Harry Potter had felt the furious anger that had built up in the pit of his stomach, erupting like a volcano. He had enough. That had been the cause of blowing Marge Dursley up. Blowing Marge Dursley up had been the cause of Harry leaving the Dursleys.

But what would he say when he went back to the Dursleys next summer? What would they do? And, in the meantime, where was he going to go? He couldn't just keep aimlessly wandering the empty, dark streets of Privet Drive. He had to go somewhere.

That, however, was the question.

Where?

The cool night breeze whipped through Harry's hair as he walked through the streets. He wasn't really paying attention to where he was going: he hoped that he might wander somewhere where he could stay until it was time to go back to Hogwarts.

There was the other question. Just how was he going to get back to Hogwarts?

Maybe he could write to Ron and spend the rest of his summer with the Weasleys. But weren't they in Egypt? Harry didn't remember right then; he was too busy fuming over what happened earlier at the Dursleys.

How dare Marge Dursley say those things about his parents?

Harry was too wrapped up in his thoughts that he wasn't paying attention to his steps: he ended up putting one foot in front of the other, tripping himself.

As he went down with a thud, he heard a crack—though he had no idea what it came from. Did he break something? Suddenly, Harry felt a sharp pain on the side of his head, above his pressed his hand against his head where the pain was coming from, and when he removed it he saw warm, red liquid. Blood.

Harry wiped the blood on his jeans, immediately noticing how he had came to bleed: he had landed on a rock. Or, his head had landed on a rock. Harry could see the blood that now painted the top of the rock.

Underneath it, he noticed a piece of crumpled up, muddy paper. He lifted the rock up, trying to smoothen out the paper and read the words.

“Permissum aliquid magus occuro?” Harry tried pronouncing the words, though he knew that he wasn't pronouncing them right at all. He flipped the paper over to see more writing on the back. “Illico hinc noctis, illico hinc hora?”

With a frown Harry threw the paper aside, and then his eyes landed on what the crack had come from.

His wand.

Harry let out a startled cry. His wand lay in two pieces on the ground. It must've fallen out when Harry went down.

Then, Harry felt something warm wash over him, and he felt drowsy. He emitted a small gasp as he was jerked backwards, as if large hands and taken him around the waist and threw him backwards. His head and vision became foggy, and his stomach dropped like he was somewhere high, high up and was being let go. Falling to the earth.

Harry's eyes fluttered until they closed. He didn't know how long it was until they opened again.

--

The first thing Harry did when he became conscious again was groan. Something warm was on his forehead—was it the blood from his fall? No, Harry became aware that it was a washcloth that had been dunked in lukewarm water.

“My head,” Harry whined, trying to open his eyes. He let out another low groan and tried to sit up, but somebody was telling him to lay down. Who did that voice belong to? It was familiar, yes, but so soft… somehow, to Harry, it seemed an unlikely combination.

Harry felt glasses being placed on his nose. He opened his eyes. He opened his mouth in surprise and tried to speak, but he couldn't think of anything to say.

“P—Professor Snape,” he finally said, his voice a little raspy. Harry had almost forgotten to add the “Professor”, and then he wondered what Snape would've said if Harry had addressed him only as “Snape.” Harry assumed that yelling would've been involved.

The Potions master kept quiet, his eyes studying Harry intently. Harry soon began to squirm under the uncomfortable gaze.

“Does your head hurt?” came the soft, quiet question.

“Er—yeah, sort of,” Harry answered awkwardly. “Uh, sir, how did I end up here?”

A brief, puzzled expression crossed Severus Snape's face before it quickly disappeared. “I found you here.”

Harry shook his head, and then regretted it. A sharp pain filled his head. “That's impossible, sir,” he explained after letting out a breath. “I was no where near your house when I… passed out.”

Harry was surprised at how much emotion he saw in the professors dark eyes. He couldn't figure out what was going on. It almost seemed as if Snape cared for him, just by the way he was looking at him. There was so much... tenderness. But really, that was impossible. Tender? Caring? Loving? This was Severus Snape. He loathed Harry ever since his first day at Hogwarts.

“No, I found you here.” There was a small pause before Snape cleared his throat and stood up. “Can I get you anything, Harry?”

Harry could only stare in surprise. Had Snape just referred to him as Harry? That was, definitely, a first. Just what was going on?

Snape now looked annoyed. “Are you going to answer me or not, Harry?”

There it was again.

“How did I get here and what is going on?”

“I'd like to know the same thing,” Snape answered, his voice becoming icy. He sat back down on the edge of the couch and stared at Harry. “What's your name?”

Harry hesitated, puzzled, before he answered uncertainly. “Harry Potter.”

The answer seemed to take Snape by surprise, which made Harry just as surprised. His previous question of “What's going on?” still remained.

“When were you born?”

“J—July thirty-first.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirteen, sir.”

“Who were you born to?”

Now, Harry was just confused with the Potions masters' questioning. Did he not think that he was really Harry Potter? It was the only thing that Harry came up with, as to why he was being interrogated so.

“Lily and James Potter.” Harry frowned. “Why are you asking me so many questions? Why aren't you answering my questions? Sir, all I remember is getting angry and, well, blowing Aunt Marge up... and then leaving the Dursleys! I really was no where near your home, Professor, so I'd like to know how I came to be here. Please answer me.”

Harry was surprised at the icy edge that came to his rather commanding voice as he finished speaking. His head was still throbbing painfully, so perhaps that was why he was in such a cranky mood.

“Merlin, this isn't real,” Snape said, catching Harry by surprise. “I have to be dreaming…”

Harry stared at Snape in confusion. “I don't understand,” Harry admitted. “Wha—”

“You are not thirteen, you were not born to Lily and James Potter and as far as I recall, you do not have an 'Aunt Marge'.” Snape's voice had become almost angry, though Harry didn't know why. “Now get out of my house!”

Harry was taken aback, and all he could do was sit and stare. Had Snape really just kicked Harry out of the house? Sure, he wouldn't really mind leaving, he just didn't know where he was, and if he left, where he was going to go.

Harry slowly began to stand up, but Snape shook his head and gently pushed Harry back down.

“I didn't mean it like that. I just can't… understand how you can really be Harry. My Harry. How are you still alive?”

Harry's eyes widened. “Your Harry? What do you mean by—wait, still alive? Was I dead or… something? I didn't really think that when I fell, it was that serious.”

“When you fell?”

Harry started to stand up, but Snape was trying to keep him down. “I really need to go. This is weird, and I don't really understand anything that's going on.”

“Why do you think you're Harry Potter?” Snape asked quietly, startling Harry by the question.

“Well… because I am,” Harry said slowly. “Why did you tell me that I wasn't thirteen? Sir!” He quickly added before Snape had a chance to catch that.

“You aren't thirteen,” Snape said, and then wordlessly stood up. Harry sat there in confusion, wondering if he should stay or follow. He was in the middle of trying to decide when Snape returned with… with a mirror?

Harry was about to ask what it was for when Snape held it up, in front of Harry, and Harry gaped. He didn't look like himself. He looked more like his mum than his father at all—but, there was something about his appearance that reminded him of someone… a resemblance…

“Tell me what's going on,” Harry said, looking up at the Potions professor. “I look different and… younger.”

“You aren't thirteen, you're twelve,” Snape suddenly started to explain. “Lily Evans is your mother, but James Potter, however, isn't your father.”

Harry's breath caught in his throat as he suddenly realized who he resembled. “You are,” he said quietly. “Aren't you?”

Snape nodded slowly, though he didn't look disgusted at the idea, like Harry thought he would. How long had Snape known this for? And—did he say that Harry was twelve?

“Indeed,” came the reply. “Your mother was merely with James Potter because I was still a Death Eater—a spy. If she wasn't, then the Dark Lord would've realized that I was a traitor.”

Harry couldn't exactly grasp onto what Snape was saying, but he tried to. “But when Mum and—and… James died, why didn't you take me? Why couldn't you raise me? I—I know why you couldn't, but you could've done something, couldn't you? And why do you hate me so much?”

Snape now looked utterly bewildered. “What are you talking about? I did raise you, and I certainly do not hate you.”

Harry frowned, ignoring the throbbing pain in his head. “What? N—no you didn't.”

“What I don't understand,” Snape said coolly, “is how you're possibly even alive after what happened. This isn't possible—I buriedyou.”

Harry's mouth fell open. “Whenwas this? I was never dead!This isn't right.” Harry scrambled off the couch and started to step away from Snape. “You're lying. You aren't my father; it's not true. You can't be. You're just making everything up.”

Harry heard Snape following him as he quickly walked out of the room, trying desperately to find the door to get out of the house. Why was Snape saying all of these things? What did he plan to achieve by telling Harry these lies?

“Why would I make this up?” Snape's impatient voice demanded. “I just want to know, Harry. I want to know why you're back, why you're thinking things that aren't true and how you don't remember anything. I want answers just as much as you do.”

“Why I'm thinking things that aren't true?” Harry echoed with a frown. “These things are true, Snape!”

Snape scowled. “You will never address me like that again, do you understand?”

Harry felt his cheeks grow hotter, and he wordlessly nodded, swallowing. Finally, after what seemed like several minutes of staring at each other, Harry let out a small sigh.

“Fine. You'll tell me why you think I died, and you'll try to answer as many of my questions as you can. Then… then if you have any questions, I'll try to answer them as best I can. OK?” Harry waited, watching as Snape studied him, until Snape finally answered.

“Fine.”

Harry slowly followed Snape back into the room that Harry woke up in. He felt awkward and uncomfortable here with Severus Snape, whom Harry had always thought absolutely loathedhim, which was always the reason that he loathed the professor back.

All Harry wondered now, as he sat back down on the sofa, was what had happened when he passed out? He remembered the feeling he had: his stomach dropping, those butterflies that had fluttered around violently in his stomach. The feeling like he was falling, being pulled somewhere…

But that was all he remembered.

Harry faced Snape, letting out a breath. Then, staring into Snape's onyx eyes and still seeing those many emotions mingled within, he heard his uncertain voice ask, “How did I die?”