and failing. He got clothes, he could tell, and books that he had to carry that were heavy, and in one place someone kept shoving something into his hand, then taking it out again.

“—The First Year textbooks, sir—“

“—not making another trip…this one?”

“—three Galleons, please—“

Little snippets were coming through his mind all day, and when he heard them he fought tooth and nail to get out. It was only after he had exhausted his strength and was lying limply in his mind that he noticed a thing, hairling rip in the fog.

He pounced on it, a supernatural, furious force fueling him and tore at it, pulling down with his hands until the whole thing was shredded. He felt his processes come back to him then, moved his mouth and wiggled his fingers and tested his legs.

Snape was to the left of him, bartering for some disgusting, slimy thing in a vial, and Harry stayed still for two seconds, then turned and ran.

He ran as fast as he could, but his whole body was drained after his fight with the fog and his eyes hurt so he stumbled to freedom, more, lurching and darting and weaving in between odd people and runny shops. He could hear Snape behind him so he put in another burst of speed—

It was useless, of course. Snape caught him by the arm and spun him around. No one in the crowd paid much notice—they were near the Leaky Cauldron, so Snape dragged the boy back to his room, but the boy was fighting him tooth and nail, now—

There was no use. He had gotten all of Potter’s necessary items. The boy could go hang now, for all Snape cared. He locked the boy in the room again, cast a silencing spell, and, using the Hogwart’s owl that was perching on his bed, sent a message to Dumbledore.

What am I to do with the boy now?

The message was delivered and returned extraordinarily fast, the bird looking all worn out, and Severus read the note and cursed.

Bring yourself and the boy to Hogwarts immediately. There are matters to discuss.

Albus

Albus always did have his spies, Snape thought, and he sighed.

To Hogwarts, then.

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Harry screamed once he was thrown into the room, a scream of anger and fear and overwhelming hatred. How dare that man drug him and pull him around after him! Harry pounded his fists against the door, tried to lower himself out the small window, threw the chair against the wall, but no one heard. No one came.

Not until the man came through the door, wand out, and tossed a funny looking cloak at him.

“I—I’m not going anywhere with you!” Harry yelled. “I hate you!” He threw himself at the man, only to be rebounded by an invisible shield and landing awkwardly against the wall.

“Oh, you’ll go, Potter,” the man hissed, taking strides and standing over him. He reached down and grabbed the boy’s arm, yanking him to his feet. The boy was almost crying, Snape saw, and he felt that same way as earlier. Power in his hands. “You’ll come, and if you say one word—one syllable to the headmaster, well—“ A cruel smile and a tightening grip on his arm showed Harry it wouldn’t be pleasant.

“The Headmaster,” Snape drawled, “Can do things to people you can’t even imagine.”

“B-bet he wouldn’t drug me!” the boy yelled, and he twisted in Snape’s arms. “Let me go! Let me go!”

“Not a chance,” the man said, and Harry kicked him hard in the shin. “Don’t you dare,” Snape snarled, and Harry thrashed out again.

Snape fumbled into his pockets and pulled out a stoppered vial—really filled with streeler blood, but the boy would never know the difference. “If you don’t stop this,” he snarled, “I will force this down your throat and we’ll see what it does.”

Harry’s kicks stopped. “I—I won’t eat anything.”

“Fine,” Severus said. “But you’re coming to Hogwarts.”

Harry had his plan, he told himself as he pulled away from Snape. He had his plan, and after that it would all be all right.

To Hogwarts, then.

Harry hated how disorienting magic was. Not only the idea of it—magic, real magic! He could hardly get his mind around that—but also the actual practice of it. It made things spin around, like the night before, or all muddy and foggy, like the drugged sandwich. It defied the way Harry had set himself, the rules he followed to keep him out of trouble—and he liked it, for breaking the Dursley’s rules, but it scared him, with what it could do.

He hated most the man who caused it all. Without him, he thought, magic might be fun. But instead it was dangerous, because whatever a normal person could do, that man could do it more.

Right then, Harry was half-frightened and half-furious as he watched Snape toss a handful of powder into the fire. It immediately turned a bright, crackling green, and Harry took a step back as it roared and filled the entire fireplace. The man turned and leveled a glare.

“It’s only a Floo, Potter. Scared of a little fire?” the man sneered, and Harry scowled and clutched his hands into fists at his side.

“No.”

The man gave an unpleasant smile and grabbed Harry’s arm. Snape pulled the boy forward, so close to the fire that Harry almost leaned up against the man to get away.

“Afraid yet?” the man hissed in his ear. Harry’s mouth was too dry to say anything, so he just shook his head, and the man gave a cruel little laugh so close to his face Harry could feel the puffs of breath against his cheek and he started to kick and fight.

“Let me go!” he yelled, and pushed back against the man, trying to topple him over.

Snape snarled and shoved the boy into the fire, following and barking out ‘Hogwarts!’ as the flames roared impossibly high—then sank.

The two were gone.

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Albus Dumbledore was slightly surprised when Harry Potter fell through the fire and onto his carpet. He rose from behind his desk, where he had been sorting through different sorts of Muggle sweets, to greet the boy, but he just looked at Dumbledore with wide eyes and skittered away from him. As soon as Dumbledore frowned and opened his mouth, Severus stepped through and Potter got even more skittish.

In two strides, Snape had cornered the boy and hauled him in front of Dumbledore by the arm. Harry fought and kicked, finally biting the man on the hand and launching himself away. Snape, ever quick with a leg-locker, had the boy down in seconds and dragged him back.

Dumbledore looked shocked.

“Severus, I do not think that is necessary.” Steel was behind Dumbledore’s words, and the boy tried to pull away from Snape, before the man tightened his grip.

“Do you know how many times this little brat tried to give me the slip?” Snape snarled, giving the boy in his grip a shake. “And in the open floo network, at that! We could have both been killed! Tell him,” he ordered, pocketing his wand. The boy said nothing, his scared green eyes darting all about the room, his glasses dangling off one ear.

“I told you to tell him.” The boy winced and pulled against the mans arm. Snape started to reach into his pocket and Dumbledore noticed the strange look that came across the boys face. Something like fear and hate and triumph all mixed into one—

“Four,” the boy said softly, and he yanked once more against the mans arm. “And it’ll be five if he doesn’t let me go!”

“It’ll be five if I do,” Snape snarled.

“Silence!” Dumbledore said, and Snape shut his mouth sullenly, still gripping the boys arm as tightly as he could. Dumbledore made his way over and forcibly separated the two. “That is quite enough, Severus.”

Harry, true to Severus’ guess, had taken off as soon as Dumbledore had released the mans hold on him. Unable to open the door, he pushed himself against it and kicked, and when Dumbledore approached him he put his back to it and glared at the man.

“Don’t—don’t come any closer,” Harry said, and to his surprise the man complied. Harry looked him over, still shaky from the Floo and the presence of the new man. He didn’t look as frightful as the professor—more like a version of Father Christmas stretched thin. He was wearing what looked like a dark blue dress, and his eyes seemed kind and twinkling from above his glasses.

Harry didn’t trust him a bit.

“Harry,” the man said gently, holding out a hand. “Come here, dear child. Nobody wants to hurt you here.” The man gave Snape a glare, there, and Snape sneered. Of course he wouldn’t hurt Potter. He was a child—an arrogant brat, but a child. Everything he’d done thus far, he knew, wouldn’t hurt Potter. He was a damned indestructable brat of a boy. Nothing that Snape did would hurt him.

Now, if he pushed too far and hurt the boy, that would be just the sort of honest mistake Snape could revel in.

“Don’t move, I said!” Harry said in a high-pitched voice. He reached up and hooked his glasses back over both ears. “W-who are you?”

“I’m Professor Dumbledore—“

“Like he’s a professor?” Harry spat, pointing at Snape. Dumbledore frowned.

“Well, I’m the Headmaster now, really. I have not taught for a very long time.”

“The Headmaster,” Snape drawled, “Is a master of magic, Potter. I told you that.”

Harry looked at the two men suspiciously, then pushed himself back even more. “I want to go back to the Dursleys. Now.”

Snape sneered and Dumbledore looked kindly and confused. “Why, you’ll return to them shortly until the beginning of the year, my boy. Then come back here for the start of school.”

“I don’t want to come back here. I want to go back to the Dursleys and I never want to see any of you again.”

Dumbledore took a step toward the boy. “Now, Harry, let us be reasonable—“

“Don’t—don’t come closer! Stay there!” The boy fished in his pockets and pulled something out. He had been planning for this ever since his idea back at the inn, and he’d almost wet himself when Snape reached back towards his pocket for it. For Harry held, in his trembling hands, a long, thin wand that belonged to Severus Snape.

Dumbledore blinked, but Severus let out a roar and charged for the boy, who evaded the mans capture, jumping and darting and landing behind Dumbledore’s desk. “Don’t you touch me!” he spat at Snape, and he pointed the wand shakily at him. “I—I’ll kill you!”

Dumbledore looked baffled that the boy had displayed this much violence, but Snape just threw back his head and laughed a dangerous laugh. “Kill me? You wouldn’t know where to start!”

“Then I’ll snap it,” Harry said, changing his hold on it so that he gripped it with both hands, ready to exert force and snap the thing to pieces. Severus stopped laughing.

“Harry—“ Dumbledore said helplessly, but Snape started in before Dumbledore could continue.

“Oh, so it has teeth, does it?” the man asked in his softest, most dangerous tone, and the boy shivered, but otherwise stayed firm. He took a step forward, his voice like frozen velvet. “Want to get me back, do you? Want to teach me a lesson? Make me pay?”

“I want you to stay where you are and not take another bloody step!” the boy said. “Or I’ll crack it in two!”

Snape had an almost sleepy look on his face, his eyes heavily lidded and his mouth in a catlike, dangerous smile.

“How very like your father you are, Potter,” he said, and Harry froze. He was trying to distract him, Harry knew, or make him cry—that was the only time Uncle Vernon had ever brought up his parents, to tell him how worthless they were so that Harry would cry. Well, not now.

“I wouldn’t know,” Harry said, his eyes trained on Snape to make sure the man didn’t take another step. “He’s dead.”

“Ah, yes,” Snape purred. “Dead and buried. And do you know why?”

Harry’s hands tightened around the stick. “No. And I don’t care.”

Snape continued. “Because of you. Him and your worthless Mudblood mother—“

“Severus!” Albus cried, but Severus kept going, like a spider weaving an incredibly tangled web.

“Dead and buried, Potter, because of you.”

Harry scowled. “Don’t see how that can be true,” he said stubbornly, “Unless I was the one who drove them to drink. Uncle Vernon said I drove him to it.”

Snape cocked his head to the side, and some voice wass yelling at him and telling him to stop, to wait, something was wrong here, something needed addressing. Maybe it wasn’t even that voice in his head, maybe it was Dumbledore, standing next to him and telling him to stop—

But Potter never stopped. Not when Snape begged, not when Snape pleaded or cried. Potter. Never. Stopped.

And neither would he.

“Ah, well, it’s not only your fault, I suppose,” Snape said. “After all, you might have all lived quite happily, holed up in hiding like a couple of rats, if it wasn’t for one person.”

“Severus,” Dumbledore warned, but Snape kept going, because Snape would never stop.

“Guess who that person is, Potter? Or is your mind still a bit…foggy?”

Harry exerted enough pressure to make the wand bend a little. “Man who collided with them, I suppose. Shut up, or I’ll snap it in half.”

Snape smiled—but it wasn’t a smile, not really, it was a challenge, it was bared teeth and danger and hatred seeping out of his face.

“Me, Potter.”

There was a terrible silence in the room. Then, with an almighty bang, Harry pushed with all his might, magical and physical, and snapped the man’s wand into pieces. Instead of two, however, it was hundreds of small shards of wood and feather scattering all over the room, tiny pieces of shrapnel that hit Snape and Dumbledore and Harry most of all.

Snape seemed shocked and disoriented by the loss of his wand. However, his gaze soon sharpened and his face turned ugly with anger.

“Potter,” he hissed.

That was when Harry leapt upon him, landing the first punch square to Snape’s nose.

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The fight was one of the most vicious Dumbledore had ever seen fought with fists. Harry gave as good as he got, Dumbledore saw, and was clawing at Snape’s arm from where the man had pinned him to the floor and had a stranglehold on the boy’s neck. Snape looked especially ferocious, with blood from his nose all over his face and his teeth bared in that terrifying grin. Harry looked viscious as well, his glasses on the floor a few feet from his head, his black eye making him look dangerous, his teeth clamping into Severus’ hand.

This couldn’t continue, Dumbledore knew, and he broke them up with a flick of his wand, restraining the two in separate corners.

He had no idea where to go from there.

Snape was in a rage. How dare the boy—he would show him. The boy could think himself better than everybody, could think himself prince of the damned bloody world, but he couldn’t get out of this. He couldn’t get out of this trouble, and when the boy least expected it, Snape would get him back. Snape would get him back.

Harry was in a rage. He was fighting and twisting in the corner where he’d been sent, panting from the fight and in a great deal of pain. He’d broken Snape’s nose, he suspected, and his own hand felt funny—a sharp sort of pain that made him want to laugh and cry, but he wouldn’t do that, not in front of Snape. The man could think him the weakest and the stupidest of all the boys he’d met, but Harry knew that he was a match for him. Without the mans wand, he was just a normal person, and Harry could get away from a normal person. Harry would get away, when the man least expected it, he would run and flee and find himself home. Harry would get away.

Dumbledore went to Severus first, hoping that the man could be calmed down more than the boy who was throwing himself at the barriers of his corner with a single minded intensity. It would take two wizards—maybe three—to calm the boy down from that.

“Severus, what is going on here? What have you done?”

Snape took a few deep breaths and fixed an injured look on his face. “All I did was fetch the boy, headmaster. He’s been that way since I fetched him from his relatives.” His tone was nasally, reminding Dumbledore into casting a quick healing spell over the mans nose.

Dumbledore frowned. Was the boy truly this violent? Arabella had always described him as placid and shy, quick to please and careful in his nature. He looked at the boy in the corner, and the fire in his eyes as he stopped throwing himself out of the barrier and settled himself in a corner, cradling his hand to his chest and readying himself for the next attack.

“I think he’s disturbed, Headmaster,” Snape continued. “He’s been biting and swearing the whole way.”

“Did he cause a scene in the Alley?” Surely he would have heard. The boy had gone nearly feral in his office, and he doubted he would have behaved any better in public.

Snape shifted. “Well, I had a…a very mild sedative on me, so I may have inserted a portion into his meal to ensure compliance—“

“You drugged him?” No wonder the boy was so angry! But Severus said he had been drugged because he was already angry—

Snape bristled. “It was necessary. If I hadn’t, the boy would have run straight into Malfoy or one of his crowd, or worse, straight into Knockturn. It was for the boy’s own good.”

Dumbledore nodded and thought. What was he to do with a Harry Potter this—untamed?

Then he remembered what had happened in his office.

“If you think him so unhinged, Severus, why did you bait him? You drove him to this much, at least.”

Severus scowled. “Self-defense,” he said sullenly. “He’s kicked and scratched and bitten me to death. Not to mention vomiting on my shoes. I wanted a bit of my own back, that’s all.”

Dumbledore nodded, then frowned. Severus hated all Potters—that had to be remembered. He did wish Hagrid had not hurt himself—by now Harry would probably be back at his relatives, playing with his owl and getting ready for the upcoming year at Hogwarts. Counting down to it, even! Instead—

Dumbledore steeled himself and headed over to the boys corner, where he sat in the corner, glaring at the professor. Dumbledore stopped, picked up the boys glasses, then went to Harry and knelt down, holding them out to the boy.

“Hello, Harry.”

The boy took the glasses wordlessly with one hand and shifted his glare to Dumbledore’s face. “I want to go back to the Dursleys. Now.”

Dumbledore noticed the odd angle of the boy’s other hand and reached out gently. “Is your hand injured?”

The boy pulled out of reach, hissing from pain. “Don’t touch it,” he said. “I can handle it on my own.”

Dumbledore smiled gently and slowly moved forward. He cast a quick splinting charm, and bandages and splints wound themselves around the boys hand quickly. The boy looked from his hand to the headmaster.

“Thanks,” he muttered, and kept his eyes on the ground. “I still want to go back to the Dursleys.”

“Can you tell me why you’re so vehement, Harry?”

The boy looked at the man incredulously. “I—what? He’s mad!” He pointed with his splint to the professor, who was glaring at the two from his corner, where he wass still restrained. “He—he’s kidnapped me and drugged me and made my legs freeze up and won’t let me go back to my aunt and uncle—“

“Kidnapped you?”

Harry nodded. “Did—he just popped into the hut and grabbed me.” Harry weighed something in his mind, then said it. It couldn’t do any harm. “I think he killed Uncle Vernon.” Probably the man hadn’t, but he could still accuse him of it.

Dumbledore’s eyes widened. “You think he what?”

“I—He grabbed my arm, right, and Uncle Vernon must have heard him and came in—and he pointed his stick and him and he fell down.”

“Was there green light?”

Harry shook his head. “Red. Like blood.”

Dumbledore gave the boy a small smile. “Ah, well, he merely Stunned him.”

“What’s that?”

“Put him unconcious.”

“Yeah, well—didn’t make me want to go with him. I told him I didn’t want to, but he wouldn’t listen.” The boy measured Albus with a glance. “Are you—are you on his side?”

Dumbledore smiled reassuringly. “I’m on nobody’s side, dear child. In fact, I believe this may have all been a misunderstanding.”

Harry’s eyes widened and he stared at Dumbledore. “Are you daft?” he asked. “I—he kidnapped me! I told him I didn’t want to go, and he took me anyway! That’s kidnap!”

Dumbledore tried to soothe the boy. “He didn’t properly explain himself. If he had, you would have gone with him very willingly, I believe.”

“Yeah, and if he had wheels he’d be a trolley, but he doesn’t and he isn’t and he didn’t explain himself at all!”

“Professor Snape is not used to having to explain himself. He truly was doing what was best for you. If he had perhaps realized you didn’t understand the situation—“

“The situation? He just said I was going with him and to keep my big trap shut!”

Dumbledore frowned. “Did he identify himself?”

“Said I had to call him professor.”

“Did he never tell you where you were going?”

Harry thought and shook his head. “Said some funny name.”

“Hogwarts?”

Harry shrugged. “Mighta been.”

Dumbledore smiled. “But then, he did identify himself, as a Hogwarts professor. Why didn’t you want to go with him?”

“I don’t know what that means! What’s a hogworts? Isn’t that some sort of flower or something?”

Dumbledore’s smile faltered. “My boy,” he said, “It’s the school of magic. Your parents went there when they were young—did your aunt never tell you?”

Harry frowned. “I’m not supposed to ask questions.”

Dumbledore frowned. Perhaps Petunia felt the pain too much to speak of her sister freely. And she had not known James at all. Poor child. “Well, your parents both came to Hogwarts to learn magic. As you will do, in the fall.”

“Does he teach here?” Harry asked.

“Yes. Potions. And he’s Head of Slytherin House.”

“I’m not staying, then.”

Dumbledore’s frown deepened. “My boy, it was a misunderstanding. I’m sure once Professor Snape explains himself and apologizes to you—“

“No. I won’t stay.”

“Harry, let us be reasonable—“

“That is reasonable! I’m not staying anywhere where someone who kidnapped me and drugged me is staying too! I won’t!”

“Harry, how do you expect to be able to protect yourself if—“ Dumbledore hated to do this, to frighten the boy with Voldemort, but the boy had to realize the danger of refusing to attend. “If Voldemort should return?”

All he received was a confused look.

“Who?” Harry asked.

Harry listened to Dumbledore’s story about Voldemort rather skeptically. Oh, he believed it about the evil wizard—hadn’t Snape shown him that it wasn’t difficult for all that magic to be abused? But he didn’t know if he believed in Dumbledore’s version of events. When the man finished and looked at Harry expectantly, Harry merely nodded in a serious fashion.

“Do you understand now, Harry, why you must attend Hogwarts this year?”

Harry didn’t. “I suppose.”

“And why it was really all a misunderstanding?”

Harry didn’t believe that for a second. He shrugged.

“And that Professor Snape did have your best interests at heart?”

Harry snorted. “Fat chance he did.”

Dumbledore frowned and opened his mouth, but Harry beat him to it.

“I still want to go back to the Dursleys. I mean, I understand that you’re—“ Harry wondered the right word and settled for “—worried about me, but don’t be. I can take care of myself.”

Any trace of twinkling good humor had vanished from Dumbledore’s eyes, and he said, rather firmly, “I am afraid it is not a request, Harry. You are to attend Hogwarts this year, and for the next several years until your education is complete.”

Harry’s mouth sealed in an angry line. “You can’t make me stay here.”

“I understand you will miss your relatives—“

Harry snorted again and Dumbledore looked bewildered, but continued. “I know you will miss your relatives, my boy, and you will be able to write, and perhaps go home for breaks. But you will be attending this school come September 1st.”

“It’s a school—you can’t make me stay here.”

“And where,” Dumbledore asked pointedly, “Would you go? We are in Scotland, far from any Muggle town, surrounded by magical wards. Do you believe your guardians shall object?”

Harry shook his head. The Dursleys would probably be dancing.

“Then here you shall remain, my boy.”

Harry felt his energy seep out of him. “What about him?” he asked, pointing his still splinted hand at Snape, who was sitting dourly in a corner.

“He is a professor, Harry. Professor Snape. And you will treat him with respect.”

“Respect? He kidnapped me!”

“That was all a—“

“It wasn’t a misunderstanding! You’re wrong, you weren’t there!” Harry leapt to his feet, holding his splinted hand close to his body. “Why don’t you believe me?” Something was rising in his throat, and he felt the need again to laugh hysterically or cry uncontrollably. He did neither, just started to blink very quickly and take quick, shallow breaths.

“Harry.” Dumbledore looked firm. “You must accept that it was a misunderstanding and get along with Professor Snape.”

Harry felt the hysteria bubble up in him, and he barely restrained a laugh. “He—what? I’ll never get along with him, not ever! He drugged me!”

“He sedated you,” Albus corrected. “He was worried about you giving him the slip in Diagon Alley and running into danger.”

“He tackled me! He broke my wrist!”

“He snapped—he has been reprimanded, and I will do so again, if it should please you. I am sure he is apologetic.”

“He isn’t,” Harry said fiercely.

“Harry, I must ask you to trust Professor Snape, and to trust me. We are on your side.”

“Nobody’s on my side,” Harry said angrily. “And I’ll never trust any of you.”

He sat down, folded his arms, and refused to look at Dumbledore or answer any questions. He was doing all he could to keep calm.

He would survive. That was all he could do. Survive, wait, watch. And when the opportunity came—

Well. Dumbledore’s wand would be the one flying about the room in bits.

Yes. He would survive. As he always did.

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Snape listened to Dumbledore’s tale about Potter rather skeptically. Oh, he believed the boy had said all that—hadn’t Potter shown him how arrogant and foolish the boy was? But he didn’t know how Dumbledore couldn’t see it. When the man finished, Snape let his skepticism shine through.

“Are you going to let the boy stay, then?” Snape asked.

“Severus, the boy needs educating. We cannot leave him alone in the world to fend for himself—“

“Of course we could,” Snape muttered.

“Severus.”

Snape frowned. “Headmaster, he is disturbed. He has kicked, bit, punched and scratched me beyond any form of sanity. He’s unhinged and should not be accepted to Howarts.”

“It was all a misunderstanding. After you apologize to him, I expect there to be no further problems.”

Ssnape looked incredulous. “Are you mad? I’m not apologizing to the little wretch. He broke my wand!”

“He was frightened.”

“He jumped me!”

“You deliberately provoked him. Now, come Severus—surely you can forgive the boy and move on?”

“For—Headmaster! He’s attacked me viciously every chance he could! Forgive—“

“Severus, we are all on the same side here. Or have you forgotten?”

Severus wanted to yell no, they weren’t on the same side, because there was the side of good and bad, yes, but there was also him against them, Snape against Potter, a battle of blood that would last until the earth ended. He snarled. “He has broken my wand and my nose, how can I forgive that?”

“You must, Severus.”

“I must do nothing,” Snape snarled.

“No, You must do this, Severus. Forgive a frightened eleven year old. Is that really so far beyond your capabilities?”

Severus knew it was. Knew he could never forgive the boy, no matter what the headmaster tried to do, because he knew who Potter was. He knew what Potter was, his father three times worse was what Potter was, and there would be no forgiveness for this Potter or any other. Not ever.

“I suppose not, Headmaster.”

The old man beamed at Severus and, with a flick of his wand, released the two from their corners. There was a moment when Severus nearly leapt onto the boy, but he restrained himself. He had lost enough control that day. He would keep control, now, keep calm. He would plan his revenge, watch, and wait, and when Dumbledore was out of the way and Potter didn’t expect it—

Well. They’d see who exploded into pieces then.

Yes. He would plot and remain in control. As he always did.

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Harry found himself put into a room with a beautiful bed and window hangings and a soft, plush carpet. Snape had avoided his eyes and apologized, and Harry had done the same. He knew it wasn’t over, though. He wondered if it ever would be.

“This is where we put up visiting teachers. I’m afraid that it may not be the wisest idea to let you outside of the wards so quickly, Harry,” Dumbledore had said solemnly, and then left the boy to his own devices.

The first thing Harry did was comb over the room for anything useful. Then he sat down and, staring out the window, tried to figure out an escape route. Perhaps through the forest…

Snape found himself back in his chambers, the Christie novel resting on his coffee table and his potions annuals stacked neatly upon the shelves. He felt ill from apologizing to the arrogant brat, and unclean from the fight and a tiny thought of guilt. He went to his bathroom and ran the tap for the tub, filling it to the brim with scalding water—just the way he liked his baths.

He went to fetch the Christie novel and found that Dumbledore had sent a request for him to come to have the boy’s things delivered to Dumbledore’s office later. Until then, he was to be left to his own devices.

The first thing Snape did was sink into the tub like it could remove the aches and pains and the subtle covering of filth that came from his interactions with Potter. Then he opened the Christie and tried to read, but something was bothering him too much to concentrate. Something was off about the situation with Potter. With a sigh, Snape closed the book and his eyes and submerged himself fully in the water and let the back of his mind start pondering the Potter puzzle. He let the front of his mind focus on the wonderful bath and how the aches were floating away.

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The days up until the Sorting were very long for Harry. He spent all his time in the room, staring out the window and trying to map out ways to run. He was visited four times a day by a house elf named Wippy, who brought him breakfast, lunch, tea, and dinner.

He never touched any of the food. He didn’t think it was safe. He’d been left to his own devices in the cupboard without food for much water. At least here he had a bathroom, and he filled his stomach with water until he could hear it slosh.

Four days in, Dumbledore visited and looked at the boy through his spectacles.

“Harry, my boy, why won’t you eat?”

Harry shrugged. The man knew about how Snape drugged him—he probably thought Harry was lying.

“Do you not care for the food? Shall I have the elves prepare you something else?”

“I’d rather,” Harry said softly, “prepare my own things. Sir.”

Dumbledore frowned. “Students aren’t allowed in the kitchens, I’m afraid, my boy. Perhaps if you left directions—“

“I’m not hungry, then.”

“Harry—“

“I’m not hungry.”

Dumbledore soon had Wippy coming in every hour with plates and plates of the most delicious smelling food imaginable. Harry stood firm and just kept filling his stomach with the tap in the bathroom.

Finally, ten days without food took its toll and Harry woke up one morning to find himself in a long, white room, far from any windows. A disapproving woman was pouring potions into phials and tutting at him.

“Really, this is no way to behave. Throwing a tantrum like this is serious business, Mr. Potter. You’re far to underweight already to pull stunts like this!”

“It isn’t a stunt,” Harry said weakly. “I’m not touching any of that.”

The woman pursed her lips. “Mr. Potter,” she started, but he shook his head.

“No. I won’t.”

“They’re only nutrition potions and a mild sedative—“

That’s what Dumbledore had called whatever Snape had put in his food. Harry shook his head. “No. I’m not taking anymore of those things.”

The woman stopped on that, and seemed to scruntinize him a bit. “What do you mean, any more? I wasn’t informed you’d been prescribed a potion already.”

“I wasn’t prescribed anything,” Harry said. “He slipped it in food and made me eat it.”

The woman looked worried and put a cool hand to his forehead. “I think you may be experiencing a halluncination, Mr. Potter.”

“No! It’s not a halluncination! It’s real, even though nobody believes me! He really did!”

“Who, Mr. Potter?” the woman said in an attempt to soothe him.

“That professor! Snipe, or whatever! He drugged me already and I won’t let you do it again!”

The woman had left the room with pink spots on her cheeks and returned to inform him that she would personally oversee the elves while they made his meals and then hand deliver them to the boy. Harry allowed that, and the first day of term arrived to see a slightly pinched, but otherwise none the worse for wear, Harry Potter.

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Harry had never been comfortable in crowds, especially ones that consisted of children. He always had to be on his guard, in case Dudley or Piers or Malcolm were behind him. And, of course, crowds of children were most often encountered when Dudley or Piers or Malcolm or Gordan had cornered Harry somewhere and were beating him up ferociously. He liked it best in his cupboard, where it was too small to even fit Dudley, or Uncle Vernon.

The Entrance Hall, of course, was nothing like his cupboard, and there was a great crowd of children there. They were all dressed in those funny robes—as was Harry, and he longed for his torn trousers and beat up trainers, because it was harder to run in robes—and they all looked very anxious. One, a freckly redhead, looked so pale he might vomit into one of the ridiculously pointed hats that Harry had refused to wear and had dropped out of his window.

One of the professors, a tall, stern faced woman with square glasses, started to organize them into a line. Her face softened as she approached Harry, and she put a hand on his shoulder to steer him into place. Harry jumped from her touch, however, and looked for where her wand was. She looked sad, and almost angry, but not at him. Like Madam Pomfrey was angry. She just pointed him to his spot and continued her work.

The Great Hall was the first place in Hogwarts Harry truly cared for. He liked the tall stone walls, the missing ceiling, the tables. Here, the crowd felt safe. It felt like it could protect him, hide him, and he ducked his head and tried to hide as soon as he looked up at the head table.

For there he was. Professor Snape, his eyes on Harry, a cruel sort of glare in place, and Harry’s heart sank.

He was twirling a brand new wand in his hand.

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Severus had never been comfortable in crowds, especially ones that consisted of children. He always had to be on his guard, sneer firmly in place, because children were rude and dangerous and uncouth. He heard the names they called him, of course, git and greasy and hook-nosed bat. He remembered, from his own youth, how cruel children could be, how uncaring. He liked it best when he was in his classroom, where it was too scary for any child to strut and sneer.

Seeing Potter in the newest crowd of brats just made it less enjoyable than ever.

He had been furious every day since the brat had broken his wand. His replacement was his wands duplicate in every way it could be—the core was even taken from the same beast—but it still felt odd in his hands. It was lucky for Potter that he rarely used his wand in lessons, or the boy would be in even deeper trouble. As soon as he saw Potter, he smirked and twirled his wand nonchalantly in his hand. The boy’d soon see he wasn’t safe from Snape yet.

The children were all repulsive, Snape saw. A arrogant Malfoy halfway down the line, that same head of white blonde hair and smirk. Two lumps that had to be Crabbe’s or Goyle’s—the family had inter-married so many times it was hard to tell which was which—and a boy with a face like a rat that had to be Peranius Nott’s boy. And Potter, of course, the ugly little wretch, and another Weasley.

This year did have the promise of plenty of chances to be nasty, at least.

He watched idly as the children started to be Sorted, merely letting himself groan when the lumps and the rat-boy and Malfoy were Sorted into Slytherin and scowl at Potter every chance he got. When it was his turn to be sorted, the boy walked up to the Hat unhesitantly—arrogant, ignorant boy—and put the hat on.

He didn’t remember what happened next. Just that Potter removed the Hat, sent a look at Snape, and walked over to the Slytherin table.

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Harry liked it inside the hat. It wass dark and small and comfortable, and he thought this was the best place he’d been in Hogwarts yet. Maybe he’d never come out.

Ah, afraid I can’t allow that. There are others to sort, you know.

Harry jumped. ‘Did—Did you just speak to me?’

I did indeed, Mr. Potter. Now, hush, I need to place you.

There was the queerest feeling, as though someone was tickling the inside of his brain, and Harry jerked his head slightly. ‘Erm—what are you looking for?’

Memories. Deciding factors. Ambitions. My, my, Mr. Potter, what a life you lead.

Harry bristled. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

Nothing, the hat said. Nothing but what it is.

The tickling increased, than abrubtly stopped.

Hmm…you could go either way, you know. Slytherin or Gryffindor. You’ve the potential to be truly great, you know—and Slytherin would help you on that path.

Harry thought about how helpless he had been, under Snape’s hands and under the headmasters. ‘I don’t intend to stay,’ he said. ‘They’re making me.’

And you don’t like to have anyone make you do anything, do you?

Harry shook his head. ‘I want…’ He thought, for a moment, about what he really wanted—his cupboard and his life, never to let anyone freeze him or drug him or kidnap him again. Never to be as weak as all that. ‘I want as much power as I can get. Put me—put me where I can get it. Please.’

He could sense the hat almost smiling. Ah, you are a rare one, Mr. Potter. I hope you decide to stay, even though it isn’t your choice to be here. Well, while you’re here, you most certaintly belong in

“SLYTHERIN!”

Besides, Harry heard the hat say as he took it off his head. I’m sure you’ll feel most at home in the dungeons. Dark, you know, and small. Plenty of little hiding spots—even a cupboard or two.

Harry made his way to the silver and green table, filled with silent faces, and darted a quick look to the head table. Snape was looking at him in a way that made Harry shiver.

Yeah, well, let him, Harry thought as he sat down next to a blonde boy who looked at him with suspicious eyes. Let him look.

That’s all he’ll be able to do for now.

The Sorting Hat was half right. The dungeons were dark, and small, and, from what Harry saw on the way down to the Slytherin dormitories, seemed the sort of place to house a great many cubby holes and hiding spots. But Harry had never been more on his guard in his life.

He had spent the majority of the dinner scowling at his plate and watching the other boys carefully. The arrogant blonde sot that had sat next to him became his unwitting food-tester—he ate only from the dishes that boy ate from. He kept a hand on his wand the entire time, and he simply answered in monosyllables every time someone spoke to him. Not many people spoke to him. The blonde boy just stared at him scrutinizingly when he thought Harry wasn’t looking, and the thin, weedy boy had smiled and shook his hand. “Teddy Nott,” he had said. “Brilliant to meet you.”

He’d gone through the meal rather well, until the blonde boy had stopped staring at him and was instead conversing with his friends.

“—Father says Snape’s the best potions master Hogwarts has ever had, but he’s also supposed to be a good head of house—“

Harry jerked as if someone had hit him. “Head of House? Snape?”

The boy looked at him as if he were an interesting but particularly foul insect. “Who’d you expect, McGonnagal?” The two fat boys that reminded him of Dudley sniggered.

“He—he’s the Head of Slytherin? Snape?”

The boy rolled his eyes. “What are you, thick? I just said that!”

Harry had lost his appetite at around that point.

The dormitories were dark and forbidding, with tall four poster beds and dark green sheets. The walls were stone, and Harry found a trunk at the end of his bed. He wondered if he should put his wand in there, but decided not to and put it under his pillow while he pulled on his pajamas. The other boys were all joking around with each other—Zabini and Nott were tossing pillows at each other, while pompous sot Malfoy ordered the lumps, Crabbe and Goyle, to unpack his trunk. Harry sat on his bed in his pajamas, the curtains closed, reading about locking charms.

The other boys waited a bit, until they thought he was asleep, then they started to whisper about him.

“—never thought he’d be—“

“Harry Potter, in the next bed over! Wait til I tell Pip, he’ll burst with envy!” That sounded like Teddy, Harry thought.

“Seems awful quiet,” one of the fat boys grunted.

“Yeah, quiet,” the other one added.

“Who cares if he’s quiet? He’s Harry Potter!” Teddy again.

“He’s a half-blood,” he heard one boy sneer. “Mama says I’m not to associate with anyone whose family hasn’t made at least the Book of Bronze.” Harry thought it might be the black boy with the slanted eyes from dinner. He had sneered at Harry the whole time.

“Potter’s are the fourth name in the book of Gold, though,” Teddy argued.

“Father told me to keep a look on him.” That was Malfoy’s voice, Harry knew, and he held his wand in a tight grip. “Report anything funny to him.”

“Ooh, Draco’s daddy’s little—“

“Shut up, Zabini! Least I have a father!”

“You shut up, Malfoy! Who cares about your stupid little—“

“Be quiet, I’m trying to sleep!” That was Teddy, sounding aggravated.

“Weren’t trying to sleep a minute ago, were you, Nott?”

“Well, a minute ago we weren’t fighting over rubbish, were we, Malfoy? Now, shut it. I’m dead tired, and Pip says—“

“Your stupid cousin—“

“Pip’s wicked! Now I won’t tell you what he said about our meeting with Snape, so there.”

“—Oh, Nott—“

“Tell us, Teddy, come on,” one of the fat boys wheedled. Harry could tell it was them because their voices sounded like they were muffled by all the blubber over their lungs.

“Well, Pip says he gets us up wicked early and gives us a talk.”

“About what?”

“This and that. House pride, and detentions, and rules. Things like that.”

There was a silence, and the black boy said “Mama likes for me to be asleep by now.”

One of the boys sniggered. “You and your mama, Blaise—“

“Let’s go to bed.”

“G’night.”

“Good night.”

Harry stayed awake a long time, until he was able to lock his curtains shut. Tired out, he fell asleep almost immediately afterwards, and only woke up the very late that night or very early that morning to the noise of frightening footsteps.

Snape.

He lay terribly still, his hand clutching his wand under his pillow, and he felt Snape tug the curtains apart and stare down at him. He kept his breathing steady, comforted himself with the memory of the satisfying crunch of Snape’s nose, and, when Snape finally wrenched the curtains closed and stormed away, Harry felt himself start to shiver.

He didn’t go back to sleep that night.

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Severus always liked his start of term speech to the Slytherin first years. It was a chance to assess character, a chance to establish himself as the top of the pecking order. His first real wielding of power over the new children.

The fact that Potter was in this class made it a little sweeter.

Severus didn’t know how the boy had made Slytherin, and his interest was spiked. He had spent the first hour back at his room throwing potions ingredients at the wall, but after that he had stepped back and assessed the situation.

Potter was at his disposal, under his control. Sleeping in the Slytherin dormitories, where Snape had carte blanche authority. Alienated from those who had already confronted him about his behavior that summer. McGonnagal would avoid the boy at all costs, now, and Poppy, though a Slytherin, rarely ventured into Severus’ territory without his permission.

He could do what he wanted, now, with Potter under his thumb.

He had been brimming over with anger, though, until he realized that, and had stormed into the first year dorm with intent to do—something. Something bad. Luckily, he’d realized the benefits before he harmed the boy, and he’d retreated without touching a hair on perfect Potter’s head.

When he entered the room, he wondered which one was Potter’s before noticing there was only one bed with the curtains drawn. Theodore Nott was sprawled facedown in his bed, while Blaise Zabini and Draco Malfoy were almost arranged in the proper sleeping position. Crabbe and Goyle were large, indeterminate lumps under the blankets, which left the bed closest to the wall, with the curtains drawn, to be Potter’s.

He’d pulled them apart, noticing there was a light resistance, and looked at the boy. He was curled into a ball, his hand a tight fist, the other under his pillow, and the boy looked so damn arrogant ever in his sleep that Severus wanted nothing more than to lift him from the bed and toss him bodily to the floor. He restrained himself, though, and the next time he saw the boy was when the first years gathered in the common room.

Terrence Higgs, smirking, had led the boys to the common room, while Padria Burke had led the girls. Nott and Potter were the most alert of the boys, Potter gripping his wand and looking uneasily over the room before settling his eyes on Snape, and for the girls Bulstrode was looking around curiously.

Snape cleared his throat and sneered.

“You are here,” he began, “Because you have been Sorted into Slytherin House. Do any of you know what that means?”

Dim Goyle and Crabbe looked relieved at the easiness of the question. Malfoy looked arrogant, as did Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkinson, and Millicent Bullstrode. Teddy Nott was looking at Snape, a calculating glint in his eye, and there was no look on Potter’s face at all.

He launched into his usual talk about House pride and unity, how they had to stick together, because no one else would stick by them. He then started on the part of the speech he personally enjoyed the most—rules.

“As a part of Slytherin House, you will be expected to act accordingly. Ignorance—“ he let his eyes linger on Potter and the Lumps, “—will not be tolerated. Neither will stupidity. I do not care if your family is number one in the Book of Gold, you’ll do your work and you’ll do it to my satisfaction or I’ll rip it to shreds. I take a tough stance on rule breaking. If you lose points, you will receive a detention. If you receive a detention with another teacher, you will likewise receive one with me. If—“ here Snape looked icy and cold and he saw Potter give a little shiver and he almost smiled and ruined it all, “If I have any cause to be displeased with you—you shall know it very quickly, and I can assure you, you will not enjoy it.”

He could see each and every one of them gulp when he said that.

“Potter!” he barked, and the boy flinched violently before steeling himself in the mans gaze. He could see the boys fingers clench on his wand, so tight the knuckles turned white, and he snarled and leaned in. “Detention.”

The boy’s jaw clenched, and the rest of the group almost subconciously leaned away from the boy. He didn’t even answer—just nodded his head and fastened his gaze on the floor. Snape sneered and let his hand drift to his wand before remembering where he was. The children looked confused, except for Malfoy, who was beaming, and Nott, who had that same calculating look on his face. The man leaned back and finished his speech.

“You may think that you are in Slytherin House because you have a wealthy father, or an influential family, or—“ here he sneered at Potter again, “—some sort of celebrity. And I am here to tell you that, if that’s the only reason the Hat put you here, you will fail. And you will fail quickly. Because this is not the slacker’s house, or the layabout’s house. You will do your best—or there will be consequences.”

Leaving them to contemplate those consequences, he spun on his heel and left the room, already thinking of wonderful things to do to Potter during detention.

The boys trudged back to their dorm in a tired sort of silence, until Teddy got a look at the clock and gave a groan.

“It’s magicking five thirty,” he said, and he threw himself face first onto his bed. “Breakfast doesn’t even open ‘til quarter to seven. What a horrid way to start the year—tired.” He yawned, then got under the covers of his bed.

“What are you doing?” grunted the paler-haired lump—Goyle, Harry thought.

“What’s it look like? Getting a little extra sleep, of course.”

Malfoy sneered and started to gather up his tolietries. “I’m taking a shower. I don’t intend to—“ here he stuck his nose in the air and sniffed disdainfully, “—lay about and get a detention from Professor Snape.” He marched purposefully out of the room and to the washroom, and the lumps followed him. Blaise gave Teddy a frown, then gathered his own things and left harry and Teddy alone in the dormitory.

Harry lay down on his bed and tried to sleep a little as well.

“What, aren’t you going with them?” Teddy asked without opening his eyes. Harry frowned and pulled a pillow over his head. He was tired. He needed at least a little rest before classes. Though he supposed it could hardly be worse than the talk he’d just experienced.

“Well? Are you?”

Harry pulled the pillow from his head and glared. “Obviously not, if I’m not headed to the bathroom.”

“Why not?”

“I’m tired. Besides, I looked in the washroom yesterday. There’s only four showers there, so I wouldn’t be able to shower now any way. Now, will you be quiet, I’m zonked.”

Teddy didn’t seem to be in the mood to be quiet. “Rotten of Snape, to give you a detention right off the bat. Unfair.”

Harry shrugged. His life thus far had never made such distinctions as ‘fair’ or ‘unfair’. It was what you got punished for and what you didn’t. Sure, it was unfair that Dudley had two bedrooms and second helpings while Harry had the cupboard and burned black toast. But labeling it as such certaintly wouldn’t help the situation.

Nott persisted. “My cousin Pip, he’s Head Boy. Phillip Gibbon, really, but we all call him Pip. I bet if we told him, he could tell Dumbledore and get Snape in trouble.”

Harry looked at the boy, who looked back with a neutral mask. “Wouldn’t that get him in trouble with Snape?”

Teddy shrugged. “Nah, he’s a Ravenclaw.” His eyes watched Harry’s face. “So? D’you want to? We could probably catch him now, he’s always been a disgustingly early riser.”

Harry shook his head. “I can handle it on my own, thanks.”

This had apparenly been the right thing to say, because Teddy gave Harry a smile and yawned. “You’re all right then, Potter,” he said, then pulled the covers over his head and promptly fell back asleep.

Harry lay there until there was a free shower, wondering what he’d landed himself into.

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The first week passed extremely quickly for Harry. Malfoy’s group, mainly him and the Lumps, tended to ignore him, though Malfoy watched him at meals and in classes. Zabini didn’t seem to like anyone and spent quite a lot of his time with Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis. He always nitpicked about the neatness of the room and proper manners so that Harry thought he would scream. Harry took great pleasure in leaving crumpled bits of parchment on the floor and spilling ink on the carpet to see Zabini’s reaction.

Teddy was the only one he could stand, on most days, and even then it was a slow thing. Harry supposed it was because they both hated Zabini’s prissy attitude, and Nott disliked Malfoy from a childhood spat he would not talk about. So the two found themselves together quite a lot, partnering up in classes that needed partners and sitting together at the breakfast table. However, other than that brief contact, Harry was alone. And he much prefered it that way.

He tried to avoid Snape as much as possible, but with the man as his head of house, that was nearly impossible. Snape seemed to always know where Harry was and what he was doing, and by the morning of his first Friday at Hogwarts he had three separate detentions to serve the next day for loitering, failure to take care with his appearance, and sloth. Harry didn’t quite understand how he had gotten a detention for sloth when he had been walking to the lavatory, but he didn’t say a word and accepted it.

He wanted to get back to the Dursleys, yes, but he wasn’t an idiot. This was Snape’s domain, this world of magic, and Harry couldn’t do anything until he had a proper bit of power and an idea of what to do. So he waited, and studied, and bided his time and prided himself on not losing his temper, not jumping Snape, and for finding out where the kitchens were so he could double check his food.

The morning of his first Friday started out rather the same as the other mornings he’d had thus far. He woke up, got his wand, took a shower, and then headed to breakfast. Lately, he had taken to being quietly agreeable most of the time, so he remained quietly agreeable as he picked at his food. He didn’t know if Snape would ever try drugging him again, but he couldn’t take the risk. That was the only problem with being quick out of the dorm—Teddy relished sleep more than anything, except possibly books and his cousin Pip, and rarely made it in time for anything more than a bite of toast, and the other students never got to the table as soon as Harry. So he was left sitting there, staring mournfully at the food, wondering if it was safe and, if it wasn’t, what harm it could do to just have one little pancake—

But he never took the chance. He had always been thin, of course, but he didn’t gain one pound the entire first term at Hogwarts. He was lucky, he thought idly as he opened his potions book. If the Dursleys had fed him regularly, he would have been even hungrier. But his stomach was small even at the best of times, and kept on getting smaller.

He was planning his escape still. That was one thing he decided he would never give up on—escape. And even if he found out escaping the school was impossible, he would never be won over by how beautiful it was, or how great Hogwarts felt. Because it wasn’t his choice to be there, and it never would be.

He wondered, sometimes, why he was so eager to return to his life at the Dursleys. He didn’t have a bed there as nice as his in the Slytherin dorms, and he didn’t have any chores to do. The work wasn’t difficult, schoolwise, and other than Snape no one seemed to openly hate him. But that was the key word, wasn’t it, seem. Because everything seemed to be something it could not be and nothing felt real, or safe, and Harry knew that, even if his bed were silver and the food was safe to eat, he would trade it all, magic and everything, to be back in his cupboard and to know which way things lay.

As he thought these thoughts and skimmed over the potions chapter, a hand touched his shoulder and he immediately panicked. He was out of his seat and about to jump over the table before the hand clamped down and shoved him back in his seat.

Teddy Nott gave him a cheeky, sleepy grin and fell into the seat next to him. “Jumpy as a cat, aren’t you, Potter?”

“And as common as one,” Zabini added disdainfully as he seated across from him and daintily started to nibble on some toast.

“Stuff it, Zabini,” Harry said, and he took a piece of toast for himself and watched the boy for any signs of poisoning.

That’s how it would be, then, in Slytherin, at Hogwarts. Constantly watching for signs of poison.

It was a good thing he realized that when he did, for as he nibbled on safe toast and watched Teddy shovel sausage in his mouth, Malfoy seated himself next to Pansy Parkinson and said, as brightly as a Malfoy could say something. “Potions today, with Snape. Are those sausages?”

Harry suddenly knew that his day was about to take a turn for the worst.

Severus Snape was not happy to have Harry Potter in his Potions class. He was not happy, but he could use it to his advantage. Oh, he remembered all the worthless little tricks that Potter and Black had played on him throughout his school years, and an alarming amount had to do with them recklessly tampering with a potion. Throwing something, jostling his cauldron, raising the fire temperature—Severus was surprised that he hadn’t been killed by an explosion gone bad, but then he had always had excellent dodging skills. He gave a little sneer and sent sarcastic thanks to his childhood—it gave him something useful, at least.

He had it all planned out. He knew what would happen exactly if he dropped in an extra handful of quills, if he raised the temperature half a hair. He knew exactly what to do to make sure Potter suffered, to make sure Potter failed, for once. Part of his mind was whispering that the boy didn’t look exactly like James—the eyes, for one, and he never remembered James as being that puny. But that was splitting hairs—the boy had enough of a resemblence for Severus to take an inordinate amount of hate in watching the first years file in.

Harry Potter was not scared to have Severus Snape as his Potions teacher. He was terrified, with an edge of righteous anger. Oh, he knew that Snape wouldn’t dear fight him in a crowded classroom—not physically, at least. But there were still a lot of things he could do, and harry was far too clever to think that everything would be all right. After Malfoy had spoiled his breakfast—not that his appetite had been very good before hand, really—he had forsaken breakfast in order to properly prepare for Potions.

He had it all planned out. He would do like he did at the Dursley’s when Uncle Vernon was in a bad mood. Be quiet, try to avoid eye contact. He would be meek and just take whatever the man dealt out. Part of his mind was fiercely angry that he would even entertain doing that, giving in to him, but the other part of his mind reminded him about how the man had shown that he wouldn’t hold back if Harry pushed him. And in front of a class of students was the last place Harry wanted to push him. He toyed with the idea of making a run for it—but he didn’t know yet what lay beyond the forest, and the headmaster had made it clear they were very far from any place Harry could run to. He decided to play it safe, and he swallowed nervously as he fell into line behind Teddy as the Slytherin first years filed up outside the Potions classroom and entered the darkness.

The classroom was cold and dim and almost comfortingly reminded Harry of his cupboard. It smelled like steam and plants and a sharp, almost acidic smell that made Harry’s eyes water a little bit. Harry almost thought that he could learn to like the classroom, but then he looked at the jars that lined the walls and saw a small webbed hand floating in one and he heard the familiar, almost frightening swoop of robes and he knew he would hate this room more than anywhere in Hogwarts. He could never like it, no matter how much it reminded him of his cupboard, because Snape was here and Snape was the reason he didn’t have his cupboard anymore. Not that he liked his cupboard so much, but it was home. The only place he had ever had.

Harry took his seat next to Teddy carefully, kept his eyes trained on the back of Draco Malfoy’s head and the way the boy’s ears were slightly pointed. He focused so heavily on them, on the way the boy brushed his hair straight back and how his collar was perfectly pressed, that he almost didn’t notice when Snape started to pace the classroom. He heard the robes swish, though, and he froze, hands clutching at the desk as the robes stopped behind him and Snape’s shadow fell on his desk.

“Potter,” the man spat, and Harry was proud of himself that his inner tremble didn’t travel. Whether it was a tremble of fear or of hate, he could not tell you. Probably some of both.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, boy,” Snape snarled, and Harry brought his eyes up so they met defiantly with the Potions Master. That’s when he knew that, no matter how much he wanted to lay low and keep quiet, his body wouldn’t let him. He didn’t think Snape would let him, either.

The man glared once more, than turned on his heel and went back to the front of the room. Harry swallowed and fixed his eyes to the top of his desk. It was pitted and worn with age, and he pressed his hands down to calm the temper that was already rising. He felt Teddy edge away from him a little bit, and he almost wanted to look up and tell the boy it was okay, he could go sit with Greengrass or Davis or Zabini. Because no good could come of sitting with him. He looked up at Teddy quickly, and Teddy gave him an apologetic look. Harry just nodded and looked back down, listening to Teddy pull his bag together and hurriedly shuffle to the nearest available desk—next to the Lump, Goyle.

Just then, the Gryffindor’s burst into the classroom.

Led by Evan Haightley, a short, smiling boy with blonde curls, they ran into the room all out of breathe, falling into seats as they would. Evan launched into an explanation about Peeves and a dark corridor that brought them to the Astronomy Tower, though they hadn’t climbed any stairs. It was at that point that the smiley boy stopped smiling and Snape had opened his mouth.

“Do I really look like I care?” Snape sneered, and the boy fell silent and stopped his smile.

“I just—“

“In this school, you are expected to appear for classes on time and, if not on time, without causing a ruckus.” Snape glared at the group as if the only thing he hated more than a ruckus was a Gryffindor—or possibly Harry Potter, who he sent a glare to for good measure. “Of course, as it is your first week in school—“

Evan had a hopeful look. “We’re awful sorry, sir—“

“Don’t interrupt. Ten points from Gryffindor. The Slytherin first years have been here for the same amount of time, yet they seemed to be able to show up on time and ready to learn.”

Evan’s mouth pressed in a tight line and he took a seat next to a boy with fiery red hair, who muttered something about overgrown brats and stupid Slytherin gits.

“Another two for that, I think—Weasley, is it?”

“Yes, sir,” the boy answered in a grumble. Harry immediately liked him, just for the way he was acting to Snape. He gave a little smile to the desk, then looked in surprise to the side when he felt someone sit down and start unloading things from their bag.

He had hoped it was Teddy—he had grown to like the boy, and it would be nice to have a sort of friend at this place for the time he was there. He was a little disappointed to see that it was a bushy haired girl with big brown eyes and slightly larger than average front teeth. She was unloading her parchment and quills and spared Harry a side look.

“Hermione Granger,” she whispered as Snape started to take roll. “How do you do?”

“Erm—Harry Potter,” Harry said. He darted a look to the front of the room, where Snape was verbally berating Haightley for his brother’s lack of any sort of skill. “You shouldn’t sit here,” he whispered. “You’ll get in trouble.”

The girl didn’t seem to pay attention. She was sitting, her hands primly folded, looking forward. Harry sighed and dug out his own quill. He hated writing with a quill. He got ink all over his hand and sleeve when it dripped and he’d been docked a point in Defense for his messy sleeves. He yearned for a pencil, or even a ballpoint. Crayon would do. But the pot of ink was just asking for trouble, really, and Harry knew that one of these days someone would either startle him or intentionally knock his ink bottle all over something important.

When Severus got to Harry’s name, he stopped. Looked up at the boy, who was staring at his desk, not paying any attention. A sneer curled over his lips, and he almost slipped and said James, but caught himself.

“Harry Potter. Our new…celebrity.”

The boy tensed and nodded. Snape scowled. “Vocal answer!” he snapped, and he heard a sullen, rebellious ‘Here, sir.’

He almost slapped the boy right there. But he pulled it in. He held it back. He was capable of that, you know, of holding back. But he wasn’t terribly capable of it, if you know what I mean. He was capable enough to hold back, but it was only a temporary set back. Something else would push it, push it until it exploded, and then he would be incapable of anything save rage.

That was how Severus Snape had operated for years. He could keep his control, certaintly, but not when everything piled up.

Harry listened to the speech about the subtle science and exact art of potion-making carefully. He took notes—scrawled, messy ones that left ink smudges on his fingers—and so did the girl next to him. Her handwriting was small and neat, he noticed, though there was still the occasional smudge or ink drop that tipped him off that she was like him—she lived with Muggles and probably was yearning for a good pencil, or even a computer like Dudley’s.

“Potter!” said Snape suddenly, and Harry’s hand jumped, leaving fat drops of ink over his notes. Draco sniggered and Harry silently cursed. “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Harry’s eyes widened marginally and he racked his brain. He’d read through the first few chapters of the book, yes, but that was all about the composition of potions—animal to vegetable to mineral. Nothing about actual, real potions. Hermione, next to him, almost hit him in the face as her hand flew into the air. He shook his head.

“I don’t know, sir.”

The sneer grew more vicious. “Well, well—clearly fame isn’t everything.” Snape scanned the boy and smirked. “Or even something.”

Malfoy let out another snigger.

“Let’s try again, shall we? Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?”

Harry was again stumped. Hermione wiggled her hand in the air. “I don’t know.”

“Didn’t even crack a text before class, did you, Potter?” Harry wanted to yell that of course he hadn’t read the whole blasted thing before class, as he hadn’t been allowed anything when Dumbledore had kept him in that room, or in the hospital wing. He pulled his lips into a scowl.

“I did, actually,” he mumbled, and Snape’s eyes seemed to burn a hole in him.

“What was that, Potter?”

“I said I did read through some of the book before class,” Harry said louder. After a loaded pause, he added “Professor.”

Snape’s cheeks had a very faint red tinge, and Harry was sure his own cheeks were the same. His fingers were trembling, and he wrapped them in the sleeves of his robes.

“I find that doubtful, Potter, otherwise you would be able to answer my questions in a satisfactory matter. Or is it a little liar along with an abysmal student?”

“I’m not a liar,” Harry said stiffly. “I did. I read the first four chapters.”

“The first four chapters,” Snape sneered. “And that adequetely prepares you for class, does it? Perhaps in your lower school the first four chapters were sufficient. But this is Hogwarts, Potter, and your lack of preparation is a blight on your house. Detention.”

Harry ducked his head and clenched his fists. Next to him, Hermione wiggled her hand a little more insistently.

“Why don’t we try once more, Potter—perhaps this will have been found in the first four chapters.” Harry tightened his fists until he felt his nails digging into his palm. Snape used a biting, taunting tone. “What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?”

Harry’s ears burned. Hermione waved her hand, then stood up. Snape still ignored her.

“I don’t know.” Harry licked his lips, and before Snape could jump in with another insult, he ventured in with “Granger does.”

The man’s sneer deepened, though Harry hadn’t thought that was possible. “Did I call on Granger, Potter?”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“No, sir. You called on me. But I—“

“You don’t know. How…typical. And how disappointing.” Malfoy was cracking up with silent laughter, while Teddy had that calculating look on his face that made him look like a rat. “One would have thought that you being sorted into Slytherin might show some talent or ambition. It would seem not.”

“I have an ambition,” Harry said under his breath.

“Oh? And what’s that, Potter? Do you aspire to become gamekeeper, then? Or no—perhaps that is a bit too high of an aim.”

There was a unelegant snort from Zabini’s direction. Harry didn’t let it phase him. Even though his hands were shaking and a little voice in his mind was yelling at him not to, to be careful, to look around at all the fires and the bubbling cauldrons and the jars that could be used as projectiles, he ignored it all and wrapped his hands in his sleeves again and said in as clear a voice as he could muster “I want to snap your wand in two again.”

Snape’s sneer turned to an ugly, angry scowl and his pallid face tinged slightly red. “That’s another detention, Potter, for your cheek.” He then rattled off a list of important facts that everyone hurried to copy down except Harry. His hands were still shaking too bad to be even the tiniest bit successful with the quil. Granger nudged him with her elbow.

“You’d better take notes,” she whispered, her head still bowed over her paper as she scribbled. “He’ll only get angrier, that’s what the other Gryffindor’s say.”

Harry showed her his hands under the desk top and whispered back “I’d just make a mess of it. I’ll get the notes from Teddy later.”

The girl murmered “You—you could borrow mine,” very quietly, then shot Harry a look and a small smile.

Harry returned it hesitantly. His face felt unused to the simple action, and that scared him a little bit. “Thanks.”

His hands settled a little bit, but there was still a faint tremor as he reached for his ingredients kit.

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Severus Snape’s hands were trembling. The outrage, the utter nerve of it! Of that—that impudent little wretch, that spoiled arrogant brat. The nerve of him—Snape’s mind ran in circles as he lectured, his shaking hands hidden in his sleeves, the right one clenched around his wand. A wand and a wizard had a special sort of bond, and Severus had lost every other bond he’d ever had—and now his wand, too. It had almost made him want to slap the boy silly, push him into a cauldron and boil him up. It was too much for one man to bear. He would have taken points, he was sure, if the boy was a Gryffindor, but he wouldn’t sabotage his own house like that. Not for one stupid Potter.

Even now he was mocking Severus. Sitting in the back, not even taking notes, just staring front with that infuriatingly smug look on his face. He and Granger were whispering to each other, too, and Severus held himself back. If he snapped at the boy once more he might never regain his control. How impossible it was, but right in front of his eyes, the old cliché was playing out—history repeats itself. Another Potter taking a liking to an infuriating, know-it-all Mudblood. Though this one wasn’t half as pretty—even Severus could admit that Lily Evans was not hard on the eyes. Severus scanned the classroom once, wondering if there was a younger him in the class. But he couldn’t see anything but smug, stupid Potter, and he decided to save his surveilance for a later date.

He cleared his throat and the children all looked up at him. At least his little show down with Potter had shown them something. The Gryffindor’s were terrified, and even Davis and Nott were a little on edge. Malfoy looked smug and complacent, of course—there was Lucius’ double, though Lucius was several years ahead of Snape in school. Crabbe and Goyle were sluggishly taking notes, their eyes dull and one of them was picking his nose. Zabini had his hands folded primly and was looking at him in a facsimile of attention.

Potter just met his glare with that smug, blank look on his face.

Severus’s fingers itched to wipe that look away.

“Cauldrons out,” he snapped, and he tapped the board with his wand. A little slower than usual—though these brats would never know the difference—but out came the instructions. “Brew this.”

In the bustle of activity, he saw Potter and Granger pair up. Nott sent an apologetic look over his shoulder—Severus would have to have a word with the boy, Peranius was much too smart to raise a boy so foolish—and saw Potter pat his pocket uncertaintly as he started to organize ingredients.

Snape felt an idea come to mind. He cleared his throat again and everyone froze.

“As this is a Potions course, there’s to be no magic—this is a fairly simple potion, I’m sure you won’t need it.”

With slight grumbles, students started to pocket wands or put them in their bags.

“I’ll hold the wands, I believe. Until the end of class.”

He saw Potter stiffen, then relax. The others all filed up and deposited their wandss on his desk—Malfoy, he saw, stayed seated, and Snape let it pass.

Potter didn’t move.

“Hand over your wand, Potter,” he snarled, and he bore down on the boy. Granger, who had re-seated herself, looked up at him, her eyes almost as big as those obnoxious teeth. Potter just kept his eyes focused on the desk.

“I left it in the dorm, sir.”

Snape felt his face color. “You’re a little liar, now hand it over or it’ll be another detention.”

Potter still didn’t move. “I can’t give you what I don’t have, sir.” He paused, then he carefully reached over to porcupine quills and started to make a neat pile out of them. “I knew you’d do something like this, you see. So I did something first.”

Snape’s face was red, he could tell, and his temper was pounding in his ears. He reached out and grabbed Potter’s arm, squeezed it so tight that Potter took a sharp gasp of breath.

“Give it to me, Potter,” he hissed, sure that most of the children were anxiously mucking up their potions and thus paying no attention to him.

Potter tried to pull his arm away. “I haven’t got it, now let me go or I’ll scream.”

Snape could feel the boy trembling and he tightened his grip. He could also, however, feel the eyes of the insufferable Granger pinned to him, could sense Haightley and the Weasley boy in the corner scrutinizing his back. Nott too had a sharp, calculating eye towards him as he measured out his quills.

Snape let the boy go with a snarl. Potter kept calmly organizing the ingredients, and Granger turned back to stirring the potion.

Snape made several rounds past the two, and Potter’s faintly shaking shoulders never failed to buoy his dangerously high temper. Finally, on the last walk by, his hand slipped out and tossed a handful of quills in, then quickly walked away to Malfoy’s cauldron. Adequete, he supposed.

The explosion was satifyingly loud, but when he turned to see the potion fly into the air, he was disappointed when Potter ducked out of it’s path and dragged Granger out of the way, diving across the aisleway.

“Detention!” Snape had snapped, and he was about to continue when the class ended and the children all pushed their way to the front to get their wands. Snape scowled and allowed Potter to duck out of the room, a bit satisfied to hear the boy run down the hallway. Granger seemed to dart after him.

It wasn’t until he was cleaning up the mess later that he thought about Potter’s extraordinary dodging skills. He brushed it away and told himself it was luck, or that damnable Potter athletic skill. James had certainly been fit enough, after a point. Though he’d never had dodging skills like Severus. Or like his son. But surely it was just that. Luck, or some idiotic skill. Not like Severus’ skill. Not at all. Not Potter.

But some tiny voice in the back of his head wasn’t so sure, so he focused on magicking away the cooled mess.

“Harry! Oh, wait up!”

Harry had started to run as soon as he left the dungeons. He had thought about going back to the dorm, but decided he didn’t want to deal with Zabini, who would most probably be writing a letter to his mama like he did every afternoon. Instead his feet led him up, into the part of the school he knew only well enough to find his way to classes. He just kept on running, as fast as he could, his bag bumping his side and his breath coming in starts.

He had run directly into Professor McGonnagal at the bottom of a flight of the stairs, nearly knocking the witch over. She had almost deducted points, but upon seeing his agitated state she paused.

“Mr. Potter? Are you quite all right?”

The boy swallowed, then nodded and licked licked his lips. He was panting. “I—yes, miss.”

She looked him up and down. The boy’s hands were clutching at the strap of his bag—were they trembling. His eyes looked panicked, and he hadn’t seemed to notice that his glasses were slightly askew. She reached over gently to correct them—she didn’t know why, really, she was hardly a demonstrative person, but the boy seemed so distraught—and he cringed, his own hands coming up and shakily correcting the problem himself.

She frowned. Something was wrong. Perhaps the boy was being bullied—she knew that Malfoy’s son could hardly be making life easy for him.

“Are you quite sure, Mr. Potter? You seem a little upset.” The boy shook his head.

“I’m fine. I—I really am, I’m all right.” His eyes darted around as if he imagined someone might be coming up the stairwell behind him.

“Is someone giving you trouble, Mr. Potter?” The boy swallowed and shook his head—but a little less forcefully. Ah. Bullies, then. “Are you certain? We can take you to your head of house, you know, and he’ll have a stern talk with who—“

But Potter was shaking his head so hard Minerva thought it might fly off. “No! Please, don’t take me to Professor Snape—I’m fine, I’m fine! I just—I, I’m running late, please, I have to go!”

McGonnagal frowned deeper. This wasn’t right. “Running late to where, Mr. Potter? Classes are over for the first years for the day, I believe.”

The boy’s mouth opened once, then shut itself firmly.

That’s when Hermione Granger rounded the corner. “Harry! Oh, good, I was scared you’d gone back to your common room and I wouldn’t be able to give you the notes—hello, Professor.”

“Hermione!” Harry said gladly. “I—I thought you might be in the library already!”

His eyes begged her to play along, so she did. “I—erm, no, not—not yet.”

The boy turned back to McGonnagal. “Hermione and I are—are studying Potions. In the library. I was—I was scared to be late. I’m very sorry for running, please don’t tell Professor Snape, he’ll give me another detention.”

McGonnagal gave Potter a stern look. “I’ll let you off with a warning this time, Mr. Potter. But do be careful sprinting up the stairwells—it’s very dangerous.”

“Yes, miss. Sorry, miss. Thank you for not telling Professor Snape.”

The woman nodded. “Well, you both best get off. I do know that Professor Snape likes to pile on the homework.”

“Yes, miss. Thank you.” Harry reached out, grabbed Hermione’s hand, and started to tug her down the hallway.

“This is the wrong way,” Hermione hissed. “The library’s down the other hallway.”

Harry let go of her wrist. “You lead, then, I’ve not been yet.”

Hermione led them to the library, which Harry liked immediately. The shelves towered over his head and big windows made it sunny and light in the main areas. Hermione led him over to a row of wide wooden study carrels. She pulled a chair up, sat down, and regarded Harry reproachfully.

“I just lied to a teacher. I’ve never lied to a teacher in my whole life.”

“Er—sorry. I just—I didn’t want to get into anymore trouble with Snape.”

“Sit down,” Hermione said. She reached into her bag and pulled out a neat roll of parchment, which she held out to him. “You can copy the notes while you tell me why Professor Snape was being so awful to you.”

Harry hesitantly reached out, then dug around in his bag for a quill and ink. “Hate these things,” he grumbled as he sharped his quill and dunked it into the ink before starting to roughly scratch out the beginning words on the parchment. “Messy.”

Hermione looked aghast at his handwriting. “You should work on your penmanship, it’s atrocious. Teacher’s will mark you down for that, you know.”

Harry grimaced. “I know. I don’t care, I don’t even want to be here long enough to hand in their homework.” Harry struggled with the quill and got smudges on his sleeves.

Hermione looked aghast again. “Leave Hogwarts? But—you’ve only just arrived!”

“I wish I never did.”

“But—“ here Hermione looked confused. “But—well, you’re muggleborn like me, right?”

Harry shrugged. “Erm—sort of. Raised by muggles.”

“Well—it’s magic! How could you want to give it up? Doesn’t it explain everything?”

Harry shrugged again and dunked his quil again. “All magic’s ever done to me is nasty things, so I don’t want it, thank you.”

Hermione suddenly looked sympathetic. “Oh—I remember. You’re Harry Potter—you’re parents—“

“Er, yeah,” Harry said uncomfortably. “But that’s not why. Well—I guess it contributes, but it’s not the nasty thing magic did.”

“What’d it do?”

She looked so curious, so nice and normal and like a girl he might see in Little Whinging, a girl who wasn’t lording it over him that his mum was a muggleborn or that his glasses were disgraceful, just a normal girl who seemed so nice and seemed like she would help him that Harry spilled. “Someone used magic to kidnap me.”

Hermione looked properly shocked. “Who? How’d they get you back? Is whoever did it in prison? I didn’t read anything about you being kidnapped in the books you were in, but is it hushed up?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Snape did it. He took me from my relatives and drugged me and brought me here.”

Hermione looked skeptical. “But—but he’s a teacher. Teachers don’t do things like that.”

“He did.”

Hermione bit her lip. “But—he’s your head of house. He’s supposed to look out for your best interest.”

“He isn’t.” Harry paused in his copying and gingerly touched his arm. He’d have a bruise there later, he could tell.

Hermione still seemed a little skeptical, and Harry felt his heart plummet. He’d taken a chance—told someone else the truth—and they didn’t believe him. Well, that would teach him, wouldn’t it? All he had to rely on was himself, really, that’s all. He had to remember that—

“Oh, Harry.” Harry’s heart immediately lightened. She believed him.

“Maybe—maybe we should go tell Dumbledore.”

“He knows.”

Hermione looked scandalized. “And he didn’t stop it?”

“He sent him.”

Hermione looked so outrage that Harry found himself telling her the whole thing, every detail since Snape had apparated into the hut on the rock. When he finished, Hermione looked almost as disapproving as McGonnagal.

“Well…what are you going to do?”

“Run away. As soon as I find a way, I’m going back to the Dursleys.”

Hermione bit her lip again. “But—we’re in Scotland. That’s very far from Surrey.”

Harry shrugged. “I don’t care, I’ll find a way. I have to—I think Snape might kill me if I stay around too long.”

“But—he wouldn’t kill you. He can’t, he’s a teacher—“

“Being a teacher didn’t stop him from kidnapping me, now, did it?” Harry snapped, and he immediately felt bad. Hermione was just trying to help—he might even have that same belief in teachers, if he hadn’t had his Snape experiences. Maybe not—the teachers at his old school were pretty mean also. And blind, in their own way. Either way, Hermione didn’t deserve to have him snap at her. “Sorry.”

Hermione’s forehead was wrinkled in thought. “From Scotland to Surrey—you’d have to leave soon. You certaintly couldn’t travel in winter, not through Scotland. You’d have to leave by November, or wait until March or May, when the snow has melted.” Her brow knit together. “Of course, I did read that wonderful continuous warmth charm yesterday—but you’d need a lot of power to keep it up all the way back.”

Harry’s heart warmed. “You—you’ll help me, then?”

“Of course! I mean—I think you should stay, really, and learn as much magic as you can, because maybe it was really all—“

“If you say misunderstanding I’ll scream.”

She cracked a small smile. “No. But maybe it’ll all work out for the best, really. I mean—and don’t you like Hogwarts?”

Harry shrugged. “The classes, I suppose. They’re all right. But I hate—I hate looking over my shoulder and think Snape’s always behind me. Or that the food’s not safe. Or that—that Malfoy’s reporting to his father about me. I don’t like the people all that much—not the Slytherin’s, really, except Teddy. Kinda. Magic…” he shrugged again. “I like the magic. But I don’t like Hogwarts much, no.”

Hermione looked at him a long moment, then sighed. “I’ll help,” she said. “I’ll try to convince you to stay, of course, but I’ll help.”

Harry gave her another rare grin and handed her the parchment back. She looked at his notes, tutted on the penmanship, than gathered her things together. “Come on,” she said bossily. “It’s almost dinner and you’re not eating properly. I’ll get you some food from the Gryffindor table, Snape won’t touch it. I’ll taste it just in case,” she added, seeing Harry’s skeptical look. “Come on. Madame Pomfrey will slaughter you if she knows all you’ve eaten today is toast.”

Harry followed Hermione out of the library, and even though he felt much better than he had since he entered the old castle, he noticed with part of his mind that his hands were still shaking.

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Severus Snape loved solitude. He hated to fraternise with his peers, and he loathed chatter. Which was why the Friday afternoon staff meeting was not anything near to beloved in his heart. He normally sat there, disagreeable and silent and scowling. That was much better than forcing himself into chatter with excitable Flitwick or fat Pomona.

Dumbledore had, of course, addressed the necesssary items and departed. Some nights he stayed, chatted, had a drink, but not that night. The Heads of House had all gathered together with Filch, announcing detentions and scheduling them.

Minerva had frowned at him when he mentioned Potter’s detentions.

“Really, Severus, that is a little extreme. Seven? The boy has not even been here a full week!”

“Potter’s been here more than three weeks, you know that,” Severus said idly. “And he earned each and every one of them, Minerva.”

Minerva scowled. “Severus. He’s barely been through a week of classes—he’s only had one with you. What did he do hat earned him seven detentions?”

Severus counted them off of his fingers. “Loitering. Sloth. Failure to take care with ones appearance. Insolence. Being unprepared for class. Causing a potion to explode. He was docked points by Quirrel for failure to take care in his appearance, so that’s another.” He counted them all up again and nodded. “Seven.”

“Severus—he is an eleven year old boy. You’ve no right—“

“I have every right to discipline members of my house, Minerva! Or have you forgotten—I am the head of Slytherin. And Potter is my charge.”

McGonnagal pressed her lips into a thin line. “Be careful, Severus, please. I ran into the boy today and he was absolutely petrified I would report him to you for a detention. Begged me not to.”

Snape’s eyes glinted. “What did he do that deserved a detention?”

McGonnagal shook her head. “Nothing.” She paused. “I think he’s being bullied.”

“Minerva, I will deal with Slytherin House how I see fit. You’ve never tried to intervene before when a Slytherin was being bullied mercilessly.”

Minerva opened her mouth angrily. “That is not true, Severus! I have always been impartial in the taking of points and the maintaining of discipline! Whoever I have caught has been punished, and thoroughly!”

Snape softened a tiny bit. “Yes—you always did.” He paused. “Minerva, I shall deal with it. I promise. I’m sure Potter’s just blowing things out of proportion.” He smiled dangerously. “Besides—Headmaster Dumbledore has suggested we get started with Occlumency. He believes the boy may be vulnerable—I shall pick his mind then.”

Somehow, that didn’t comfort Minerva at all.

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That night, Harry Potter locked his curtains the way he had become accustomed to doing, pulled on his pajamas, and settled into bed with his wand under his pillow and his ears listening out for the telltale swoop of robes and loud footsteps.

That night, something unexpected happened. Someone tried to open his curtains.

“Potter?” Teddy called from outside. “Open up, I think your curtains are jammed. We have to talk.”

Harry pulled open the curtains a safe amount and poked his head out. It was just Teddy, in his own pajamas, looking uncomfortable.

“What is it?”

Teddy looked around and harry saw Malfoy, the Lumps, and Blaise pretending not to listen but obviously doing so. “Er—could we shut the curtains? I just want to talk about Potions.”

Harry regarded the boy a moment, then pulled the curtains open enough for the boy to come in. Teddy jumped onto his bed and, sitting cross legged, waited for Harry to close the curtains. Harry settled back and waited.

Teddy cleared his throat. “I wanted—er, I wanted to say I was sorry.”

Harry blinked. He hadn’t expected that. “What?”

“I wanted to say sorry. For ditching you like that. I knew Snape would be awful and I just left you to face it alone.”

Harry shrugged. “I dealt with it fine. Don’t worry about me—I can take care of myself. Besides, you would have gotten in trouble too.”

Teddy shifted uncomfortably. “I know. But—it’s not good form, you know? You stick by your mates, even when thingss get a little tough.”

Harry blinked again. “Are—are we mates, then, Teddy?”

Teddy nodded and played with the tie to his pajama pants. “Er—I thought so, yeah. I mean—I mean, if you don’t want to, after today, I understand. Rotten friend I am, yeah, leaving you all alone to take him being all mean, and with that mudblood too—“

“I—I would like to. Be mates, I mean.” Harry thought about confiding the fact he had never had a mate and decided it wouldn’t be a good thing to let get out. “But what’s a mudblood?”

Teddy shrugged and smiled. “Er—you know, mudblood. Magical kid with non-magic parents. It’s slang.”

Harry thought about it. “Sounds foul.”

“Yeah,” Teddy grinned. “If you use it in front of my mum then she’ll wash your mouth out.”

“Is that what Hermione is—a mudblood?”

Teddy nodded. “Yeah…Malfoy was pissed you’d gone off with her. He was storming around the commons saying you were diluting the house.”

Harry shrugged again. “I am, sort of. I like Hermione. She’s my mate too.”

Teddy deflated a little. “Better than you and I, I s’pose. Since she stuck by you and all.”

Harry shook it all. “Er—no, you’re both my mates, I suppose.” What a move up—from no friends to two! “Just—different ways. Don’t call her that, though.”

Teddy nodded. “Yeah, all right. S’just a word, you know? Shorter to say than muggleborn. Not nearly as hard to spell.” He shot Harry a grin, which Harry tentatively returned. Teddy yawned. “I better go—we’ve a free day tomorrow, but I have detention with Flitwick for accidentally setting that stool on fire. See you at breakfast?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, that sounds good.” Harry waited as Teddy left his bed, then called out “Ted?”

Teddy’s head poked back in. “Yeah?”

Harry tried to smile again. “Thanks.”

Teddy beamed. “Yeah, whatever, Potter.”

Harry fell asleep a little faster that night.

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That night, Severus Snape entered his chambers, locked the floo, brushed his teeth and got into his night shirt before settling in. His wand was in it’s usual place on the nightstand, and the wards were up around his room, ready to stop any sort of intruder.

That night, something unexpected happened. Someone wouldn’t leave Severus’ mind.

All he could see was Potter—Potter who he hated, Potter who he loathed. He even tried to read some Christie to drive the boy out, but when Hercule Poirot gained a lightning bolt scar he let up and sentenced himself to staring at the ceiling thinking.

The boy was a menace. The boy was an absolute horror, a wretch, a good for nothing scrog. Snape would like to throttle him, like to slap him so hard his head spun, break his nose and his wand but Snape knew now that there was something more to the wretch than met the eye.

All Snape knew was that he dodged well. What had he been dodging?

By the end of the night, Snape had convinced himself it was cricket balls and childhood play, and he knew that Potter was an innocent, and that was what made Potter so damn hateable. Potter was an innocent and a liar and a conniving little demon, and Severus knew that the boy was nothing good but had everything good happent to him. He reached this conclusion and he sighed and smiled.

After that, he fell asleep a little faster.

The next morning Harry woke up to a large, haughtly looking owl pecking him sharply on the nose. He let out a startled cry and searched for his glasses, blinking and wondering how the bird had got in.

The satisfied look on it’s face and the jagged tear in the top of his curtains answered that.

It pecked him again, this time on the wrist, and Harry noticed the roll of parchment secured on it’s ankle. Harry blinked again. He knew the custom, of course—seeing Malfoy’s eagle owl preen at the breakfast table had cemented the idea firmly in his head—but he couldn’t think of anyone who would send him a letter. The only friends he had ever had were at Hogwarts already.

Maybe it was the Dursleys, he though fleetingly, but that thought passed after he realized the sheer absurdity of it. The Dursleys, use something so blatantly magical and abnormal? Not a chance. Besides, Aunt Petunia was terrifed of owls. Hated them worse that pigeons. An owl had flown down the chimney once, back on Privet Drive, and burned to cinders in the fireplace. The house had smelled horrible and Aunt Petunia had fainted. Uncle Vernon made him douse the fire and take the bird’s remains to the rubbish bin at the end of the driveway. Harry had given the poor thing a little burial in the garden, though.

So no. Not the Dursleys, then. But who?

He unrolled the parchment uneasily and read it. Then he rolled it back up and looked at the bird. “Er—well, I’ve gotten the message. Twelve.”

The bird looked at him snottily.

“Dismissed?”

The bird gave Harry a very dirty look and flew away.

Harry sighed, ran his hand through his hair, and regarded the letter.

It was a shame, really. All his life he had looked forward to his first letter, to the first sign that someone cared enough about him to buy a stamp and an envelope and write him a note and send it off. To the first time someone would know him well enough to write his name on the envelope—Harry James Potter—and send him good news.
It was such a horrible letter, for his first one. He sighed and unrolled it once more, scanning it again.

It didn’t even have his name on the cover, just ‘S1—Potter’. The inside was sort of like a form—to the point and exceedingly nasty. It informed him of his times for detention, the first of which was to be that very day at noon, and at the bottom was Professor Snape’s spiky signature.

It scared Harry, the amount of malice that the man could inject even into his name.

Harry reached under his pillow, picked up his wand, and frowned at it. He obviously shouldn’t bring it with him, not after the way Snape had tried to get it off him in Potions. But if he left it in the dorm anyone could get it—Malfoy or Zabini or even Snape, if he got angry enough to look. So he clearly couldn’t leave it there.

He tapped it absent-mindedly on the pillow. Where could he leave it? Not in some abandoned cubbyhole in the dungeons—they too were Snape’s territory, and the man would probably hunt it out. It would have to be somewhere no one would suspect.

Hermione.

Harry inwardly grinned at the idea. Perfect. He poked his head cautiously out of the bed curtains and saw Teddy still sprawled facedown on his bed, like he normally slept. The alarm clock on his bedside clearly read ‘DISGUSTINGLY EARLY’.

He took a quick shower, tried to brush his hair, successfully brushed his teeth, and read the next four chapters of his Potions book before heading to breakfast.

Harry was not normally an early riser. He wasn’t a deep sleeper, really—Aunt Petunia had never allowed that. He liked to sleep, and he was very good at making himself fall asleep, but how he woke up was entirely up to fate. Most times something little woke him up—a growing cold because his blankets had fallen on the floor, him smacking his head on the headboard, funny noises coming from the walls. Back at the Dursleys it had always been Aunt Petunia to wake him and let him out of the cupboard. Sometimes they locked him in, but not normally, so some mornings he woke up really early because the furnace in the basement made that loud popping noise and he was just sitting there in his cupboard for an hour before he could make breakfast. He liked that time of day—just in there, not expected to do anything or please anybody, just relax and breathe and not have to think or worry or be angry. Just be able to be blank.

He’d always woken early at Hogwarts. Well, so far. His inner clock kept waking him at the same time, disgustingly early, and then he could shower and read and go down to breakfast. It was nice to have a little bit of time to forget, to pretend he wasn’t being held against his will or scared or angry. To just let that all go and read his school books and lie back. If he hadn’t been kidnapped, he thought he might feel that way all the time. He had to admit it—he liked parts of Hogwarts. But he wouldn’t stay. He couldn’t stay. It was just too dangerous.

After a sufficient amount of time passed, he collected his book and slipped out of the dorm. Not really many other people were up, though Terry Higgs grunted at him as he left the common room and made his way to the Great Hall. There was only a smattering of students there, Harry saw, and Hermione wasn’t among them. He settled in to the Slytherin table to wait. He had a prefered spot—down by the end, where the upper students made the first years sit, but almost against a wall. He scanned the head table and noted that Snape didn’t seem to have made an appearance yet. Good.

He started to work through his book—Potions, of course. He intended to finish the whole thing before he had his next class, and be ready. Who knew what kind of questions Snape would ask next time? So he underlined important parts and took messy notes on a grubby bit of parchment he kept tucked in his trouser pocket at all times. He had taken to taking it out and memorizing a few facts whenever he was waiting somewhere. He’d started it at dinner the night previously.

There was a small, barely audible pop and a platter of bacon appeared right in front of him. Harry almost dropped his book in surprise. He had gotten used to the meals appearing and disappearing (and had wondered if there were any scruffy eleven year olds in the kitchen below making bacon, which was where he truly wanted to be). But never before had they made any sound, or done it right in front of him. Harry looked at the plate warily, then looked around the room.

At the head table, Dumbledore was looking at him with a kindly smile, his hands folded and all his attention on Harry.

It gave Harry the creeps.

He moved the platter of bacon away quickly, pushing it down and resuming his book. There was another, louder pop, and this time he found that a bowl of porridge had appeared and the corner of his book now had porridge and cinnamon smeared over the bottom corner.

Harry pushed the bowl away and watched his plate. There was another pop and a new bowl appeared, this filled with a popular brand of Muggle cereal Dudley had eaten and Harry had always wanted to try.

He moved down a seat. The bowl followed him.

Harry was getting a little worried. No one had been this eager to feed him anything since Madame Pomfrey had all but shoved food down his throat in the infirmary. At least she would take a few bites of it first to reassure him. He thought desperately back over the week, wondering if he had done anything so terrible that the headmaster would want him to eat that badly. The only thing that came to mind was his classroom fight with Snape.

Suddenly Harry felt a bit queasy. He pushed the bowl back, and when it tried to hop forward he lifted it and dumped the contents upside-down into the porridge bowl with a plop.

He looked back at the head table. Dumbledore was frowning at him.

Harry pulled together his book and his grubby piece of parchment and checked his pockets to make sure his wand was still there. Then, without looking at anything but the floor he walked on, he hurried out of the hall. He would wait for Hermione somewhere else. He thought he saw Dumbledore stand out of the corner of his eye, so once he left the hall he broke into a run, taking the stairways up again as he hoped he wasn’t being followed. That was what he didn’t like about magic. It had so many nasty possibilities he couldn’t possibly know.

He was toying with the idea of seeing if the library was open when he ran into Professor McGonnagal again in much the same manner as yesterday. Harry’s book flew out of his hand and he fell backwards, thankfully onto a stair landing, cracking his arm on the floor and knocking his glasses askew. He felt as though he might be ill.

Professor McGonnagal at first seemed concerned about him. “Mr. Potter? Are you all right?”

She made as if to help him up but he did it himself, pushing himself up and as far away from McGonnagal as the space would permit. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I—I forgot about not running, I’m—please don’t tell Professor Sna—“

“Mr. Potter, please, calm down.” The woman looked a bit worried but tried to smile at him. “Are you all right? That was a nasty fall.”

Harry felt his arm start to throb. “I’m fine, miss, I’m really sorry about running—“

“Mr. Potter, it’s fine. Please, calm down.”

Harry didn’t know why she was saying that. He was perfectly calm. Well, he was as calm as he could be when Dumbledore could be coming behind him any second with food, or with Snape, or—or something worse. He wasn’t bothered about the fall, really, he’d had worse ones, but he was worried about getting another detention.

“I—Sorry.” Harry regarded her warily. She looked at him. He felt distinctly uncomfortable and shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I really am, please don’t give me a detention.”

The professor frowned at him again. “It’s rather early to be running around the castle, isn’t it, Mr. Potter? Shouldn’t you be at breakfast?”

Harry wrapped his hands in the sleeves of his robes carefully. “I—I’m not hungry, miss.”

She looked at his thin frame. “Hm. You should try to eat anyway, probably, Mr. Potter. Some children do find the transition difficult, but magic takes quite a lot out of you.”

Harry nodded quickly. “I’ll try and, er, eat more, miss.” He couldn’t believe she was talking about his dietary habits instead of his flagrant breaking of the rules, especially after the warning yesterday.

McGonnagal seemed to be able to tell he wass lying. Her lips narrowed. “I mean that, Mr. Potter. I won’t have you hurting the other students with an inability to control your magic.”

Harry ducked his head and stared at the floor and thought about being unable to control his magic around Snape. He hoped the man’s head exploded. “Yes, miss.”

She gave him another long look, than started to head down the stairs. She stopped after a moment, realizing that Harry wasn’t following her.

“Well?”

Harry looked at her in surprise. “What—you mean I have to eat now?”

“Yes, Mr. Potter, we just went through this.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest, then remembered the lingering threat. Even if she deducted points, Snape would find out. That’s how he’d gotten one of his—Quirrell docking points from his messy sleeves. He nodded slowly. “Er—all right, then.”

He walked slowly, hoping the woman would lose interest, but she stayed next to him the whole time. He felt her watching him as he walked next to her, as he plodded over to the Slytherin table and sat himself down. The porridge bowl filled with cereal was still there, and where he had been sitting was a plate heaped high with eggs and bacon and toast.

Harry pushed it away from him weakly, then put his head down on the table and tried to breathe deep. From above him, McGonagall spoke and Harry jumped at the sound.

“Are you quite all right, Mr. Potter?”

Harry felt like bursting into laughter. Of course he wasn’t all right. He had been taken against his will from a damp and drippy hut on a rock and plopped into a world where there were jumping porridge bowls and foggy heads and Snape, who scared him more than anything. He was anything but all right, and he toyed for a moment with telling her that.

Instead, he just nodded. “Yes, miss.”

She frowned at him. “I know I am not your head of house,” she said delicately. “But if you ever need to talk, Mr. Potter—“

“I won’t need a talk, Professor, honest—“

She frowned at him. “Are you uncomfortable with your head of house?”

The laughter bubbled up again. Of course he was. “No, miss.” No way would he tell her anything, unless… “Could I switch houses? Is that allowed?”

McGonnagal suddenly looked sympathetic and understanding. She patted Harry gently on the shoulder. “Your parents would be proud of you no matter what house you were in.”

What? That hadn’t been what he’d asked. He’d barely thought about his parents since he’d arrived, except for the usual vague missing. What had his parents to do with anything?

McGonnagal continued. “Some people do put a rather high stress on house pride, especially here at the school, but once people leave and grow up it gets less important. Your parents would have loved you no matter what—they wouldn’t care you weren’t a Gryffindor.”

Harry felt his heart drop unexpectedly. The only reason she could be saying this—oh. His parents were Gryffindors, then. Gryffindors, who hated Slytherins.

“You are still a remarkable boy, Mr. Potter, and still very much their son. You were put in Slytherin because you belong there.”

His parents would have hated him. That must be the reason she was reassuring him so vehemently, they would have hated him with a passion and never wanted to talk to him. A little piece of him, near where his trust used to be, snapped off and fell with all the dreams he used to have of his parents being alive. Even if they were, they wouldn’t want him. Like that was new. Who would ever want stupid Harry Potter with his stupid hair and his stupid glasses? No one. Never.

“Switching is impossible, Mr. Potter. The Sorting Hat does its sorting, and we are left to figure out the reasons for ourselves.”

“Oh. Well, er, thanks. Miss.” McGonnagal scrutinised him, then stood.

“I want you to get something to eat, Mr. Potter, and then perhaps rest. You look worn out.”

“Yes, miss.” Of course, he hadn’t rested properly in weeks, and he doubted anything would happen today, what with Snape’s detention later. He watched as McGonnagal moved to the head table and saw Dumbledore looking in his direction again. A bowl started to bump against his arm insistently.

Luckily, Hermione entered the hall that moment and saw him. She walked over briskly and sat down, her eyes widening at the warzone of food that surrounded Harry.

“What happened?”

“I—I wasn’t hungry.”

Hermione pursed her lips and regarded the food. “What do you want to eat?”

Harry’s stomach had shrunk to the size of a pea. He shook his head. “I’m really not hungry.”

Hermione took a piece of toast and bit into the edge, then held it out to him.

“You need to eat something. Magic can be very taxing, you know, that’s what I’ve read.”

Harry swallowed down that laughter again and accepted the toast, nibbling along the sides as Hermione talked about what she thought they should research that day.

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Harry and Hermione spent the whole morning in the library. Harry had buried himself into his potions text while Hermione went into raptures over all the wonderful charm books she was finding. They took a break in their reading to explore the back of the library, which Harry liked best. He found hundreds of books, more books than he knew existed. He spent a relaxing few hours there, reading and researching, when Harry checked Hermione’s watch and saw it was eleven-forty-eight.

He promptly jumped up, shoved his wand into Hermione’s hand, and ran as fast as he could to the dungeons. He skidded in front of the door and wondered how long that run of his had taken. Five minutes? Ten? Was he early, or late, or on time? He looked at the door as if it could provide him with answers. And it did.

The door swung open, and an angry looking Snape appeared.

“Potter. Do you need an invitation? Get in here!”

Harry darted past the man and into the room, his hands wrapped in his sleeves to hide their shaking.

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It started out well enough, he supposed, for a detention with Potter. The brat was on time, and once he was told to scrub cauldrons he’d set himself to the task intently. He was jumpy, though, and Severus took to aiming his wand on the wall behind Potter and setting off bangs and booms and other little noises. Every time the boy yelped, jumped, and threw his hands over his head. Then, after a moment, without looking at Snape, he’d return to his work until the boy’s mere presence annoyed Severus again and he’d make another noise.

It was satisfying, yes. Not nearly enough to compensate for the loss of a wand, no, but enough for all the minor irritation and annoyance the boy had caused. When the bangs were no longer enough, he allowed Potter to finish the cauldron he was working on (his eighth, he was a productive bugger), then stood and cleared his throat.

That led to a far more entertaining reaction. Potter, who was in the middle of reaching for the next cauldron, froze. His shoulders tightened, and Snape could see his hand, frozen midair, start to shake. Perfect.

“That’s enough of that, Potter. Get up.”

The boy rose slowly, his eyes fixed warily on Snape’s feet. “Wh—Am I done?”

Snape snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. You haven’t even begun.”

The look that flashed in the boy’s eyes—that was the sort of satisfying he needed. Snape allowed his mouth to curl into what he personally knew was a terrifying smile.

Harry was terrified. He wrapped his sleeves around his hands once more, then swallowed and tried to straighten his shoulders. He ducked his head and stared at the floor.

“Not very brave, are you, Potter?”

Harry didn’t say a word. He knew this tactic. Was that all that was going to happen now? Snape would try to tear him down and Harry would ignore him, just like Uncle Vernon? He hoped so. He could handle that, he thought.

“I suppose that’s the reason Slytherin is saddled with you. Too stupid for Ravenclaw, too spineless for Gryffindor—god only knows why you’re not a Hufflepuff, but I’m sure you’re just not hardworking enough. Pity, that Slytherin house is stuck with someone like you.”

Harry licked his lips and mumbled “P-pity I’m stuck with someplace like Slytherin house.”

He could feel Snape’s gaze sharpen and he mentally kicked himself. Stupid! He always did that with Uncle Vernon, too, he could never keep his stupid mouth shut and he just made everything worse. He bit his lip.

“Oh, that’s right. Little Mr. Potter wanted to be a Gryffindor, didn’t he?” Harry didn’t really care what house he was in, really, but he wished he was in the Dursley house most of all. “Wanted to be in the same house as your parents, hm? Well, you certainly disappointed them.”

Harry felt a little stab where his dreams used to be and he stared at the stones beneath his feet.

“They’re probably spinning in their graves right now.” Snape looked at the boy, frustrated. He wasn’t getting angry. Snape snapped at him. “Wand out, Potter.”

The boy looked up a moment, then ducked his head again. “Haven’t got it.”

Snape felt color rise to his face. “Get out your wand, Potter.”

Harry looked up again. “I haven’t got it! I knew you’d—you’d try to do something, so I left it.”

Snape felt a burst of glee in his gut. “You forgo your right to use it, then.” Harry opened his mouth to ask what that meant, but Snape had whipped his own wand out and Harry’s mouth clicked shut quickly. “Legilimens!”

Hermione Granger bit her lip and scowled at the quill in her hand. In the common room, she’d taken to pretending she’d never written with anything else, because even that horrid Weasley boy could write with a quil without getting little speckles of ink on his hands. He’d already taken the mickey about her being too smart and a goody-goody, she wouldn’t let him taunt her about that. No matter she wrote neater than him any day. But she was in her little nook in the library where she’d spent the morning with Harry and that awful Weasley boy never set foot in there, so she figured it wass safe enough to glare a bit at the quill. And glare she did. If it had been alive, it probably would have squeaked and fled at the sort of look that was being leveled at it. But it was a quill, and didn’t have the ability to squeak or flee, so she threw it down in disgust and peeked at her watch.

Then she bit her lip again, but this time she looked worried instead of frustrated. Her watch read four-fifty-nine.

It had been almost five hours since Harry had dashed from the library madly, his bag swinging behind him and panic written all over his face. It was funny, really, that he was a Slytherin. She had only know him for two or so days and already she could read him like a book. Weasley said Slytherin’s were meant to be sneaky, but Harry just looked awful frightened all the time. She supposed that frightened people were often sneaky, but maybe Harry just wasn’t the average Slytherin. Ron certainly hadn’t thought so at dinner the other day.

She had sat on the fringe of the group again, with Parvati and Lavendar gossiping across the table with Wynnie Press and Anna Dawlish and Neville piling mounds of potatoes on his plate and dunking his sleeves in the gravy from his spot next to her. Weasley’s voice, however, did carry, and Evan, who was a cheerful boy with a jolly cheeks who openly admitted he had almost gone to Hufflepuff, was no mouse either.

“D’you hear him? Right to Snape’s face, he said it, like he hadn’t a care in the world! Bloke’s mis-Sorted, you ask me,” Weasley said, cramming a chicken leg in his mouth. Haightley nodded slowly.

“Can’t believe he did that.”

“Did what?” a third year—Hermione thought it might have been a Weasley, but she hadn’t got their names straight yet—asked curiously.

“Did who?” said another third year—yes, they had to be, they were identical obnoxious red heads—as he stole chicken from Ron’s plate.

Ron didn’t even care. “Harry Potter!”

That was when Hermione really started to pay attention. She liked Harry—he was quiet, really, like her, and he was Muggleborn, sort of, like her, and he didn’t like quills either. Plus, he was terribly small and wide eyed and thin, and Hermione had always been one for strays. She loved underdogs, and Harry was the thinnest, most frightened underdog she had ever met.

Weasley related the whole story as he shoved green beans into his mouth and gulped down pumpkin juice like he was scared it would vanish in front of him. Then again, the way the twins kept pinching food from his plate, never mind that they each had their own, made Hermione wonder if that happened often. It just made her sad about Harry, who was sitting over at the Slytherin table staring wide eyed at a plate piled high with chicken and mashed potatoes and gravy dribbled over everything. His eyes met hers, with a silent plea, and she immediately remembered what she’d promised to do.

Taking a leaf from the Weasley’s book, she took a few chicken legs and dinner rolls and wrapped them in her napkin, still listening out of half an ear. She even nabbed a few chocolate biscuits before the rest of the table descended on the platter. Weasley, spraying biscuit crumbs across the table, finished his tale of Potions and settled happily into his seat.

“Brilliant,” he said happily. “Bloody brilliant. Who’d expect less, though, from Potter? Even if he is a Slytherin.”

Haightley looked thoughtful as he nibbled at his biscuit. “Seemed sort of titchy, to me,” he said, taking a swig of pumpkin juice. “You know—nervy. Couldn’t believe he said it.” He reached for another biscuit and caught sight of Hermione. “You sat next to him, didn’t you, Granger? What’d you think?”

Hermione suddenly found the whole end of the table staring at her and she thanked God that she’d already stashed her little food cache in her knapsack. “About what?”

Evan rolled his eyes. “Potter, of course. Wasn’t he a bit nervy?”

Lavendar scowled at Haightley. “I thought he was dashing! Did you get a good look at his scar, Hermione?”

“Probably didn’t know what it was,” Weasley said, but not unkindly. “Ever heard of Harry Potter, Granger?”

Hermione blushed at all the attention and focused on her fork. “Well—I read some. Before school.”

“Did you see the scar? Was it bloody?” Seamus Finnigan asked. Dean Thomas, her fellow Muggleborn, seemed a little confused, but looked content to merely listen and piece it together later.

“Don’t be stupied, Seamus, it wouldn’t still be bloody!” a second year yelled, throwing a biscuit at Seamus’ head. Seamus leveled a glare.

“Could too be! Curse scars’re awful odd, my mam says they never act predictable.”

“Your mam can shove it—“

“Was it, Hermione?” Lavendar asked. “Does it really look like a lightning bolt?”

“I—I suppose,” Hermione said, feeling the blush spread to her ears. “I wasn’t really looking.”

Ron puffed his chest. “If I’d spotted him, me and Evan would have sat with him first, wouldn’t we, Ev?”

“I wonder why the Slytherin’s weren’t sitting with him,” Parvati frowned. “There were three crammed at one table, remember, Lav? Those two fat boys and the little ratty one.”

“Maybe they’re plotting to kill him! Orders from You-Know-Who!” someone yelled.

“Maybe he’s an evil wizard! You know, my mam’s always said that it’d take someone with twice as much power to—“

“Why’d someone like that kill him in the first place, moron?”

“Don’t call me a moron, Parvati, you moron! Anything’s possible, that’s what my mam always says!”

“You and your bloody MAM, Finnegan!”

Hermione had taken that moment to slip away. But she had walked past Evan, who looked thoughtful, and Ron, who was cramming a last biscuit into his mouth before they too rose.

“You know,” she heard from behind her as she hurried towardss the Slytherin table and Harry, “Potter’s all right. That thing with Snape today, and You-Know-Who. He’s an all right chap.”

“Yeah,” Ron said. “For a Slytherin.”

Evan agreed.

She’d slipped Harry the food and made him eat this morning, too, but then he’d dashed off and not showed up at lunch and neither had Snape. She still didn’t believe with all her heart that a teacher could do that sort of thing. She couldn’t. Back at primary, and here too, it seemed, teacher’s were the only ones that liked her. They didn’t do bad things like regular people.

But Harry had looked so scared, in Potions, and so frightened, when he ran off to his detention…and in Hogwarts, A History it said that the maximum a detention could be allotted for first years was four hours, and it had been nearly five…

With one last glare at her quill, she started to pack up her school bag and, with a determined move, she swung it over her shoulder and marched out of the library and made her way down the staircases until she reached her destination.

The Dungeons.

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Teddy Nott lay on his bed and sighed. At home, that noise was dreaded by the various house elves, his baby sister Lyssa, his mother, his father, his cousin Pip, Mariella the cook, Benjy the gardener, the post man, his crup, Alligator, and last but not least, the Department for the Restriction of Underage Magic. Teddy was one of those boys that gets bored easily and needs to be constantly entertained. His mother had learned, early on, that it was far easier to assign the boy a house elf and wash her hands of it, because he was constantly exploring and getting into dangerous places, even as a toddler. Lila Nott loved her son dearly, but he was a handful, and with the amount of trouble a three year old could get up to in the Nott estate, she was wiser to just let the house elves take care of it. So Teddy, from an early age, had enjoyed being followed around the estate by Woobie the house elf, in hopes that the elf would keep him out of mischief.

It took three broken vases, two overturned Potions, a near fatal tumble down a flight of stares, and an ill advised attempt at swimming in the decorative fish fountain that had convinced Lila and Peranius that this was simply wishful thinking. Peranius, who had himself been a rather adventurous boy, had given Woobie a cushy job overseeing the pastry chef and taken the boy into his own care for two months. In that time, the vases and artwork were all reinforced, the stairs were enchanted to turn into slides in the chance of a tumble, Teddy learned to swim, and Peranius allowed Teddy to overturn several nasty (yet legal) potions onto his head to learn not to do it. After that, Teddy wass allowed the run of the house, and it was the unspoken command that, if Teddy was seen near an unprotected piece of artwork or sneaking into the stables or taking an on purpose tumble down the stairs, to simply let him be. The boy would learn, Peranius was sure, and learn Teddy did. Teddy learned that life is full of many terribly exciting and dangerous things and that it was immensely fun to experience all of them. And when Nott estate ceased to be as dangerous and exciting as he wanted…

Well. The staff soon learned that, upon hearing that sigh, it was far better to entertain Teddy than to explain to Mister Nott later why the Young Mistress was found bobbing in the fish pond, or why the chicken smelled ever so slightly of mango sauce. Master Teddy was to be entertained, or the whole house would be set fire to in a manner of minutes, the cook used to be fond of saying. She stopped saying that after Teddy’s ninth birthday, when he had experimentally held a bit of Self-Wrapping Ribbons over the candles and set fire to the green drawing room.

Teddy was to be entertained, or disasters would happen. This was simply a fact of life. It was with no small sigh of her own the Lila sent Teddy off to Hogwarts, hoping that he’d work out his steam by blowing up Potions and relieved that she wasn’t in charge of him anymore. However, Peranius had warned the boy before he went that Severus Snape was not the sort of man to tolerate his form of entertainment. Nor, Peranius had said firmly, would he be the sort to entertain him. Teddy was on his own, in that respect, and Peranius suggested that the boy take up more reading (which Teddy had always liked, provided there were adventure ideas to be had in the books) and lay low.

Teddy was bored. He was tired of laying low. He hadn’t been entertained ALL WEEK. Zabini, the swot, was writing home to his mama, and Teddy sure didn’t want to try to entertain him. Draco was never very entertaining, not unless you set one of his things on fire or tossed it in the lake or something, and his father had warned him about Hogwarts’ strict codes of conduct concerning fire. Crabbe and Goyle were stupid. So were the girls.

Well. The choice was obvious. Teddy yawned, sighed, cracked his knuckles, and set off to find his new mate and form of entertainment. And he knew exactly where to look. So, in a slightly more cheerful manner, he set off to where he was sure Harry was: the library.

He’d gotten rather good at navigating the dungeons, considering. He liked it there, below ground, and the quiet and cool of it calmed him a bit. He wasn’t nearly as bored as he had been when laying on the bed, and he was sure that, once he had Harry, he’d be able to entertain himself somehow. He cheerfully turned a corner and ran smack into the mudblood from Gryffindor.

He almost snarled at her, but that was such a Malfoy thing to do, and he had promised Harry the night before. So instead he leveled a glare—if she thought she was going to take Harry and his entertainment she had another thing coming! “What’re you doing down here?”

The girl looked a bit upset, actually. Teddy was not a cruel boy. He had a low tolerance for boredom and was a bit spoiled and terribly pure-blooded, but he often took bread crumbs to the decorative fish fountain at the estate and had often been known to smile or force the cook in the kitchens to make small cakes for people who were upset. So it is not terribly surprising that he lost his gruff tone when he saw how worried the girl seemed.

“What’s wrong? Are you lost?” Teddy asked, speaking down as though she were his baby sister, Lyssa. “Do you need a professor?” You had to talk slow to Muggles, his mother always said, otherwise they wouldn’t understand. (Really, Lila had said that Teddy needed to talk slower or the shopkeeps wouldn’t understand what he wanted. But they had been in a Muggle toy shop and Teddy had assumed this meant all Muggles. Since he had never been to another Muggle place and the wizarding stores were warned ahead of time by Peranius, he had assumed it was merely Muggles and spoke to Hermione as such.)

Hermione glared at him a bit, and Teddy surpressed the urge to squeal and flee. Nott’s did not squeal and flee. Teddy was fond of saying that they did NOTT do whatever they did NOTT wish to do. “No I’m not lost. And I’m not stupid, either, so you don’t have to talk to me like that. I was first in my class when I left my primary, you know.”

Teddy rolled his eyes. “Whatever. If you’re not lost—“ he still spoke a little slowly and Hermione looked irritated. “—why’re you here?”

She looked worried again and stopped glaring at Nott and started to scan the hallways again. “I’m looking for Harry.”

Teddy leveled a glare of his own. She was trying to take away his entertainment! “You can’t hang out with him, I’m bored.” Then what she said sunk in. “Why didn’t you check the library? He went up there first thing this morning and I haven’t seen him since.”

Hermione gave him an odd look. “I just came from there, he’s not there. Besides, he had detention today. With Professor Snape.”

Teddy suddenly remembered that. And he remembered all he’d heard from his father about Snape before he started school, and all he had observed and calculated. And he suddenly let slip a rather violent swear word and wheeled about, running and fast as he could towards Snape’s office, Hermione at his heels.

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When they got there, they were both out of breath. Hermione seldom ran, unless it was to chase a boy who had stolen one of her books during lunch, and Teddy had merely run the whole thing in one breath. Teddy was about to bang on the door when it opened of it’s own accord. It flew open, and Teddy was knocked to the floor as Harry Potter ran out of the room. He barely stopped when Teddy fell, merely looked back with eyes that screamed apologies and kept running, fleeing down the hallway and into the labyrinthe tunnels that were the dungeons of Hogwarts.

Snape appeared in the doorway as soon as Teddy was able to pick himself up, and he knocked Teddy down again as he ran to the end of the hallway. He looked both ways, but was unable to figure out which way Harry went.

“POTTER!” he bellowed, and Hermione flinched and grabbed Teddy’s arm, tugging him to his feet. Snape had wheeled around and remembered the two first years that now were frozen in front of his door.

“Granger. Nott.” He swooped down on them, and Teddy could feel Hermione’s hand shaking where it gripped his arm. Or was that his arm shaking? He had met the Potions master a few times before Hogwarts, at the Malfoy’s Winter Solstice parties and at the Bulstrode’s Michaelmas feast, and though the man had always been dour, he had never been so…terrifying. “Where did he go?”

Teddy opened his mouth and closed it. He honestly had not see where Harry had went, he was too busy picking himself up off the ground. He looked at Granger, who was shaking her head.

“We—we don’t know, sir. Potter, he knocked me down, Granger was helping me up—“

“Don’t lie to me.” Snape caught on to both their arms, making a bizarre sort of circle of connection between the three. “Where. Did. He. Go?”

“I don’t know.” Teddy said again, this time in his calculating mode. You did NOTT talk to a Nott like that. There were consequences. He’d seen his father get people into deep trouble at the Ministry for that sort of thing. Nothing you could trace, really, but he’d done it all right. He tried to pull his arm away, and Snape’s grip tightened.

“I won’t have you protecting that little wretch, Theodore.”

“I don’t protect anyone except myself,” Teddy said.

“P-P-P-P-Please, sir,” Hermione stammered out. “I w-w-w-w-was helping him up.” Teddy gave her a look. He knew she wasn’t telling the truth—it was written all over her face.

Snape gave them both a look of pure ice and released them. “I’ll see you in my office now, Nott,” he said. He leveled a glare at the girl. “That means you can go, Granger.”

Hermione squeaked and ran. Teddy watched Snape follow the direction she’d gone with his eyes, and he swallowed slightly and told himself that Nott’s were NOTT scared and did NOTT let anyone intimidate them.

Still, it was a little hard to remember that when the door closed and he was alone in Snape’s office.

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Harry kept running, as fast as he could, he ran past statues and coats of arms and tapestries and torch brackets. He ran and kepy running like Dudley was chasing after him, like Uncle Vernon was trying to run him down in the car, like the snake from the zoo didn’t like him and was trying to nip him with big, poison fangs. He ran and ran and ran, until he could run no more. By that time he was out the front door of the castle, and he took deep puffs of air as he tried to keep running.

He heard someone behind him, calling his name, but he didn’t listen and he just kept trying to run, running and running past the lake and under the trees, and suddenly the sun was gone and it was shady and dark and there were eyes behind him, yellow eyes with dark red pupils and a growl—

Harry was so scared, of the eyes and the castle and everyone in it, that he kicked out and slammed his hands over his eyes and wished, desperately, all he had wished for a week—that he was back at the Dursley’s, that nothing had ever happened, that he was being beat up by Dudley and that Uncle Vernon was yelling about the disgraceful state of his hair and Aunt Petunia was making his whole head balf with her kitchen shears. He wished it was all back to normal.

And, with a loud bang, it seemed to be.