Harry woke suddenly and bit back the moan of pain that tried to work its way out of his throat. The summer without the backup of his friends had made him wary about revealing anything until he had assessed the situation. A quick scan through slitted eyes informed him that he was back in his room at Snape’s cottage. After determining that he was alone Harry took a deep breath and let it out slowly, concentrating on relaxing and riding above the throbbing in his head and side. After a few moments he was able to sit up.

Like a penseive with only one memory in it his thoughts returned to yesterday, replaying the incident in painful detail. Snape’s expression of dismay haunted him as he remembered McNair’s shout and the blur of his wand as the death eater threw the first curse. Harry pitied Snape for having to deal with him and all the problems that always seemed to follow him around. No matter who was stuck with him, he mused, they always ended up with some dark wizard blasting away at them.

As he continued to consider the bad things that had befallen the people who had dared to care about him his thoughts turned to the Dursleys. The muggles had somehow managed to escape the curse of his presence whereas smarter and more talented wizards fell around him like the cards in an exploding snap game. Harry raked his fingers through his tangled hair as he mulled over the apparent dichotomy.

The realization hit him hard and he leaned forward with his head between his knees, swallowing fiercely against the bile rising in his throat. The Dursleys were immune to his affliction because they loathed him. For the ten years he had lived with them they had sustained a steady level of hatred and abuse. They had never failed to find ways to make his life miserable, never overlooked an opportunity to belittle or degrade him. Harry despised them for it but the Dursleys stanch hatred had kept them safe for many years from whatever kind of freak curse he carried. It had been his parent’s and Sirius’ love for him that had gotten them killed.

Snape’s hatred, unwavering for five terms at Hogwarts, had begun to wane as they spent the summer together. Harry had noticed its decline and had rewarded the man by relaxing his vigilance, getting too comfortable and nearly letting that death eater get the best of him. He had started to feel like he was a normal person, deserving of Snape’s reduced animosity. It was that reduction in spite that had made Snape vulnerable to his affliction. Harry’s throat constricted as he recalled the selfish pleasure he had felt when Snape’s assessment of him started to change.

The name the Dursleys used most often to describe him made his stomach clench again and he had to struggle against the renewed desire to retch. Freak. They were right about that too. What other word would describe someone like him who cursed everyone who cared about him to either death or grievous injury? He wondered how Ron and Hermione had escaped this long. It was the one bright spot in this otherwise bleak situation that they were free of his dangerous presence for the summer.

Freak. It was time he accepted the fact that he was a freak. The muggles had recognized that he was different, flawed, but since they were nonmagical they had no idea just what it was that made him so bollixed up. Once he entered the magical world and the issue of Voldemort came to light he should have realized what he was. A weapon. It was ridiculous for him to expect to be a normal person when, in truth he was not. Weapons did not have friends. Weapons did not have homes or deserve the consideration normal people got. The sooner he faced the facts and got on with what he was born to do the better. The longer he waited, cowering in fear from the inevitable, the more people Voldemort would have time to kill. The recognition of his fate made Harry feel a bit of a release and he smiled grimly.

He stretched a bit and this time the moan of pain got past his defenses. He heard steps in the hall and Snape walked into the room. The concern on his normally expressionless face confirmed Harry’s suspicions. The potions master had been fine until he started to care about Harry’s well being. Since he couldn’t even trust the man who hated him most to continue to do so, Harry knew the only solution was to put some physical distance between them.

oOoOoOo

Snape couldn’t believe how quickly the gains of the last couple of weeks could be undone. With one flick of his wand McNair had negated all the progress he had made with his assignment of gaining the boy’s trust. The process had been slow but he had kept at it, treating the boy rather like a potion that needed to be nursed along with plenty of stirring and adjustments to the flame. Harry had gradually opened up a bit and Snape had begun to notice the boy increasing the amount of time he spent at the cottage. More than anything it seemed the boy needed a home, a place to belong.

It was ironic that the day he would finally come back early looking for refuge would be the day McNair would choose to come calling. The sight of the boy dueling the infinitely more experienced death eater was one he would not soon forget. The brat’s magic must be stronger than his academic record indicated. He mused over the implications of that fact and how it fit with the other things he was learning about the boy during their forced cohabitation.

A muffled moan alerted him that Potter was awake. As he entered the room the boy was sitting up in bed with an odd mixture of pain and defiance on his face. Snape asked him how he was feeling and in response Harry rolled out of bed and staggered toward the loo, his boxers slung low on his slim hips. His stumbled a bit and clutched at the mark from McNair’s hex that stood out starkly against the pale skin of his torso. Knowing from experience that it took at least twenty-four hours and multiple potions for a severing curse to stop hurting, Snape didn’t take the boy’s muttered, “I’m fine,” as truth.

When Harry emerged moments later and reached for his clothes Snape said, “You will stay here today and recuperate. I shall contact Arthur and let him know you are unwell.” Snape decided to wait until the boy was feeling better to ask about the auras. The hallmark of a good spy was the ability to wait for the right moment to get information and he prided himself on his talent in that area.

“No. I need to go to work,” Harry rasped. He pulled jeans on over his boxers and grabbed a jumper out of his trunk. Snape watched without comment as Harry tried to raise the shirt over his head but stopped short with a faint whimper as he hit the painful restriction of the healing wound. Instead of giving up as Snape hoped, the boy merely rolled up the garment and slipped it over his head using his right arm only. When he eschewed the issue of socks by sliding his bare feet into his trainers Snape stepped forward and grabbed his shoulder.

“Why must you be so obstinate?” he growled. “Surely your workmates are capable of making due without you for a day.”

“I can’t stay here,” Harry muttered. “It’s not safe.”

Snape bristled. “I assure you, Mr. Potter, you are quite safe here.”

The brat looked up at him from beneath his fringe, his expression saying, ‘It’s not me I’m worried about,’ as clearly as if he had spoken the words aloud. Harry shrugged off Snape’s hand and headed for the door. Snape knew that to keep him here he would have to physically restrain the boy so he elected to let him go. He wondered if Arthur would be perceptive enough to spot the boy’s incapacity and send him home. That led to further speculation as to where he would go if dismissed. The sound of Widget’s high pitched voice asking if ‘Master Harry’ wanted to eat stopped abruptly as if cut off by the slam of the front door.

Snape occupied his time with a particularly difficult potion. As the hours passed and the potion curdled under his distracted fingers Snape finally gave up and headed for the door. Before he could open it he was stopped by the sound of someone knocking. He cast a spell to render the door transparent from the inside out and saw a small, nervous looking boy standing on the stoop. After composing his expression into his best ‘what were you thinking you blithering idiot’ sneer he opened the door with a snap of his wrist. The boy cringed back and stared up at him with round eyes.

“Mr. Wizard?” he quavered.

With an enormous effort Snape managed to refrain from laughing aloud. He started to speak and had to stop as the mirth threatened to bubble up from his diaphragm and out into the air. Desperate for control, he pictured Longbottom qualifying for NEWT potions and all traces of humor were painfully dismissed. Snape drew himself up to his full impressive height and sneered down at the boy. “Yes?”

Making an obvious effort to rein in his fear, the boy gulped and said, “I’m a friend of Ian’s.” He looked down at his shuffling feet and said softly, “I’m a squib.” Snape nodded at this surprising admission and continued to glare down imperiously. After another convulsive swallow the boy continued. “He told me if the dark wizards ever showed up to get him I should come here because you would protect me.” Snape felt his heart skip a beat as the humor of a moment before was replaced with cold terror. In a remote corner of his mind he pictured Potter having this conversation with the quivering boy before him. Stupid Gryffindor.

“Have the dark wizards attacked?” he asked with artificial calm.

“No sir,” the boy assured him. Snape, who hadn’t realized he was holding his breath, sucked in a lungful of air. “There are no dark wizards. I’m here because Ian said you were his guardian and, well, I think he needs you right now. As a guardian, I mean.”

The boy resumed his shuffling and Snape ground his teeth in frustration. When the youngster did not continue the potion master barked, “Will you kindly get to the point, boy?” When this seemed to create even an even deeper silence Snape rolled his eyes and said, “Let’s start with your name.”

The slight blond looked up at Snape with a tentative smile. “I’m Kelly,” he said. “Maybe Ian has mentioned me. We’re friends now.”

Snape took a firm hold on his patience and said, “Ian and I do not usually discuss his friends.” The boy’s crestfallen expression made Snape worry that he might leave before telling him why he was here. He scrambled for time by saying, “Ian isn’t very forthcoming. Surely you’ve noticed that about him.”

That apparently was the right thing to say. With a conspiratorial smile the boy said, “Yes, sir. That’s why I came here today. Ian needs help and I’m sure he won’t ask for it.”

“What exactly is the problem, Kelly?” Snape asked. He crossed his fingers and hoped that had been enough social interaction to get the boy to spill his story. Dealing with members of Potter’s tenacious fan club could be difficult at times. Their determined cheerfulness and complete lack of artifice made them hard for a Slytherin to fathom.

The boy frowned. “When Ian showed up for work today he wasn’t feeling well.” Snape nodded to persuade the boy to continue. “Arthur saw how much he was hurting and told him to go home for the day. Ian took off on his bike,” he said with another grimace, “but as I was walking home I saw the bike behind one of the boarder’s barns so I went in to check on him.”

It seemed like the boy needed more encouragement so Snape said, “Was he in the barn?” This was taking an inordinate amount of time. He hoped Potter wasn’t bleeding.

“Yes,” Kelly said, “he was in one of the stalls. I woke him up and tried to get him to go home but he just kept asking me if I was serious.” The boy looked up at him with an earnest expression. “I’m worried that he might be sick or something.”

“He kept asking if you were serious?” Snape mused. With a jolt he realized what Potter had really been asking and felt some of the fear trickle back in. If the boy’s condition was bad enough to cause him to mistake this whelp for Black then he clearly needed help. McNair always said his hexes had a little something extra on them. Snape was starting to wish he had asked the man just what he meant by that.

He gently legilimized the boy and got a good image of where Potter was holed up. “I’ll handle it, lad,” he said as he stepped out the door and closed it behind him. “Thank you for alerting me to the problem.” He urged the boy down the steps and as soon as he had turned toward the lane Snape apparated.

Appearing in the main aisle of the barn Snape was relieved to find no one there to witness his arrival. Obliviating a dozen or so muggles might show up on the ministry’s restricted spell radar. He went directly to the stall he had seen in Kelly’s memory and slid the door aside. A smallish gray mare looked up from placidly chewing her hay and stared at him hopefully. He looked around the corner and there, under the feed tub, with his back to the wall sat Potter, wand out and eying him with a wary expression. The boy looked quite a bit worse than he had that morning. His hair made a stark contrast against his pale forehead where it was stuck down with sweat, his breathing looked labored, and he was shivering.

Snape watched the boy struggle to speak, his mouth opening and shutting a few times before he said, “Snape,” in a hoarse voice. Taking that as permission to help, the potion master started to move into the stall. Harry tried to scramble backwards, his feet digging furrows in the straw as he pressed back against the rough wood. “Stop,” he rasped with his wand trained on Snape’s heart.

Snape sneered and said, “I am heartily sick of you threatening me with that, Potter. We both know you don’t have the balls to hex me.” He started to move forward again but paused when Harry dropped his wand and pointed his finger at him instead. He knew the boy’s wandless magic was unpredictable and also unfettered by the threat of discovery from the ministry. The idea of being blasted around like he was the previous afternoon was unpleasant to say the least.

“Get out of here, Snape,” Harry whispered.

As he processed the brat’s request Snape began to get angry. The boy’s emotional barriers had gradually fallen over the time he had spent at the cottage but now he could see them in his eyes just as strong as they had been on day one. The waste, the incredible waste, grated against Snape’s nerves and made him injudicious. Without his usual Slytherin-subtlety Snape spat out, “What happened to your learning to accept help when you need it, boy?”

Potter glared at him with his arm still extended. Magic thrummed about the stall causing the horse to shift her feet nervously. “Don’t call me that, Snape,” he said in a low tone.

With a snort of cruel laughter Snape said, “You need to learn develop a thicker skin, boy. A weakness like that draws abuse like shit draws flies.” When the brat did not react Snape asked in a scathing tone, “What are you doing here, Potter?” As he attempted to get his anger in check Snape wondered if all the idiots in the boy’s fanclub felt this insidious loss of self-control before they succumbed to his thrall.

The brat finally lowered his arm. “Dumped my bike,” he said. “Came in here to wait ‘till I felt better. Not working yet,” he muttered as he leaned back and closed his eyes. Harry shuddered and wrapped his arms around himself as he settled back into the corner. “Go ‘way, Snape. Lemme sleep.”

Severus’ anger began to evaporate as he sank down to his haunches. The boy’s expression of defiance didn’t quite cover up the obvious pain he was feeling. “Let’s get you back to the cottage,” he murmured. Potter’s green eyes opened up again and regarded him blearily.

“Go. Away.” With a snarl Snape stood up. Before he could begin a tirade Harry said, “I’ve never asked you for anything.” He closed his eyes and took a breath. “I’m asking you now to leave me alone.” Snape was struck by the hopeless expression on the boy’s face. He backed away a bit and considered his options. Certainly Dumbledore would not want him to leave the brat here alone and suffering but would he condone stunning him in order to bring him in? The etiquette of a situation like this was beyond his poor grasp of acceptable social behavior.

Potter interrupted his thoughts. “Will I die from this hex?”

Surprised, Snape spoke without thinking. “No.”

“Will I suffer any permanent harm if I don’t get treatment right away?” The unspoken threat of ending up like the Longbottoms hovered in the air between them.

Unable to formulate a lie with the brat staring at him so openly, Snape said, “No, you will not suffer any permanent harm.”

Even though he was very obviously hurting the boy smiled at that bit of truth. “Thanks,” he said and Snape knew he was thanking him for being honest, not for the information. Potter’s expression sobered and he continued. “Then just let me be here, alone. I’ll be back as usual at dark.”

“What is so important about staying here and avoiding treatment?” Snape asked. The situation made no sense. “If you intend to return later then why not come back now and let me begin the therapy?” Snape ground his teeth in frustration. He prided himself in being able to understand and anticipate people’s motives.

Harry stared at him with what looked like consternation. “Don’t you get it, Snape?” he asked, eyes wide and fixed on his. As the boy searched his expression Snape saw comprehension dawn abruptly. The brat smirked a bit then said, “It’s taken me a while to catch on but I figured you knew all along.” With a shrug and a sigh he settled back against the wall saying, “Whatever. Go home, professor. I’ll be there later.”

It felt like Snape was pounding his forehead against an invisible wall. The boy’s actions made no sense at all and the notion that Potter thought he should know what he was babbling about was maddening. The information that he had gathered over the course of the summer swirled around his head but refused to congeal into anything that could explain the brat’s behavior. The Granger girl said he had problems with self esteem. He had left St. Mungo’s on his own in a rather well thought out escape. On more than one occasion he had refused treatment of painful injuries. Grief over his godfather’s death had him nearly incapacitated. All these facts and more, seemingly unrelated, refused to get together and, well dammit, relate!

As Snape considered the facts he felt Potter’s eyes upon him. The boy looked worn out. “Please go,” he said. “I really want to rest and I can’t do it while you’re here.” With a disgusted sigh Snape apparated home without another word.

-

Snape waited and pondered the boy’s actions. As the hours fled he was no nearer to understanding what Potter meant. One thing he was sure of, whatever it was wasn’t good. Any conclusion that made the boy believe it was best for him to camp out in a horse stall instead of seeking treatment was obviously flawed. Potter’s inability to see that frustrated him to no end. He occupied his time by brewing a few potions he thought the boy would need when he deigned to come home. Snape caught himself referring to his cottage as ‘home’ to Potter and ground his teeth. “Nauseating,” he said aloud before gratefully transferring his attention back to the potion he was working on.

oOoOoOo

Harry drifted in and out of consciousness. Persistently hazy from fever he knew he felt retched but shouldn’t go back to Snape’s for some important reason. Unable to get his mind around much more than that he alternately shivered and sweated through the day. His side ached abominably despite the potion Snape had given him last night.

When the sun started to sink low on the horizon Harry found himself in a relatively lucid state so he decided to make the trip back to the cottage. He pulled his aching body up out of the straw and staggered into the aisle. The waning sunlight stung his bloody eyes as he mounted the bike and headed for the cottage. Cool air generated by the bike’s speed lifted his spirits and cleared his mind enough to keep him on the road for the journey but when he arrived he began to wilt again as his temperature spiked. By the time the bike was resting on its kickstand Harry had skated back into the hazy world of fever dreams.

The three steps leading to the front door looked like Mount Everest to the tiring young wizard. He fervently wished he could just apparate up them and to the door but since that was impossible he summoned his strength and began his assault upon the summit. To his immense relief the door opened and a tall, dark haired wizard stood framed in the doorway, arms crossed and cloak swaying slightly in the breeze.

oOoOoOo

“Sirius?” Potter asked with a hopeful tone. His expression tugged at Snape’s unwilling heartstrings. He quickly steeled himself against the boy’s insidious influence. A strange desire to bask in the glow of that smile had to be squelched as he found himself considering ‘being’ Black for a few moments. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have someone look at you so.

“No Potter, it’s Professor Snape,” he said quickly. As predicted, the sunny expression faded. Snape did not expect to feel the pang of regret that yanked at his heart. Before he could berate himself for ridiculous sentimentality the boy spoke again.

“Pro-professor? Is it time for class?” The confusion on Potter’s face made Snape’s emotions, unstable from lack of use, shift to anger. He grabbed Harry’s shoulder with the force of that fury but immediately gentled his grip as he felt the heat of fever through the fabric of the boy’s jumper. What had McNair added to his severing hex to produce such a result? A momentary feeling of professional envy surged through Snape before he returned his attention to the boy who was trying to pry his hand away.

“Come inside, Potter,” Snape said as he attempted to master his anger. He wondered if all the idiots in the boy’s fanclub felt this insidious loss of self-control before they succumbed to his thrall. With a sneer forced on his face he watched the shivering boy stagger up the stairs and into the house.

As he began to rummage through his robes for a fever reducing potion, Snape said, “You should not have left the cottage, Potter.” His hand closed around the familiar flask and he held it out to the boy. Eager to get the boy out of his sight so he could stop the unpleasant seesawing of his emotions, Snape said, “Take this and then I’ll help you back to your room.”

The brat eyed the potion but before he could speak Snape said, “Don’t give me any rot about ‘rules,’ Potter. You’ll take this potion one way or another.” The boy snarled but accepted the vial and drank. The effects were immediate. Snape was relieved to see the glassy appearance leave the boy’s eyes as the rasping sound of his breathing faded to normal.

“Thanks,” Harry said. “I can manage from here.” He straightened up, one hand clutching the nearby coat rack in a white knuckle grip. Snape watched color start to come back into the brat’s cheeks and awareness to his eyes. As the boy started to press past him Snape felt his anger returning. The boy’s rejection pushed at him in ways he didn’t like.

“Clearly you have forgotten your agreement to allow me to assist you in recovering from this,” he said with some of his frustration leaking out in his tone.

Potter stepped back against the wall and eyed him assessingly. “That was weakness on my part,” he said. His face was a mask, devoid of emotion. Snape ground his teeth in frustration, preferring the fever addled Potter to this stone walling one.

“That wasn’t weakness,” he snapped, “it was reality. You need help to get through this. Magical help,” he corrected as he saw Potter start to protest. “These muggles might want to help you but you’re a wizard, boy, and your problems are something they can neither comprehend nor contend with.”

The boy gave him a venomous look and started to walk past him again but Snape stepped into his path. He saw Harry flinch as their shoulders met, he’d forgotten about the wound from the severing curse as his anger took over. Drat the boy, he thought, for hiding everything from him and for manipulating him again. Any normal wizard would be begging for his help. And that, he reminded himself, is the problem. Potter isn’t normal, not when it comes to issues of trust and his own well being.

Snape tamped down his ire and gently grasped Harry’s shoulders, ignoring for a moment the pain he knew it would cause the boy. He waited with all the patience he could muster for Harry to make eye contact with him. When the green eyes finally met his Snape said, “Talk to me, Potter. Why are you pulling away?”

Harry looked at him for a moment longer and Snape held his breath, shaken by the depth of emotion he saw hidden there. He wondered if some of it was his own, reflected back at him by the glossy surfaces. The boy dropped his eyes and shrugged awkwardly. As he spoke he rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “I just got too comfortable,” Harry grunted through clenched teeth. “It won’t happen again.”

“So you are saying that McNair’s presence in my cottage was due to your comfort level being too high? Forgive me, Potter, if that just doesn’t make sense to me,” Snape snapped, his anger struggling loose from his grip on it. His fingers dug into the boy’s shoulders until he mastered his emotions and was able to relax his hold, to Potter’s obvious relief.

Harry sighed and shifted his feet. His discomfort was obvious but he still refused to ask for help. Snape seethed but made himself wait for the boy’s response. “That’s not why he was there but if I had been more careful…”

“What, McNair might have lived? Merlin, boy! McNair chose his path long ago and he knew what his end would be.” Snape released the boy with a little shove and waved his arms in uncharacteristic agitation. Frustration was making his blood boil. “Is there no end to your guilt complex?”

“If I had been more careful you wouldn’t have been hurt!” The boy’s hands moved over his torso, fitfully tugging at his jumper over the area of his wound. “I couldn’t stand it if anyone else dies for me. I just couldn’t take it.” Snape tensed as he watched Potter’s eyes glide over the exit he was blocking. When the boy leaned against the wall and slid down to a sitting position Snape relaxed marginally.

In an attempt to steer the conversation on to safer ground Snape asked, “How are you feeling, Potter?”

The boy’s automatic, “Fine,” did little to dispel Snape’s irritation.

“You feel like dragon dung and the wound from McNair’s hex is aching and burning like hell. Is that perhaps a bit more accurate, Mr. Potter?” The brat stared at him with his shuttered eyes for a moment before nodding. Snape smirked and said, “So what was so hard about that?”

“Took the healing potion,” the boy muttered. “Should be alright by now.”

Snape’s patience was at an end. “When was the last time Madame Pomfrey gave you just one potion, Potter? Did you think that was just to keep you in the infirmary longer?” The boy’s expression showed that was exactly what he thought.

“I don’t need coddling,” Harry said as he nervously raked his hand through his hair. “I’ll be fine.” He moved to get up and Snape shoved him back, hard. That drew a surprised sob of pain from the boy and Snape felt an unwelcome burst of satisfaction at having breeched his defenses. After a few seconds of harsh breathing and clutching his side Potter raised accusing eyes and spoke.

“Bloody hell, Snape,” he rasped. “What was that for?”

Snape stood in front of the boy, breathing raggedly. His anger spiraled out as quickly as it had arisen, leaving him feeling empty. He tried to collect his thoughts into some semblance of their usual, orderly arrangement. Pushing the boy had been purely instinctual and he tried to come up with a reason for Potter and for himself. The idea that he wanted to see the brat squirm with pain scared him; that couldn’t be the real motive behind his actions. Unable to come up with anything, Snape turned away and ground out, “Go to your room. I will bring the necessary potions.”

He heard Potter use the wall to get himself up and, after a few moments of what Snape assumed was painful regrouping, the boy walked away without a word. When he heard the mattress take the boy’s weight he finally trusted himself to move. After administering the potions to the still silent boy he returned to the parlor where the half empty bottle of firewhiskey waited.

oOoOoOo

As Snape turned to go Harry sank back into the pillows. The healing draughts had already begun to work and he was feeling pleasantly sleepy. The sight of the potion master’s gaunt form framed in the doorway, still tense from some repressed emotion, gave him an unexpected feeling of security. He knew without a doubt, that when he woke up the man would be there, irritable and caustic as ever, to take care of what he needed. To take care of him, weapon or not. He nearly laughed at the idea.

Looking at Snape’s retreating back he saw that same greasy haired, yellow- toothed git that he and Ron had hated for five years. But as he looked his perception …shifted… and he saw something else too. The greasy haired git was still there but there was something else: a man who did what he thought Harry needed whether Harry liked it or not. He never figured Harry was too young or too fragile or cared for him too much to burden him. He just told him the truth as he saw it, the unfiltered, unadulterated truth. He didn’t let Harry get away with anything either because he probably thought Harry needed the discipline in order to deal with the rest of his fucked-up life.

Snape’s definition of what Harry needed didn’t always coincide with what Harry thought he needed but in the long run he had to admit it had always worked out. Throughout all the spiteful remarks, the pranks, and the full out hatred Harry had shown the man he had proved to be a steadfast supporter of the Order and, if only by default, of Harry himself. Even the Occlumency lessons, although harsh in the extreme, had been Snape’s best effort to teach someone he probably thought was a worthless shirker.

So as he looked at the hateful potions master with his sallow skin and stained nails he saw something else layered over that. Here was someone you could trust to do what he thought was right without fail. That, he figured, was the thing that made Dumbledore so sure of his loyalty. Snape had deviated from that once when he’d joined the death eaters and now he was prepared to pay the price, whatever it was. Even if it meant babysitting a snot nosed Gryffindor for the entire summer, Harry thought with a sleepy smirk. Too bad that attitude was going to get him killed.