Petunia Dursley sniffed in irritation. Tomorrow she was to send her dear Dudley to summer school, and unfortunately, the boy as well. She had thought about keeping her nephew at home, but realized that it would look highly suspicious to the neighbors if only Dudley went.

‘I’ve provided food, clothes, and a home for that boy,’ she thought indignantly, ‘and now I have to pay for him to go to summer school too. It isn’t right.’

A sly smile crossed her face as she thought of fitting retribution. Both the boys needed haircuts. She would cut Dudley’s normally, and as for the boy, well, it wasn’t her fault if the scissors accidentally slipped…

Nine year old Harry groaned in remembrance as he awoke in his cupboard. Yesterday night Aunt Petunia had decided to cut—or mangle—Harry’s hair, claiming that it was too messy. After the haircut, Harry felt the top of his head tentatively. Instead of a normal haircut like Dudley’s, there were a few streaks of fuzzy hair in some places, while in other places Petunia had given him a couple bald spots. He had looked at his aunt incredulously, but she only pushed him away viciously and walked off, her nose high in the air.

This morning, Harry dreaded going to his first day of summer school. If the other students had laughed at his large clothing and taped glasses before, his horrible haircut would only give them more ammunition. He grimaced at the sight of his reflection, then schooled his expression into a neutral one. No sense in giving Dudley an even greater satisfaction of gloating. He bent down, lowering his head, as he washed his hands and face.

After wiping himself with a towel while avoiding the mirror, he stood still in front of the bathroom door, steeling himself for Dudley’s raucous laughter and his aunt’s smug smile. He closed his eyes for a moment, wishing for all it was worth that his hair was back to the normal, messy locks that stuck out every which way. He sighed though—his wishes never come true, after all—and slowly opened the door to make his way to the kitchen and start making breakfast for his relatives.

Twenty minutes later, he finished cooking breakfast and gently set three heaping plates on the table. A piece of bacon had somehow made its way to his mouth while he was cooking, and he was thankful no one had seen. He was starving after being sent to bed without dinner after his disastrous haircut yesterday. He stood still at one end of the table, hearing Aunt Petunia call his uncle and cousin down to breakfast.

“Boy!” she called a second later, coming into the kitchen herself, “Go get Dudley’s backpa…” Her words were cut off by a startled shriek at she caught sight of Harry.

Harry just stared confusedly back at his aunt, taking note of her wide eyes and shaking finger pointed straight at him.

“Your…your…ha…hair!” she stuttered. She seemed to notice how idiotic she sounded, stiffened, then opened her mouth to yell, “How dare you bring your freakiness into our house?! Vernon!” She ran out of the room to get her husband.

Harry didn’t move, puzzled, as he doubted that Aunt Petunia was talking about the bald spots on his head that she herself created. Deducting so, he cautiously raised up his right hand to touch his head. Instead of meeting empty space, like he expected, he felt the normal wild tufts of hair. His eyes widened. He pinched himself, then touched his hair again. Yup, it was exactly how it felt the day before and the day before that. Strange, he thought, it was horrendous when he had looked in the mirror earlier. His mind worked quickly, then came to a halting stop when it found an improbable reason.

‘Could it be…the wish…?’ one part of him whispered incredulously.

‘No…it can’t be, that’s impossible,’ another, more sensible part of him denied.

But Aunt Petunia’s reaction was strange. She was surprised at first, but the surprise quickly turned to anger, almost as if she half expected this strange showing of…magic? Was that why his Uncle and Aunt so forcibly prohibited the use of the M-word—because they knew themselves that magic truly existed? Harry’s head felt like it was going to burst for all the questions whirling around inside, but his thoughts were soon interrupted by a loud shout of “Boy!” from a familiar voice.

Harry slowly backed against the wall as large stomping noises rapidly approached the kitchen. Uncle Vernon paused for a moment in shock after witnessing his nephew’s hair for himself, but he immediately continued his rampage. He stepped menacingly toward Harry, and his hand tightly grabbed the boy’s collar in a meaty fist.

“Boy!” Vernon sputtered again, while Harry dazedly wondered at the mind capacity of the man before him, having to repeat the same word twice. “Boy,” he repeated once more, “What did you do to your hair, you freak?”

“I should think it would be obvious,” Harry muttered under his breath, while he wondered if he had gone crazy, opposing Vernon like that. Well, too late now.

Vernon’s eyes bulged as if he couldn’t conceive that his nephew had just talked back to him.

“You being smart, boy?” he hissed, lifting the boy up by the collar and slamming his head into the wall, and smirking as he saw the boy wince at the pain. “Change your hair back,” he whispered dangerously, putting his face an inch away from Harry’s.

Harry closed his eyes; he could feel his uncle’s hot breath and the bits of spittle that flew angrily from his mouth as he talked.

Vernon seemed to get even madder when his nephew didn’t answer. He slammed the boy’s head into the wall again. “Change it back, freak!”

Harry looked straight into his uncle’s narrowed eyes, trying not to show the pain and dizziness he felt. “I can’t help it,” he said softly, “I don’t know how.”

His uncle growled as he saw his nephew’s defiance. The audacity of the boy! He was about to slam the boy’s head again, but was stopped, disappointedly, by his wife.

“What?” he grunted at her, irritated at the interruption, but pausing in his actions.

“Put him down Vernon,” Petunia said, “You can deal with him later. But now, if we don’t hurry, dear Dudders is going to be late for his first day. You don’t want that, do you?”

Vernon set Harry down reluctantly. “Alright, Pet,” he grumbled. His eyes turned back to bore into his nephew’s. “But don’t think you’re getting away with this. Just wait until I come home…” He sneered evilly.

Harry turned his face away, his lips pressed tightly together, not trusting himself to speak without insulting his uncle.

“Come on, boy! Go get Dudders’ things and wait by the door.” Aunt Petunia ordered. “And no breakfast for you, after that scene you caused.” She shuddered as she glanced once more at the top of his head.

Harry nodded, suddenly very glad that he had secretly eaten that slice of bacon.

It was a common and unsurprising scene in the Dursley residence: nine year old Harry Potter sitting in his cupboard, belly empty and aching. However, the excited gleam in his eye instead of the usual cold indifference was something entirely new. He stared at the old pocket mirror he had snatched earlier while cleaning Aunt Petunia’s room, thinking back on the day’s strange events.

After somehow turning his hair back to the way it used to be before the haircut, he endured a normal day at school, normal for him at least—which meant the usual name-calling and Harry-hunting by Dudley and his gang. He felt greatly comforted, though, by the fact that he didn’t have bald spots instead of hair.

Sadly, Uncle Vernon didn’t forget about the hair incident when he returned home from work. Not that Harry thought he would forget, but it was nice to hope sometimes. The man seemed to be in a good mood though, for him at least—just gave Harry a few punches and a warning, sending back to his cupboard after serving dinner.

Harry felt his stomach complain loudly over the missed meal.

“Oh well,” he thought, “At least Aunt Petunia packed me half a sandwich for lunch, which eased the emptiness a little bit.”

“But nevermind that,” he scolded himself for unnecessarily thinking about food, the tastiness of food, the deliciousness of…stop, please. “Back to the subject at hand, or rather, away from his aching belly.

He gave a half smile as he remembered the magic? was it? that took place this morning. Throughout the entire day, his thoughts had been looking forward to this very moment, when he could finally test what had occurred. Part of him steeled himself for a big disappointment if nothing happened, but he couldn’t deny the anticipation running through his veins as he stared at the black-haired, green-eyed boy in the mirror.

“There’s nothing to lose,” he reassured himself. “After all, if it doesn’t work, I’ll just be the same good-for-nothing freak.”

“But—if it does work,” he put his arms around himself and squeezed in hope, “I’ll be a good-for-nothing freak with more freakiness.” He grinned fiercely. “More freakiness sounds good.”

Now to start by choosing a different hairstyle. Harry cocked his head slightly to the left in thought, one hand distractedly rubbing a small bruise on his shoulder.

“Aha!” he whispered loudly, raising a finger into the air. He would try to turn his hair into a mohawk. Tommy, a boy in his summer school class, had just gotten one yesterday. He giggled at the thought of Aunt Petunia’s reaction to his hair in a mohawk. Well, not that he would actually show her his new hairstyle if it worked, but it was nice—and amusing—to think about, anyway.

Harry then closed his eyes and took a deep breath, focusing on Tommy’s mohawk, being sure to remember all the details. Ready. He reopened his eyes and looked concentratedly at his visage, whispering, “I wish my hair would change into a mohawk,” all the while picturing Tommy’s hair in his mind.

His eyes grew wide as saucers as he stared in the mirror, witnessing his hair morph not only into a perfect mohawk, but also turn from a pure black to a sun-bleached blonde.

“Wicked!” he almost yelled, but remembered in time to tone it down to an excited whisper. That’s right! Tommy’s hair was a blonde color, and since he was picturing Tommy’s hair, all the way from the style down to the color, his hair changed into blonde also.

But forget about all the how’s and why’s; it actually worked! Magic really and truly did exist! Who cared about being freaky—this kind of freaky he didn’t mind a tiny bit. He focused on changing his hair back to its original form. This time, the shift came much faster. He smiled again. His sleepy eyes were filled with glee, and he fell quickly into a sound sleep, dreaming of running around the block with rainbow-colored hair and Aunt Petunia chasing after him with a pair of scissors, yelling, “What will the neighbors think?!” Of course, she would never catch him. Rainbow colored hair was too good to be cut off; everyone knew that.

The next couple of days, whether he was cleaning for Aunt Petunia, being chased by Dudley at school, or being yelled at by his uncle, Harry always looked forward to the times his uncle would order him to his cupboard. Even if he went there without meals or after a beating, his little pocket mirror was his new best friend. That—and his magic, he had decided to call it. Each time he changed his appearance, it went a little faster. He discovered that he could also morph the color and shape of his eyes, as well as his bone structure—though that was a little harder.

While Harry was going through all his experiments in the small cupboard, an idea gradually began to take form in his mind to make his lackluster life a bit more bearable. He decided that in the cupboard he would be an entirely different person. He wouldn’t be Harry, the freak that nobody wanted. Changing his appearance in the cupboard would just make the fantasy more real. While outside the cupboard, he would take his duties and punishments without giving the Dursleys the satisfaction of complaining or crying. However, inside his cupboard, he could be someone else, someone that had exciting adventures and friends that cared for him.

He decided to take on the name Oliver; having liked the name and character after reading Oliver Twist in the school library during several lunch times. As for Oliver’s appearance, he chose his favorite combination during his expermentations—coppery red hair that stuck out all over his head like it was alive (he had gotten rather fond of his messy hair after Aunt Petunia had attempted to chop it off) and cold, ice blue eyes that were slightly slanted.

“Fire and ice,” he said softly and smiled. “I’m a contradiction no matter what appearance I take. Magic and all”

His infamous scar had also disappeared, even though he could still feel it if he touched his forehead. Without seeing it on his face, he felt even more like a different person. He looked at his new form with awe and anticipation. In here, by himself, he could act like the real Harry, without having to hide his emotions to prevent taunting and ridicule from the Dursleys. He didn’t have to keep an indifferent expression on his face when Uncle Vernon slapped him around. He could just be a normal boy, with incredible adventure: with monsters to fight and innocents to rescue, of course.

Harry looked at the mirror again, taking in his appearance then laying back against the wall of the cupboard to get into a comfortable position.

“My name is Oliver,” he began. “I am an orphan. My parents did not die as drunkards in a car crash. My father was murdered trying to save my mother and me. My mother died shielding me with her body. I wasn’t abandoned or ignored. I was loved.”

After the creation of Oliver, life became much more bearable for Harry. Even though he was bullied by Dudley’s gang and forced to do endless chores, these things ceased to matter when he changed his appearance, looked deep into his pocket mirror, and became a totally different person. Uncle Vernon seemed to be in a forgiving mood recently also, which luckily meant only a couple cuffs to the head a day; nothing particularly harsh, thankfully. Harry’s meals were pretty regular, too; though he only received scraps, Aunt Petunia was generous enough to feed him three times a day. Oliver went on many adventures and defeated many enemies, rescued many innocents. So all in all, it was a nice couple of weeks that Harry enjoyed. He savored it, knowing that good times and bad times came in cycles, so might as well be grateful for the good times while they lasted.

And the bad times came abruptly.

It was a normal day—

Harry woke up and cooked breakfast for the family. He accidentally burned a bit of the bacon, nothing extremely out of the ordinary. Uncle Vernon yelled at him as a result, and the man waddled on to work after kissing his wife goodbye and solemnly shaking Dudley’s hand. Aunt Petunia drove Harry and Dudley to summer school. He endured Harry Hunting during the school recess. It was a lucky day, too; he managed to get away from the large mass of his cousin without too many bruises. After school, he did some chores and “helped” Dudley do his homework.

Uncle Vernon usually came home at exactly six o’clock in the evening. When he came home today at 6:27 (a terribly obscure number for such a prim and ordered family like the Dursleys), Harry grew a little wary, slightly sensing that something was out of place. His uncle also normally whistled a little tune while hanging up his coat and slapped Harry on the side of the head with a joking grin on a his face, though Harry himself never thought it was very funny. But it was ordinary—a routine of sorts.

When Uncle Vernon came home today, though, he didn’t whistle any tune. He had a kind of stunned look on his face and didn’t take off his coat. He didn’t even reach out to give Harry a slap. Uncle Vernon’s odd behavior didn’t go unnoticed. Harry, Aunt Petunia, and even Dudley tried to steer clear of him.

Dinnertime, however, couldn’t be avoided, so Aunt Petunia and Dudley both hesitantly sat down at the table, Petunia motioning for Harry to stand in his usual position. When Uncle Vernon took a seat, still under some sort of shock, Dudley took it as a signal to start shoveling food into his mouth. After all, Dudley thought, food solved everything.

The rest of the family—Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, that is; Harry just stood there—began to eat, like civilized beings of course. The meal passed in silence, with Harry looking down at the floor willing his stomach not to growl, Dudley continuing to munch away, and Aunt Petunia shooting nervous glances at her husband.

Finally, she couldn’t bear the uncomfortable lack of noise any longer (or perhaps she grew a bit nauseous since the only thing she could watch was Dudley’s barbarism).

“Vernon,” Aunt Petunia said timidly, “is there anything wrong?”

He raised his eyes from his food and looked at her, shaking his head slightly to clear it.

“I got demoted to one of the lowest positions in the company,” Uncle Vernon murmured, his eyes gradually focusing. The bewilderment gradually faded from his face, with anger and indignation slowly taking its place.

Aunt Petunia gasped, raising a hand to her mouth.

“It was one of those young, smart-ass brats,” he hissed, the pent up confusion and fury suddenly exploding. He banged a fist down on the dining table.

Dudley grunted in surprise as some of his food bounced out of his plate from the forceful impact, then turned back to eating.

“Came swaggering in only two days ago,” Uncle Vernon snapped, voice level gradually increasing, “and the boss gave him my job today; handed it to him just like that.”

His eyes grew wilder with every word.

“I deserved it!” he yelled. “I worked for ten years in that position, and now I’m ousted by some kid who’s just been hired?!”

‘Actually,’ Harry thought to himself, ‘you bribed people in order to stay in that position, but I guess I shouldn’t say that out loud since I’m probably going to be blamed for his demotion anyway.’

“There’s something wrong here,” Uncle Vernon continued, “It just doesn’t make any sense!”

His beady eyes roamed around the table, finally landing on Harry with an accusatory gaze.

‘Here it comes,’ Harry sighed while trying to look as innocent as possible.

“It’s the bloody freak’s fault!” his Uncle yelled, the scapegoat found.

‘I knew it,’ the boy muttered, defeated. ‘I’m doomed.’

Uncle Vernon stood, knocking his chair to the floor. “Come here, freak!” He grabbed Harry’s shirt and dragged him into the family room. “You’re going to get what’s been coming to you for a long time.”

Aunt Petunia and even Dudley watched riveted in their seats, unable to turn their eyes away. Uncle Vernon’s left hand held his nephew in place while his right punched Harry in the stomach, making him double over.

He clipped Harry in one eye, but Aunt Petunia shrilled, “Anywhere but the face, Vernon. He has to go to school tomorrow.”

‘I love you too, Aunt Petunia,’ Harry thought, mentally rolling his eyes.

Uncle Vernon glared at her words, but he focused his blows on the boy’s body. Harry hissed as he felt something crack—a rib?—but refused to cry out.

‘Hmm,’ his mind felt detached, ‘Uncle Vernon never went this far before…’

His Uncle seemed to get angrier at Harry’s silence. His crazed eyes bore into Harry’s own as the barrage increased. The large man gave an almighty punch to the boy’s midsection, accidentally letting go of his hold on Harry’s collar. Due to the force of the blow, Harry couldn’t help but fall straight backwards, heading straight for Aunt Petunia’s antique table.

His aunt screamed in warning. Uncle Vernon’s eyes widened, perhaps thinking of the cost of the thing, and did the first thing that came to mind—he grabbed Harry’s arm as hard as he could.

There was a crack.

Harry bit into his lip, tasting blood, as stars danced in front of his eyes. Was that crack just now his arm breaking? Well, whatever it was, it hurt! His uncle, startled at the sound and his nephew’s limp arm, let go of Harry’s arm in shock.

As his head banged into the table, he squeezed his eyes shut at the pain. ‘That helped, Uncle. Very smart; just let go of me…Well, at least the table didn’t break. Aunt Petunia would have killed me.’ He groaned softly as he rolled onto the ground and lay there to catch his breath.

“What do I do now?” Uncle Vernon yelled, slightly unnerved.

Aunt Petunia had run over to them and began screaming at her husband, “You broke his arm, Vernon! What did you do that for? What if they find out about him? Huh? You ever think of that?”

“I didn’t do it on purpose!” he defended, but his eyes were nervous. “I was just trying to protect your bloody table!”

Aunt Petunia sighed, “He fell from the stairs, Vernon. Just hide him for a few days until it heals.” Her eyes stared into his.

Uncle Vernon licked his dry lips in apprehension. “Okay. It’ll work.” He took a deep breath and shakily grabbed Harry’s unharmed arm.

“Into the cupboard, boy,” he sneered, as he opened the small door and pushed Harry in. Harry watched through half-closed lids as the door closed. He could still hear his aunt and uncle bickering outside though.

Harry closed his eyes again, trying to block out the sound and the pain. He switched on the small light in his cupboard and slowly took out his mirror. He tried to focus on his face, attempting to forget what had just happened. He slowly turned into Oliver—his hair copper and his eyes a pale blue.

“My name is Oliver,” he began his mantra, but his voice slightly quavered. His arm hurt. He bit his lip. No, he was Oliver. Oliver was brave.

Rubbing his eyes stubbornly, he muttered, “I’m not gonna cry.” He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his uninjured left arm around them. He didn’t know if he could be Oliver tonight.

He rocked back and forth in the tiny space. “I’m not complaining,” he told himself softly, “I just…”

His eyelids felt heavy, and he blinked hard to try to open them. “Being Oliver is great. I just…”

His eyes slowly closed despite his efforts. “I just wish I could be with someone who would love me…”

He nodded off into an exhausted sleep, not even noticing the tiny pop as he disappeared from the small cupboard.

Severus Snape felt like he was in heaven. He danced from one cauldron to the next in his potions lab, breathing in the delightful smell of newts’ eyes and belladonna. It had been a few weeks since the end of the school year, and he couldn’t say he missed any of the little cretins.

His smile turned into a scowl as he thought of September. Truly, the summer hols were way too short. He didn’t even know why he was working at Hogwarts—he disliked teaching and the brats even more. Oh yes; now he remembered (not that he could ever forget)—Albus Dumbledore.

‘Sweet old man,’ he thought sourly, ‘…not.’

Of course, he did owe Albus a lot, but why did the eccentric wizard have to somehow concoct the bright idea for him to teach at Hogwarts to repay his debt? Albus had mentioned that perhaps interacting with the children would ‘put a smile on his face.’

Severus sneered. ‘As if. Merlin knows I’ve become more volatile with the teaching. But every time I go into that man’s office, he just smiles that infuriating smile and hands me a lemon drop. I don’t even understand why he even likes those infernal sweets. They are so sour they nearly made me keel over when Albus forced me to try one.’

He shook his head and grumbled as he looked around his lab.

“Well,” he murmured to a sizzling pot, “I might as well enjoy my time with my potions as much as possible before school starts again.”

He smiled—or grimaced—at a cauldron of blue goop. “Don’t worry, my pretties. This summer, I’m going to devote all my time to you.”

Those dunderheads at Hogwarts just didn’t understand that potions were meant to be loved and cared for. He sniffed disparagingly; all those children ever did in his class was cower and whimper, not treating him or the potions with the least bit of respect. Well, not that he was very helpful to them himself—but they just ought to know better anyway.

He ladled the liquids from the cauldrons into separate containers, setting them gently on a side table to cool.

“Good night, my dears,” he whispered to his newly made brews, making sure not to leave anyone out. He wiped his hands with a cloth. “See you tomorrow.”

Severus headed off toward his bedroom to change out of his lab clothes and into his sleep wear—a soft robe with little cauldrons printed all over it. Time to get ready for bed after a fulfilling day. He whistled slightly as he washed his face and tucked himself into the covers.

His eyelids had just closed when a silent alarm blared and pulsed inside his head. He jumped out of bed in surprise, then grabbed his wand. Had someone broken past the wards?

As quietly as he could, he slipped out of his bedroom and into the living room, where the intruder apparently was according to the alarm. He stationed himself behind a pillar, listening for any sounds or voices. When he didn’t hear any, he jumped out from behind the column, wand out and at the ready, only to point at…a boy?

What’s more, the boy was actually lying on the ground, unconscious. As for his age, he looked about a couple years younger than Draco. Severus cast a couple spells, checking to see if there was anything menacing about the boy.

“This better not be one of Lucius’s infantile pranks,” he silently muttered.

He cautiously knelt beside the boy, gently turning him over in order to get a closer look at his face. Severus winced at the bruises and cuts, an obvious sign of abuse. The boy’s arm also seemed to be broken. He slipped the cracked glasses off the boy’s nose and put them into his robe pocket. Other than that, the copper hair coloring wasn’t one he recognized—perhaps the boy was a muggleborn? He obviously was magical, or he wouldn’t have been able to apparate inside, let alone break through the wards. It looked like a case of accidental magic.

Severus pressed his lips into a thin line as he scrutinized the intruder’s injuries. He sighed as he gently lifted him, carrying him to a guest room and set him on the bed. Even if he didn’t really like children, none of them deserved to be hurt; especially not by his own family, if that really was the case here.

The boy didn’t rouse from his unconsciousness, so Severus grabbed a few healing potions from his inventory. He also cast a spell to heal the broken arm. It would be slightly sore for a few days, but it wouldn’t hurt as much. Peering closely at his work, he was surprised as the boy began to stir. The child’s eyelids fluttered, and the palest blue eyes the Potion Master had ever seen met his own ebony ones.

Harry awoke, feeling more comfortable than he had ever felt in the past nine years of his life. Was he dreaming? He kept his eyes closed for a moment, relishing in the warmth he was bathed in. It seemed as if he was laying in a bed, one of the few times in his life. Perhaps he was dreaming about being Oliver. Well, if that was the case, he might as well open his eyes and enjoy the dream. So he did.

And stared into two bottomless wells.

‘Hmm,’ he thought vaguely, and smiled sleepily at the man to whom the pair of dark tunnels belonged. ‘I wonder where I am.’ Of course he couldn’t see the man too well, as he didn’t feel the familiar press of his glasses against his nose.

But from what he could see about the blob in front of him, he noticed that the man looked slightly disgusted by his smile.

‘Hmm…’ he thought again, then smiled some more. ‘That’s interesting.’

The man coughed to break the silence and asked sternly, “What is your name, boy?”

“Oliver,” Harry answered without hesitation. “What’s yours, sir?”

The blob grunted, then replied matter-of-factly, “You may call me Professor Snape.”

This was a strange dream. He didn’t think he would ever dream about professors, or snapes. His right arm felt a bit strange, though. He tried lifting it closer to his face so he could see what was wrong with it. Bad idea. He stifled a yelp as a flash of pain lanced through his arm.

“Don’t move your arm,” the man warned belatedly. “It was broken, and I only just healed it.”

‘Thanks a lot,’ Harry sighed. ‘Earlier would have helped.’ The man helped him sit up though.

Then the man’s words registered in his mind. Broken arm. Last night. Uncle Vernon. Wonderful. Where in the world was he? This definitely wasn’t a dream; he would never dream of giving himself a broken arm that he already had.

Severus watched curiously as the boy’s eyes narrowed after his last comment. Oliver, as he called himself, seemed to scan the room, finally trying to figure where he was. The potions master noticed that the boy’s gaze seemed to be unfocused.

Oh, right. The glasses.

He took them out of his pocket and awkwardly slipped them on the boy’s face. He summoned a cup of water and gave it to the boy to drink. Oliver’s eyes widened at the sudden appearance of the cup.

“Now, may I ask what you were doing in my home?” Severus drawled.

“You’re magic too!” Oliver said wonderingly.

Interesting. The boy had probably done some accidental magic before. That made things slightly easier. At least he didn’t have to deal with fainting.

“The correct term is wizard,” he answered. “I am one, and apparently you are one too by you earlier statement and your appearance in my manor.”

Seeming the boy look questioningly at his wand, he replied to the unasked question, “This is a wand, what I use to channel my magic in order to do spells. There’s a whole world filled with magical people—wizards and witches. Judging by your reaction, I assume your parents do not have magic?”

The boy nodded, too dazed to say anything

“And so I repeat my earlier inquiry: How and why did you get into my home?”

Oliver seemed to mull over the question, his eyes glazed as if trying to remember. “I fell asleep,” he slowly recounted, “and when I woke up, I was here.” A brief look of surprise and wonder flashed across the child’s face before he quashed it. “I think,” he said hesitatingly, “I think I wished…again.”

So the boy had done magic before, then. “What did you wish for?” he asked in a direct manner.

Oliver’s face seemed to shutter. “I…can’t tell you that,” he murmured. “It’s private.” He looked up at Severus with his light eyes. “You understand that, don’t you Professor?”

Severus frowned at the lack of an answer, then posed another question, “How did you get your injuries?”

The boy stiffened. “I can’t tell you that either, sir. Pardon my rudeness, sir, but where did you get that scar on your arm?”

In other words, he means, ‘keep your big fat nose out of my business,’ Severus thought amusedly. Nicely done, he silently commended. The potions master nodded, to show that he would avoid the topic. From the boy’s avoidance of the two questions, though, it seemed that perhaps their answers were somehow related. It appeared as if the boy was abused. After the beating, he could have wished to be somewhere safe. He sneered at the thought. If the boy thought that Severus himself was safe, he would have a lot to learn.

But, a voice argued in his mind, this brat didn’t look as bad as the others. He didn’t speak unless spoken too, which was a point for him. Except for that ridiculous smile when he just woke up, he didn’t annoy Severus too much. He winced as he saw the boy yawn. What a rude action. But the boy probably couldn’t help it, raised by abusive oafs. He was still a brat, though, nothing would change that. Potions beat brats any day. He almost smiled at the jaunty tune that started playing in his head he thought of potions

Oh! The boy was tired, he realized suddenly. He mentally patted himself on the back; how clever of himself to notice. It was nighttime, after all, when little boys should be asleep. Not really aware of his actions, Severus leaned forward and helped Oliver lay back down.

Harry didn’t know what to think about Professor Snape. From what he could guess, he had wished before he fell unconscious and somehow ended up here. A wish just like he wished for his appearance to change. About that, he probably was still in Oliver’s form, since he didn’t remember changing back to Harry in the cupboard.

He blushed pink as he thought of his wish to be loved—he wasn’t normally so emotional and needy. It was just that moment and Uncle Vernon, he told himself reassuringly. And anyway, he couldn’t ever imagine the Professor as being someone caring and…you know. He turned pink again, and hoped the man didn’t notice.

Well, Professor Snape had healed him though, and he was magic too. He didn’t insult Harry, even though he didn’t really looked pleased that Harry had just trespassed into his home. He didn’t just ignore Harry either. That made him better than any adult he’d ever met.

But he was still an adult, and Harry never trusted adults on principle.

He yawned, and almost giggled as he saw the distaste on the Professor’s face. Professor Snape obviously was from some posh family that had tons of etiquette rules, judging from the elaborate room he was in. Yawning probably was gross to the man.

But the Professor didn’t say anything. Just stood up and helped Harry lay down, pulling the bedcovers over him.

And he actually tucked Harry in.

‘Almost as if he were my father,’ Harry thought wistfully. But he quickly quashed down that thought. He wasn’t worthy to be anyone’s son. He was only a freak.

He yawned again and rubbed his eyes sleepily. But it didn’t matter much. He’d been a freak all of his life and was basically used to it. Even though it gave him a nice feeling to know that he wasn’t the only one who could do magic. Magic. Magic was real, and he really saw the man summon the cup of water and it wasn’t just in his imagination.

Wow, his thoughts were really rambling now. What he really wanted to do was sleep. Sleep, sleep, sleep…

He only had time to murmur a ‘Thank you’ before his eyelids slipped shut.

Severus quietly watched the boy as he drifted off into slumberland. He accio’ed a jar of bruise balm and began to gently rub it into the large bruise on the boy’s face. 

What had possessed him to tuck the boy in? He wasn’t the touchy feely type. Besides, like he kept telling himself, Oliver was just like one of those little monsters that crawled around Hogwarts.

He set down the jar on a nearby table, and sat down on a chair next to the bed. Involuntarily, an arm reached out to brush the boy’s bangs away, but he quickly caught himself before the action could be completed.

“That’s it,” he muttered, disgruntled at the sappiness of the action. “I’m leaving. The boy doesn’t need me to watch him while he sleeps. I already healed him anyway,” he justified.

He determinedly stalked out of the guest room.

------------

A minute later found Severus Snape back in the chair, face in his hands.

Severus woke up to the sound of the boy stirring. The Potions Master sleepily opened his eyes to look at the clock. Only 5:30 am. He glanced back at the boy only to see him surreptitiously looking at his cauldron-decorated pajamas.

He glared at the brat, challenging him to say something. Oliver stared back for a few seconds; his face betraying nothing when he finally turned away—except for a hint of amusement in his eyes.

Oliver cleverly chose a different topic. “I have to go back,” he said softly.

The boy had awkwardly thrown off his covers, pushing himself into a sitting position with his good arm.

“And how, may I ask, are you going to do that?” Severus couldn’t help sneering.

The boy didn’t seem to be affected by his tone of voice. “Where are we right now?” he asked, a little more urgently.

“”No where close to your home, I’m sure,” Severus snubbed. All the sympathy he had felt toward Oliver earlier had been swamped by the embarrassment and self reproach of being laughed at for his pjs. What was wrong with them anyway? They were perfectly good-looking pajamas.

Oliver’s eyes flicked around the room, and his unhurt arm hugged himself as if trying to gather up confidence. “I can wish again,” he murmured, trying to convince himself.

The boy’s pitiful words and actions stirred something unwanted inside Severus, which he tried to quash immediately, with little success. “Oh for Merlin’s sake,” he finally threw out, “Why would you want to go back to the very people who hurt you?”

Oliver’s lips thinned as he clamped them tightly shut.

Severus sighed. “Oliver, you can’t hide the truth from me. The old bruises and your silence already give it away.”

The boy bit his bottom lip, then whispered softly, “I have to go back. Or else, he wins.”

‘HE. Who is he?’ Severus wondered. ‘If that boy ever tells me who HE actually is, I will strangle him in a heartbeat, I know. My coldhearted-bastard mask is perfection, but abused children,’ he admitted reluctantly, ‘they are my weakness.’

Judging by Oliver’s words, though, HE hadn’t broken the boy’s spirit at all; in fact, probably only strengthened it. The Potions Master smirked at the thought., and almost admired the boy, before he quickly caught himself. He could definitely understand the boy’s sentiment, though, having been through a similar situation with his own father—but at least he’d had his kindhearted mother to soften the harsh verbal blows.

To give up, he knew, was to give in.

“Where do you live?” Severus asked, his voice straining to soften its natural sharpness.

------------

‘Where do I live?’ Harry thought wildly. He felt a slight panic. What would the Dursleys say if a…what was the word the Professor used? wizard? suddenly appeared in their doorway? He could definitely picture Uncle Vernon’s purple face. He couldn’t tell the Professor; he just couldn’t.

Harry found his apprehension rising and immediately made sure his face projected none of it. He tried to pretend he was at the Dursley’s, where he always needed to hide all anger and fear.

“I can’t tell you,” he said firmly.

The Professor looked at him with undisguised exasperation. “How do you expect to get back, then?”

“I can wish,” Harry said again, trying to sound sure of himself. “Can’t w-wizards do it too, sir? Go from one place to another? It’s magic, isn’t it?”

“Of course,” the man sneered, “It’s called apparition. You are but a child, though. Most people are in their mid-teens before they can even begin to think about apparating.”

“I did it before,” Harry defended. “That has to mean something, doesn’t it? If I did it once, I might be able to do it again.”

Professor Snape’s sour face turned slightly thoughtful. “That is true,” he murmured. “I’ve never heard of a child apparating due to accidental magic either, so perhaps there is a chance you can do it again.”

He smirked at Harry’s hopeful look. “Just don’t lose an arm when you do it,” he said with a glint in his eyes.

Harry pushed down his emotions once more. He narrowed his eyes. The man was just trying to scare him. Well, he was Oliver now. No time to get scared if he was to get back to the Dursley’s in time for breakfast.

“I’ll do it,” Harry decided, the left side of his mouth quirking at the surprised expression on the Professor’s face. “Help me up?”

-------------

Severus’ jaw almost dropped at the complete lack of fear the boy seemed to possess. Right after he had casually dropped that comment about splinching too.

He silently aided the boy out of the bed. The boy did have a chance of apparating back to his home since he did it once already; he hadn’t been joking about that. But the possibility of losing a finger or two, like he said…he hadn’t been joking about that either.

Why was he letting the boy go back to his abusive family, though? Because he was cruel and heartless, Severus thought to himself. He refused to think about how certain foreign emotions were also a factor. He didn’t have room for worry and pity and all those other petty feelings.

As the boy stood up and closed his eyes, Severus couldn’t help but say softly, “Wait.”

Oliver’s eyes opened to look at the Potions Master curiously. Severus walked out of the room and came back in a couple minutes with two objects. He held out a potion to the boy.

“Drink this. It’s nutrient potion; you’re far too skinny. And keep off the arm for a couple days,” he said matter-of-factly, trying to hide his slight embarrassment.

Oliver took the potion from the man with a strange look in his eyes. He drank down the potion and winced slightly at the taste, but made no comment.

Severus hesitated a bit before handing the boy the second object. Should he try once more to prevent the boy from going back? He pushed the thought down forcefully. No, the boy would just be a burden. He wasn’t even his responsibility anyway, he told himself. Besides, what Severus was about to give him would be good enough.

He placed a necklace with a silver ring on the end into Oliver’s hand.

“This necklace is a portkey.” He answered the boy’s questioning gaze, “If you say the word potions while holding onto the ring, it will activate and bring you to my manor.”

“If you ever need help…” he trailed off awkwardly, silently cursing the situation he put himself in.

----------

Harry felt true surprise when the Professor explained the necklace to him. No one had ever done anything like this for him before. The man was literally offering up his home for a person he had never seen before. In fact, he almost felt puzzled. Why would someone side with him, the freak, instead of with the normal Dursleys?

He restrained himself from commenting though. It seemed as if the Professor would get even more uncomfortable than he already looked if Harry threw himself gratefully into his arms—not that Harry was a touchy-feely type anyways. He briefly considered the action though with a smirk, if only to see the man’s reaction.

Harry almost giggled at the relief the man projected when he simply settled with a “Thank you.”

“Now,” the Professor said, “Picture the place you are returning to. Remember to focus hard on all the details.”

Harry closed his eyes to concentrate—already, he could feel his stomach feeling slightly less demanding (maybe that nasty potion actually worked)—and hoped beyond hope that this would work. He didn’t really understand himself why he so wanted to go back to the Dursleys’. Partly, it was what he had told the Professor; he didn’t want to give in to his Uncle. They would have to put up with him for a few more years yet, and anything that made the Dursleys miserable was a plus in his book. And partly, well, they were his family. A small part of him couldn’t ever stop hoping that someday, maybe they would accept him. Maybe.

He sighed softly. Better not to think about that now and focus on the action at hand. He thought of the feeling he had when he changed his appearance, and used it to focus instead on the cupboard under the stairs—wishing with all his might to be back at the Dursleys.

-----------

Severus watched as Oliver disappeared. He was still a little surprised that it actually worked (and no body parts left behind either that he could see), especially with the boy being so young.

He shook his head determinedly. Best put the boy out of his mind before the guilt started to set in. He just couldn’t handle another responsibility right now. And anyway, he was supposed to hate the little dunderheads.The portkey was enough; it was. He refused to think about how much he himself had wanted someone to take him away from his father when he was younger.

What better way to forget the boy and his past other than potions? He hurried to his lab, already thinking of his new experiment for today, trying to put the boy behind him.

But while his “lovelies” temporarily chased away thoughts of the boy during the day, pale blue eyes would return to agitate him in the nights to come.