Professors Flitwick and Sprout sat side by side on the couch in stunned silence. Minerva brought in a tray from the kitchen and poured each of them a calming cup of tea before settling into the nearby rocker. Sprout sipped her tea and finally gazed up at her, her round face creased with lines of worry and shock.

"What are you going to do, Minerva?"

"Get the boy out of there - what else?" Minerva replied curtly.

"I. . .I can't believe the Headmaster would knowingly leave the poor boy in such a place," Sprout murmured in distress. "What was he thinking?"

Minerva set her cup down and sighed. "I don't know," she frowned. "I don't believe he meant Harry any harm. I believed. . .I still believe Albus has the best of intentions. I've known the man for over fifty years, and I cannot accept that he would do anything to deliberately hurt any child. Whatever his motives, I'm sure he thinks they are justified."

"There was some logic in his reasoning," Flitwick murmured thoughtfully. "It would all make perfect sense - if the boy was not so obviously being mistreated." He shook his head. "Nothing justifies condemning a child to that."

"Poor Harry," Pomona moaned. "That poor child! He's always been such a sweet, polite boy! If we had only known. . .if we had only realized. . ." she sighed heavily, tears leaking down her plump cheeks.

Minerva glanced wryly at the Herbology Professor's maudlin emotion but she refrained from sneering.

Flitwick gave her a shrewd look. "Why did you use the Pensieve, Minerva?" he asked suddenly, pointing at the stone basin from which they had all emerged minutes before. "Why didn't you just tell us about this?"

Minerva cleared her throat nervously, feeling a faint heat of embarrassment in her cheeks. She hated to voice her fears, fearing she would sound paranoid, but the tiny Charms professor was studying her with a knowing gaze. Minerva shrugged faintly. "I thought showing you both this way would be faster and more effective. . .and - I wanted to be certain that my knowledge of this would be. . .preserved." She returned Flitwick's frank look and he nodded slightly.

"A very wise decision," he commented. Pomona didn't seem to catch the implication behind Minerva's explanation, or else she was too upset to care. Flitwick set down his cup decisively, swinging his short legs in a manner that reminded Minerva of an excited schoolboy. "How can we help, Minerva?"

Minerva threw him a grateful look. She had known instinctively that these two colleagues could be trusted to support her. Flitwick was the father of four, and a grandfather three times over - she hadn't doubted his response to Harry's plight. And Sprout - well, Sprout was a Hufflepuff. Her empathy was a given.

"As you saw, I told Albus that I enlisted the help of other professors to keep an eye on Harry. I think it would be wise to do exactly that."

Flitwick nodded. "I agree. We can certainly take turns watching the Dursley place. Who else are you planning to enlist in this plan?"

"Only one other, for the moment. Discretion will be easier to maintain if only a few of us know about it. " Minerva gave them both a guarded look and added nervously, "Severus is already a part of this."

Pomona gaped at her. "Snape? You told Snape about this? Sweet Merlin, Minerva - why would you do that? He loathes Harry - everyone knows that!"

"He doesn't really, you know. . ." Minerva began.

Pomona cut her off. "He's probably glad the boy is unhappy! Minerva - how could you confide in that snarky prat!" she demanded indignantly.

"That snarky prat told me!" Minerva snapped in irritation. "Severus is the one who first suspected something was wrong. He's the one who enlisted my help in investigating Harry's home life."

"What?"

"There is a great deal you do not know about Severus Snape, Pomona Sprout! I shouldn't be revealing what is a private matter between he and Harry, but I won't have anyone questioning his motives!" She forcibly dampened her righteous anger and continued sternly. "Severus and Harry became close this past year. Severus secretly tutored the boy all year, and took a sincere interest in his welfare. He has continued to treat Harry poorly in public in order to maintain his cover, but in reality, he has become an important influence in the boy's life. The truth is - although I'm sure Severus would staunchly deny it - he has grown fond of Harry and cares very deeply for the child. He came to me at year's end concerned because Harry expressed pronounced reluctance about going home for the summer. That is not surprising now, considering what we have learned. I, too, had my suspicions - but I had so much faith in Albus, I might not have acted if Severus hadn't prompted me."

Pomona stared at her in obvious astonishment, but Flitwick only nodded thoughtfully. "I sensed a difference in Harry during the year and suspected he was receiving support from someone," he said slowly. "I'll admit, I never suspected it was Severus - but it makes sense."

"Why?' Pomona gaped at him.

"Because they have much in common," Flitwick said easily. "It also explains the change in Severus."

"What change?"

"He has mellowed a bit this year."

Pomona stared at him as if he had gone mental.

"I understand his teaching has improved and he's showing more patience - several of my students have commented on it. I'm glad Harry has been a good influence on him," Filius smiled.

"The point is," Minerva huffily redirected the conversation back to their original purpose. "Severus is concerned for the boy and will be furious when he learns the truth."

"Where is Snape?" Pomona asked, recovering from her shock reluctantly.

"At a Potions conference. I have already sent him a letter - with a portkey - and asked him to return immediately. If he gets the owl right away, he should return today. When he does, I will show him the same memories you have observed."

"I would not want to be the Dursleys when he sees those memories," Flitwick chuckled darkly. "Right. What shall we do - beside keep watch over the child? You said you were going to remove him from the home. How do you plan to do that? Do you think we can convince Dumbledore to change his mind?"

"I don't know," Minerva admitted. "But it's certainly worth a try. I wanted to take Harry away immediately. I seriously considered it several times last night. But I thought it best to wait for Severus to return before making any decisions. He has a keen intellect and may have some ideas on how to proceed."

"Excellent idea," Flitwick agreed. "It will help to have a cunning Slytherin mind on our side. In the meantime, we should begin our established surveillance. As much as I would like to snatch Harry away from that place right this minute, I think we must be cautious. If we react impulsively, it won't help Harry in the end. We need a long-term solution, not a quick fix. I think it would be best to plan out a course of action that will permanently ensure Harry's safety."

He turned to Sprout. "Pomona, would you mind taking the first shift in Surrey? I think it would be unwise to enter the house until we have a firm plan, but it's clear those despicable Muggles force the boy to labor for them. Harry may be outside and you can see if he is well."

"Of course I will," Sprout hefted her tidy bulk off of the couch, her face rigid with fierce determination.

"You may use my floo to contact Arabella Figg. I'm certain she will be glad to let us use her hearth," Minerva advised. "Better take some extra floo powder, though. . .she hasn't much to spare. And try not to be seen. Those Muggles hate anything to do with magic. If they discover they are being watched, they may take it out on Harry."

"I'll be discrete," Sprout assured her. "What if something happens? If I see those monsters hurt Harry?"

"If they touch him - do what you must," Minerva glowered. "Grab him and get him out of there. Otherwise, just observe. It won't be for long. . . hopefully a few hours at most. When Severus arrives, I think we'll let him retrieve Harry."

"Why Severus?" Pomona sniffed. "I can certainly handle a few Muggles, Minerva."

"Yes, but we may not want anyone to know we've interfered," Minerva replied coolly. At Sprout's confused looked, she added quietly, "I promised Albus I wouldn't go to Surrey - so I won't. He knows I asked a few of the staff to help keep an eye on the boy," she smiled slyly. "But he doesn't know that Severus is involved. Albus thinks Snape is at the conference. He doesn't know about his improved relationship with Harry. Severus Snape is the last person in the world anyone would suspect of rescuing Harry Potter. If someone has to remove Harry quickly, he is the logical choice. If asked, the rest of us can truthfully proclaim our innocence. I don't think it would occur to Albus to ask Severus."

A look of understanding dawned on Pomona's face and Flitwick chuckled. "Good point, Minerva." He rose and looked at Professor Sprout. "Pomona - can you perform an invisibility charm on yourself?"

She nodded thoughtfully. "It's been a while, but I'm sure I can still manage it. Right then - I'll be off."

Minerva rose and escorted the Herbology Professor into her office to use the floo. Glancing briefly at the portraits that lined the walls, she extended the privacy spell she had cast on her sitting room to include the office as well. Sprout filled an empty bottle from her pocket with floo powder and tucked it into her voluminous robes.

"Thank you so much for your help in this, Pomona," Minerva murmured softly. "I will remain close to my office floo so you can reach me at any time. Please keep in touch."

"Of course, Minerva," Pomona replied, tossing a handful of powder into the fire. She stuck her head into the green flames, and after a brief greeting and hasty invitation from a very surprised Mrs. Figg, she disappeared into the floo.

Minerva strode back into her sitting room where Filius awaited her. "I extended the privacy spell into my office, but I'd prefer not to talk openly in there, with so many portraits on the walls. I wouldn't put it past some of those little sneaks to be able to read lips."

Filius chuckled. "A wise decision. I have always suspected the portraits report everything they see to the Headmaster. It would explain how he always seems to know so much about what happens around here."

Minerva snorted. "Yes, Severus is convinced of it. That's why there are so few portraits in the dungeons - Severus saw to it. He removed most of them years ago, claiming the damp air would damage them, but he simply doesn't like the idea of anyone spying on him."

"Since Dumbledore already expects us to be keeping watch on Harry, it doesn't matter if one of the portraits reports us coming and going by floo to Surrey. Where will your portkey deliver Severus?"

"Outside the gates," Minerva replied. "I'm hoping Severus will have the good sense to enter Hogwarts unseen."

"Perhaps I should alert him," Flitwick suggested. "I could go down and wait for him."

"That's a good idea. You wouldn't mind?"

"Not at all. That way you can remain here, in case Pomona needs to report something. Dumbledore's painted spies can then confirm you never left your office, providing you with the perfect alibi."

Minerva chuckled, then sighed unhappily. ‘Oh, Filius - I never would have thought I would find myself in this position. . . actually scheming to deceive Albus. How did it come to this?"

Flitwick shook his head. "Albus is a complicated wizard, Minerva. His intentions, as you said, are all for the greater good. . . but I fear sometimes that in his defense of that greater good, he forgets the importance of the individual. But as much as he seems to care about Harry Potter, I can't fathom how he could justify forcing such misery on the boy."

"I can't answer that, I'm afraid. When I spoke with him, I kept getting the feeling that he simply didn't believe me about the Dursleys. . . like he thought Arabella and I were exaggerating the entire thing," Minerva sighed in frustration.

"I have often felt that Albus chooses to ignore things he does not want to face or believe. Perhaps that is how he lives with his mistakes," Flitwick mused. "Perhaps he refuses to see Harry's situation clearly, because he cannot accept the guilt of having placed him there." He shrugged his small shoulders. "Or perhaps he is merely too credulous. Albus tends to try to see the best in everyone - even those who do not deserve it. Perhaps he merely cannot accept that anyone, even Muggles, would mistreat their own kin. I confess it shocked me deeply. We don't see a lot of overt child abuse in our world. Wizards are so concerned with legacy and inheritance; so protective of their heirs, it wouldn't occur to most that anyone would mistreat their children. I am incensed and repulsed by the attitude of Harry's guardians."

"Perhaps we shouldn't be so surprised," Minerva said cynically. "Think how our world treats squibs. Our laws no longer permit families to eliminate unmagical babies at birth, but it was not so long ago that it was a common practice. Even today, most purebloods treat squibs born into the family as a shameful disgrace. If wizards view squibs with revulsion because they are born without magical talent. . . .is it so unbelievable that Muggles like the Dursleys might view a child born with magic with the same loathing?"

Flitwick gazed at her thoughtfully. "I never thought of that. I suppose you are right. It does not excuse them, however. That kind of intolerance is despicable - in both wizard and Muggle. And to take that prejudice out on an innocent child is the worst kind of depravity."

"So is ignoring such a crime and allowing it to continue," Minerva commented bitterly.

Flitwick studied her solemnly. "What are we going to do if Albus still refuses to support removing Harry from the Dursleys' care, Minerva? Do you intend on fighting him?"

"If I have to," Minerva admitted grimly. "I don't want to, but I won't let Harry be left with them. If worse came to worst, I would file a complaint with the Ministry. I hope it doesn't come to that. It would be horrible for poor Harry - Albus was right about that. And I would hate to accuse Albus of mishandling the boy's welfare. If the wizarding world knew what we do - that Albus Dumbledore willingly left the child in the care of neglectful, possibly abusive Muggles, they would be outraged."

"Such an accusation could severely damage the Headmaster's credibility, and diminish his political influence. If Albus and Severus are right, and Voldemort is trying to regain his former power, it would be a terrible blow to the side of the Light."

"I know, Filius. I hope it will not prove necessary," Minerva admitted wearily.

Flitwick was silent for several moments, his small face wrinkled in intense thought. Then he spoke slowly, giving her a crafty look. "Perhaps it isn't necessary," he said. "Perhaps there is a solution to all of this that will protect Harry, without politically damaging Albus."

"What do you mean?"

"Perhaps we can provide Harry with what he needs without directly challenging the Headmaster's authority."

"And how do you propose we do that?" Minerva asked, cocking one eyebrow dubiously.

Flitwick only smiled vaguely. "I'm not entirely sure, but I have a few ideas. Let me give it a bit more thought. . . I'll discuss it with Severus when he arrives. Something tells me he will have a few ideas of his own."

Minerva grinned. "I did tell him in my letter than we might need his ‘special talents'. An outsider might assume I was referring to his talents as a Potions Master. But I actually had some of his more. . .shall we say, covert skills in mind?"

Flitwick chuckled. "Speaking of Severus, when do you expect him?"

"I sent him an owl late last night. I was afraid to use faster, more open forms of communication. He should receive my letter by noon at the latest."

Flitwick nodded and hopped down off the couch. "It's nearly that now. I'd better go wait for him. If any problems should arise, send me a message."

"I will. The portkey will deposit him about half a kilometer down the lane from the front gates. Be careful, Filius."

Flitwick just grinned at her. "You just keep a tight rein on Pomona. I don't care what the Sorting House says about the other houses. . .no one is more fearsome than a Hufflepuff when they perceive a child is being threatened!"

"I'll keep that in mind," Minerva agreed wryly. "Thank you so much for your support, Filius."

Filius shrugged and gave her a mischievous smile. "It's been a while since I enjoyed the adventure of a clandestine operation, my dear. We all must shake off our complacency from time to time - I'm proud to participate in such a just and worthy cause."

As he sauntered out of her office, Minerva sat behind her desk and forced herself to focus on the growing mound of correspondence she had neglected the day before. She was in no mood for such a mundane task, but settled to it anyway, knowing she must appear to be conducting her business as usual. She tackled the chore with forbearance, glad at least for the distraction.

Just as well. At least it may help to pass the time.

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

For the most part, Jacques, the mail clerk, liked his job at Hotel Mascotte. He had held the position for close to thirty years, and he considered himself quite good at it. He often proclaimed to his friends and family how relieved he would be next year when he could retire at last. . . but secretly he wasn't looking forward to leaving his work. He worried about what he would do with his time when he no longer had to report five days a week to the good quality, not terribly fashionable hotel in Vieux Port, the old port section of town. His job had given him purpose - and he in turn, had given it years of his loyal service. He didn't like the idea of losing that purpose.

Jacques' average day was a smooth, familiar routine, changed little by time or progress. He arrived at ten o'clock each day, and began his duties by sorting through the late night posts that had arrived after he had left work the night before. He would then wheel his little mail cart through the lobby to the two public floos. Floo mail was automatically deposited into boxes next to the hearths. There usually wasn't a lot of mail in the public floo boxes. Most guests had their mail routed directly into their rooms. But if the writer did not know the recipient's room number, the hotel postal system would dump the post into the lobby floos. Jacques would empty these boxes and return to the front office to sort them into two stacks - urgent and regular post. The regular post went into the guest slots, to be handed out by the clerks as the guests came by the desk. The few urgent posts would be delivered by Jacques directly to the guests' rooms. Of course some of these ‘urgent' posts may have been sitting for hours in the floo boxes. . . but in Marseille, as in many coastal tourist towns, ‘urgent' was a relative term.

After the floo mail was processed, Jacques would roll his cart out to the owlrey behind the laundry depot. Owl post was not as common in Marseille as it once was. Unlike their English cousins, French wizards, in the cities and larger towns at least, tended to be urbane and rather progressive, and most preferred modern modes of post, like floo service, to the more traditional method, (deeming owl-keeping to be a somewhat messy and inconvenient endeavor in city dwellings).

The hotel still maintain a small parliament of owls for guest use and a receiving area for visiting owls. Each day Jacques would collect and redistribute any owl post that had arrived, from the Owler, Evrard. ‘Owler' was a rather grand and misleading title in this case. . . Evrard was a dull, brawny lad who fed the owls and scraped up the droppings from the stone floor. He didn't even like owls. He was afraid of strange birds and would only collect mail from the hotel birds. Jacques always had to collect the posts from foreign owls.

On this particular warm sunny Saturday, Jacques ambled out to the owlrey as usual. When he arrived, he was reminded why retirement might not be such a bad thing. He found Evrard cowering under a workbench, staring fearfully at a huge brown-speckled owl who was drinking thirstily from a water bowl and eyeing the big lad with some irritation.

"What's this?" Jacques scolded first Evrard, and then the large bird. The owl blinked at him and clicked his beak.

"It won't let me take the letter, Monsieur Jacques!"

Jacques glared at the strange bird and held out his arm. The large owl flapped over and landed, nearly dragging Jacques' arm down with its heavy weight. "Let's see then," Jacques reached for the envelop fixed to the owl's leg. The owl screeched and hopped onto the workbench, sending poor Evrard scuttling further under its shelter. "What is wrong, you great oaf," Jacques chided. The owl chirped angrily. "How do you expect me to deliver your post if you do not give it to me, eh?"

The owl just glared at him. Jacques didn't think to wonder if the foreign bird understood French. . . owls were especially bright birds who seemed to understand all wizard talk - which was probably why they had become the standard post carriers. Jacques wondered why the owl did not trust him. He was usually quite good with owls.

"I am Monsieur Jacques, the mail clerk for Hotel Mascotte," Jacques introduced himself haughtily. "Your post will be safe with me, Monsieur Owl. Please allow me?" He reached again for the letter but the owl backed away warily.

Jacques studied the bird suspiciously. "Is your post warded for direct delivery only?" he asked the huge owl. The owl hooted and nodded solemnly. Jacques sighed. He hated warded posts. He always felt a bit insulted when one arrived. As if he - Jacques - would ever misdirect or interfere with the post of a guest!

"Come on, then. You'll have to deliver it yourself." He held out his arm again, and the owl fluttered over, perching precariously on his skinny arm. Jacques left his cart and stomped back to the reception office, grumbling under his breath the whole way.

The pretty clerk on duty eyed Jacques and his imposing passenger with some alarm.

"Warded post," Jacques sniffed peevishly. "He'll have to deliver in person."

The clerk leaned forward a bit, squinting at the address on the letter fixed to the owl's leg. "Professor Snape? He is with the Symposium. The bird cannot deliver it."

"Why not?"

"The Professor is in a lecture. The organizers have expressly forbidden any post delivery during lectures. They say it is too disruptive."

Jacques snorted. "Intelligentsia!" His cynical tone expressed his obviously low opinion of the over-educated. "What then?"

The clerk shrugged. "He'll have to wait."

Jacques glared at her. He was tired, hungry, and the heavy owl was making his arm ache. "Fine," he snapped, and raised his arm, shaking it. The owl emitted a startled squawk and flapped across the room to a tall file cabinet. The owl landed on top and settled with a flurry of ruffled feathers, glaring back at the mail clerk.

"I am not carrying that great lout all the way back to the owlrey. He'll just have to wait here for your precious professor. I am going to lunch." With a petulant grunt he stalked off, leaving the pretty clerk staring nervously up at the large brown owl.

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

Harry put the vacuum away and gathered up his cleaning supplies. He glanced over the lounge one more time, nodding to himself with weary satisfaction. The room was immaculate - everything gleamed, from the newly washed windows to the glossy polished furniture. Fresh flowers filled several vases in the room. These were Aunt Petunia's sole contribution to the tidy room: of course, all she had done was arrange them in the vases - growing and tending the blooms had been Harry's achievement - not that his aunt would ever have admitted it.

A car door slammed in the driveway and Harry hurried to the kitchen. His uncle and cousin had returned, and Harry wanted to get out of the way before his uncle found some reason to criticize or reproach him. Aunt Petunia was busy checking her roast in the oven so Harry sidled over to the sink to sneak a glass of water. He glanced over at her with mild curiosity.

Petunia poked the roast with a knife for the tenth time, fretting unnecessarily. The roast was fine, but she was in such a state of nervous excitement she couldn't seem to stand still. Harry noted that she had already dressed for dinner, even though her guests would not arrive for two more hours. She wore a frilly apron over her peach organdy gown and her hair had been lacquered so thoroughly a high gale couldn't have budged a single hair. Harry thought she looked a bit pretentious for a simple dinner party, but it was a typical Dursley trait: his uncle and cousin were going to wear dinner jackets, for Merlin's sake! Still, his aunt was making an effort and he couldn't fault her for that. He spoke up with genuine civility.

"You look nice, Aunt Petunia."

She glanced up at him, startled by the unexpected compliment. She scowled at him for a moment, as if trying to find mockery in the comment. When his expression remained sincere, she sniffed and decided to ignore something she didn't know how to respond to. "Are you finished in the lounge?" she asked stiffly.

"Yes, m'am."

"Go sweep the driveway and front walk. . .then you'd better go to your room. Your uncle and Dudders need to shower and dress - I don't want you getting in their way."

"Yes, Aunt Petunia." Harry headed for the back door. The outdoor broom was in the shed, which was convenient for Harry. It meant he could slip around front from outside, without having to pass under his uncle's disapproving eye.

"Boy." Petunia's warning call halted him at the door. For a brief moment, resentment flared in him.

I have a name, you know. It's Harry. Can't you even say it once?

But of course he didn't voice his thoughts. He peered back at her tiredly.

"This evening is very important to your uncle. I don't have to tell you what will happen if you do anything to ruin it for him, do I?" Petunia said quietly.

Harry shook his head. He knew exactly what would happen if anything went wrong tonight. . .even if it wasn't Harry's fault.

"Just stay out of the way and keep quiet," she warned disdainfully. Her eyes narrowed and she seemed to hesitate for a moment. "After the Masons are gone - if there are any leftovers, I'll bring you a plate before we go to bed."

Harry blinked at her in surprise. Either his aunt was trying to bribe him to behave - or she was showing him a tentative morsel of compassion. He couldn't believe it was compassion. . .too many years of apathy lay between them.

"I'll be good," he muttered sullenly. "I know Uncle Vernon needs this account. I wouldn't do anything to mess it up."

"See that you don't," she admonished primly.

Harry gave her long brooding look.

It didn't have to be this way, you know. We could have been close. I only ever wanted to please you. I used to try so hard to make you love me. . .why didn't you?

An uneasy frown crossed her gaunt face as if Petunia had read his thoughts, then her expression closed down to a frosty sneer. "Don't just stand there, boy. Get to it," she snapped, turning back to her over-tended roast.

Harry slipped out the back door just as his cousin stomped into the kitchen. "That smells good! I'm hungry!" Dudley bellowed.

As he retrieved the broom, Harry could hear his aunt through the open window, fussing over her spoiled son.

"Now Duddekins! Don't pick at the roast - that's for our dinner!" she wheedled. "Here, sweetheart. Here's some nice biscuits and milk. That should tide you over until dinner. Now hurry up, darling! You have to shower and change, so Daddy can use the bathroom." Harry didn't linger to hear his cousin's whiney response.

By the time he had swept up every leaf and speck of dust from the driveway and walk, the sun was getting low in the summer sky. He put away the broom and dustbin and snuck in the front door, hoping to creep up the stairs quietly without attracting the notice of his uncle and cousin in the lounge. This hope was dashed when his Aunt called out to him from the kitchen. "Boy! Get in here!"

Harry sighed and trudged into the kitchen. Aunt Petunia was painstakingly adding purple sugar florets to her already garish pudding. She glared at him warningly and motioned him into the lounge, where Uncle Vernon was (for the tenth time, by Harry's count) reiterating the evening's ‘schedule', as he called it. Harry stood silent, tuning out the man's pompous rumble until Uncle Vernon turned on him with a ferocious scowl.

"And you, boy?"

"I'll be in my room, making no noise and pretending I'm not there," Harry replied woodenly.

"Too right, you will," Vernon snarled, waving him out with a contemptuous sneer.

Relieved to be excused, Harry plodded into the hall and started up the stairs. He was startled when Vernon's beefy hand descended on his arm, squeezing painfully.

"Remember, boy - one sound. . ." his uncle's threat sent a shiver of shameful fear down his spine. Harry nodded once, not meeting the huge man's glare, and tiptoed up the stairs.