Late afternoon sunlight washed the Rue de Fleurus with golden light, warming the colors of the brick buildings and striped awnings. Tourists in brightly-hued summer clothes strolled to and from le Jardin de Luxembourg, and the few local citizens on the street conducted their business languidly, without acknowledging the sightseers.

Patrons of Taverne du Chat Noir sat outside among planters of fragrant flowers, chatting gaily as waiters in crisp white aprons bustled from table to table. Inside the dimly lit tavern, more patrons dined at intimate tables and curtained booths.

A heavy oak door separated the front dining room from a second, more secluded section. Behind this door, a large open chamber lit by torches boasted a huge fireplace on one wall, many small tables and benches, and a long, well-stocked bar at the back. A shadowy hallway led off one side of the bar, and a wrought-iron circular staircase spiraled up to a balcony and rear corridor that led to private guest rooms.

The majority of du Chat Noir's regular customers were unaware of the existence of this back room. In fact, they did not even notice the door to this room - or if they did, they had only a fleeting impression of a dingy metal door labeled ‘Employés'. Oddly dressed patrons passed through this door from time to time, also unnoticed by their fellow Parisians. Most wore long robes and costumes reminiscent of the nineteenth century, but no one commented on their quaint attire. This was Montparnasse after all - the heart of intellectual and artistic life in Paris, and birthplace of the bohemian lifestyle where the unconventional is commonplace. In addition, a small private Opera House operated two doors down from the tavern. Costumed cast members frequented the tavern for food and wine between matinee and evening performances, (and during intermissions as well, although the theatre management tried to discourage this practice.)

So on this particular sunny afternoon, few people glanced at the tall handsome man in pearl gray robes who strode purposefully through the tavern. When he passed beyond the oak door into the nearly deserted room beyond, a pretty woman in her early thirties looked up from behind the bar. With a delighted squeal, she abandoned her muted conversation with two elderly patrons. A dazzling smile lit her heart-shaped face and her dark eyes sparkled. "Monsieur Darnell!" she called out and waved to the newcomer.

The man paused a moment, intense blue eyes sweeping the room with habitual caution. Then his posture relaxed and he sauntered over to the bar, his robes shimmering in the torchlight. "Maîtresse Amalie - my dear friend!" He halted before her, returning her roguish grin with one of his own. He reached across the narrow bar, grasped her hand and bowed, then pressed a light kiss to her knuckles. "Always a pleasure," he purred in flawless French, his deep baritone lush and seductive.

"Dearest Darnell!" the woman gushed in French, her soft husky voice vibrating with pleasure. When the man released her hand, she grabbed a bottle from under the bar, and snagged a fat stemmed glass from a rack above her. With swift dexterity, she filled the snifter halfway, then fetched another glass and poured some for herself. "Where have you been, you darling man?! It has been too long! I have missed you, mon cher!" she teased him affectionately, shaking her short dark curls.

"I have been away too long," he agreed, raising his glass to toast her. "But you! You have not changed a bit, ma petite! In truth, you are lovelier than ever!"

Maîtresse Amalie chuckled provocatively - a low, throaty laugh that put answering smiles on the faces of all who heard her. " Shameless flatterer!" She waved over a young woman who came up to place an empty tray on the bar. "Suzette! Look here! Here is the handsome English wizard I have told you about - the one with the velvet voice, eh?"

"But of course!" the young blonde smiled at him, her pink cheeks dimpling. She let her curious gaze sweep over him in frank appraisal.

The wizard was tall and trim and he moved with an effortless, feline grace. His short black hair was thick and glossy, a faint glint of silver at the temples. Beneath his neatly-trimmed beard, his complexion was lightly tanned, as if he spent as much time out of doors as in. His deep blue eyes were intelligent and alert: they glimmered oddly, seeming not so much to reflect light, but to absorb it. His robes were light-weight and fluid, of the finest silk, draping his frame in soft folds from his shoulders to the floor. The tips of his black boots, and the high collar of his deep gray silk shirt were all that showed from beneath the expensive robes. His overall appearance was distinguished and emphatically masculine, but the feature that the waitress most noticed - the feature that drew stares wherever the man went, was his smile. It was a wry smile - a smug smile - slightly arrogant with a touch of mild irony behind it. It was the smile of a man perpetually amused by all he observed.

The poised man accepted the young waitress' bold scrutiny, took her hand and kissed it. "Enchanted, Mademoiselle!"

"You're too kind, Monsieur," she giggled and gave Amalie a bright grin. "You were right, Amalie! His voice is like sweet, heavy syrup! But you did not tell me how elegant and charming he was!"

"Of course not!" Amalie snickered. "I didn't wish to pique your interest too very much! I am too old to compete with you young girls."

"You speak heresy, ma cherie!" the man protested. "Everyone in Paris knows Maîtresse Amalie is as ageless as the stars - and twice as brilliant!"

This lovely compliment earned a heartfelt sigh from the young waitress and a trill of husky laughter from Amalie. "I have always said your French is nearly as good as a native's, Monsieur Darnell - but your words, they are beautiful nonsense!" She laughed again and placed two filled mugs on Suzette's tray.

With a pert curtsy, the young waitress sashayed off to a table in the corner. In a green flash, two burly workmen burst abruptly into the room through the fireplace and lumbered up to the bar. Monsieur Darnell gave them a moment of tense scrutiny, then relaxed again. He sipped his brandy while Maîtresse Amalie served them, then smiled when the attractive tavern owner returned to refill his glass. He stayed her with a curt shake of his head and a hand over his nearly empty snifter.

Amalie grinned and shrugged. "Shall I have your favorite room prepared for you?" she asked.

"I regret I cannot stay that long. . .I am in Paris for a few hours only."

"But no!" Amalie protested with a pretty pout. "Here you do not visit me for - what? two? Three years, is it? And now you will not even stay the night? My darling Darnell - you break my heart!"

"It is sad but true, ma petite!" the wizard replied with a dramatically tragic sigh. "I am only here to conduct some quick business. I cannot dally this trip, but I will visit longer next time, perhaps."

"At least promise me you will not wait so long to come see us again!" Amalie demanded coquettishly, her hands propped on her hips.

Darnell's appreciative gaze traveled over her willowy frame, draped in a clingy black gown with plunging neckline that concealed little. "That is a promise I will gladly make," he said wryly. He downed the last of his brandy and reached into a hidden pocket of his robes.

Maîtresse Amalie stopped him with a lazy wave of her hand. "Keep your francs, Darnell. It is Amalie's treat, eh?"

"Only if you allow me to return the favor when my business is concluded," he insisted gallantly, reaching out for her hand. She surrendered it gladly and winked at him when he bowed and kissed it again.

"But of course, mon cherie!" Amalie lilted. She leaned on the bar with a predatory smile and watched him disappear through the doorway beside the bar.

Monsieur Darnell strode up to a tall tapestry that hung at the end of the dim hallway. The tapestry was worn and faded, and the single guttering torch on the wall did not cast enough light to reveal its faded design. The man raised his right hand and touched a slender wand to the dusty fabric. The tapestry glimmered, then seemed to dissolve altogether, revealing a narrow stone archway. Beyond the arch, the Ruelle du Sortilège glowed in the afternoon sun.

Monsieur Darnell strode quickly down the narrow cobbled lane. The stone buildings that loomed over the street were not as old as some in Diagon Alley. A devastating fire had destroyed the original ancient marketplace in the late fifteenth century, but most of the current buildings pre-dated the Revolution - as did many of the shops inside them. Monsieur Darnell noted thankfully that the lane and shops were nearly deserted, with only a few customers strolling about. At this hour of the afternoon, most Parisian wizards and witches were resting or lounging at home, as was the custom. In a few hours time, they would begin to immerge into the cool early evening air, and the shops and cafes would be crowded and noisy until well after midnight. Now, however, the street was quiet, disturbed only by the passage of an occasional merchant, and a few harried mothers taking advantage of their offsprings' afternoon naps to get their shopping done.

The dark-haired wizard bypassed the shops and cafes, making his way to a tall white marble building that crouched in the apex of a fork in the main road. He ignored the six heavily-armed goblins guarding the entrance of La Banque de Gringott and stalked into the cool shadows of the huge lobby, striding confidently down the length of the broad room to a tall counter at the far end.

A tiny, shriveled, ancient goblin sat at the counter beneath an ornate coat of arms. He was writing something in a ledger, his long spidery fingers clasping a huge black quill nearly as long as the goblin was tall. With a sour sneer, he glanced down his nose at the wizard. "What is it you want?" he snapped impatiently.

"Monsieur Russell Darnell to see Account Manager Silverscale," the wizard replied in French.

"One moment," the goblin sniffed. He scribbled something on a scrap of parchment and shoved it through a slot in the countertop, then returned to his ledger without another glance at the waiting wizard. After a few minutes, a richly-dressed goblin exited a nearby door and moved to meet the wizard, offering a short bow.

"Manager Silverscale," the wizard murmured, returning his bow. "It is pleasure to see you again."

"The pleasure is mine, Monsieur Darnell," the goblin replied formally. "You honor Gringotts with your business. Please allow me to escort you to my private office." In a few short minutes, Darnell found himself seated in a large comfortable chair in the goblin-manager's luxuriously furnished office.

Silverscale settled himself behind a huge mahogany desk. "Might I offer you some refreshment?"

"Thank you, no," Darnell declined politely.

"It has been some years since you have graced our establishment with your presence, Monsieur Darnell. It is indeed pleasant to see you once again. How may Gringotts serve you today?"

"I would like to arrange several fund transfers."

"Non-traceable, I presume?"

"Yes."

"But of course. From which account, Monsieur?"

"From my London account," the wizard replied in English. When the Illusionment Charm that surrounded him abruptly shimmered and dissolved, the goblin did not even blink. Unlike wizards or Muggles, Goblins see through such glamours with ease and cannot be fooled by them.

"Very well, Sir," Silverscale slipped effortlessly into English as well. "Allow me a moment to retrieve those accounts." He rummaged through a drawer of a tall wooden cabinet behind him, then returned to his desk with a thick folder in his hands. He withdrew a heavy parchment, laid it on the desk and pointed to a blank line on the form. "If you will sign here, Sir - and apply one drop of blood beside your signature."

The wizard complied without comment, slicing a tiny cut in his left index finger with his wand, and healing the cut when the required drop of blood had sunk into the parchment.

"Good," Silverscale nodded, satisfied. He did not comment on the consequences if the wizard had proven to be an imposter, nor did the man ask. When it came to fraud or attempted theft, goblins were not known for their mercy. "How much do you wish to transfer?"

"Nearly all of it," the wizard replied evenly.

This time the goblin did blink - the only outward sign of his surprise. He pulled a clean parchment toward him and began to write as the wizard continued.

"I wish to transfer all but two thousand galleons out of my London account, into my Gringotts account in the Grand Cayman Islands. Then I want those total funds to be divided into four equal shares. One share shall remain in the Grand Cayman account. The other three shares are to be transferred to my main accounts in Vancouver, Dublin, and Zurich, respectively. "

"Certainly, Sir," Silverscale made notations and glanced up at him. "Is that all?"

"No, I'd like to withdraw three thousand galleons from my Paris vault, to be exchanged into English pounds."

The goblin frowned. "You realize such an exchange would be costly. You would get a better rate of exchange if you took the francs and exchanged them in London."

"I'm aware of that. I prefer to do it here. The rate does not matter," the wizard waved a hand dismissively.

"As you wish, Sir. This will only take a moment - if you will excuse me."

The goblin left the office briefly, returning with a rolled parchment and a small cloth bag. "Your pounds are in here - please count them, Sir." He set the standard bottomless moneybag before the wizard who quickly counted the Muggle money and nodded in satisfaction. "And if you will sign here, Monsieur Darnell," he said pointedly, spreading the parchment out on his desk. He handed the wizard a quill and watched as the man signed the document.

"Very good, Sir," he said, folding the document and placing it in the folder on his desk. "The fund transfers you requested are now completed. Is there any other business Gringotts can help you with today?"

"Nothing, thank you, Manager Silverscale," the wizard rose and bowed formally, switching back to French once more. "Thank you for your assistance. May your gold flow like water and your property always increase."

"May you and your heirs be blessed with wealth and prosperity," the goblin manager rose and replied in the approved manner. With the formalities over, he suddenly smirked and held out a long fingered hand, which the tall wizard clasped warmly.

"It was very good to see you again, Silverscale," the wizard remarked, smiling down at him.

The goblin grinned back at him, his small beady eyes gleaming. "And you, my dear sir - and you! I hope you will return to Paris soon."

"It is possible," the wizard shrugged. "In these uncertain days - one never knows." Tucking the moneybag into his robes, he flicked his wand, renewing his glamour.

Monsieur Russell Darnell made his way cautiously and discreetly from La Banque de Gringott down the length of Ruelle du Sortilège, reentering du Chat Noir through the magical archway. He shared another brandy with Maîtresse Amalie as promised, and flirted lightheartedly with the tavern owner and her pretty waitress for half an hour. Then, with a farewell kiss for both lovely ladies, he left the establishment through the Muggle café that fronted the street, and walked several blocks to a nearby flower shop.

Entering the shop, he nodded curtly to the man behind the counter and stepped into the back room. Handing a galleon to the old woman knitting by the large brick hearth, he accepted a handful of powder from her. With clear crisp tones and a green flash, he flooed to a stone hearth in a tiny cobbler's shop in Vieux Port, two blocks north of the Hotel Mascotte du Marseille.

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

Harry Potter knelt in the dry dusty grass and yanked fiercely at a weed sprouting between two parched begonias. The sun beat down relentlessly on his sweaty back, and his neck, face and arms throbbed with sunburn. He wiped at the sweat that ran down his feverish cheeks and struggled with the tenacious weed. The weather had been unusually hot and dry ever since he had returned to Surrey, and the hard-baked soil made weeding difficult, even with the thick layer of mulch he had spread in the flower beds. Harry scrabbled at the persistent weed with aching hands, grunting with effort as the stubborn plant finally came loose.

He tossed the weed into a nearby bucket and eyed the garden hose with longing. He was dreadfully thirsty, and the backyard weeding would have been easier if the soil were moistened, but his Aunt Petunia had forbidden use of the hose. She disapproved of midday watering. ("It's a waste of water," she'd declare. "Half of it will evaporate before soaking in. I'll not have you running up our water account!") If she saw Harry turn on the hose before sunset, even for a quick sip, she would report the wastage to his Uncle Vernon and there would be hell to pay later. So Harry ignored his dry lips and parched mouth and continued his onerous chore.

Harry hated weeding the backyard beds. He didn't much like weeding the front yard either, but at least he got to tend the front beds in the cool damp hours of pre-dawn, instead of in the blazing afternoon sun. This wasn't for his comfort, of course. Aunt Petunia didn't want the neighbors staring at her skinny, shabby nephew, so she dragged him out of bed before sunrise and forced him to tend the front lawn and garden before anyone else on Privet Drive was up and about. She called him inside to cook breakfast as her working neighbors immerged from their houses to commute to their jobs. After breakfast, Harry would clean the kitchen and start the laundry before she sent him into the back yard to work. In the back, high hedges and a rear brick garden wall screened sight of the boy from most of the neighborhood, but they provided little shelter from the hot summer sun overhead.

While Petunia Dursley and her obese son, Dudley, escaped the midday heat in the cool confines of the lounge, Harry labored on, swallowing against a dry throat, and fighting the nausea and dizziness caused by overheating and dehydration. His stomach growled ominously. It had been three days since his last meal (if you could call a half-slice of stale bread and a dried out hunk of old cheese a meal) and he was growing weak from hunger. But heat and thirst overpowered his hunger, and even if food had been available, Harry doubted he could have swallowed it. He tugged at a new weed and shook off another wave of dizziness. If anyone had been watching, they would have seen the small boy turn paler, his skin looking slightly green under the painful sunburn.

"Boy!" Petunia's shrill bark echoed off the hot brick wall. Harry raised his head wearily and looked at the tall gaunt woman standing in the back door. "Get in here."

Harry struggled woozily to his feet and brushed the dirt from his sore hands. He trudged over to the waiting woman who scowled at him critically. "Stop weeding for now. I want you to clean the upstairs bathroom."

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," Harry croaked through parched lips.

"And take off those filthy shoes before you come in. I don't want you tracking dirt all over my clean floors." She turned and flounced back inside.

Harry sat on the back stoop and removed his tattered, too-large trainers. He carefully brushed off all the loose dirt from his ragged trousers, went inside and climbed the stairs wearily. He was glad for the new chore, although he would not have said so to his aunt. Cleaning the bathroom meant access to water - access he took advantage of as soon as he closed the door to the bathroom behind him. He turned on the cold water tap in the sink and bent over, lapping the water eagerly. The water not only relieved his thirst, but would fill his stomach as well - for a while, at least. He gulped at the water for a couple of minutes before stopping reluctantly. He was still thirsty, but his empty stomach could not handle too much at once and he didn't want to sick up. Instead, he splashed his face and neck, sighing in relief as the cool water eased his burned skin a little.

He heard footsteps on the stairs. They were ordinary, brisk footsteps, not thundering thuds - so he knew it wasn't his cousin approaching. He grabbed cleaners and rags from under the sink and began scrubbing the basin just in time. His aunt wrenched the door open with a bang, making him jump.

"Leave this door open," Aunt Petunia snarled. "I want to be able to see if you're slacking off, you useless brat!"

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," Harry murmured, bending to his task. It was pointless to protest. He heard his aunt sniff, then stomp off downstairs as he scrubbed at several tan stains in the basin. Dudley and his father both used an oily unguent to slick down their hair, and the cream left greasy stains in the porcelain that Harry had to battle constantly. Uncle Vernon was fairly fastidious in his application, but his cousin always splattered great gobs of the stuff all over. Harry suspected he did it on purpose just to make more work for Harry, but of course he never complained.

Complaining only lead to worse trouble- something Harry had been forced to learn at a very age. He kept his grievances to himself for the most part, not wishing to give his Aunt or Uncle further excuse to punish him - not that they needed an excuse.

His current punishment was the result of one of Dudley's frequent lies. His cousin had crashed one of his remote-controlled cars into the wall of the Dursley's new sunroom, cracking one of the expensive glass panes. He had then blamed Harry, of course - an obviously trumped-up story which had earned Harry not only extra chores and no food, but a ruthless session with Vernon's belt as well. Harry still bore purple and black bruises across his bum and thighs from the thrashing, and his Uncle's increasing violence had dampened the spark of defiance that sometimes flared in Harry's heart.

He wearily scoured the stained sink, the harsh cleaner stinging a few small cuts on his unprotected hands. There was a pair of yellow rubber gloves under the sink, but those belonged to Aunt Petunia, and Harry wasn't allowed to use them for he might ‘stretch them out or tear them', as his aunt had sneered when he asked.

He let his mind wander as he worked and it returned, as usual, to happy memories of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He missed his school. . .he missed it so much it made his stomach ache. He missed his friends - Ron, Hermione and Hagrid the Groundskeeper. He missed classes and Quidditch and the food in the Great Hall. And it surprised him a little to realize that he even missed his twice-weekly tutoring sessions with Professor Snape. It wasn't that Harry liked the extra lessons, or enjoyed doing homework, really. . .it was the calm, safe atmosphere of the Professor's quarters that he liked.

Harry thought back to those sessions as he finished with the sink and moved on to the toilet. He recalled sitting at Snape's table, studying. . .the quiet of the room, disturbed only by the crackle of the fire and the scratch of his quill. . .Snape's steady, reassuring presence as the surly Professor read by the hearth. . .their evening ritual of tea and biscuits. Harry didn't know what it felt like to have a real family- a real home where he was safe and welcome, but he imagined his evenings with Snape might come close. Sometimes, like now, when he was feeling especially down or lonesome, he imagined what it would be like to have that feeling all the time. . .to live with someone who didn't hate him. Someone who looked after him - who made sure that he did his homework, and that he ate properly, and didn't get sick. But such imaginings filled him with a strange longing, and made him feel even more lonely than usual.

Harry pushed way these thoughts as he rinsed and wiped down the toilet, then began cleaning the bathtub.

It's no good thinking about it. It's just a stupid dream anyway! It didn't mean anything. . .not to Snape. . .he doesn't care.

He swallowed against a hard lump that swelled in his throat.

If he cared, he would have written, like he said he would. . .I should've known not to believe it!

Clutching the scrubbing sponge tightly, Harry silently scolded himself and took out his frustration on the grimy tub.

You know better than to trust anything a grownup says....grownups always let you down. Maybe friends do too. Ron and Hermione haven't written either. . .I haven't gotten any letters at all since school ended.

Harry hadn't really been surprised that Ron didn't write. . . the redhead wasn't much for correspondence. At school, Ron hadn't been very good about writing home, either - a fact Harry honestly couldn't comprehend. He was sure that if he had a mother or father to write home to, he would want to write almost every day! But Harry had thought that Hermione would have written to him at least once by now.

They've just been busy. . .they're home with their families, probably having all kinds of fun. . .they've just forgotten about me. . .who could blame them. . . maybe they don't even like me anymore. . .

Harry raised a shoulder and impatiently scrubbed his face against his shirt, brushing away sudden tears.

Stop it! Crying is for babies! You're practically twelve already! There's no use crying about it anyway. It doesn't help anything. So what if they've forgotten you? So what if you have no friends? So you're alone again. That's nothing new.

Harry rinsed the tub, then leaned back, stretching his aching back as a bitter melancholy settled over him.

This is it. This is your life. Get used to it. Nobody is going to help you. You have to look out for yourself, just like always.

Harry stood with a sudden surge of stubborn resolve. Tossing the sponge under the sink, he put away the cleaning supplies and dried his hands. Then he marched determinedly down the stairs. When he entered the kitchen, his Aunt Petunia turned from the sink where she was filling a flower vase and frowned at him. "Have you finished the bathroom already? It had better be spotless, boy, or you'll be doing it all over again." Harry said nothing, just stood staring coldly at her. "Well?" Petunia scowled unpleasantly. Harry had to suppress a sudden urge to snicker.

You think that's a scowl? Lady, that's amateur stuff! You should see Snape sometime. . .now that's a scowl!

"May I please have some food?" Harry asked quietly. Petunia blinked at him. "I haven't eaten in three days. I'm getting weak. If you want me strong enough to work for you, you're going to have to give me something to eat." Harry kept his tone polite and flat. It wasn't a challenge, but a simple statement of fact.

Petunia's homely face screwed up in disgust. Harry could see the angry denials and scathing insults play across her expression, but he also saw a glimmer of something else in her beady eyes. . .something he might have termed guilt in anyone else. He stood still, refusing to back down.

"Fine!" she snapped at last, drawing herself up in stiff disapproval. She jerked her head at the fridge. "Make yourself a sandwich - but be quick about it. I want the upstairs vacuumed and the bed linens changed before your Uncle comes home."

Harry moved to comply, hardly daring to believe his request had been granted. Petunia turned back to her flowers and ignored him. He made himself a ham and cheese sandwich and ate it standing at the counter. He was still too sore to sit comfortably, and he knew better than to sit at the dining table. The table was for family, not for unwanted little freaks like him. He ate slowly, nibbling at the sandwich in tiny bites. As hungry as he was, he had learned not to shock his shrunken stomach with too much food too fast. Watching his aunt warily, he even summoned the courage to pour himself a small glass of milk. He expected her to protest - she never gave him anything but water to drink - but he had learned to love milk when he first tasted it at Hogwarts and he had missed it. To his relief, his aunt frowned but made no comment.

Harry washed down the last bites of his sandwich with the cold milk and marveled over his small success with his aunt. Instinct told him it wasn't something he could push too far. If he made too many demands, Petunia would complain to Uncle Vernon, and Harry didn't want another thrashing. The last one had bordered on brutal, and he had barely managed to stifle his tears until his uncle had left the room. But at least his aunt had let him eat. Perhaps if he continued to do his chores without complaint, and remained respectful and submissive (on the outside, at least) he might be able to convince her to do it again. Harry examined his situation critically. He was used to hunger - he could usually go two days without food before dizziness overtook him. He'd only ask when he got really weak.

Feeling somewhat encouraged, Harry cleaned up after his meager meal, washing his glass and carefully wiping up any crumbs. Then he went back upstairs to resume the tasks his aunt had assigned him, glad to be indoors out of the hot sun.

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

Minerva signed the report before her and placed it in the completed pile with a sigh. At last!

She pulled off her glasses and rubbed her tired eyes. She had been working for hours and her hand was aching. She stretched her cramped fingers and tried to smother a smoldering spark of resentment.

Since the term had ended, Minerva had been buried in paperwork. For reasons known only to himself, Albus had decided to take his three week holiday as soon as the students left Hogwarts, instead of taking his leave in the middle of the summer, as most of the staff did. This meant that the customary task of completing the huge volume of year-end paperwork fell entirely on the Deputy Headmistress. For the last two weeks, while the Headmaster was in Wales, visiting with his brother and presumably entertaining his growing swarm of great-grandnieces and nephews, Minerva had spent long exhausting hours at her desk, finishing not only her own reports as teacher and Head of House, but also ploughing through the reams of paperwork required by both the Board of Governors and the Ministry Education Department. It was a task that she and Albus would normally share. . and Minerva didn't really appreciate being left holding the bag, as it were. It wasn't that she minded the work. Minerva was deeply dedicated to the school, and took her responsibilities as Deputy Headmistress quite seriously. But she hadn't anticipated being so completely overwhelmed as soon as the summer began.

She leaned back in her chair and poured herself another cup of tea from the Ready-Hot Pot that rested on her desk. Her tired thoughts drifted once more to the subject that was never far from her mind - the subject of one Harry Potter. She had wanted to go to Surrey and check on her student shortly after the term ended. But the huge load of paperwork and endless demands on her time had delayed that desire. Technically speaking, with Albus gone, she wasn't supposed to leave Hogwarts at all. According to school by-laws, one of them - either the Headmaster or his Deputy - was supposed to be on the property at all times, even when students weren't present.

Minerva had told herself that a few weeks wouldn't matter. Though she suspected that Harry was unhappy at home, logic suggested that he was probably at least safe there. Still her conscience nagged her. Over the course of the last year, she had grown very fond of the quiet, sweet-natured boy. She had promised Severus that she would check on Harry, and she wanted. . . no, she needed reassurance herself that the boy was alright.

Minerva eyed the diminishing stack of unfinished reports on her desk, then turned and glanced out of the window behind her. It was late - nearly dusk - and she had skipped dinner again. She slapped the arms of her chair with sudden fierce resolution.

Damn the by-laws! Damn the reports! Damn the Governors and the Ministry - and damn Albus too, for that matter! All of them can wait.

Tomorrow.

I'll go check on Harry tomorrow, first thing after breakfast. I won't stay long. . .just long enough to make sure the boy is all right.

Feeling much better now that her mind was made up, Minerva rose from her desk and called for a house elf. She decided to eat a light supper by her sitting room window, where she could watch the last rays of the sunset and enjoy a bit of fresh evening air for a change.

After a rather dull lecture on venom antidotes, Severus declined the polite invitations from some of his peers to join them for dinner. Pleading exhaustion, he stalked through the hotel lobby, stopping briefly at the reception desk. "Have there been any owls for me?"

The witch behind the desk checked the mail slot for his room. "No, Professor Snape."

Severus scowled. "Very well. If one arrives, please have it delivered immediately. And I should like to have a light supper sent up in one hour's time."

"Of course, Professor."

Severus stomped up the stairs and down the second floor corridor. He let himself in to the shabby, low-budget room at the end of the hall beside the housekeeping closet. It was not a particularly comfortable accommodation. The room was too small to hold more than a narrow bed, small table, one chair and a cramped wardrobe. The lone window looked out over a service alley lined with trash bins, and thin walls let in every noise from the frequently used utility room next door. The room didn't even have a fireplace. If Severus had wanted to make a floo call, he would have had to use the public floo in the lobby.

The one advantage his room did offer was solitude. It was too small to accommodate more than one wizard. Due to the heavily attended Potions Symposium, the hotel was filled to capacity, and the next nearest wizard-run hotel was miles away in a less than desirable neighborhood. Most of the conference guests who had wished to stay in the hosting hotel - even those, like Severus, who were lecturing - had been forced to share accommodations with other attendees. Severus had flatly refused such a compromise. He much preferred his own stuffy cramped room to the prospect of sharing one of the hotel's more comfortable double rooms with another wizard.

Severus locked his door with a light warding charm and opened the inadequate window. A faint ocean breeze from the old port stirred the musty air. He eagerly stripped off his dark robes and took a long cooling shower. He felt slightly better once he had washed away the summer stickiness and shampooed his limp, greasy hair. Long hours bent over a cauldron made his hair exceedingly oily, and it sometimes took several latherings to get it truly clean. Severus had concocted a special shampoo specifically for this purpose, which performed the task adequately - at least better than any other products he had tried. It was a bit expensive to brew, however, so he used it sparingly.

Lank, oily hair was a common dilemma for brewers, he had noticed. One desperate brewer at the symposium had even sported a cleanly shaven head, declaring it the only remedy to the occupational condition. Severus wasn't quite ready for such a drastic solution, but the problem had piqued his interest.

His own greasy hair had never bothered him all that much. He was not a vain man; he was mostly indifferent to his appearance, knowing he was considered less than attractive. He was scrupulous in his personal hygiene, of course, and did take pride in his plain but modest attire. His robes were always clean and meticulously pressed, and his boots always polished. But he had never bothered much with his hair, other than keeping it washed and bluntly trimmed.

Judging from the frequency with which the topic was discussed at the symposium, however, it was clear that many other brewers possessed far more vanity than he did. In fact, so many of his peers seemed so distressed and distracted by the problem, that Severus had been intrigued by the possibilities. Apparently, aside from Severus, even the best among them had had little success in concocting their own remedies. He had decided to re-evaluate his personal shampoo recipe when he returned to his private lab, with the intention of perhaps improving it. Based upon the conversations he had overheard so far, potion brewers around the world would be willing to pay an exorbitant price for any product that relieved them of this unpleasant side-effect of their profession. If Severus devised a superior shampoo and marketed it directly to his fellow brewers, he had a feeling it could prove quite lucrative. He had already made a few notes regarding fragrances and additives that might improve his base formula.

Severus wrapped himself in a light-weight dressing gown to answer the door when his dinner arrived. He sneered at the snooty waiter who brought his tray, tossing him an insultingly meager tip and shutting the door in his face. Then he sat at the small rickety table and ate his dinner in solitary contentment.

At least he should have been content. Everything had gone well so far. He had attended several genuinely interesting lectures and been inspired by the exchange of knowledge and theory he'd shared with some of Europe's finest Potions Masters. He was grudgingly thankful that he had let Albus talk him into attending the symposium. Though not normally sociable, he had to acknowledge that spending time with others who shared his passion had rejuvenated him.

His own lecture had been a stunning success. Severus' brittle, insolent manner had fostered few friendships among his peers. But despite his personal unpopularity, every well-informed brewer at the conference knew of Severus Snape's brilliance and skill, and his lecture had been packed to capacity. Every seat in the largest lecture room had been claimed, with many younger, less prestigious brewers standing in back, lining the walls. His question and answer period after the lecture had been brisk and enthusiastic, running well beyond the allotted time. The symposium organizers had finally demanded its conclusion, complaining (much to Severus' private amusement) that no one had shown up for two competing lectures scheduled at the same time. The discourse had continued, spilling out into the lobby, until Severus had been forced to practically shove his way through the congratulatory crowd of admirers to escape to his room.

The award that the organizers insisted on bestowing on Severus wouldn't be presented until the following evening, during the final banquet of the symposium. Severus couldn't have cared less. A cheesy trophy and mention in a few trade periodicals meant nothing to him, compared to the praise and recognition of his work by his peers. The contagious excitement of his fellow brewers over his advances and innovations were Severus' greatest rewards, although he never would have admitted it out loud.

But even his professional triumphs could not ease the brooding discontent that still plagued him. Severus picked pensively at the remains of his scarcely eaten food, his thoughts lingering on far darker matters. The events at the end of term, and the possible return of the Dark Lord haunted him. Even more pressing, was his concern for the one who had alerted him to that threat. . .Harry Potter.

He had to admit he was peeved with Potter . . .peeved and a bit disappointed. He had offered to correspond with the boy over the summer - not a trivial concession for the solitary professor. He had not only written first, but had sent three letters (three!) - all the way from France, mind you - and the rude, thoughtless boy had not bothered to reply. Potter hadn't even sent a simple note acknowledging receipt of his letters!

At first, Severus had been merely annoyed. He blamed the boy's laziness and unreliability for the slight. But his third letter, sent out two nights before, had stated in very strong language that Severus expected an immediate response. He had still received no reply, and he was growing worried. Harry was generally polite, even overly considerate of others' feelings(in Snape's opinion). He could not believe the boy would ignore his letters. The only alternatives, were that either Harry had not received them, or he was unable to reply.

I wonder if those Muggle relatives of his are to blame? The boy did say his uncle hated owls. . .he even sent that pet owl of his to the Burrow for the summer. . .Perhaps the Muggles are taking his letters - withholding them, or even destroying them.

Severus sighed. He was starting to get a very bad feeling about this whole Potter business. He really needed to check up on the boy.

Pity I must stay for the entire conference. But I have to collect that stupid award - it's the main reason Albus sent me here in the first place. And then there's that bit of undercover work for the Order. . .Italy and the Balkans! - it could take several weeks to make my contacts and complete the mission.

Severus shook his head, rose and pulled a parchment from his luggage. Retrieving quill and ink he began a message to Minerva. She had promised to keep an eye on Potter - he would owl her tonight. If she replied and reassured him, he would continue his scheduled itinerary. If not. . . .well, he'd cross that sticky bridge when he came to it, he decided.

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

"Boy! Haven't you finished that lawn yet?" The sour-faced woman's shrill voice could be heard halfway down the block.

The boy's response was much softer. "Yes, Aunt Petunia. I'm just putting the mower away."

"Well, be quick about it!" the woman snapped from the kitchen stoop.

Beneath the manicured shrubs that lined the yard, a lean tabby cat crouched, watching the scene with large unblinking eyes. She was a proud, distinguished-looking cat, with unique markings around her eyes. Her long tail swished back and forth in a curt, agitated manner and her fixed stare stayed on the skinny, dark-haired boy as he rolled the mower into the garden shed and crossed the yard to the woman. His tattered, over-sized t-shirt was stuck to his back with sweat and he moved stiffly, as if every step was painful.

"Don't dawdle! What's the matter with you, boy?" the woman sneered.

The boy shrugged and winced. "Sunburn," he muttered wearily.

"Oh, quit whining. A little sun never hurt anyone," she sniffed, then pointed to a paint can on the stoop. "The shed needs a new coat of paint. The tray and rollers are inside. And don't take all afternoon - your uncle wants the gutters cleaned before dinner."

The boy blinked up at her behind his large glasses, now smeared with sweat and grass clippings. "May I have some water, please?" he asked softly.

The woman peered down at him as if she smelled something nasty, and crossed her arms. "If you must," she snarled primly. "Use the hose. . . don't waste it or make a mess." She stomped back inside. "And get busy with that shed!" she warned, slamming the screen door.

From her spot beneath the shrubs, the cat hissed and emitted a low growl. She quietly sharpened her claws in the rocky dirt with a feral gleam in her eyes. She watched the boy shamble to the garden hose that coiled on a rack on the back wall. He turned on the tap, and with a nervous glance at the kitchen window, allowed the water to run long enough for the heated water stored in the sun-baked hose to run out. Then he bent and gulped eagerly at the colder water that followed. When he had quenched his thirst, the boy raised the hose over his head, gasping in relief as the water ran over his head. He rinsed his smeared glasses and splashed the water on his sunburned neck and cheeks. A sharp rap on the kitchen window brought him back from his brief respite, and he turned off the hose and recoiled it on the rack with careful precision. When every coil was flawlessly aligned, he picked up the paint can and shuffled over to the shed to prepare for his next task.

The cat stared at the perfectly coiled garden hose and seemed to shiver a bit. Her stark gaze swept across the back yard. Everything in the structured square plot was equally meticulous. The grass was neatly trimmed, every clipping raked and swept up. The flower beds were weed-free and carefully ordered, with precise blocks of color arranged in rows. The shrubs had been pruned to within an inch of their lives, squared off and manicured, without a leaf out of place. Even the patio pavers had been painstakingly swept and scrubbed, standing out stark and uniform against the pristine lawn. In the back corner, stood a small white garden shed, nearly new and clearly not in need of fresh paint. Every feature in the yard was fastidiously tidy, lovingly tended and well-cared for. . . .everything except the small grubby boy who was sweating in the hot afternoon sun, carefully rolling new paint over an immaculate shed wall.

Unobserved, the cat backed slowly out of her hiding place, into the neighbor's lawn. With an angry swish of her tail, she trotted purposefully off, across three lawns and under a picket fence into a small, unkempt yard. It was nearly the antithesis of the sterile, picture-perfect Dursley yard. Careless beds of weedy flowers spilled across the uncut lawn in a profusion of brightly hued blooms. There were numerous colorful bird houses, birdbaths and feeders hanging in the higher branches of two dwarf apple trees and an old brass sundial perched in a corner. The rambling stone patio was nearly overrun with thick tendrils of soft green Irish moss, and a large weathered planter bordered the outer edge. The planter was the only obviously tended bed in the yard; it overflowed with an assortment of flourishing herb plants. A variety of mismatched bowls and saucers were scattered all over the patio and small back porch, containing water and cat food for the cluster of furry inhabitants that now eyed the intruding cat with curiosity.

The tawny cat ignored the resident felines, slinking confidently up to the back door. She sat and let out a loud yowl, sharp with determination. After several more insistent cries, the back door finally opened. A frumpy, elderly woman peered out from behind the screened door, blinking down at the newcomer. Her battered housecoat had seen better days, and her worn house shoes scuffled on the wooden threshold. Strands of thinning gray hair escaped the garish pink net on her head but she seemed blithely unconcerned by her own disheveled appearance. She stared at the tawny cat, her wrinkled face breaking into a pleased, welcoming smile. "Minerva! What a lovely surprise! Do come in!" She pushed open the screened door and motioned the cat inside.

The tawny cat slipped past her, padding through the mudroom into the modest kitchen beyond. She sat, twitched her nose once and began to shimmer faintly. With startling speed, her whole form shifted, growing and transforming with practiced ease.

Minerva McGonagall tugged her tall pointed hat down more securely over her neatly arranged bun. She sniffed, smoothed her long forest-green robe, and gave the old woman a slight bow. "Good afternoon, Arabella. I'm so sorry to disturb you. I was hoping I could use your floo for a moment."

"But of course, dearie!' the woman beamed at her. "Do make yourself at home! It's wonderful to see you! I get so few visitors these days. I'll make us a nice cuppa, shall I? Please - have a seat!"

"Thank you, Arabella," Minerva haughtily surveyed the half-dozen cats that prowled about the room. She pulled out a chair at the small dinette and glared at the fat feline sprawled in it. The cat took one look at the frowning witch and leapt down, slinking off into the lounge.

"I'll just put the kettle on." Arabella Figg bustled about the tiny kitchen. "My goodness, Minerva - it's been ages, hasn't it? I haven't laid eyes on you since a few days after. . .ah, well - those were dark times, they were - best not to dwell on it. What brings you to Surrey?"

Minerva sat primly at the table. "I just popped by to check in on little Harry Potter."

"Well, it's about time!" Arabella snorted, slamming the filled kettle down on the stove burner. "Too little, too late, if you ask me - still, I'm glad someone has decided to take notice."

Minerva blinked, surprised by the squib's sudden vehemence. "What do you mean?"

"I've been begging that old fool for years to attend to that poor child," Arabella sniffed. "It's about time he sent someone along."

Minerva stared at her, trying to decipher the woman's irate remarks. "Old fool?"

"Dumbledore, of course!" Figg snapped. "I'll never understand the man. He went to all the trouble and expense to place me here, you'd think he'd at least listen. . ." She seemed to catch herself, and fluttered at bit nervously as she set out cups and saucers. "Not that I'm complaining, mind you. It's a lovely wee house, and my income is more than I earn, I suppose - I can do so little for the poor boy."

"Poor boy?" Minerva echoed, hoping to encourage her to talk.

Fortunately, encouragement was not needed for the chatty, obviously lonely old squib. "Such a sweet, polite boy, Harry. He deserves far better care than those Dursleys have ever given him, in my opinion. I've told the Headmaster, time and again, that they're unkind to the boy. And that fat cousin of his - a right stinker, that one is - the terror of the neighborhood! He and his little gang of thugs torment all the younger children, but poor Harry takes the worst of it, I'm afraid. Of course the parents never stop it - you'd think that dim-witted little slug walked on water, to hear Petunia Dursley speak! I wouldn't be surprised if they encouraged their son's bullying. They certainly don't look after little Harry. I think they do the very least they can for the unfortunate child - not out of compassion, but just so's they can keep him working."

"I did observe Harry performing an excessive amount of outdoor work today," Minerva agreed cautiously.

"Today? Every day, you mean. I'm sure he does all the indoor chores as well, while Petunia and that lump of a son sit on their fat bums." Arabella chuckled evilly. "Right sorry they were, I reckon, when Harry went off to Hogwarts. They lost their house elf then, they did. Dursley had to pay a gardener's crew to keep the yard up in Harry's absence, and Pet had a char woman in twice a week," she nodded knowingly. "Well, you don't think that lazy lot's gonna stir their stumps to keep the place up, do you? For all their complaining, I'll bet they're glad to have their slave labor back for the summer."

"That's appalling," Minerva scowled indignantly.

"Too right it is! And do you know what they told folk when Harry was off to school?" Arabella sneered. "They told everyone in the neighborhood they'd packed him off to a reform school for juvenile delinquents. Can you fathom that? A gentle, polite boy like Harry - a delinquent?" Arabella growled. "Bah! Worthless lot, those Dursleys." She set about making their tea, and took out a tin of slightly stale biscuits, which Minerva eyed skeptically.

"Has Harry spoken to you about their treatment of him?"

"Oh, the dear boy never complains - not that he would to me, I suppose. He doesn't really know me all that well. I rarely see him - only once or twice a year at best."

"Really? That's all?"

Arabella nodded, sniffing over her tea. "The Dursleys leave him with me when they're going on any kind of family outing - birthdays, holidays and the like. They don't include poor Harry in anything fun, I gather. Harry doesn't know about my arrangement with Dumbledore, of course, but when he's here, I do what I can to make it up to him. I make sure to feed him up good - that boy's way too thin - I don't think she feeds him proper."

Minerva scowled, remembering the skinny, pale little boy who walked into the Sorting Feast less than a year ago.

"And those clothes! They're always way too big for him! The fat lump's hand-me-downs, as if they hadn't a ha-penny to spend on the poor child. . . a plain sham, that is, when his cousin has endless new clothes and more toys than you could shake a stick at. Disgraceful! Those stingy swine could spare a pound or two to dress Harry decent-like if they cared to, I warrant."

"Have you mentioned all this to the Headmaster?" Minerva asked, trying to conceal her growing fury.

"Of course! What do you take me for? Once a year the old man calls by to get my report. I've been telling him for years that's no fit home for the-Boy-Who-Lived! Harry deserves better - Hell's Bells, Minerva! - any child deserves better! But Dumbledore never pays me any heed. Says the boy is safest there. Harrumph!" she grunted derisively. "Safe from who, I'd like to know! Not from the Dursleys mean ways - or from that bully of a cousin! It's just not right," she sighed. "Still, I'm glad you've come round, Minerva. Better late than never, they says. Someone has to talk some sense into the Headmaster. Perhaps you'll have better luck than this old squib."

"Oh, I'll be talking to him, never worry," Minerva vowed rigidly. "Speaking of which, I think I'll be needing that floo now."

"Course, dearie - help yourself. There's a bit of powder in the sugar bowl on the mantle," she motioned to the large fireplace on the far kitchen wall. "Don't keep much about, I'm afraid. I just keep it on hand for emergencies, in case I ever need to floo call the Headmaster."

"I'll be sure to bring you more. I'll probably use most of it," Minerva palmed a small handful of floo powder and knelt gracefully on the hearth. "I believe this will require more than a floo call," she said crisply. "I've a few things that were better said face to face, I think. Thank you for your hospitality, Arabella. I'll be in touch again, very soon I expect."

"Anytime, Minerva! It's so nice to see someone from the old crowd," Arabella beamed at her.

"Goodbye, Arabella." Minerva tossed the powder into the fireplace, her fuming features ignited by green flame.

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

Somewhere in Wales, an unsuspecting Albus Dumbledore watched his niece's happy brood playing an unruly, somewhat raucous pickup game of Quidditch. He glanced up from his comfy lawn chair when his older brother limped out from the house with a tall, stately witch by his side. One look at the grim expression on the Deputy Headmistress' face deflated the mellow happy mood he had enjoyed all day. Albus rose to meet them. "Minerva! What a pleasant surprise!"

Professor Minerva McGonagall apparently found nothing at all pleasant about their meeting, but she nodded graciously to his brother Aberforth. "I floo called to ask if I might speak with you, Headmaster. Your brother kindly invited me to come through."

"Excellent! Thank you, Fortie. My dear Minerva, you look rather perturbed - is something wrong? No trouble at Hogwarts, I hope?"

"Not at Hogwarts," Minerva replied crisply with distinct censure in her displeased gaze. "But yes, something is wrong. . . and perturbed is a gross understatement, I assure you."

"What is it?" Albus asked with concern.

"It's Harry Potter," Minerva replied ominously.

"Harry? Is he hurt? What's happened?"

"Hurt? That depends on your definition of hurt, Albus. What has happened - evidently what has been happening for quite some time - is those Muggle relatives of his!"

"Ah!" A flash of understanding ignited in the blue eyes and Dumbledore's expression smoothed into calm resolve. "Yes, of course. Perhaps we'd best discuss this privately." He turned to his brother who was watching them curiously. "Forgive me, Fortie - just a bit of school business." Albus bowed slightly. "Come, Minerva - let's stroll down by the river, shall we? Please excuse us, Fortie?"

" Of course, dear boy." Aberforth happily claimed his brother's chair and waved them off cheerfully. As he watched the two stride off toward the river, he noted the stiff posture and stern indignation sharply evident in his brother's imposing deputy. With a wry chuckle, he shook his head. He was suddenly very glad he wasn't the one on the receiving end of the daunting witch's barely suppressed wrath.

Albus lead the clearly agitated witch down a dirt path to the nearby riverbank, clasping his hands behind his back as they strolled. He listened silently, a grave frown on his face, as Minerva angrily recounted what she had seen at Number 4 Privet Drive, and the corroborating observations provided by the squib, Arabella Figg. No one but a wizard as powerful as Albus Dumbledore could have withstood McGonagall's furious outrage with such tranquil aplomb. He studiously ignored the unspoken censure in her tirade, nodding seriously until his Deputy's ire began to level off a bit.

"Yes, yes," he agreed solemnly. "I have heard Mrs. Figg's complaints often enough, although the poor old woman is a tad overzealous at times. I assumed that loneliness and a desire to feel important lead her to exaggerate just a bit."

"I have seen with my own eyes how the Dursleys treat Harry. Trust me, Albus - Arabella does not exaggerate," Minerva insisted.

"Have you?" Albus glanced at her curiously. "Did you enter the house?"

"No," she admitted stiffly. "I was not certain how the wards worked and didn't wish to alert the Muggles to my presence. I tried at one point to perch on the kitchen windowsill, to observe what went on inside," she sniffed haughtily. "That Dursley woman saw me. You'd think I was a boggart the way the silly woman carried on! She actually had the nerve to attack me - with a broom!"

"Oh, dear me!" A smile played about Albus' lips.

"It wasn't funny!" Minerva growled. "The wretched woman chased me clear into the next yard with it! She's lucky I didn't hex her on the spot!" She drew herself up with a sullen sniff. "But I saw enough outside the home to confirm my suspicions, Albus. They are horrid to the boy! They treat him worse than a common house elf!"

"Well, I'm sure a few chores never hurt any child, Minerva."

"Chores! Slave labor, you mean! Painting, mowing, weeding - all in the noonday heat! The boy looks dreadful! He's terribly sunburned - he nearly passed out from heat exhaustion, I tell you! He practically had to beg his aunt for a sip of water! And he's much too thin - he looks like he hasn't had a decent meal in weeks. And the bruises! I don't know about his aunt and uncle, but it's clear that revolting cousin bullies him, and those despicable people encourage it. It was appalling, Albus! It was all I could do to keep myself from cursing the whole lot of them!"

Albus sighed sadly. "I know Minerva. I have been aware Harry's home has not always been a happy one."

"Happy?" Minerva's voice squeaked in skepticism.

"But all families have their difficult times, Minerva. Perhaps Harry's chores were a punishment for some sort of misbehavior," Albus suggested gently. "We both know how recalcitrant the boy can be at times. Perhaps they hoped the household tasks will keep him too busy to get into more trouble."

"I doubt that, Albus. According to Arabella, they have always overworked the child. And you should hear the way they speak to him! They call him ‘freak' - and worse! They denigrate him constantly. This morning before he left for work, I heard that swine Vernon Dursley call Harry a worthless burden! He actually said he should have been drowned at birth!" Minerva fairly quivered with indignation.

"Words of anger, no doubt. I'm sure he didn't mean it," Albus soothed mildly. "I expect there has been some sort of quarrel and what you saw was the bitter aftermath. Knowing Harry the way I do, I'm sure he will apologize for whatever infraction he has committed and the family will reconcile their differences. I don't think we can judge them too harshly for a simple family spat, Minerva."

"We are not speaking of family spats, Albus," Minerva insisted impatiently. "We are talking about neglect, at the very least, and possibly abuse!"

"Did you see any specific evidence of abuse?" Albus asked carefully.

Minerva scowled. "Not precisely. . .as I said, I did not enter the home. I wasn't sure what might happen if I challenged the wards. You have never explained them to me in any detail."

"They are blood wards - keyed to Lily's blood through her sister, and based upon her sacrifice for Harry's sake. No witch or wizard who wishes harm to Harry can pass through them."

"Then I might have entered?"

"You could have, certainly," Albus admitted reluctantly. "It was always my intention that Order members should be able to reach the boy in an emergency. But I am glad you did not. I promised the Dursleys they would not be disturbed by any magical folk, as long as they raised Harry."

"Promised them?" Minerva stared sharply at him. "You have spoken with them since we left Harry there?"

Albus grimaced inwardly, but kept his expression bland. "I have - once. The Dursleys were understandably alarmed the first time the child exhibited accidental magic. I spoke with Harry's aunt, who was concerned about her family being exposed to magic. I had to assure her that Harry's little ‘accidents' wouldn't harm them. To reassure both she and her husband, I promised that no one from the wizarding world would ever interfere with them, except in an extreme emergency. I told her the wards would protect them, as well as Harry, from danger."

"Danger from the outside, perhaps - but what about danger from within?" Minerva hissed. "What about danger to Harry from those Muggles? Will the wards protect him from that?"

"The Dursleys wouldn't harm the boy. He is their blood-kin, after all," Albus replied confidently.

Minerva stared at him as if he had suddenly sprouted two heads. It was clear she would still need considerable convincing, but Albus wasn't worried. He was confident in his justifications and knew he excelled at reassurance. And if the Deputy Headmistress still harbored concerns, there were other ways to alleviate them. . . ways he didn't like to utilize, but would if necessary. It wouldn't be the first time he was forced to employ extreme methods to preserve Harry's delicate situation. Albus turned up the twinkle in his shrewd eyes and patiently launched into a carefully calculated explanation of his strategy. He radiated confidence and compassion, filling the air between them with the powerful calming force of his undisputable wisdom.

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

Minerva stared at the old wizard, speechless with shock. It was clear that the Headmaster was unsurprised by the contemptible treatment Harry was receiving. She listened as Albus dismissed the Dursleys' dismal care of him, and even defended the decision to leave the boy in their care.

"I know they aren't the best sort of Muggles, Minerva. They dislike magic and no doubt distrust Harry's talent as a wizard. Can you blame them? Mrs. Dursley's own sister was killed by magic. But one cannot chose one's relations, you know. Regardless of their prejudices, they are Harry's only family, and his legal guardians. There is nothing we can do."

"But surely you don't intend to leave the boy there? In a home where he is barely tolerated, if not downright hated?"

"What would you have me do? I cannot legally remove the child from the home without clear, irrefutable evidence that they are unfit. Has Harry made any complaints? Has he made any accusations against them?"

"No, but there could be many reasons for his silence. You know abused children are often taciturn, for fear of retribution, or even misplaced shame!" Minerva insisted. "Harry may not have openly offered any accusations, but I don't think anyone has directly questioned him about his home life."

"And suppose someone did? What do you think would happen then?" Albus challenged calmly. "The Ministry would become involved, word would leak out - it always does. Harry's private life would be smeared all over the media. And what would the wizarding public say if they heard their savior, the-Boy-Who-Lived, was being mistreated - if, in fact, that were true?"

Minerva scowled at him. She couldn't care less what the ‘public' thought - she was only concerned about her student's welfare. But before she could offer her objections, Albus continued, his tone gentle and appeasing.

"Fudge would have a field day with this, Minerva. With no other living relative to claim him, Cornelius would immediately seek to make him a ward of the Ministry. Is that what you want for the boy? He might even influence the Department of Children's Services to assign Harry a new guardian - one we would have no control over. The boy could end up in the hands of one of Voldemort's supporters - even a Death Eater! Do you really want him raised by someone like Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy?"

Minerva gasped, a hand fluttering anxiously to her throat.

"No - we must leave things as they stand, Minerva. It may not be ideal, but any attempt to change it could only put the child in more danger."

"But, Albus!" Minerva protested. "Those horrid Muggles?"

"Those horrid Muggles are Harry's legal family. More importantly, their home is the safest place for him. The blood wards are the only thing protecting him from Voldemort and his followers."

"But surely we could keep him safe at Hogwarts!"

"It's against the by-laws - and for good reason. What sort of precedent would it set? Do you really think Harry is the only Hogwarts student to come from a less-than-perfect home? We are a school, Minerva - not a shelter. Hogwarts is not designed to be a foster home for unfortunate children. And even if we made an exception for Harry, the Ministry would find out sooner or later, and we are back to square one. No, Minerva," Albus reasoned calmly. "Harry must stay with the Dursleys, at least during the summer. If he does not call Number 4 Privet Drive his home, for at least a few months every year, the blood wards will fail, and he will lose the only impregnable protection he has."

Minerva pursed her lips thinly in disapproval. Everything Albus said made perfect sense. His logic was impeccable; his arguments entirely rational. And every fiber of her being screamed at her that his conclusions were wrong - morally, ethically wrong.

She gathered her thoughts quickly, turning away for a moment to escape his shrewd scrutiny. She knew he was trying to maneuver her. She recognized the aura of confidence and reassurance he was practically bombarding her with - she had witnessed its effect on others for many years. She had sense enough to avoid his direct gaze. His powers of Legilimency were legend, and Minerva wasn't trained in Occlumency. But she did have other talents. . . talents that even Dumbledore was unaware of. Her animagus form was more than an alternate physical form for Minerva. . . it was in some ways a reflection of her inner character. Minerva McGonagall was instinctively feline, and possessed many of that species' traits. She was clever, adaptable, subtly independent, and when necessary - inscrutable. She carefully concealed her thoughts behind her feline psyche and contemplated her wisest course of action. It would not do to concede too quickly - Albus would be suspicious if she did, so she turned back to him and offered a compromise he might accept as genuine.

"I understand your concerns, Albus. But the fact remains, that at this moment, Harry Potter is ill. He is undernourished and probably dehydrated. When I left him this evening, he was so overworked and exhausted he looked ready to collapse. I do not trust that Dursley woman to look after him. He needs medical attention, Albus, and I cannot in good conscience simply ignore that."

Albus sighed and clasped his hands together, thoughtfully tapping his lips with a finger. "Very well, Minerva. If it would ease your concerns, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to let Poppy have a look at him. Has she returned from her holiday?"

"Not yet. She's not due to return until next weekend."

"Good. I will stop by Surrey on my way back to Hogwarts next Saturday. If I deem it still necessary, I will bring Harry to Hogwarts myself and have her do a checkup on him. Will that satisfy you?"

It did not satisfy Minerva in the least, but she was careful not to reveal this. "I suppose - although I would rather he be looked after sooner," Minerva admitted.

"Don't worry about Harry," Albus smiled consolingly. "He's a lot stronger than you credit him, I think. He'll be fine until then."

"If you say so, Headmaster," Minerva conceded with faint reproach.

Albus turned and began to lead her back toward the house, obviously planning to conclude the interview. He glanced at her guardedly. "I think, considering your feelings toward the Dursleys, it would be wisest if you did not return to Privet Drive at this time, Minerva."

"I beg your pardon?" She schooled her expression into one of mild indignation.

"If one of his relatives were to say the wrong thing to Harry. . .," Albus chuckled. ". . . well, I wouldn't want you to ‘accidently' hex a Muggle - it might be a bit difficult to explain to the Ministry."

"I hope, Headmaster, you do not mean to suggest that I might lose my temper and act irresponsibly!" Minerva snapped.

"No, of course not," Albus soothed. "Still - I would feel better if you were not placed in such a volatile situation."

"Very well, Headmaster. I will refrain from further surveillance until you have assessed the situation yourself." She shrugged sullenly. "It's just as well - I don't think I could stand to watch those horrid people mistreat the boy any more than I have."

"Thank you, Minerva," he smiled beatifically, as if very pleased with her fortitude. His next question was casual, but sent an unexpected shiver down her spine. "Have you mentioned your observations to anyone else, Minerva? Anyone beside me and Mrs. Figg?"

Alarms went off inside her head and Minerva responded on pure instinct. She lied.

"Well, yes, Albus. Several of the other professors have expressed concerns about Harry. . .even Severus has asked me about his home life, if you can believe that!" she sniffed. "After I left Surrey, I stopped by Hogwarts and asked Filius and some of the others to organize a sentry detail on Harry's home - nothing intrusive, of course. I stressed complete discretion. . . just to keep an eye on things until you could be notified. Mrs. Figg kindly agreed to accommodate a rotating watch through her floo."

Albus halted, staring at her. His expression remained mild, but Minerva could sense his flare of anger and frustration, even though she avoided his eyes. "I really wish you hadn't done that, Minerva. It will be difficult enough to keep this situation quiet as it is, without involving others."

"I'm sorry, Albus. I was only thinking of Harry's safety." She did her best to appear properly distressed by his censure. "I only spoke with those we can trust implicitly. Still, at least we won't have to worry about the child all week. If anything serious did occur, someone will be on hand to handle it." She smiled hesitantly. "I'm sure, as you say, my concerns are probably exaggerated. I'll do as you ask, and leave Harry's safety in other's hands until you have had the opportunity to observe him yourself."

"I appreciate that."

Minerva did not miss the irony in his terse tone. "I feel much better just having spoken with you, Albus," she said. She was not above stroking the old wizard's ego if necessary. "I know you care for Harry, and will do what is best for him."

"I am grateful for your confidence," Albus smiled again. "Don't fret about this, Minerva. Harry will be just fine."

"I know he will," Minerva answered truthfully. She made a quick mental note to do as she had claimed, and enlist the immediate assistance of a few of the more trustworthy staff. They reached his brother's house, where the Quidditch game was still ongoing. Minerva bid Aberforth to stay where he was. "Please don't get up. I'll find my own way out."

"Won't you stay and have dinner with us, Minerva?"

"No, thank you Aberforth. I do appreciate the invitation, but I must return to Hogwarts. I really shouldn't have been absent so long as it is - Professor Sinistra will be wondering what's become of me." She turned to Albus. "Please - enjoy your family. I'm sorry to have interrupted your holiday."

"Thank you, Minerva." His good mood apparently restored, Albus conjured another lawn chair and sat down beside his brother, then turned to look up at her. "I meant to ask, Minerva. . . what prompted you to check on Harry?"

Minerva shrugged and blinked blandly at him. "I owled Harry at the beginning of the summer - at his request. He had asked me to inquire if he might visit the Weasleys in August - apparently they invited him. I told him I would ask you, and owled him to inquire the specific dates he had in mind, but he hasn't written back. I became concerned when he didn't reply."

"Oh - you know young boys," Albus waved dismissively. "They tend to lose track of time. Still, I'm glad you saw fit to follow through. Thank you, my dear."

"Of course," Minerva nodded primly. "I am Harry's Head of House. I look after my Lions. Good day, Headmaster; Aberforth. Thank you for your hospitality."

As Minerva strode back into the house, Aberforth glanced curiously at his brother. "Everything all right, I hope?"

"Fine," Albus shrugged. "Nothing serious. . .nothing I can't handle." He leaned back in his chair and returned his attention back to the game, chuckling at the antics of the children swooping about the wide lawn.

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

As Minerva stepped gracefully through the fireplace into her office, she moved immediately to her desk. There were two crucial tasks she needed to complete before she allowed herself time to ponder the confusing and disturbing events of the day. As she drew a clean sheet of parchment toward her, she glanced down at the stack of mail that awaited her. She had only been gone for roughly twelve hours, and already the stack was overflowing. One envelope caught her attention, the neat looping handwriting quite familiar. She opened it and quickly scanned Severus' note. Then she picked up her quill and penned a careful response.

~~~

My dear Severus,

I am glad to hear the symposium is going well for you. I did investigate that little matter we discussed and I fear the situation is more critical than we imagined. I attempted to rectify the problem at once, but was met with a resistance I found most disturbing. It would appear we may not have the support we might expect in this situation.

I regret to ask you to cut your journey short, but I believe we may require your special talents to attempt a solution. In such a delicate matter, I think it prudent that we proceed with the utmost caution. It would be best if we settle this matter immediately, as the circumstances are likely to change within the week.

I have heard that floo travel from the Continent can be most unreliable these days. The enclosed may assist you in your journey. I believe you know the species well.

Sincerely,

Minerva

~~~

She dried the ink and folded the letter, inserting it into a plain envelope. Then she reached beneath the high collar of her gown, withdrawing a small pendant on a silver chain. Releasing the clasp, she slipped the pendant off the chain and ran a thumb over the raised design with a tender smile. With a wave of her wand and a softly murmured string of Latin, she tapped the pendant. A blue glow encased it - bright for several moments, then dimming until barely noticeable. She put the charm into the envelope and sealed it - first with a purple wax seal with a thistle embossed on it, then with several spells to insure it would reach no one but Severus Snape. She went to her sitting room and opened a window, leaning out of the casement. She gave a low, sharp whistle. After a moment, a huge brown speckled owl appeared over the high tower rooftop and banked sharply, diving into the window as Minerva stepped back.

"Hello, Archimedes!" Minerva murmured affectionately, offering a few owl treats and stroking the flecked feathers. Minerva was not particularly fond of owls in general - they tended to be edgy around her, as if sensing her feline alter ego - but the huge speckled owl was an exception. Archimedes had befriended the Transfiguration Professor when he was just an owlet and had grown attached to her. He was the only school owl she trusted with personal correspondence - a fact the large owl took great pride in.

"I've rather a long journey for you, my dear," Minerva murmured, affixing the letter securely to the owl's leg. "It's very urgent, I'm afraid, and I daren't trust Continental communications. It's crucial that Professor Snape receive this as soon as possible. Please be careful, Archimedes."

The owl blinked solemnly at her and nodded, as if comprehending her caution. He chirped softly, then lifted his broad wings and soared out of the window. Minerva watched him winging south until he was merely a speck in the waning light.

Then she turned to a small cabinet in the corner, and unlocked a lower door. She carefully withdrew a small marble Pensieve and set it on the coffee table in front of the settee. Settling herself comfortably, she brought back to mind all of the day's events, beginning with her arrival at #4 Privet Drive shortly after dawn. One by one, she delicately withdrew each memory with her wand, depositing the long glowing strands into the Pensieve. Her conversation with the Headmaster was the last memory she consigned to the basin before sitting back with a weary sigh. She didn't relax until the Pensieve was securely locked in the cabinet once again, under some rather impressive wards even Albus didn't know she knew. Then Minerva poured herself a healthy glass of scotch, kicked off her shoes, and stretched out in her favorite rocker to contemplate her next move.

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

Harry stared down at the hard roll, hunk of stale cheese, and browning half of an overripe apple that his aunt had shoved into his hands. He glanced up at her, not bothering to conceal his shock that the woman was voluntarily feeding him again. Twice in two days was unheard of and he wasn't sure how to respond.

"Take it to your room," she ordered quietly, as if concerned that her husband and son in the next room might overhear. "And get some sleep."

"Thank you, Aunt Petunia," Harry muttered uncertainly.

"I want you up bright and early tomorrow," Petunia raised her voice to her normal shrill whine. "The Masons will be coming for dinner tomorrow night and I will be busy all day preparing a special meal. Vernon has to take Dudley out tomorrow afternoon to buy him a new dinner jacket. I want this house cleaned from top to bottom before they return. Spic and span, mind you - not your usual slipshod efforts. So don't dally about and stay up late tonight. I'll wake you promptly at five. Off with you."

Harry obediently slunk off to his room, hiding the food under his shirt until he'd gotten safely up the stairs. He didn't really think his Aunt had given him the food out of kindness. She clearly was planning to work him hard the next day, and she probably wanted to make certain he would have the strength to finish his chores.

Harry went into his room and closed the door, hoping that his uncle and cousin would ignore him for the rest of the night. He sat on the bed and nibbled at the apple, ignoring the brown spots. He wasn't really that hungry. The sandwich and milk the day before had been unusually filling. He decided to save the cheese and roll for tomorrow. . . he didn't expect to get any food then - Petunia would be too busy with her dinner preparations.

Harry knew all about the Masons. His uncle had nattered on and on about them all week. Mr. Mason was a business client and Uncle Vernon was hoping to land a huge order of drills from his company. He had invited Mr. Mason and his wife for dinner Saturday night in order to flatter and impress them. All week he had lectured and harangued Harry, warning him not to do anything to ruin the important occasion. "You will spend the evening in your room, not making a single sound. I don't want the Masons to even suspect you exist - do you understand me, boy?" Vernon had bellowed more than once.

His Aunt Petunia was beside herself with nervous excitement. Petunia hated to cook ordinarily, and left preparing everyday meals to Harry. But she loved to entertain. . . she liked making her few ‘special dishes' that she saved for dinner parties, and her fancy, over-decorated puddings. Harry thought she just liked showing off, but of course he kept such opinions to himself. The upcoming dinner party was one of the reasons that his aunt had been working him so hard all week. She wanted everything perfect inside and outside the neat little house- even details the Masons would never see, like the cobwebs in the basement, and the dusty shelves in the pantry. Harry had nearly laughed at her when she had screeched at him about a tiny streak in the new paint - on the back of the garden shed, no less. Like the Masons were going to root around behind the shed looking for flaws in the paint, for Merlin's sake!

Harry thought the whole business was rather lame - but he kept quiet and did whatever she told him to. He had cleaned the house, upstairs and down, twice already this week, but nothing was ever clean enough for Aunt Petunia. Harry wondered if there was something wrong with his aunt. He suspected that her compulsive attention to trivial details wasn't really healthy. She reminded him a little of Hermione - whose obsession about studying and grades was also a bit extreme - but he figured Aunt Petunia was much worse. His Aunt seemed to have an almost unnatural fear of dirt. Harry had sometimes daydreamed about covering himself with mud from head to toe - just to see her reaction. He wondered if she would faint from shock.

Thinking of Hermione made him suddenly lonely again, and Harry lay down on his bed and stared out the window with a forlorn sigh. He wished his friends had written at least once. His fears at the end of term weren't entirely unreasonable. As the summer wore on, being back here at Privet Drive was so depressing it made his memories of Hogwarts seem almost unreal - like a fantasy he had imagined. With his wand and school trunk safely locked away, Harry had little to remind him of a happier time, away at school with his friends and his magic. If it wasn't for the photo album Hagrid had given him, he might have believed it never happened.

Harry slid from the bed and crawled under it, lifting the loose floorboard he had discovered shortly after moving in to Dudley's second bedroom. That move had been a total surprise. His Uncle had sullenly explained that Harry was getting too big for the cupboard (which in truth, he was), and that they were letting Harry have Dudley's second room out of the goodness of their hearts.

Yeah, right! Harry had thought cynically. Harry suspected that their ‘goodness' had more to do with the hundreds of letters he had received from Hogwarts. Despite his uncle's manic attempts to destroy the letters, Harry had seen the address on the envelopes. Until the family had fled the house in their failed escape from the letters, each and every one had been addressed to Harry in The Cupboard Under the Stairs. That little detail had totally freaked out his Aunt Petunia. She had become convinced that those people were watching the house. He believed that his aunt had insisted on moving him to the tiny extra bedroom upstairs to conceal their previous neglect of Harry. He couldn't imagine any other reason his aunt and uncle would be so generous, particularly against Dudley's wishes.

His cousin Dudley had pitched an unholy fit for hours, not at all pleased to give up the cluttered room - but not because he really needed it. Dudley rarely even went in there - it was only used to store the huge hoard of broken toys he no longer played with but refused to have trashed. Dudley just didn't want Harry to have something he considered his. It had taken considerable pleading and numerous shopping trips to appease his wrath.

Harry was thrilled with the room. It wasn't comfy and welcoming like his dorm at Hogwarts. It was rather bare, containing only some old worn furniture that Dudley had outgrown. Even Dudley's broken toys were removed - boxed and moved to the attic at Dudley's insistence, just so Harry couldn't play with them. But it was bigger than the cupboard; it had a window; it didn't have nearly as many spiders, and it didn't smell of bleach and cleaner. Harry felt almost like a real person, with his own room. Best of all, it had a secret hiding place - the loose floorboard under his bed, where he could hide things he didn't want his relatives to find. All he had in it at the moment was his photo album. His uncle had locked all of his school things away in the cupboard the moment they arrived home, but by a stroke of luck, Harry had had the album tucked into his belt under his shirt when Vernon took his things. While searching for a place to conceal it, Harry had discovered the little space under the floorboards.

He lifted the board now and pulled out his album, then carefully wrapped the cheese and roll in a clean t-shirt and stuffed it into the hole. If his little stash of food were discovered, his aunt would probably claim he had stolen it. Harry didn't want to contemplate the outcome of that disaster.

He climbed back on his bed and opened the photo album, methodically studying each moving photo as if he hadn't already stared at them a hundred times in the last three weeks. The photos were his lifeline. . .his proof to himself that he wasn't delusional. He was a wizard - his parents had loved him - he did go to Hogwarts and he did have friends. . .even if it was growing hard to remember as the days dragged on. Even if those friends had gotten busy and forgotten him. Harry sighed and closed the album. He returned it to his hidden space and stretched out on the bed, watching the sun slip below the roofs of the row of identical houses across the street. Sleep came quickly. He was exhausted and sore and he didn't fight the drowsiness. It didn't occur to him to feel vexed about going to bed so early - hours before most boys who were almost twelve-years-old. His aunt had been right. Tomorrow would be a long, tiring day, and Harry would need all the strength he could muster.

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.

Minerva glanced at the clock on the mantle for the thirty-second time since lunch. It read 4:14. . . .precisely two minutes later than the last time she looked. She took off her glasses and rubbed tired, itchy eyes. With her eyes closed at that moment, she didn't see the parchment ‘airplane' that swooped into her office and hovered inches from her nose, so she was understandably startled when she reopened her eyes to see something blurry fluttering in her face. With a unladylike squawk, she reared back, nearly upending her chair in panic. She blinked at the hovering item and scowled.

"Really, Filius!" she scolded, snatching the note from the air. "You don't have to scare the piss out of a person!"

With a petulant frown, she opened and scanned the note. She sighed worriedly, then turned the parchment over and scribbled on the back of it.

I have no idea what could be delaying him! Maybe he hasn't received my letter yet.

I got another floo call from Pomona a while ago - she still had nothing alarming to report. Harry has been inside most of the day: she only saw him once when he came out to wash the front windows. She was predictably upset to see him forced to work so hard, but says he looked well enough. He didn't appear to be in any particular distress. The two male Dursleys went off somewhere in their automobile, so at least they aren't around to torment the child. Pomona thinks something is afoot: it seems like the family is preparing for some special occasion, she says. Nothing else to report.

What do you think we should do?

MM

She refolded the parchment into its flying form, tapped it once with her wand, and watched it zoom out of the window. It wasn't but a few minutes before the airborne memo returned.

I suppose we are doing all we can. I'll remain here however long it takes. (Perhaps you would be so kind as to ask one of the house elves to bring me afternoon tea? I haven't eaten since elevenses.)

Let me know if the situation in Surrey changes. I'll send you a note as soon as Severus arrives - which hopefully will be soon.

FF

Minerva wrote back.

Will do.

Then she sent the memo on its way and called for a house elf. When the creature appeared, Minerva forwarded Flitwick's request. The elf nodded happily, not questioning why the Charms Professor required his tea to be served out on the dusty road from Hogsmeade. She, like most of the Hogwarts house elves, was especially fond of the tiny professor, and popped out instantly, delighted to attend him.

Minerva shoved her paperwork aside, too edgy to continue. She simply couldn't concentrate any longer. She stood up from her chair and crossed to the fireplace, brooding. She didn't know who she was more worried about at this point - Harry or Severus. She knew she needed to relax a bit. . . worrying only tired her, and she needed to conserve her energy for later, when things might get a bit dodgy. Without hesitation, she chose to do the one thing that always relaxed her the most. With a brief shimmer, she transformed, and leapt up onto the comfy rocker by the fire. She stretched languidly, enjoying the suppleness of her feline form that spared her the aches and pains of an aging body.

There's nothing like a good catnap to soothe the nerves.

She curled up in contentment and dozed off quickly, confident in her catlike reflexes to awake her immediately if she was needed.

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

Filius Flitwick glanced at Minerva's terse reply and settled back to continue his mission. He had taken up a position behind a small hedge of holly bushes near the lane, where he could observe the road clearly without being noticed by anyone who happened to pass by. When the first hour of waiting for the Potions Master had gone by, Filius had decided to improve his surroundings. A boulder had been transformed into a cozy arm chair, precisely the right size for his diminutive form. A tree stump became a handsome side table, and another stone made a comfy foot stool. The adventure novel he was reading was already in his pocket when he arrived. Someone less patient might have been annoyed by the long hours spent waiting. But though he was somewhat concerned over Severus' delay, Filius didn't mind the boring wait. He simply saw no need for that wait to be unnecessarily uncomfortable.

When the house elf popped into view before him, Filius cleared the side table for the tray of tea and sandwiches she carried. "Thank you so much, Tinker," he acknowledged cheerfully. "This is perfect - just the thing!"

Tinker beamed at him. "If the Professor needs anything else, please call for Tinker! Tinker most happy to serve!"

"I will be sure to do so," Flitwick smiled at her. "For now, all I ask is that you not mention my current location to anyone else."

"As the Professor wishes, of course!" Tinker agreed eagerly. "Tinker would never discuss the good Professor Charming's private business."

Flitwick chuckled at the house elves' pet name for him. "You are a credit to your kind, dear Tinker! Thank you."

The little house elf blushed happily at his praise, then popped out of view again. Flitwick poured himself a steaming cup of tea and nibbled at a sandwich. He contentedly picked up his novel and turned to the next chapter, where the story had just begun to get exciting.

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

When the green flames in the fireplace flared up, the tabby cat on the rocker swiftly transformed. "Pomona!" Minerva greeted the stout Professor. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes, yes," Pomona nodded, stepping through and brushing off her robes. "Everything is fine. It appears the Dursleys are entertaining guests for dinner. . . another couple arrived a while ago. I gather it must be an important event. I haven't seen Harry for several hours, but the Muggles are dressed to the nines, and the older ones fawned all over their guests when they arrived."

"Ah," Minerva nodded. "Well, that is a relief. That explains the preparations you observed." She studied the Herbology Professor with concern. "You look tired, Pomona."

Sprout shrugged and sighed wearily. "It does get a bit tedious, sitting about in the shrubbery while the Muggles are amusing themselves inside," she confessed.

"Why don't you take a break, my dear?" Minerva suggested.

"Do you think that's wise?" Pomona asked doubtfully.

"I'm sure it is. If the Muggles are entertaining, they will no doubt be too preoccupied to trouble poor Harry," Minerva decided. "Why don't you go down to supper, and perhaps take a brief rest after?"

"I'll admit, supper does sounds good - I am a bit peckish," Pomona admitted. "But are you sure Harry will be all right? I don't want to desert the child."

"I expect he will be fine," Minerva replied. "I wouldn't imagine even Muggles as vulgar as the Dursleys would mistreat the boy in front of visitors. I'm sure he'll be safe for a while."

"All right - if you think it best," Pomona agreed gratefully. "No word from Snape yet, I take it?"

"Not yet. If he hasn't arrived in an hour or two, you can return to Surrey - or perhaps change places with Filius, if you prefer. He's still outside the gates, waiting for Severus."

"I'll do that," Pomona decided as she headed for the door. "Seven hours in that Muggle neighborhood is rather a strain," she shuddered slightly. "I can't imagine how that poor boy endures it."

"It is depressing," Minerva agreed grimly. "When I returned from there last night, all I wanted was a long hot bath."

"Oooh - that sounds rather lovely," Pomona agreed at the door, her tired eyes lighting up. "I believe I'll do just that, right after I've had a bit of a nosh. I'll be back in a few."

"Take your time, dear," Minerva reassured her. "I'm sure Harry will be fine for a few hours."

When Pomona left, Minerva crossed back to her desk and returned to the ever-present stack of paperwork. She was still worried about Severus' delay, but not unduly concerned about little Harry.

It's only an hour or two, after all. . .what could possibly happen in so short a time?

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

Harry had no idea what had possessed him to run upstairs. He supposed he had just panicked. If he had been thinking clearly, he would have run out the front door and been halfway out of Surrey by now. But the chaos in the lounge had been so sudden and frenzied, Harry hadn't really thought at all - he simply ran.

When he had reached his room, he instantly realized his mistake. He was trapped, with no possible escape. Still reacting on sheer terror, he had glanced around the small room that contained no effective hiding place - then, out of pure desperation, he had dove under the bed. In retrospect, of course, he knew it was a serious error in judgment. It was, in fact, probably the dumbest thing he could have done. But hindsight was rarely useful.

As he had lain there, huddled under the bed and gasping for breath, he had heard the commotion continue below him. Mr. Mason had carried on bellowing his outrage as he escorted his petrified wife out to the car, while Vernon babbled excuses incoherently, blathering "So sorry!" "Just our nephew!" "Very disturbed - strangers upset him!" His Aunt had been too shocked to contribute, and had merely stood frozen, while a snickering Dudley hid behind her.

The last glimpse Harry had of poor Mrs. Mason, she was still trembling and shrieking, batting her arms hysterically around her head - even though the Ministry owl had swooped out of the room several minutes prior. Harry had been futilely trying to clean Aunt Petunia's prized pudding off the kitchen floor where the demented house elf had dumped it. His Uncle Vernon had savagely wrapped one meaty hand around his neck, the other clutching the notice from the Ministry of Magic. Only Vernon's frantic desire to try and salvage the horrid situation had prompted him to momentarily release Harry and follow his guests out. Harry had seized that moment to race upstairs.

As soon as Harry was under the bed he had felt totally ridiculous - like some little kid too stupid to realize it was the most obvious of hiding places. Still, his ploy had almost worked. His uncle and cousin were both so fat that bending over to look under things wasn't a comfortable option. . .he doubted Dudley had seen under his own bed for years. Harry had curled up as far under the bed as he could, shivering in dread when Uncle Vernon stomped upstairs and thundered into his room, tearing open the wardrobe, throwing things about and roaring Harry's name. When he had stormed back out to search the rest of the upstairs, Harry had the faint hope he might escape the inevitable. Vernon would have to give up the search and go to bed eventually, he had reasoned, and when he did, Harry might be able to sneak down the stairs and outside. Where he would go from there, Harry never had time to contemplate. Aunt Petunia, who had by now recovered from her shock, had no trouble at all bending over and glaring at him in his dubious refuge.

"Vernon! He's here!" she had shouted coldly. Then she had left the room, clearly indifferent to the violence that would follow.

Harry coiled in a fetal position and shivered under his thread-worn sheet. He supposed his trousers and pants were still on the floor somewhere, where Vernon had thrown them when he tore them off of Harry, but he was too stiff and sore to move, much less go looking for them. His uncle had never thrashed him on the bare before, although he had, on a few humiliating occasions, made him take down his trousers (which was almost as bad, since his pants were so thin). But he had never whipped him as viciously as he had this night. Harry's thighs and bum throbbed in agony; even the thin sheet stung painfully where it touched his battered skin.

For the first time since he was a very small child, Harry had been unable to keep silent and hold back his tears during one of his uncle's punishments. He burned with shame, remembering his own whimpers and pathetic pleading as the belt came down again and again. He wondered if the leather had sliced his tender flesh, but he feared to check. He was afraid if he found blood, it would only make everything seem even worse and he would start crying again. He was too tired to cry any more. . .his head pounded and his nose was all stuffed up. He had no tissues so he could only sniffle and rub at his itchy, burning eyes. In all his miserable life, he couldn't remember ever feeling more hopeless and mortified.

You're such a pathetic baby! Sniveling and begging like some little kid! Stupid! Weak! Gutless freak!

He chided himself bitterly, ashamed of his weakness. He should never have bawled like that - never begged his uncle to stop. . .it only made it worse - he knew that! He'd survived enough sessions with his uncle's belt to know crying only made Vernon beat him harder.

Why did you have to carry on like that? Some hero you are! You face down a troll - even Voldemort himself - but you fall all to pieces over a little thrashing! You don't deserve to call yourself a Gryffindor!

This was the part that hurt the most. . .even more than the whipping and his own cowardice. He wasn't a Gryffindor - not any more. Vernon had made that dreadfully clear. He had read the warning the Ministry owl had brought about underage magic.

"Not allowed to use magic outside of school? You didn't tell us that, did you freak?" Vernon had screeched at him while the belt whistled through the air, smashing down over and over. "Forgot to mention it - slipped your mind, did it? Well, I've got news for you, boy. . .I'm locking you up for good! They won't get a chance to expel you, cause you're never going back to that school! You hear me? Never! And if you try to magic yourself out - if you ever do any of that freakish stuff again - you won't live to boast about it! I won't put up with your shifty ways any more - I'll not have that unnatural business in my house!"

Harry knew Vernon would keep his vow. He'd never let Harry return to school now. He wasn't sure how the man could stop him, but he'd find a way. No matter what Dumbledore said - no matter what anyone in the wizarding world did - the Dursleys were his legal guardians. They could do whatever they wanted to with him. If they refused to send Harry back to Hogwarts, he didn't think there was anything anyone could do about it.

It was all over. Harry knew this. A life of nothing but misery lay before him. He was stuck with the Dursleys until he turned eighteen and could move out on his own. It was only six more years - but when you're twelve, six years might as well be a lifetime.

I wish I'd never heard of Hogwarts - or magic - or any of it! If I'd never gone to Hogwarts, I couldn't miss it. If I didn't know what I'd lost, it wouldn't hurt so much. I wish I could forget. . .I wish I wasn't a wizard. . . I wish I was dead.

These morbid, desolate thoughts revolved in his mind until exhaustion and torment finally took him and he drifted off into a uneasy doze.

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

In the end, Flitwick had chosen to remain at his post while Sprout flooed back to Surrey. It wasn't that Filius minded going to Surrey, but he wanted to talk to Severus as soon as he arrived. . .assuming he ever did. He had some thoughts about how to solve the problem of Harry Potter that he wanted to discuss with the Potions Master as soon as possible.

Minerva had been at her wits end. She was on the verge of giving up waiting for Snape and going to retrieve Harry herself, but Pomona and Filius had managed to convince her to be patient a little longer. After a two hour break to eat, rest, and clean up, Pomona had gone back to the Dursleys' house for a quick reconnoiter. She immediately reported that all seemed to be quiet there. The dinner guests' vehicle was gone, the curtains were all drawn, and all the lights in the home were out when she surveyed the place. Since it was past nine, they assumed the Dursleys must have gone to bed early.

"You might as well return to Hogwarts and get some sleep," Minerva had finally told Pomona. "There's not much point in staring at a dark house."

Pomona had gratefully accepted the suggestion, for she was by habit an early riser and was used to retiring early. Filius opted to remain where he was. He was a bit of a night owl himself, and didn't mind waiting for Severus for a while longer.

"I'm afraid you are wasting your time," Minerva complained morosely. "I think if Severus had gotten my letter, he would have returned long before now."

"Perhaps. . ." Filius shrugged. "But it's possible he simply hasn't received it yet - he may have been tied up all day at the conference. It's early yet - let's give him another hour or two. If he hasn't shown up by midnight, I'll come back and sleep a while, then pop off to Surrey to take the next watch."

Minerva had reluctantly agreed and stayed in her office, determined to pass the long hours of night working. She was by now too restless and anxious to sleep, and knew she could always rely on one of her ‘catnaps' if she grew tired.

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

Severus clutched a bronze medallion in one hand and a rolled, beribboned certificate in the other as he hurried across the crowded lobby. Nodding distractedly at the calls of greeting and congratulations that followed him across the room, he bullied his way through the throng at the reception desk with intimidating glares and sneers.

When the harried clerk noticed his approach, she waved at him in clear agitation. "Oh - Professor Snape! Thank Merlin - you have a post, sir!"

Severus held out his hand impatiently, waiting for his mail.

"Uhm. . . th-there's a slight problem, sir," she stammered apologetically.

"Problem?" Severus scowled menacingly.

"The post is warded. The owl that delivered, sir . . . uhm. . . he won't let anyone remove the envelope," she explained. "He's through there, sir." She pointed at a closed door beside the front desk.

"Very well," Severus replied calmly. "Please prepare my statement. I wish to check out immediately."

"Yes, Professor. Your account was settled by Hogwarts in advance. I'll print you a receipt and have it ready for you when you return."

Severus nodded and entered the side door, which led to a small administrative office. Ignoring the pair of clerks working at a counter, he quickly spotted the owl in question. It was perched on a file cabinet, glaring imperiously down at the nervous clerks. He recognized the huge owl as one from Hogwarts - the owl Minerva used exclusively for private messages - and he held his arm out. The owl fluttered down to his arm and hooted crossly at him, as if to say ‘Well, it's about time! I've been waiting ages for you.'

"I apologize, Archimedes," Severus muttered. "I was a bit tied up - lectures - wretched speeches - you can imagine," he rolled his eyes and Archimedes blinked at him as if he shared Severus' disgust. Severus removed the envelope from the bird's leg and searched his pockets. He wasn't in the habit of carrying owl treats in his robes, but he did manage to unearth a rather linty handful of mixed nuts he had absent-mindedly shoved in his pocket during one of the symposium's many receptions. "Sorry - it's all I have," he shrugged. Archimedes eyed the stale nuts dubiously, but finally selected a cashew, as if merely endeavoring to be polite. He leapt off Severus' arm and perched on a nearby stool to wait.

Severus opened the envelope and read the letter quickly, nodding to himself in satisfaction. Minerva's enigmatic message would likely have bewildered anyone except Severus. He could feel the ornament enclosed and he tilted the envelope, tipping the pendant into his open palm. He stared at it for a moment. He didn't recall ever seeing the pendant before, but he certainly recognized the symbol embossed on it. The emblem brought with it a sharp pang of forlorn remembrance. Minerva was correct - he knew the species. Haemanthus coccineus . . . a very rare floral motif, used by only one person he had ever known. The faint blue glow identified its purpose and Severus glanced up at the owl.

"No reply, Archimedes," he said curtly. "Have a safe journey home." He nodded at the bird, knowing that he would arrive at Hogwarts long before the owl did. Archimedes hooted loudly, startling the two clerks, and swooped out of a nearby open window. Severus hastened to his room to collect his sparse belongings.

With his promised receipt and his luggage shrunk and safely stowed in his pocket, Severus strode out of the hotel and down the dark boulevard toward the old French port. He slipped into the first vacant alley he came across, and took out the pendant. Glancing around cautiously, he murmured the common garden name for the species depicted on the surface.

"Blood Lily."

The familiar tug at his navel sent him spinning across the night, his lingering words melting away into silence in the dark alley.

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

To Flitwick's relief, his wait finally ended. Shortly after Pomona had retired, he heard a muted pop followed by a soft thump out on the road. He poked his head out behind from the holly shrub and called quietly to the tall Potion Master, who was straightening his robes.

"Severus?"

Snape whirled, his wand springing to his hand. When Filius held up his own wand, lighting his face dimly with a murmured ‘Lumos', Severus scowled at him.

"Filius?"

Flitwick nodded and motioned for him to come closer. Severus rounded the hedge and stared down at the Charms Professor in bewilderment. "What in Merlin's name. . .?"

"Minerva asked me to wait for you. . . . she wanted me to caution you not to allow yourself to be seen returning to the school," Flitwick explained. Severus' bemused gaze swept over the transfigured furniture so oddly out of place in the outdoor setting. Flitwick merely shrugged. "I've been waiting over nine hours. No harm in being comfortable."

He scribbled a brief note which he quickly transformed into a glowing parchment airplane. As the missive swooped up to the castle, he flicked his wand, and the transfigured furnishings reverted back to their original forms. "We were growing concerned for you."

"I was in lectures and receptions all day - I only received Minerva's owl a half hour ago," Severus replied curtly. "What is this all about?"

"Minerva discovered young Harry Potter's situation is seriously unacceptable," Flitwick answered as they began the walk up to the school.

"Unacceptable?" Severus halted, his dark eyes flashing dangerously.

"His Muggle home is deplorable. Minerva wants him removed from there as soon as possible. I'll let her explain in detail - she has placed relevant memories of what she has learned in a Pensieve - you'll see those when we get to her office. She enlisted the help of Pomona Sprout and myself to keep things under control until you arrived."

"I don't understand," Severus stared at him. "Why the secrecy? And why the Pensieve?"

"You'll understand when you view it," Flitwick shook his head, "I don't wish to influence your interpretation of what you will see, so I won't go into it now, but I will say I agree with her completely." He began walking again, forcing Severus to follow him.

"If something is wrong at Harry's home, why haven't you removed him already?"

"It's complicated. I'm afraid this matter will have to be handled delicately. . . that's why we need you. We need a carefully considered plan of action before we proceed."

"I still don't understand. . . what's wrong with Harry? Is he all right?" Severus' tone hardened with angry concern.

"He's fine for now, as far as we know. Please, Severus - be patient. You'll understand everything soon, I promise." Flitwick tried to reassure him.

"You're being annoyingly secretive, Filius. Why doesn't Minerva want me to be seen?" Severus snapped impatiently.

"Again - it's complicated," Filius replied calmly. "You'll just have to trust me for now. You mustn't be seen by any of the other staff - or the castle portraits. It's imperative that no one except Minerva, Pomona and I, know you have returned to Hogwarts."

Severus' irritated expression suddenly smoothed into cold cunning. "I see. . . am I to presume that no one, includes a certain Headmaster?"

"I'm afraid so."

Severus nodded, his thoughts racing behind the aloof black eyes. "So that's what she meant. Minerva mentioned in her letter that she had met resistance in resolving the problem. I assume she means Albus doesn't agree that Potter should be removed from the home?"

"In a nutshell," Filius agreed quietly. He glanced up as the Hogwarts gates appeared in the distance. "I believe an invisibility spell would be prudent now," he commented.

Two wands swished through the dark night air, and two figures - one tall, the other barely up to his knee - faded out of view.

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

Minerva, Filius and Severus talked long into the night. They had not bothered to awaken Pomona - there was little more she could contribute at this point. But both Minerva and Flitwick had given their next course of action considerable thought and were eager to share those thoughts with the shrewd Potions Master and experienced spy. Which is what they did - once they were able to calm the man down enough to discuss the situation with some composure.

When Severus had first immerged from her Pensieve, Minerva had feared for the Dursleys and Albus' life - as well as the furnishings in her sitting room. Even with their best efforts to pacify him, several of her more delicate curios had suffered an abruptly shattered fate. Severus had paced the room for several minutes, ranting and swearing in an unrestrained manner that she had never before witnessed from a man who was normally icily controlled. Although a bit alarmed at the time, Minerva was also secretly amused that Severus' attachment to Harry Potter had been so spectacularly confirmed.

She had not voiced that amusement, of course, but had merely accepted his embarrassed apologies for his display, as Severus sheepishly repaired every article he had destroyed in anger. His tantrum had actually been rather liberating for them all. . .as both Filius and Minerva had felt the same frustration and fury, but had not indulged it.

When his outraged mood had subsided somewhat, Severus then became the cold, calculating organizer they had counted on recruiting. He agreed that waiting a week until Albus and Poppy returned was unacceptable. It was decided that Harry would be removed by Severus the next day and brought to Hogwarts for his own protection.

In order to avoid an outright confrontation with the Headmaster (and risk their own jobs in the process) it was decided that Harry's early removal would be concealed from Albus. He would be brought to Hogwarts under his invisibility cloak and kept in Severus' private quarters, away from prying eyes, until the end of the week. It was hoped that Poppy's examination of Harry's physical condition would confirm Minerva's claim of neglect. They would also have a week to talk with the boy, and perhaps persuade him to admit to his mistreatment. If he did, Minerva and Filius were convinced that the Headmaster would have no choice but to remove the boy from the Muggle's care permanently.

"If Harry admits that his guardians treat him harshly - that they don't feed him properly and overwork him, I know Albus will take his complaints seriously," Minerva argued. "With such proof, I doubt he'll question my decision to bring Harry here against his orders."

Severus, however, had little expectation of convincing Albus to change his mind, regardless of the evidence. He had watched the Headmaster's expressions carefully in the Pensieve memories, and there was no doubt in his mind that Albus already knew what kind of home the boy was living in. Albus clearly knew how unhappy the child was, and seemed strangely determined that he remain with those atrocious Muggles, for whatever convoluted reasons of his own. Severus didn't quash his co-conspirators hopes of a quick resolution to Potter's distressing situation, but he privately determined to develop an alternative plan, to execute if Albus refused their appeal.

"What if the Headmaster knows when we take Harry from Privet Drive?" Severus asked. "He may have some kind of alarm or tracking charm on the boy that alerts him to Harry's location."

Minerva shrugged. "I doubt he does - I think he might have mentioned it when we spoke of the wards. But if he does, then we'll just have to argue our case that much sooner."

"The Ministry tracks wand signatures. . ." Filius suggested. "It's the easiest way to trace a wizard. . . the Headmaster may do the same. Perhaps we should leave Harry's wand at the Dursleys home until we're ready to confront Albus." He glanced at Minerva. "If there is a monitoring charm on Harry, the warning alert is probably in the Headmaster's office. It might be wise for you to position yourself there when we take Harry, to silence any alarms."

"I can do that," she agreed.

"What about the Dursleys? Will they notify Albus if Harry turns up missing?" Severus asked.

Minerva snorted. "I hardly think so. . . Albus has only spoken to them once in eleven years - if he was telling the truth, that is. I've a feeling there is no love lost between Albus and Harry's guardians. But from what I've seen, the Dursleys will be glad to be rid of the boy."

"Nevertheless, it might be wisest to remove that possibility," Flitwick advised. "I will go with Severus when he picks up Harry."

Minerva and Severus both frowned at him in confusion. Flitwick smiled impishly. "Are you forgetting that I am rather adept at memory charms?"

Severus chuckled. "I think that's an excellent suggestion. You might also be able to determine if there are any monitoring charms on Harry and perhaps deal with them at the source."

"It's decided then," Minerva stated. She felt considerably relieved to know they now had a plan of action, and little Harry would soon be safely in their hands. "You look tired, Severus," she noted, scanning the wizard's pale weary face. "Why don't you get a few hours sleep? We can meet back here at around eight. I'll ask Pomona to pop over to Surrey again while we have breakfast and finalize everything."

Severus must have indeed been tired, for he did not argue the point. As soon as he and Flitwick concealed themselves behind invisibility charms and left for their own quarters, Minerva took her own advice and retired. She summoned Tinker, asking the house elf to provide a light breakfast for three in her sitting room at the appointed time and then climbed into bed. Weary from anxiety and the long hours of waiting, she dropped off to sleep quickly.

Minerva, Severus and Filius had barely begun their breakfast meeting when the fireplace floo in Minerva's sitting room flared. Pomona Sprout's plump anxious face glowed a bilious green from its depths.

"Minerva!" she squeaked. "I'm worried about Harry. . .there is something odd going on here."

"What is it?" Minerva and Severus both demanded.

"When I arrived, there was a workman at #4. . . I wasn't sure what he was doing at first. . .I watched for a while - then realized that he was installing something over one of the upstairs windows. Minerva - it was bars - metal bars!"

"Bars?" Minerva looked bewildered.

"I understand that Muggles sometimes install bars on their windows for security. . . to protect their homes from burglars and such," Filius offered.

"That's what I thought at first," Pomona admitted. "But if it was a security measure, they would install them on all the windows, wouldn't they? . . .at least on the ground floor. The workman left a few minutes ago. . .he only installed bars on the one window. . . at that one is on the second floor, Filius! Why install only one - and why upstairs? Any intelligent burglar would try to break in downstairs, wouldn't he?"

"The bars aren't meant to keep someone out," Severus announced flatly, rising from the table. "They're to keep someone in." He gave Flitwick a grim scowl. "I think it's time we go."

Flitwick nodded, setting down his tea cup and rising as well. "You'd better go to Dumbledore's office, Minerva," he suggested hurriedly. "Watch for any device that might signal a change in Harry's location. And it might be wise to open the wards on the floos in Severus' chambers and the Infirmary."

"The Infirmary?" Minerva paled. "You don't think. . ."

"Best be prepared," Filius replied as he followed Severus to the fireplace.

"Step back, Pomona," Severus demanded curtly. "We're coming through."

----- -----

Harry cowered on his bed, curling up into a tight ball. He had been in a state of dazed terror from the moment his uncle had awoken him, just after dawn. Vernon had installed numerous new locks on the outside of his bedroom door, railing at him the entire time he worked. The screech of the cordless saw had hurt Harry's ears as his crazed uncle had cut away a large hole in the bottom of the door. He had then fitted a plastic flap over the hole - Harry hadn't known its purpose at first, but Vernon quickly enlightened him.

"I'll not have my family exposed to your freakiness any longer!" he had muttered with an unhinged glint in his eye. "Your aunt will push food to you through this opening - when I decide you may eat again - if ever! I don't want Petunia or Dudley anywhere near you. Things are going to change around here, boy - you mark my words!" He had ranted for a while longer, laying out Harry's bleak future. Harry was truly a prisoner now. His uncle would allow him five minutes twice a day to use the loo. . . the rest of his miserable, lonely life would be spent locked in the dreary room.

Harry had remained prudently silent throughout his uncle's menacing harangue. When he realized the extent of Vernon's demented plot to imprison him, he had toyed with the idea of climbing out the bedroom window. He might break a leg jumping from that height, but even a broken leg was better than being locked up for good. That desperate plan had been thwarted a short while later.

The sound of a ladder scraping the house had spooked Harry. When the contractor's face appeared at his window, Harry dove under his sheet in shame. He didn't want the stranger to see him half starkers and plainly in disgrace. It didn't take the workman long to mount the barred metal grill over his window. Without noticing the small boy huddled on the bed in the shadowy corner, the man had secured the grill, muttering something under his breath as Vernon had snarled orders at him from the ground below. Harry had heard the man climb back down and engage in a muffled, heated quarrel with his uncle. Then the ladder was dragged away and the sounds from below had faded.

Whatever the cause of the quarrel between the two men, Harry had a terrible feeling that he would be the one to suffer for it. He wasn't wrong. He heard Vernon's thundering footsteps stomping up the stairs. The various locks on his door were unbolted, and Vernon burst into his room. His stout face and neck were purple with outrage.

"Time and a half!" he bellowed. "Time and a half that thief charged me - just because it's Sunday morning! As if it's a crime to ask an honest laborer to work on Sundays! Between that crook and those locks you've cost me sixty pounds today, you worthless freak!" he screamed, advancing on the boy. His meaty hand shot out, clouting Harry's cheek with a vicious open-handed slap.

Harry cringed, shrinking as far into the corner of the bed as he could squeeze himself. He was much too frightened to point out to Vernon that the locks and bars were his own idea. Vernon loomed over him, his face a mask of fury. "And as if the man's larceny wasn't bad enough," Vernon shrieked in outrage, "The bleeding wanker used a Black & Decker!" Vernon spat the brand name out as if it were obscene. "A Black & Decker, mind you! ON MY HOUSE!"

When Vernon grabbed for him, Harry silently cursed the treacherous Fates that had sent a workman to #4 Privet Drive with anything but a Grunning's drill. As Vernon yanked him by the hair and pulled him off the bed, Harry saw him begin to unbuckle his belt. In that moment, Harry fervently wished he had his wand. If he had, no Ministry restriction in the world would have stopped him from unleashing every hex he had learned at the huge man.

Vernon shoved him face first down across the edge of the bed and raised the belt. Harry clutched the rumpled sheets as the belt came down once. . . twice. . .three times. By the forth stroke he surrendered to his doom. He wouldn't have to suffer imprisonment, he thought bleakly as he let loose an agonized scream. He wouldn't survive this thrashing. Uncle Vernon was going to kill him.

----- -----

Severus and Flitwick rushed from Arabella Figg's kitchen fireplace, striding swiftly to the front door without even acknowledging the startled old squib. They paused only long enough to spell themselves with invisibility charms before advancing hastily down the quiet Muggle block, a worried Pomona Sprout puffing along behind them. When they reached the Dursley house and marched up the walkway, Severus raised his wand, unlocking the front door silently. He had only opened it a crack when a chilling sound rent the air. It was a loud crack of leather against flesh, punctuated by a child's screams.

Severus hardly paused. "Take care of the others," he barked at Flitwick and Sprout, pointing toward the lounge where a Muggle woman and boy were calmly sitting in front of television as if indifferent to the dreadful sounds from the second floor. Then he leapt up the stairs, taking four at a time with his long stride. He followed the sounds to an open door, outfitted with a half-dozen locking bolts, and stepped inside. His wand flared with frightening speed.

---- ----

Harry wailed, squirming to escape the agonizing strokes of the thick leather belt. A fifth blow landed, but before his shriek was barely out of his throat several confusing things happened all at once. A blinding flash of red light burst into his vision, so bright it even penetrated his closed eyelids. Vernon screamed - a weird strangled sound that Harry could hardly recognize as human. He opened his eyes to the astonishing sight of his Uncle Vernon in mid-air, sailing over his shoulder. The huge man crashed into the nearby wall with a deafening thud, then slid down the wall with almost comic slowness, crumpling into a mammoth mound on the floor.

Harry was so shocked and breathless from screaming, he scarcely heard the voice calling his name. He slid off the edge of the bed and curled up instinctively on the floor, gasping for air.

Did I do that? Did I kill him?

He closed his eyes and panted, in too much shock and pain to realize that he was hyperventilating. A sudden touch on his shoulder caused his terror to spike unbearably and even as he wrenched away from the touch, his mind went dark for several confusing moments.

----- -----

Severus fought a strong desire to swear loudly. When he tried to touch him, Harry had cringed away, curling himself into an even tighter ball on the floor. The boy was gasping, breathing too hard and fast, and his face - what little Severus could see of it behind his arms - appeared unnaturally pale. Realizing he was still invisible, Severus swore softly and removed the charm. Then he advanced slowly, not wanting to frighten the boy any more than necessary.

"Potter?"

Harry didn't seem to hear him, so Severus spoke again, keeping his voice low and soft. "Harry?" The boy stirred a bit. Severus knelt on the floor, reached out and touched his shoulder gently. This was a mistake, he swiftly realized with some chagrin. With a sharp gasp, Harry rolled over and sprung into a crouch, facing Severus. He ducked his head with a muffled whimper and threw both arms up to shield himself. Severus stared at him, dismayed by the boy's defensive reaction.

"Harry - it's all right. . ." he murmured soothingly. "You're safe now. He can't hurt you. Harry?"

Harry lifted his head and blinked at him dazedly. His pale face was streaked with tears and a nasty bruise was starting to darken on one cheek.

"I didn't mean to startle you. . . I apologize," Severus murmured reassuringly. "You're all right now, Harry."

The boy frowned at him, then leaned back very cautiously, his fingers scrabbling on the desk behind him. Severus remained very still, waiting for the boy to recognize him. Harry found his glasses and fumbled to put them on, then stared blankly at him. "Pr-professor S-S-Snape?" he stammered in confusion. Severus nodded, giving him all the time he needed to calm down. To his dismay, Harry's face crumpled and he huddled in on himself with a low moan.

"Harry?"

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean it!" Harry whimpered.

"Didn't mean what?" Harry pointed a trembling finger at his unconscious uncle. "You didn't do that, Harry. I did," Severus soothed.

Harry stared at the unmoving lump. "Is he dead?" he whispered.

"Not yet," Severus replied dryly.

Harry looked at him, his face filling with dread. "I didn't do anything!" he whispered. "It wasn't me! It was him - I swear, Professor!"

"I know, Harry," Severus replied soothingly, assuming he was referring to whatever had triggered the whipping.

"He tried to make me promise! I wouldn't, so he floated the pudding and then he dumped it! It wasn't my fault!" Harry babbled, fresh tears coursing down his cheeks. Severus had no idea what he was gibbering about but nodded to reassure him.

"I begged him not to do it! And then the owl came, and Mrs. Mason is scared of birds, and that just made it worse! Please believe me! I didn't do it! I didn't!"

"Didn't do what, Harry?" Severus asked gently.

"M-magic!" Harry sobbed forlornly. "I couldn't have. . . I don't even have my wand! Please, Professor! Please don't let them expel me!"

Severus gaped at him. What was the child on about? He shook his head and tried to calm the boy. "No one's going to expel you, Harry."

"But. . . but isn't that why you're here?" Harry eyed him dazedly.

"No, child. . . I came to help you. I was worried about you," Severus replied. He glanced furiously over at the fat Muggle. "And with good reason, it seems."

"To. . . to help me?" Harry said faintly, his face crumpled with confusion.

"Come on, Harry. Let's get you out of here," Severus leaned forward very slowly, holding out his hands. "Will you let me help you up?" he asked quietly. When the boy didn't shy away, he grasped his arms lightly and stood, helping Harry to rise. He held him there a moment, letting the boy steady himself, his swift gaze assessing the boy's condition. Harry was dressed only in a large ragged t-shirt that hung down below his knees. His arms and legs were appallingly thin and covered with small bruises. The bruise on his cheek bore the unmistakable imprint of a large hand. Severus didn't need to turn the boy around to view the most recent visible damage. When he'd entered the room and hexed the brutish uncle, he had seen the angry welts that scored the boy's bare thighs and buttocks.

Harry wiped at his wet face, trying to hide the tears that refused to halt. When he saw Severus watching him, he ducked his head in shame. Severus patted his shoulder lightly. "It's all right, Harry. It's nothing to be ashamed of. . .it's all right to cry."

Those soft words of compassion seemed to break the boy's tenuous restraint. With a hoarse sob, Harry leaned forward, laying his wet cheek against Severus' arm.

It was suddenly all too much for Severus. His stern self-control. . . his carefully maintained detachment seemed abruptly pointless and absurd. Everything he believed about himself - every emotion he had guarded against felt trivial compared to the anguish of this helpless, suffering boy. Without even a flutter of regret, Severus pulled Harry against him and wrapped strong arms around his trembling frame. His firm embrace dissolved whatever lingering control the boy possessed and he buried his face in Severus' robes and wept.

Severus said nothing. He was inexperienced at sympathy and did not know the comforting words a child needed to hear. Instead, he just held the sobbing boy and stroked his dark hair, much as if he were soothing an injured pet. His own loss of composure didn't bother Severus. He didn't care if he appeared weak or sentimental. He realized he didn't even care if his compassion led to heartache later on. . . all he cared about, in that startling moment of self-awareness, was bringing comfort to a young boy who had somehow wormed his way into Severus' well-fortified heart.

Harry cried longer than Severus expected. He clung awkwardly to his teacher as if he too was unused to such physical comfort. In his misery, he didn't hear the soft patter of feet that climbed the stairs. Severus heard, however, and turned to look at the door when Filius peeked nervously into the room. He shook his head slightly at the Charms Professor, who immediately understood his warning. Flitwick glanced once at the still unconscious Vernon Dursley on the floor, grimaced distastefully, and then left them alone.

"It's going to be all right, Harry," Severus finally murmured, when the boy's sobs had diminished. "Your uncle will never hurt you again - I promise you that." Harry's body stiffened and he pushed back a little as if trying to escape Severus' embrace. "Shhh - I understand. You don't have to talk about it now." Without releasing the boy, he pulled a clean handkerchief from his robes and pressed it into Harry's tense hand. Harry sniffed and scrubbed at his face. The boy's cheeks flushed a bit and he looked self-conscious, but Severus didn't comment. He pulled a small bottle of calming draught from his emergency pouch and held it out to him. It was a silent testament to Harry's trust in Severus that he swallowed the potion without even asking its contents.

"You can stop off in the loo and wash your face before we leave," Severus said.

"Leave?" Harry sniffled.

"You're coming back to Hogwarts."

"I am?" Harry looked up, warily meeting his gaze for the first time.

"Well of course, silly boy," Severus smirked wryly. "You didn't think I'd leave you here, did you? Now, where are your clothes? I doubt Professor Flitwick would mind your undressed state, but I'm going to assume you would rather Professor Sprout not see you half-starkers?" he teased lightly, releasing his hold on the boy.

"Profess...." Harry's face flushed a deep red and his expression turned horrified. "They. . .I. . . you mean, they're here?"

"Sprout and Flitwick are downstairs. . .it's all right, Harry! No one came upstairs except me," he quickly lied, realizing the boy's embarrassment. "Now where are your things? Your wand? Your clothes?"

"My trunk is in the cupboard under the stairs," Harry replied hesitantly. "I don't have anything else." He shuffled across the room and picked up a pair of dirty trousers and some tattered pants off the floor. Severus frowned but Harry only shrugged. "They're all I own," he stated bluntly.

Severus politely turned his back, affording the boy at least a small degree of modesty. While Harry dressed, he studied the room closely for the first time. It was small and shabby, and pitifully bare. He didn't need the new addition of the bars on the windows to understand the room's purpose - the numerous locks spoke volumes. It was without question, a prison cell. Severus' firmly suppressed anger simmered near the boiling point.

The only furnishing Severus didn't recognize was the brightly colored plastic flap at the bottom of the door. A now-clothed Harry stepped up beside him and nodded at the strange fixture Severus was staring at.

"It's a doggy-door," the boy said dully.

"You have a dog?"

"No," Harry's face twisted bitterly. "It's for putting my food through."

Severus fought an urge to turn and launch an nonstop Cruciatus Curse at the fat Muggle on the floor. He reined in the impulse only because he didn't want a twelve-year-old Harry to witness such a grisly demonstration. "Come," he said flatly, leading the boy out of the room.

He waited by the open bathroom door while Harry washed his sticky face and swallowed several handfuls of water. Then he escorted the boy downstairs. He noted Harry's stiff movements and wished he had thought to give the boy a pain relieving potion. But the boy's glazed look concerned him even more than his bruises. Drained from crying, Harry moved like a zombie - eyes dull, head down - hardly noticing his surroundings. Severus began to fear the child had gone into shock.

When they reached the downstairs hallway, Severus put a comforting hand on Harry's shoulder and peered into the lounge. The sight that greeted him almost made him chuckle. Filius sat on a large over-stuffed chair, his feet dangling, his wand trained at two inert forms on the floor. Pomona sat on the sofa, staring wrathfully at the pair, her wand also drawn. The two Muggles were lying awkwardly in each other's arms, clearly insensible. The woman's unlovely face was screwed up in fright. The grotesque baby-whale of a boy had his eyes squeezed shut, with both hands clutching his enormous bottom. Severus glanced at his colleagues with an arched eyebrow.

"They wouldn't be quiet," Filius offered unapologetically.

"They were extremely rude," Pomona added with a sneer of disdain.

Severus smirked. "Harry's trunk is under the stairs, Filius. Would you mind?"

"Not at all," Filius scrambled down from his perch and went to retrieve the trunk. Pomona cast a sorrowful gaze on Harry, but Severus shook his head to discourage her from distressing the boy further. She nodded and sighed. Severus lightly squeezed Harry's shoulder for reassurance, but the boy didn't looked up.

"Severus," Flitwick's tone was dangerously quiet. "I think you'd better come here."

Severus looked down the hall. Filius stood beside a small open cupboard door. The first thing he noticed was the locking bolt and vent on the door. The next was the look on Filius' face. The tiny Professor wore a outraged scowl that Severus wouldn't have believed possible for the perpetually cheerful wizard, even on his worst day. He reluctantly left Harry standing listlessly by the front door and moved to Filius' side. Severus leaned inside the cupboard, lighting the interior with a murmured ‘Lumos'.

As the boy had stated, Harry's school trunk stood just inside the door. But beyond it, Severus was surprised to see a small dingy pallet on the floor, with a ratty blanket folded at one end. In addition to the cleaning supplies one would normally expect to find in such a place, the dusty, cob-webbed shelves held a few broken toys - headless toy soldiers, some rough wooden blocks, and several broken crayons. He might not have recognized the significance of these items if it weren't for the drawings. Pinned to the back wall were numerous old crayoned drawings - childish sticklike images colored on the blank sides of brown paper bags. Severus didn't need the clumsy printed signatures on each drawing to know who had been the artist. Confirming his identity, a small placard of brown paper was tacked above the cupboard door, proclaiming the terrible truth. Written in crayon in neat block letters, it proudly read "HARRY'S ROOM". Severus was so shaken, he almost didn't notice the plastic bucket in the corner, with a half-empty roll of toilet paper beside it. With a flash of horrified understanding, Severus backed out of the cramped space and looked at the skinny child slumped in the hallway.

The temptation to cast on the Dursleys every sadistic, torturous curse he knew, was so strong that Severus' hands shook violently. He stared at Harry, standing with his head hung in shame and misery, and promised himself he would avenge the boy. Not now. . .Harry was his first, most immediate concern. He had to get the boy out of that house - get him safely to Hogwarts. . .but later. . .yes, later he would teach these filthy Muggles what true agony was. . .

Severus grasped Harry's trunk and hauled it into the corridor. He was puzzled to see that the trunk was wrapped in a thick chain, held on with a heavy padlock. The trunk's leather finish was scorched and sooty. Severus glanced in bewilderment at Harry, managing to catch his eye.

"Uncle Vernon tried to open it. . .he wanted to break my wand. . .the protection charm wouldn't let him in," Harry explained in a soft, tired voice that was totally devoid of emotion. "I wouldn't open it, even when he thrashed me, so he tried to burn it. It has standard fireproof charms, so that didn't work either. So he just chained it up and locked it in there."

With a wave and a soft chant, Filius removed the chains and tossed them back inside the cupboard. Then he relocked the cupboard door, shrunk Harry's trunk and handed it to Severus, who put it in his pocket. "Anything else?" Severus asked Harry gently. The boy shook his head.

"We'll need to walk over to Mrs. Figg's house now," Severus explained, eyeing the boy uncertainly. He looked so pale and weak Severus wondered if he would make it that far. "Can you do that?" Harry nodded, not even questioning his professor's directions. Severus led him outside and turned back to Filius.

"Pomona and I will take care of everything," Filius assured him before he could speak. "Do you want to leave Harry's wand here, as we planned?"

Severus shook his head. "It doesn't matter now. . .I've seen more than enough to justify removing him from this place, regardless of what the Headmaster thinks or wishes." He jerked his thumb, indicating the Muggles inside the home. "Blackmail them - threaten them - Oblivate them - whatever you chose. . . just don't punish them. . ." He gave the puzzled wizard a wintry smile. "At least, not without me. I want to be here when their reckoning comes."

Filius nodded, his eyes alight with a vengeful fire. "That is a welcome task we'll carry out together, my friend."

As Severus guided a dazed Harry down the street, the boy never looked up, or demonstrated any curiosity about their destination. Even when they entered Mrs. Figg's house, Harry expressed no surprise at finding himself in his old babysitter's home - though Severus knew the boy hadn't been aware that the woman was a squib. Harry ignored Arabella's worried queries and exclamations of dismay, blindly following his Potions Professor into the kitchen. His expression was vacant, as if he had passed beyond any capacity to respond.

"Have you ever flooed before, Harry?" Severus asked, grabbing a handful of floo powder from the mantle. The boy stared off into space. "Right, then. We'll go together," Severus decided. When he ducked into the fireplace and drew Harry in beside him, the boy merely laid his head on Severus' chest with a weary sigh and closed his eyes. Severus pulled him closer and wrapped him in a firm embrace. "There's nothing to be afraid of, Harry," he murmured. "Everything is going to be all right now." He tossed down the floo powder and held tight to the small boy, declaring their destination clearly.

"Hogwarts Infirmary."

When Severus stepped out of the Infirmary floo, he expected Harry to follow him. He didn't expect him to stumble and topple forward. It was fortunate Severus still had his hands on the boy, or the tumble might have added even more bruises to the child's battered body. He instinctively grabbed the boy before he could fall and swept him up into his arms.

Harry gasped and coughed in his face, then turned beet red. Apparently, the floo journey had momentarily shocked him out of his stupor. As Severus started across the room, heading for the nearest bed, Harry protested faintly. "Hey! Hang on! I'm not a baby, you know."

"I know," Severus agreed. The boy was disturbing light in his arms.

"I can walk! You don't have to carry me!" Harry squirmed to be let down.

"Quit wriggling before you unbalance us!" Severus scolded mildly, ignoring his protests. He laid the boy on one of the beds and began to gently remove his t-shirt. Harry recoiled, backing away from him. "It's all right," Severus reassured him. "There's no one here to see . . . no reason to be embarrassed."

Harry just stared warily at him. Severus sighed. He flicked his wand, murmuring a sleeping spell, and watched the boy close his eyes and slump over. Casting a warming spell on the sheets, he removed Harry's glasses and carefully positioned the sleeping boy on his back. He stripped him with a wave of his wand and began the most complete diagnostic spell he knew. Harry didn't rouse or make a sound.

Severus was still concentrating on the diagnostic spell when a shocked and very distressed Minerva bustled into the Infirmary. She saw Severus' quick warning gesture and stopped at the end of the bed, remaining silent until Severus turned the limp boy over on his stomach. Minerva gasped at the sight of the painfully dark welts that crisscrossed the boy's bottom and thighs. She stared hard at Severus.

"The uncle," Severus reported tersely, and continued his diagnosis. After a moment, he sighed heavily. Covering Harry with a blanket, he went to rummage in Madame Pomfrey's potions cabinets.

"Oh, Harry," Minerva murmured, brushing her fingers through the sleeping boy's dark hair. "I'm so sorry. . .so very sorry. . . my poor boy."

Severus returned with a tray loaded with numerous bottle and jars. He gave Minerva a disgusted sneer and she scowled a bit huffily but moved out of his way. Severus opened one jar and scooped out a handful of sharply-scented cream, which he gently rubbed into all the bruises and welts on the back of the boy. Then he turned him over and applied the cream to a few odd round bruises on the boy's chest and arms. He lastly rubbed the cream into the bruise on Harry's cheek, then spelled some light-weight pajamas onto the boy. He twitched his wand again, canceling the sleeping spell. Harry stirred and his eyes fluttered open to stare at the Potions Master in confusion.

"It's all right, Harry,' Severus said calmly. "You're safe. You're at Hogwarts. I need you to drink these potions for me. May I help you sit up?" When Harry nodded, Severus braced his shoulders and raised him up a little. Harry frowned at the potion bottle Severus lifted to his lips.

"It's a pain reliever," Severus explained. Harry swallowed the contents with only a light grimace. "Fever reducer." The boy took the second potion without complaint. "This is a nutritional elixir," Severus continued to explain each remedy quietly.

The boy gulped it down and gave him a faint smile of surprise. "Tastes minty," he whispered.

Severus poured him a cup of water, placing a straw against his lips. "Sip slowly," he instructed. He let the boy drink thirstily for a minute, then pulled the straw away. "Easy. You're dehydrated. You'll need to drink plenty of water for the next few days, but not too much at once. Too much too fast will upset your stomach - understand?" Harry frowned but nodded.

"Professor McGonagall, would you care to assist?" Severus gestured Minerva to the other side of the bed, where Harry noticed her for the first time. With a soft gasp of dismay, he turned his blushing face away from her.

"It's all right, Harry," Severus patted his hand. "Professor McGonagall is here to help. There's no reason to feel embarrassed or uncomfortable." He glanced at Minerva. "If you would, Professor, you can hold Harry's water for him and give him a few sips when he wants it," he handed her the cup.

"Of course," Minerva pulled a chair closer and sat beside him.

"You have a bit of sunburn, Harry," Severus said opening another jar. "This cream will ease the burn. I'm going to unbutton your shirt a little so I can reach your shoulders." He opened Harry's pajama shirt and rubbed the new cream onto the boy's neck and shoulders. The cream had a crisp, sweet scent and Harry sighed when the Potions Master rubbed it on. "Better?"

"Mmm. . .much," Harry admitted hoarsely.

Severus spread some of the cream on Harry's face, avoiding the purple bruise along his jaw. He laid an extra thick layer of the cream on the boy's blistered nose. The angry red of his burned skin began fading immediately into a mild pink hue. "Have some more water, Harry," Severus instructed, as he took one of the boy's limp hands and smeared the burn cream onto his arm. Harry lay stiff and tense, refusing to turn toward his Head of House.

"You know, Harry - it was Professor McGonagall who sent me after you," Severus commented lightly as he began to smooth the burn cream into his other arm. "She was worried about you. She sent for me, all the way to France, and asked me to bring you to Hogwarts."

Harry now glanced bashfully over at Minerva who smiled encouragingly. "We've all been concerned for you, Harry," Minerva offered him the water. "Professor Snape and I suspected you were unhappy, and Professors Sprout and Flitwick wanted to help you as well." Harry said nothing, but sipped at the straw, watching her warily through half-closed eyes. She let him drink a little, then at a nod from Severus, gently pulled the straw away. "Please don't worry about anything, Harry," she murmured tenderly. "You're safe here at Hogwarts. The four of us only want to help you to get well and strong again." Harry blinked at her, not quite meeting her gentle gaze.

"Another potion, Harry," Severus announced, raising the potion to his lips. When Harry drank this one, he scowled at Severus in disgusted recognition. "Yes," Severus confirmed with a smirk. "It is a sleeping potion. You need to rest. Are you feeling a little better now?"

"Yes," Harry rubbed his eyes crossly and yawned. He glanced around the Infirmary. "Am. . .am I going to stay here now?"

"Until you're feeling better," Minerva said soothingly. "Then we'll arrange something more comfortable for you."

Harry looked at Severus through heavy-lidded eyes. "Thank you, sir," he whispered.

Severus brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "Rest easy, Harry. You're safe now. No one is going to hurt you again, I promise." Minerva gave the Potions Master a long thoughtful look as Harry's eyes drifted shut. Severus met her gaze, then motioned her to a chair by the windows.

Just as he was settling onto a bed beside her, the floo across the room blazed, and Flitwick and Sprout stepped out. Severus beckoned brusquely at them for silence, gesturing at the sleeping boy on the bed. They both nodded, brushed off their robes and joined the two by the windows. Severus erected a privacy bubble around the group.

"What about the portraits?" Pomona asked, glancing around the room suspiciously.

"The occupants of the Infirmary portraits were all healers," Minerva explained calmly. "They may be dead, but they are still bound by oath to maintain patient confidentiality - just as their living counterparts are."

"I didn't know that," Filius remarked.

"Unlike the other castle portraits, they cannot reveal anything they view in here - not even to the Headmaster - without a patient's consent."

"How are the Muggles?" Severus turned to Flitwick.

"Asleep in their own beds," Flitwick replied. "I altered their memories. They will awake in the morning with no recollection of what took place today. I took the liberty of installing a few false memories as well. They are under the impression that Harry went to visit friends, and won't question his absence. . . in fact," the tiny professor grinned impishly, "the Dursleys will have a hard time thinking about Harry at all. Every time he comes to mind, their thoughts will take a small detour onto some other train of thought. Anyone who interrogates them will find it hard to get any sense out of them."

"Hardly noticeable, that," Minerva snorted. "They didn't have any sense to begin with."

"How is Harry?" Pomona asked.

"He is recovering. He'll need to remain in bed for most of the week," Severus reported.

"What happened?" Minerva asked impatiently.

Between them, Severus, Filius and Pomona quickly filled her in on everything that had occurred at #4 Privet Drive. She fumed when Severus told of Harry's beating and paced the floor angrily as they explained the boy's living conditions. When Severus described the cupboard under the stairs, Minerva turned pale.

"They locked him in a cupboard to punish him!" she gasped.

"No, Minerva," Severus replied frostily. "He lived in there . . . when he was younger, I'm guessing - until they fashioned that cell for him upstairs."

"I had no idea it was that bad!" Minerva fretted tearfully. "Oh Merlin! If I had known. . .I never should have let Albus leave him there! I should have taken Harry away the moment I saw how those people were!"

"You couldn't have known, Minerva," Flitwick tried to reassure her. "The worst was carefully hidden."

"Even I did not see it," Severus scowled bitterly. "Merlin knows I should have - I should have recognized the signs. . . I was so bloody blind!"

"It does no good to wallow in guilt over should haves and could haves," Flitwick argued reasonably. "We cannot change the boy's past. . . only his future."

"And we will," Minerva declared vehemently. "No matter the cost! We owe it to Harry. I don't care what it takes. I will see all of us in Azkaban and Hogwarts in ruins before I let those monsters touch that boy again!"

"Hopefully, it won't come to anything quite so catastrophic," Severus remarked dryly, amused by the witch's fervor.

"You still haven't told us - what is the child's condition?" Pomona asked.

"My diagnostic scan didn't turn up any serious damage - no broken bones or internal injuries. . . mostly just contusions. He is dehydrated and running a fever. . .probably from heat exhaustion. He is suffering from serious malnutrition. . .long-term, I'm guessing. I suspect he has been dangerously underfed his whole life in that Muggle hell - it would explain why he is so much smaller than his peers. Neither Lily or his father were short . . . I think Harry is undersized because of chronic malnourishment." Severus clenched his fists, visibly restraining his temper. "Near-starvation; forced labor; brutal thrashings - it's a wonder the boy isn't comatose by now!"

"Was there evidence of any other kind of abuse?" Flitwick asked quietly. He gave Severus a grim look. The two witches blanched when they caught his meaning.

Severus shook his head. "I found no signs of molestation. But my diagnostic skills are limited. Madame Pomfrey can do a much deeper scan, revealing all past injuries."

Minerva glanced over at the sleeping boy across the room, her eyes filled with tears. "What can we do to help him, Severus?"

"The physical damage will heal quickly, but I cannot say the same for any emotional damage Harry has suffered," Severus murmured pensively. "This kind of neglect and abuse can have long-term effects. Our immediate concern should be to help him come to terms with the abuse. At the moment, Harry is ashamed of what has happened to him. He's frightened and humiliated. He won't want to talk about it - he may even deny it. But he must be encouraged to face it and talk about it: and not just to provide the proof we need to keep him out of those Muggles' hands permanently. Harry needs to talk about the abuse in order to confront it once and for all and grow past it. He needs to accept that none of this is his fault. He won't heal until he does."

Severus sighed. "I believe I can help him with this. . . I intend to make it my priority. But you all need to be aware of how sensitive he is going to be about the subject. Don't push him to talk, but be accessible if he does. There is no way to know when he will feel secure enough to discuss it - or with whom. If you want to help Harry, just be patient with him."

"Whatever you do, don't fawn over him, or show him pity - he will hate that!" Severus admonished, with a sharp glance at Pomona. "Trust me on this! The last thing Harry wants or needs right now is pity! He feels vulnerable and powerless - and probably ashamed of what he views as his own weakness. He most likely blames himself for not being able to stop the abuse. . . he may even have convinced himself that he deserved it. He needs our support - but he also needs to be treated with respect: he needs to believe that we value him - that he has worth - that he isn't some pathetic, helpless child to be coddled. Harry won't learn to respect himself, if he doesn't believe others respect him."

"Is that why you spoke to him the way you did?" Minerva suddenly asked, a spark of understanding lighting her eyes. "I noticed when you healed him you told him everything you were doing - you even asked his permission before you did anything."

"Partly,' Severus nodded, pleased by her perception. "I also did it to reassure him. Because of the abuse, he is understandably shy of physical contact. . . he flinches instinctively if you touch him without warning. Until he recovers from that and learns to trust us, he needs to be approached slowly - I want to avoid startling him. I urge all of you to do the same. Always ask his permission before you touch him. It not only gives him warning, but it gives him back a bit of power as well."

"Power?" Pomona asked.

"As I said, Harry feels powerless. His relatives made sure of that. They controlled every aspect of his life, constantly reminding him of how helpless and defenseless he was. Right now - particularly at the beginning of his healing - if we ask his permission for little things, like touching him, or helping him; if we allow him to make small decisions for himself, he will begin to feel he is gaining back some control over his own life. It may not seem like much, but it will make a huge difference to Harry. The sooner he realizes we aren't trying to dominate him, the sooner we will gain his trust."

Minerva gaped at him with open surprise and respect. "Why, Severus! That is amazingly perceptive of you! I had no idea you knew so much about a child's emotional needs! Where did you learn such wisdom?"

He gave her a sardonic smile. "From my mother," he said. When his colleagues grinned, Severus changed the subject brusquely. "Now, I think we'd best discuss how we're going to handle the Headmaster."

"Under the circumstances, I see no need for further secrecy," Pomona announced. "The child was being beaten, for Merlin's sake! How could the Headmaster have any complaint about our interference?"

"I agree with Pomona," Minerva said firmly. "I plan to notify him about what happened, and inform him of our actions. He knew I had members of the staff watching the house. I have no problem accepting responsibility for my decision to bring Harry here. I dare the old fool to object now!" she sniffed.

"I concur with your decision," Severus said slowly, "With one possible amendment." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps you should alter your explanation of my involvement just a bit." Minerva looked at him quizzically. "Albus doesn't know that my relationship with Harry has improved. He still assumes I loathe the boy. It might be wise - just as a future precaution - to allow him to continue that assumption."

"What are you plotting, Severus?' Minerva asked warily.

"Nothing - for now," Severus replied slyly. "I simply think it would be wise for Harry to have at least one secret advocate hiding in the wings. . .just in case. Instead of revealing that I was already involved and that you summoned me here - I suggest you tell Albus that I just happened to return to Hogwarts when the Dursleys' violence was uncovered. I'll invent some viable excuse for coming back here after the conference, before continuing my mission. I was in your office when Pomona alerted us to Harry's predicament," he continued, expanding his ruse as he went along. "With outraged insistence, you demanded that I accompany Flitwick and Sprout to Surrey: which I did (but not without the expected amount of grumbling and complaints, of course.) From there - we tell him everything as it happened - the genuine truth. Albus won't question my involvement at that point. I've saved Harry from danger often enough that he would expect me to do it again. Since Madame Pomfrey is away, I have remained (under protest), as the most qualified among us to tend to Harry's injuries and heal him."

"That's quite good," Flitwick acknowledged. "Very shrewd. It's close enough to the actual truth that we are unlikely to slip up and reveal too much."

"Exactly," Severus gloated. "We aren't fabricating events - just my motives. Albus' own assumptions about my feelings toward Harry will reinforce the deception. It won't occur to him to question it. This way he will remain unaware that I am genuinely concerned with Harry's welfare."

"Do you think this is necessary?' Minerva asked, somewhat perplexed.

"I hope not," Severus answered darkly, but he did not offer to explain his reasoning further. He glanced at the clock over the Infirmary doors. "Now, I must ask that we continue this discussion later. I need to wake Harry to give him another potion and get some more liquids into him. It would be better if we were alone. He's not ready, I think, for more visitors yet."

Severus cancelled the privacy charm and returned to Harry's bedside as the other three left quietly. He stared down at the boy, regretting the need to wake him from the healing sleep. He hesitated a moment, stroking Harry's hair and pondering the young boy's fate. Deep in his heart, he made a silent vow.

Don't worry, Lily. I'll take care of the boy. I've hardly done an adequate job of it up to now, but that will change. No one will ever hurt Harry again. I give you my word - as a man and as a wizard.

Harry stirred, his mind rising slowly from sleep into a hazy consciousness. Right away he knew something was different, but he couldn't place it at first. He lay still for a minute, trying to determine what the odd sensation was. It finally came to him with a ripple of surprise.

I don't hurt.

A quick mental catalog of his body confirmed it. For the first time in days, he didn't hurt. Nothing on his body hurt - not his cheek where Vernon had smacked him, or his bum, where the belt had added to the damage from the night before. Even his sunburn seemed to be gone. He then became aware of another difference. . .he realized he felt clean and comfortable. The surface beneath him was soft - nothing like his hard lumpy mattress - and he was covered with something warm and velvety, that smelled of lavender and fresh air. The scent was vaguely familiar. He fingered the covering, marveling at its softness.

"Harry. . . .Harry?"

A deep voice sounded quietly from somewhere nearby. It was a familiar voice, but the tone wasn't right. It conveyed a gentleness that seemed out of place for the distinctive drawl.

"Wake up, Harry."

Harry struggled to open his eyes. His surroundings were a blurry mosaic of light and shadow. A tall dark blob hovered beside him and he recoiled instinctively.

"Easy, Harry. You're safe," the voice soothed. "You're all right. You're at Hogwarts. Nothing will harm you."

Harry relaxed a fraction, reassured but confused. A hand swam into his fuzzy view and his glasses were eased onto his nose. As his vision sharpened, he looked up into the somber gaze of his Potions Professor. Harry blinked groggily at him, rubbing his brow with a frown.

"Good evening," Professor Snape said.

Bewildered, Harry glanced around. He recognized the room and squinted at the darkening sky beyond the Infirmary windows. "What. . ," his throat was parched and his voice cracked hoarsely. "What time is it?"

"Around eight o'clock in the evening," Snape replied, sitting in a chair beside him.

Harry licked his dry lips. He felt dazed, as if still half asleep. "How long. . .?"

"You've been asleep most of the day," Snape answered. "Do you remember coming here?"

As the sleep-induced haze began to lift, unpleasant memories rushed back in a chaotic jumble . The bars. . .Uncle Vernon's fury. . .then Snape storming into his room. . .his uncle smashing against the wall. Snape. . .Snape saw him being thrashed. . .Snape knew. The shameful recollection triggered a painful constriction in his chest as if his heart was being squeezed and Harry cringed. He had to look away from the wizard's concerned stare. He wanted to crawl under his covers and return to the blissful ignorance of sleep.

"Drink a little water, Harry," Snape instructed, bringing a cup to his lips.

The mention of water shifted Harry's attention to an uncomfortable pressure in his bladder. He pressed his lips together, refusing the drink, and glanced across the room at the door to the lavatory. He realized he desperately needed to pee but still felt oddly weak, like his body didn't want to move.

"You need water, Harry. Come on, now," Snape urged coolly.

Harry shook his head, struggling to think of a way to voice his necessity. The idea of admitting to his intimidating professor that he needed to pee was beyond embarrassing. . .but having an accident in the bed was potentially even more humiliating, and he realized he had little choice. "I can't. I need. . ." he broke off and blushed, looking back at the lavatory.

"What, Harry? What do you need?"

Harry reflected briefly on the irony that allowed Snape to seem to read his every thought when he was up to mischief, but that failed to do so now, when the annoying skill would be appreciated. "I need the loo," he mumbled in embarrassment.

Snape didn't even blink. "You're still too weak to walk, Harry. I'll get you a bedpan."

The image of a plastic bucket sprang into his mind, sending a wave of shame flooding over him. A flash of memory. . .an acrid smell filling his cupboard until it made him nauseous. . .his aunt's voice taunting him in disgust. "NO!" Harry jerked back in mortification, the shouted refusal escaping his lips before he could stop it. He froze, peeking up at Snape in fear.

Professor Snape grimaced, then a spark of comprehension filled his cold black eyes. "All right. Never mind. There are other ways to handle it." He waved his wand over Harry's body, muttering something. Harry was surprised and more than a little confused when the pressure in his bladder abruptly ceased. He sighed in relief and gaped at the professor. "It's an elimination spell, commonly used with unconscious patients."

"Will you teach it to me?" Harry asked instantly. He thought of all the times he had been locked up with only the loathsome bucket for relief. Such a spell could come in very handy.

Snape nodded slowly. Something shifted in his aloof expression. . something that looked oddly like guilt. "You may use the lavatory when you're a little stronger."

Harry pushed himself up awkwardly, his arms shaking a bit with the effort. Several pillows abruptly slid behind his back, propping him up. When he moved, his vision swam for an instant, then settled again.

"Would you like that water now?"

Harry nodded, still avoiding Snape's gaze. He sipped the cup gratefully - the cool water felt heavenly to his parched mouth and throat. When the cup was empty he asked the next question that troubled his mind. "Why am I so weak?"

"You were severely dehydrated and suffering from heat-exhaustion," Snape replied. "This was exacerbated by malnutrition. You were also running a fever this morning, although your temperature in nearly normal now. Your strength should return in a day or two, if you eat and continue to drink plenty of fluids."

Harry leaned back against the mound of pillows behind him and sighed wearily. The likelihood of having to remain in bed in the Infirmary was depressing. Still, it was better than the Dursleys.

"Do you think you could eat a little broth now?"

Harry shrugged. Food didn't really sound very appealing, but he did want the weakness to go away.

Professor Snape called for Roker, who popped into view holding a tray. When Snape took it from him, the house elf disappeared. "I know plain broth is not particularly appetizing, but you need to eat lightly at first," Snape commented.

Harry nodded his understanding. He knew from experience that rich food on an empty stomach would only make him sick up. The Potions Master set the tray on the bed cart at the foot of his bed and rolled it into place before him. Harry dutifully spooned up the warm broth under Snape's watchful eye. "Tomorrow, if you're feeling better, you may try some toast for breakfast, and perhaps a poached egg." The professor sounded almost apologetic, but Harry thought the prospect sounded wonderful. It had been weeks since he'd eaten anything as tasty as an egg.

As he ate, Harry glanced around the Infirmary to avoid looking at Snape. He wondered why his Potions Master was tending him, instead of the strict Hogwarts medi-witch. "Where's Madame Pomfrey," he asked curiously between spoonfuls of broth.

"She is on holiday. She will be back in a few days," Snape answered. "You will have to endure my limited healing skills until she returns," he added, a slight smirk in his tone.

Harry blushed, as a drop of soup dribbled from his spoon. He hadn't meant to sound ungrateful or imply he objected to Snape's care of him. "I'm sorry," he whispered miserably. "I didn't mean. . ."

"I know," Snape said simply, handing him a napkin to wipe his chin. "Try to finish all of it."

Harry complied without protest. When he was done, the Potions Master vanished the tray and moved the bed cart out of the way. "Do you wish to go back to sleep now?"

Harry shook his head. "I'm not really sleepy. Just tired."

"Then perhaps you are ready to talk a bit?"

The professor's inquiry sent a ripple of shame and apprehension down Harry's spine. The very last thing he wanted to do was talk about what Snape had seen. He dropped his gaze to his hands, plucking nervously at his blankets. "I. . .I want to thank you, sir," he murmured uneasily. "For taking care of me, and for. . . you know," he ended helplessly.

"There is no need to thank me," Snape answered mildly. "I am sorry I didn't ensure your safety and wellbeing. If I had known what was happening, I would have come sooner."

Harry squirmed uncomfortably. He could hardly believe that the haughty professor was apologizing to him for something that wasn't even his fault.

"Harry," Professor Snape said quietly. "How long has it been like that? How long has your Uncle been hurting you?"

Harry felt his warm face grow even hotter. Shame and despair rose up in his throat, choking him. He couldn't speak. . .he felt like he could barely breathe.

Please! Don't! Don't ask. . .don't make me tell!

"Harry? What's wrong?"

NO! I can't! Please don't!

Harry turned his face away, pressing his cheek into his pillow and squeezing his eyes shut. His body began to tremble, and he felt dizzy. When a cool hand touched his arm, he jerked in fear.

"It's all right Harry," Snape sounded slightly alarmed. "Never mind. You don't have to talk about it right now. Relax, Harry."

Harry wished he could relax. He wished he could catch his breath. The thought of exposing his shameful secrets to Snape sent him into near panic. He rolled onto his side, away from the man, and panted anxiously. He was dimly aware of Snape standing and leaning over him.

"Calm yourself, child," the man's words were shockingly gentle. "Breathe slowly." A cool hand sifted the hair at the back of his neck. Harry remembered that hand. . .it had stroked his head while he had slipped in and out of sleep earlier. "Take a deep breath, Harry. Let it out slowly," the silky voice instructed calmly. "That's right. Another breath....slowly. . .let it out. . .very good, Harry. Again."

Harry succumbed to the voice, following the directives without thought. As his breathing calmed his head began to clear and the panic diminished slowly. The hand stroking his head and neck felt so soothing, he stopped shaking without realizing it. "That's a good boy," the voice praised. "In and out. . .slowly. You're all right. Don't worry now. Everything will be all right." The hand moved down to rub his back. It felt comforting, but confusing as well. Harry didn't know if he wanted it to stop, or go on forever. He felt so odd. . .bewildered; sad; ashamed, and wonderfully safe all at once.

"I'm sorry I upset you, Harry. I didn't mean to pressure you. You don't have to talk right now. Just relax. Keep breathing. You're doing very well. That's right - that's a good boy."

The man's approving words filled Harry's heart with a gratifying relief that he couldn't express. No one had ever said those words to him before...no one had ever called him a good boy. He knew he should refute the words. He wasn't a good boy. . .he was a freak. . . a worthless burden. He knew this, but he couldn't bring himself to admit it out loud to the man. It didn't matter. Snape had seen. He knew how weak and pathetic Harry was. He was just being kind, although Harry couldn't fathom why. He was too grateful for Snape's comforting words to argue. . .to say what he was sure they both knew was true. Harry fought an urge to cry. He suddenly remembered the Potions Master holding him in his room. He remembered crying in the man's arms like a baby and the memory made him burn with shame. He wouldn't cry now. . .he couldn't. He didn't want Snape to think he was a total wimp.

"Harry? Please turn over and look at me," the cool hand was now tugging gently at his shoulder. "Please, Harry."

He couldn't deny the mild plea. Snape had saved him from Vernon. He had brought him back to Hogwarts. He had no right to refuse him anything. He surrendered to the insistent tug and rolled onto his back reluctantly, but still couldn't bring himself to look at the man.

Snape brushed his bangs back off his forehead with a touch that was unexpectedly tender. "It's very hard to think about these things - I understand. I won't ask any more questions or make you talk about it right now. All right?" Harry kept silent, twisting the blanket in nervous fingers. "Lie back and rest. The important thing to remember is that you are safe. No one is going to hurt you again."

A cup of water appeared in front of him once again and Harry drank, letting the cold water dissolve the painful lump in his throat. He snuggled his head back into the soft pillow and closed his eyes with a soft sigh. He heard the Potions Master return to the chair and settle on it. There was a long silence broken only by the distant sound of night birds warbling outside the open windows.

"If you don't feel like talking now, perhaps you would be content to listen?" Snape spoke slowly, almost hesitantly. "I would like to share something with you, Harry. . .something that might help you. Will you let me?"

Harry almost gave in to a sudden impulse to stare at the man. Snape wanted to share something? With Harry? The idea was so bizarre he couldn't resist a faint flutter of curiosity. His professor didn't move - he was apparently waiting for some kind of response, so Harry nodded slightly. When Snape waved his wand, enclosing them both within a faintly glowing bubble of silence, Harry's curiosity intensified.

"This is something I would never normally discuss with anyone," Snape began a bit stiffly. "Especially a student. . .but I feel I can relate it to you, because you, unfortunately, will understand it." He paused a minute and Harry dared a quick curious glance in his direction. Snape leaned back in his chair, his hands steepled at his chin. He had a faraway look in his eyes, as if he had forgotten Harry was there. Harry lay very still, afraid to break the man's pensive mood.

"My father, Tobias Snape, was a weak, bitter man," the Potions Master said bluntly. "He was a Muggle, and a drunkard. He could never hold down a job for long. He was known throughout the community as a bully and a thug. He was particularly hard on me. . .there was never any love lost between us, I'm afraid. He criticized and berated me continually. He never beat me severely, but I had plenty of thrashings when I was young, and he did everything in his power to make me feel worthless and insignificant."

Harry held back an urge to gasp. He understood instantly what Snape was telling him. . .that his father was like Uncle Vernon.

"But I was luckier than you," Snape continued softly. "I had my mother. She was my advocate. . my solace. She was very young when they married - just out of Hogwarts. He was fifteen years older, and very domineering. Even though he was a Muggle, and she was a talented witch, she lacked the confidence to stand up to him. You see, her father was a powerful wizard, and equally tyrannical. Long before she married my father, my grandfather - Purcell Prince - had brutally crushed any trace of self-confidence she may have possessed, and she had been conditioned to be totally submissive. She wasn't strong or brave enough to defy my father, but she did her best to protect me from the worst of his drunken rages, and she comforted me when she couldn't. She was a gentle, loving soul. . .and her love sustained me through an otherwise wretched childhood."

Harry stared openly at his teacher now, mesmerized by his quiet words. He could feel the man's discomfort. He had never heard the aloof professor speak a word about his personal history before, and he sensed that Snape disliked revealing so much about himself. Harry wondered at the undisguised tenderness in Snape's tone as he spoke of his mother, and he felt inexplicably saddened by the man's poignant revelation. He was so caught up in the Potions Master's tale that he dared to voice a barely audible question. "Is. . .is she still alive?"

"No," Snape replied evenly. "Mother died when I was ten. A month later, my grandfather - Purcell - took custody of me, removing me from my father's home. I never saw Tobias again. He died two years later. . .the drink finally killed him."

Harry frowned indignantly. "Your. . .your father just let him take you?"

Snape snorted, a bitter smirk on his lips. "I expect Tobias was more than glad to be rid of me. And it's not like he had any choice. My grandfather was a notorious dark wizard - he hated my father, and wouldn't have hesitated to kill him. . .in fact, I'm rather surprised he didn't. Grandfather had disowned my mother for marrying a Muggle, and had made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with her half-blood child. But after she died, I think he couldn't stomach the thought of his only grandson being raised by a loutish Muggle, so he brought me back to the Prince Estate. He sent me off to Hogwarts a year later."

"I'm sorry," Harry murmured sadly. He knew how lonely being an orphan was. . .he couldn't remember his mother and father, but he still missed them. It must have been much worse for Snape, who had known his parents - and who had obviously loved his mother. A shiver of pity for the solitary professor seized his heart, and he searched for some comforting words to offer. "At least you had a grandfather, and you got to live in a wizarding family, eventually."

"Family?" Snape sneered sardonically. "Technically, I suppose. . .but Purcell was hardly what anyone would call the ‘family' sort. He was a cold, ruthless man, even more brutal than my father. He despised me for my father's blood, and made it his mission to eradicate any trace of Tobias from me. He never hit me - he preferred to use dark curses to punish me - to purify the Muggle traits in me, he called it," Snape growled. "The only approval he ever showed me was when I proved to have a talent for potions. It was a talent I most likely inherited from my mother, who was a gifted potions student in school."

Snape turned to look at Harry, his fathomless black eyes glittering. "I didn't tell anyone how my father or my grandfather treated me. . .not until many years later, when I was a young man. I was too ashamed to tell anyone. I felt I was weak and cowardly for not standing up for myself. . .particularly against my father."

Harry stared at him in shock. He had been so wrapped up in Snape's story, he had forgotten his own predicament. Snape's words cut into him like a razor-sharp blade.

"I was just a boy," Snape continued. ". . .but I was a wizard, after all, and my father was a Muggle. I felt I should have been able to defend myself. . .I blamed myself for letting him hurt me and my mother."

Harry's heart thumped loudly in his chest and his palms grew sweaty. He knows. . .he understands. . .he felt like I do. . .

"It wasn't until I was older that I learned the truth, Harry. I wasn't to blame. I was just a child. . . a child who had been conditioned from birth to fear and obey my father. Even my mother, a grown witch, didn't challenge him. How could I - a little boy - have hoped to protect myself from him?"

Snape leaned forward, ensnaring Harry's gaze in his own steely stare. "I finally understood that it was not my fault. It was my father's fault. He was a bully - a heartless bastard that took his own frustrations and failures out on a little boy - his own son - just because he could. And my grandfather was no better. He blamed me - an innocent child - for something my mother did - something I couldn't change. They were my family, Harry! It was their responsibility to care for me, to look after me and love me. They failed - not me!"

"It was the Headmaster who finally helped me see the truth. He made me understand that I wasn't to blame for the way my family treated me. He made me see that they were wrong - that I wasn't bad or useless! That I was worthwhile - that I was better than they were! He helped me understand that I had nothing to be ashamed of - that I never deserved their harsh treatment," Snape shifted forward on his seat, gently grasping Harry's hands. Harry could barely breathe, but couldn't seem to take his eyes from the man's solemn, intense face.

"No child deserves that, Harry. No child deserves to be mistreated - to be starved or beaten - to be made to feel unloved or unworthy. I didn't deserve that, Harry," Snape said softly. "And neither do you."

Harry tried to swallow the hard lump lodged in his throat. He couldn't stop the tears of heartache and confusion from spilling over his cheeks.

He wanted to believe the words. . .he wanted so much to believe them that it hurt. His stomach churned and unwelcome memories flashed in his mind. The Dursleys' insults. ..the harsh words. . .the thrashings. . .the humiliation. Every act of cruelty and loathing he'd endured - every hurt and disappointment seemed to tumble and spin in his head like a raging storm. The sharp, turbulent ache in his heart grew and surged, filling him up inside until he thought he would explode.

He didn't know what possessed him to do it. A wild desperate longing overpowered him, crashing through the barriers he had constructed over the years to shield his heart. He had to reach for something - some refuge to fill the vacuum of his battered defenses. With a hoarse sob, Harry lunged across the bed, clambering onto the lap of the startled wizard beside him. He flung his arms around Snape's neck and hung on for dear life.

He felt the man stiffen - heard his sharp gasp, but he couldn't let go - he'd come too far to retreat. Burying his face on the Potions Master's shoulder, he clung frantically, praying with all his heart that the man wouldn't reject him. If he did. . .if he shoved him away now, Harry knew he would shatter into little pieces.

For several long, tense moments, Harry held his breath. When Snape's arms slowly slid around him, tightening in an almost painful embrace, Harry wept in relief. He cried like he hadn't cried since he was very small . . since before he had learned it was wiser not to. He cried for every unhappy moment in his short, miserable life. No longer able to contain his grief and anger, he bawled into the man's soft robes like a wounded toddler.

He had no idea how long he clung there, his body quaking, his chest heaving in harsh sobs. Only the strong arms wrapped around him kept him grounded - kept him from sinking into a black despair that clawed at him, trying to drown him in dark forgetfulness. After what felt like hours, exhaustion finally overcame the flood of sorrow that had seized him. His sobs petered out into whimpers and hiccups. His eyes burned and his temples pounded with a vicious headache. Harry turned his head, resting his cheek on Snape's shoulder. He was embarrassed to realize his tears had made the man's robes damp and soggy. Sniffling woefully, he finally loosened his taut grip around the professor's neck.

Does he hate me now? Does he think me a sodding great crybaby? Is he ashamed of me?

Embarrassment and self-doubt began to twist in his stomach and he wondered if he should just get off the man and hide under his blankets. But his fears were sharply relieved when Snape moved a hand to the back of his head and began to lightly massage his neck and scalp. Harry sighed and relaxed bonelessly against the broad, comforting chest. He felt too peaceful and safe to be ashamed. Right then, in that protective embrace, nothing mattered any more but the gentle hand caressing his head - the arm around his waist that held him close. He felt strangely light and empty, as if every ache in his heart had drained away.

When Snape wordlessly handed him a handkerchief, Harry scrubbed at his wet face and blew his nose noisily. The wizard then removed Harry's streaked glasses, produced a damp flannel and carefully wiped his face. The cool wet cloth felt good against his hot, sticky face and swollen eyes, and Harry sighed shakily. Still not speaking, Snape poured him a cup of water. He gulped gratefully, surprised to realize how thirsty he suddenly felt. When Snape took back the cup and set it on the bedside table, he pulled Harry back against his chest, resuming the light massage at the base of his neck, carding his fingers through Harry's hair. With his other hand, he rubbed Harry's back slowly, up and down his spine. Harry couldn't ever remember feeling so totally relaxed and weary. He snuggled his face against Snape's shoulder.

"Better now?" The man's soft, silky voice murmured against his brow.

"Mmmm," Harry scarcely had the energy to answer. "I. ..I got your shoulder all wet," he muttered contritely.

"No matter," Snape dismissed this lightly and stroked his hair. Harry lifted a hand to rub his aching temple. "Headache?" Harry barely nodded. The Potions Master murmured something, his wand materializing in his hand. A potion bottle floated into view. Snape plucked it from the air and placed it against Harry's lips. Harry swallowed, shuddering a bit from the familiar bitter taste. Then Snape enfolded him in his arms again and continued the slow stroking of his hair.

Harry sighed, cuddling against him in dazed contentment. He knew he should be embarrassed. He should feel foolish, curled up on his professor's lap like a two year old, crying all over him. He knew he was too old for such childish behavior, but he found he was too worn out to care. As he felt himself succumbing to exhaustion, slipping into that dreamy fog just before sleep, odd thoughts flickered through his mind.

Is this what other kids feel? Is this what a parent's comfort feels like? This safe, calm feeling - like everything will be all right and nothing could hurt him, as long as those arms held him. . .? Is this what having a Dad would be like?

A wondrous peace settled over Harry as he drifted off to sleep.

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

Long after Harry fell asleep, Severus continued to cradle the too-thin boy in his arms. His habitually repressed emotions were running amok, battling inside him chaotically. He felt vulnerable and raw: re-living his own agonizing childhood, and sharing the excruciating details with the boy had been far more painful than he cared to admit. But those were old, familiar wounds. . .they didn't baffle him nearly as much as the unexpected new emotions that prodded him.

Relief was the strongest - relief that he'd been able to break through the boy's self-protective barriers. Relief that Harry had finally released his pent-up anger and shame. The boy's heart-rending sobs had been cathartic and long-overdue. He needed to acknowledge and release the pain before any healing could begin.

Severus had expected the boy's breakdown - he hadn't expected Harry to throw himself into his arms. When the distraught child had scrambled onto his lap and clutched at him, Severus had momentarily frozen in shock and trepidation.

He didn't really know how to console a child, and having a sobbing boy on his lap was frankly far outside his comfort zone.

Of course, he had comforted Draco a few times when his godson was just a toddler, but that was some years ago. Physical affection was frowned upon in the cold, stilted Malfoy household, and Draco had quickly learned to do without. Lucius and Narcissa rarely touched their son, and anxious for their approval, Draco had grown predictably remote and standoffish. He had hugged Severus stiffly on a few rare occasions, seeming as uncomfortable with the contact as his godfather. But Draco had never impulsively thrown himself at Severus. When Harry had done it, Severus nearly choked.

He had instantly realized that he couldn't reject the boy - the damage to the child's trust would have been irreparable. But once he had given in to it, Severus found, much to his surprise, that he didn't mind having Harry on his lap. The boy's slight weight felt good against his chest. . . his warmth and his skinny arms around his neck were oddly soothing. Even the child's smell - a peculiar pungent blend of salt, boyish sweat and potions - wasn't unbearably repulsive. Harry's weeping fit had awakened a fierce protective instinct in Severus, that had both startled and frightened him. And yet he was amazed how content he felt just holding the child.

Severus glanced down at Harry's now peaceful face, a flushed cheek snuggled against his shoulder, and a strange warmth spread through his heart.

James Potter would rotate in his grave if he could see this.

The quirky thought made him smirk with amusement. He brushed a stray curl off the boy's cheek and shook his head in bewilderment.

What am I going to do with you, boy?

Harry shifted in his arms, nuzzling closer, as if needing the reassurance of as much contact with Severus as possible. Severus tightened his hold, rubbing the narrow, bony back soothingly. He frowned down at the boy's bare feet, dangling limply beyond his thin pajama pants. Dragging the blanket off the bed, he wrapped it around the boy's form and cast a fresh warming spell on it. He watched the child sleep with a small pang of regret.

I should have done this for Draco. Every child needs physical reassurance. . . needs to be held.

He could still recall a faint memory of his mother's embrace.

I shouldn't have let my own reserve and detachment deny him this.

He wondered if it was too late. If he were to suddenly hug Draco, would the boy welcome the touch or pull away in embarrassed distaste.

Severus smirked down at the sleeping boy in his arms.

What have you done to me, Harry Potter?

He didn't bother to answer his own question. He now recognized the long-forgotten warmth in his heart that this wounded, fragile boy had kindled. Only four other people in his life had ever ignited that warmth. One was his mother, who had loved him unconditionally. One was an old wizard with twinkling blue eyes, who had once forgiven him and had held him as he wept, turning his darkest hour into a new beginning. One was a delicate infant boy with hair the color of moonlight, who had clutched at his fingers and solemnly jabbered baby sounds at him as if certain Severus could understand him. And one was a pretty teenaged witch with flame red hair and laughing green eyes, who had dared to befriend him when no one else would.

It was several hours later before Severus' stiff, tingling legs forced him to lift the sleeping boy and settle him on the bed again, tucking the blankets around his slender shoulders. He paced a few moments in the hushed, deserted ward to bring the blood back to his numb legs. Then he stretched his stiff weary back, and sat back down to resume his silent vigil.

Severus glanced up to see Minerva entering the ward, a silver tea service floating along behind her. His gaze shifted to a clock on the wall and he frowned. "Minerva? It's past midnight - what are you doing up so late?"

The stately witch smiled. "I couldn't sleep. I thought you might like some company."

"I would be happy to provide you with a Sleeping Draught, if you need it."

Minerva shook her head, a rueful twitch to her lips. "Thank you, but there is no need. Unfortunately, when you reach my age, Severus, you learn you don't require as much sleep as when you were younger." She waved her wand and murmured a few quiet spells. A nearby bed, chair and cart transformed swiftly into two comfortable arm chairs and an elegant tea table.

Severus smirked. "Cozy."

With an archly raised brow, Minerva smoothly guided the tea tray into place on the table. She sat in one of the chairs and proceeded to serve tea with all the practiced grace of a grand Lady at formal tea. "Chamomile and ginger root - my special blend," she informed him primly, pouring out a cup.

Severus suppressed a smile. The formal high tea setting in the midst of a sterile hospital environment was an incongruous sight. He believed only someone with McGonagall's innate class and flair could have pulled it off. Still holding the file he had been studying, he joined her at the table. He cast a silencing spell around them so their conversation wouldn't disturb his sleeping patient, confident that the monitoring spell he had placed on the boy would alert him if Harry stirred. He set the file aside and accepted the cup and saucer Minerva handed to him.

The gleaming silver service was at least a century old, in mint condition, and the delicate bone china bore the McGonagall crest etched in gold. He raised an eyebrow in mild surprise. They were Minerva's prized heirlooms, and he knew she rarely used them. "Rather elegant for this occasion, wouldn't you say?"

Minerva smiled smugly. "I often find that a touch of refinement in depressing surroundings can lift the spirits." She poured herself a cup of tea and noted the file on the table. "Research?"

"In a way. It's Potter's medical record." At Minerva's sharp glance, he smirked slightly. "I ‘liberated' it from Poppy's files." Minerva didn't express the disapproval he expected, but only looked interested. He held the file out to her. "It's not what I expected, Minerva," he said as she set her cup aside and examined the single parchment inside. "It is disturbingly incomplete."

"Incomplete?"

"It contains only the results of Harry's eye examination and a few notes about his injuries from the incident with the Stone." Severus met her curious stare. "My medical scans are rudimentary. . . not nearly as sophisticated and in-depth as Pomfrey's should be....yet even my scans have exposed more than she has included here. This file is suspiciously limited."

"What are you suggesting?"

"I'm not sure. But I'm familiar enough with Poppy's work to know this is highly uncharacteristic. Her records are usually excessively thorough," he sipped his tea thoughtfully. "The question is, why would Poppy exclude her normally comprehensive details from Harry's file? Why keep an abridged version of his medical history on record?"

Minerva shifted uncomfortably. "She wouldn't, Severus . . unless she had no choice." She rubbed her brow, scowling, and gave him a guilty look. "I have a suspicion, based on something that happened months ago. I haven't mentioned it to anyone - it was only a fleeting impression, and I never made a connection between that brief hint and Harry's current situation... but now. . ."

"What is it, Minerva?"

She gave him a short summary of her peculiar meeting with Poppy and her friend's odd behavior. "It was only an impression, but I felt like she wanted to tell me something, but could not for some reason. I even toyed with the idea that Poppy was Confounded... but at the time I dismissed that thought as preposterous." She shook her head despondently. "Perhaps I shouldn't have been so quick to disregard it."

"Are you saying you think it's possible Poppy knows more about Harry's abusive history than she has revealed?"

"No," Minerva stated firmly. "Poppy would never willingly conceal such a thing."

Severus rubbed his chin. "If she did find out a student was the victim of abuse, what would she do?"

Minerva sighed and looked up at him, regret and dismay clear on her expressive face. "She would go straight to Albus and inform him."

Severus nodded his head slowly. "This may mean what I have feared all along, Minerva. I regret to even voice this. . .but I suspect that Albus has known for some time about Harry's home life. I suspected it when you first informed him of your concerns. I watched him carefully in your memory of your meeting. He wasn't surprised. He appeared dismayed and distressed. . . but not shocked. If he knew already, it can only mean he had chosen to ignore it."

"Why would he do such a thing? How could he?" Minerva expressed his own bewilderment.

"I don't know. I'm sure he has his reasons," Severus shrugged. "If Poppy discovered evidence of Harry's abuse and told Albus, he may not have wanted her to reveal it to anyone. Your instincts may have been right. He may have Confounded her, or done some kind of memory alteration."

"Dear Merlin," Minerva shook her head, her lips quivering in distress. "What are we going to do, Severus?"

Severus sipped his tea, studying her pensively. "You said you were prepared to take any action to protect Harry - even if it meant defying Albus. Do you still feel that way?"

"Absolutely."

He was pleased with her swift, unhesitating declaration. "Then I think we will have to proceed with extraordinary caution. Until we understand the Headmaster's motives, we will have to assume that he has deliberately chosen to conceal any evidence of Harry's upbringing. He may even insist on continuing this - this - whatever this mad intrigue is. We also have to assume he might be willing to take further drastic steps to continue the cover-up." He set down his cup and reached across to her, covering her trembling hand with his own. "Minerva, we are going to have to make certain he does not succeed."

"You want to expose Harry's abuse?" Minerva whispered anxiously.

Severus shook his head. "Only as a last resort. The harm such a public revelation would bring, both to Harry and to our cause, would be appalling. Albus was correct about that, at least. But I also want to ensure Harry's safety. I want to make certain that the truth is not obscured again."

He rose, pacing restlessly as he voiced his thoughts. "We can ask Filius to discretely examine Poppy when she returns. . . if her memory has been interfered with, he will be able to confirm it. In the meantime, I fear we must assume the worst. Before you notify Albus tomorrow that Harry is here, I suggest we take steps to guarantee that our own knowledge of this cannot be suppressed. We need to protect ourselves. I will explain our concerns to both Pomona and Filius, and make certain they do the same." He sat down again, studying her with a shrewd eye. "This is what I propose we do." He laid out his scheme quietly, as Minerva nodded in grave agreement.

"Are we going to tell Albus about this?" Minerva asked.

"Absolutely," Severus nodded. "I am hoping it will serve as a deterrent. But leave that up to me. Remember - Albus doesn't know I side with the rest of you on this. It may prove useful if he doesn't know. We'll just have to make sure that Pomona and Filius don't expose me."

Minerva smirked grimly. "I've always said you had a devious mind, Severus."

"I would not have survived as a double agent for long, without one," Severus shrugged modestly, leaning back in his chair to accept a fresh cup of tea.

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

"Professor Snape!"

Filius Flitwick smiled at the sudden eagerness on the solemn child's face. It was the closest thing to a smile he had seen from the boy all morning. He grinned up at the Potions Professor's usual sour grimace.

"Good morning, Harry," Snape acknowledged coolly, ignoring Filius' grin.

"Good morning, sir."

"How are you feeling?" Snape couldn't hide the genuine concern in his dark study of the boy.

"Much better, sir," Harry insisted quietly. "Professor Flitwick has been telling me about some of his dueling matches."

Snape smirked at the tiny professor. "Has he? Knowing the Professor, I'm sure he has been overly modest. Did he tell you that he is the champion duelist of his generation?"

"Really?" Harry gaped at Filius with undisguised awe.

Filius chuckled and winked at the boy. "It is the one area where my size has a distinct advantage, Harry. I make a very difficult and challenging target!"

Severus snorted, and Harry hid a smile behind his hand.

Filius glanced up at Severus. "I take it you have completed your other business?"

Severus nodded. "I have - as have Professors Sprout and McGonagall. I believe we are adequately prepared."

"Very good," Filius nodded and rose from the chair beside Harry's bed. "And now, Harry, I'm afraid I must leave you for a while. I have a few small matters to attend to."

"Thank you for staying with me, Professor," Harry replied. "I really enjoyed our talk."

"As did I, Harry - very much," Flitwick beamed at him. "I hope you'll let me visit again?"

"I'd like that a lot," Harry admitted shyly.

"I'll see you later, Harry," Flitwick nodded at Severus and trotted out.

Severus studied the boy sitting up in the bed. Harry's color was considerably healthier, with only a trace of pallor beneath the fading pink flush of sun. His green eyes had lost their fevered brightness, and now regarded him with undisguised relief.

"I'm glad you're back," the boy said as Severus felt his cheeks and forehead for any residual warmth.

"Are you?" Severus was mildly surprised. "Was Professor Flitwick's company not sufficiently entertaining for you?" he smirked.

"Oh, no - he's been very kind - and I never knew before how funny he was! Everyone has been so nice to me," Harry's smile dimmed. "It's a bit embarrassing, actually. They all look at me. . .that way - you know what I mean? Like they feel sorry for me," he sighed unhappily. "That's why I'd rather be with you. You don't treat me differently. I guess it's because you understand things, you know?" he admitted softly.

"I do understand," Severus sat in the chair beside him and studied the boy's face. "Are you feeling stronger?"

"Yes, sir. I'm not dizzy at all - just feel a bit tired."

"That will pass as we get more food into you. I'm going to have Roker bring you some lunch soon. He will be staying with you for a while. The other Professors and I have a meeting with the Headmaster this afternoon."

Harry's face flushed abruptly and he hung his head. "Is...is it about me?" he asked uneasily.

"Yes. Professor McGonagall contacted him a short while ago to tell him you were here," Severus explained, frowning at the look of anxiety that swept across the boy's forlorn face.

"You. . . you won't let him expel me, will you?" Harry's voice quivered plaintively.

"Expel you? Of course not! Why would he?" Severus scowled in confusion.

"I thought. . .th-the Ministry . . ." Harry stammered, plucking at his blanket with nervous fingers. "They thought I had done it - but I didn't, I swear!"

"Done what? I don't understand."

"The magic! It wasn't me! Professor Dumbledore will believe me, won't he?"

Severus suddenly remembered Harry's panicked denials when he first spoke with the boy in the Dursley house. He had been babbling something similar at the time, but Severus was so preoccupied with the boy's physical state he had taken no notice. "You mentioned this before...," he murmured, concerned by Harry's abrupt agitation. He reached out to still his fretful fingers. "Calm down, Harry. There's no need to feel anxious. What magic are you talking about?"

"The magic the house elf did! The Ministry thinks I did it - but I couldn't! I didn't even have my wand! Please believe me!" he begged frantically.

"Shhh," Severus soothed. "I believe you. It's all right. Take it easy. Take a deep breath, Harry. That's better. Now, I don't know what you're talking about. Slow down and tell me what happened."

Harry visibly calmed himself and began to explain. Severus listened without comment, but he was taken aback by the boy's bizarre story. He couldn't fathom why a strange house elf would visit the child, or behave so outlandishly. Most house elves were peculiar, and he didn't pretend to understand their quirks and odd habits, but he had never heard of one interfering with a wizard in such a fashion. "What did the elf say was his name?" he asked.

"Dobby."

Severus scowled pensively. The name was vaguely familiar. . . he thought he might have heard it before - but it wasn't particularly uncommon, and most house elves' names sounded alike. He called for Roker who popped into view immediately. "Roker - do you know if there is a house elf here at Hogwarts who goes by the name of Dobby?"

The tiny elf scowled - his expression so strangely similar to one of Severus' own that it startled the Potions Master.

Roker's been around me too much, I think.

"I have never heard of one by that name," Roker said.

"He may not come from here," Severus mused aloud. "Perhaps he belongs to a family. . .or did once and was abandoned somehow. .but why would he bother Harry?" He glanced at the curious elf. "I need to know who this elf is, Roker. Would it be possible to ask the other elves here if any know of him, or have heard the name?"

"Of course, Master Snape. I will make inquiries," Roker promised, frowning in concern. "It may take a little time," he added apologetically.

"I understand. Let me know if you find out anything." Severus turned his attention back to Harry as the elf vanished. "I don't know what this means," he admitted. "But I will look into it. Please don't worry about it."

"But the Ministry. . ." Harry protested.

"The Ministry's only real concern is exposure of magic to Muggles. That's why they ban students from using magic out of school. They can't really prevent it in wizard homes, but they do track the use of magic among Muggleborn students - or in your case, Muggle-raised. They placed a simple alert on your home that detects if any magic is used. The system is perfunctory - it can't tell the source of the magic - it simply assumed that as you were the only wizard present in the house, that the magic was yours. When triggered, the alert automatically generated a letter of warning - that was the letter you received. But there's no need for you to be alarmed. I will explain the circumstances to the Headmaster, and he will have your record cleared. Please don't worry, Harry. Professor Dumbledore will not let you be expelled." He gave the boy a sardonic smirk. "I should know. . . at the beginning of last year, I tried my best to make that happen, with no success at all, obviously."

The boy looked both amused and immensely relieved. "Then why did Professor McGonagall call the Headmaster?" The flush of shame returned to the child's face. "Is it because of....are you going to tell him about - you know?"

"Yes, Harry. He has to know. We can't make certain that you will be protected from those. . ." Severus amended the slur he wanted to utter, snarling the modified phrase as if the words were poisonous, ". . . your relatives. . . .without the Headmaster's help." He patted the child's nervous hands. "I know you're uncomfortable discussing their treatment of you, Harry, but you have no need to feel ashamed. I told you, it is not your fault."

"I know," Harry sighed petulantly. ‘I just. . .I don't like to talk about it. It's no big deal, anyway."

"What do you mean, ‘no big deal'?"

"It's just the way they are. They've always been that way," Harry said blandly. "It only got a little worse after I started at Hogwarts. Uncle Vernon. . ." he halted, looking away.

"What about your uncle?" Severus urged gently.

Harry shrugged, not quite meeting his eyes. "Before I started getting my Hogwarts letters, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia always said that magic wasn't real. They hate anything that's not normal - like magic. Sometimes, when I was little, strange things would happen. . .I did magical things without meaning to, or even realizing it. I didn't know about accidental magic then. But they punished me whenever it happened, and said I was bad and a freak. They can't even stand to hear the word ‘magic' - Uncle Vernon spanked me once when I said something about a magic show that was on the telly. Then Hagrid came and I found out I was really a wizard and that magic was real. . .and it made them really mad. I guess because they couldn't pretend it wasn't real anymore. That's when everything got worse." He paused uneasily.

"Go on," Severus encouraged him.

"Uncle Vernon doesn't want me to go to Hogwarts. I don't think he wants me to learn to use magic. He tried to stop me from getting my letter. And after the business with Dobby and the pudding, and the Ministry owl and everything, he. . . he said he would beat the freakishness out of me... that I'd never go back to school again." The boy squirmed uncomfortably. "He's always been mean to me. . . but he never. . . well, before he used to spank me, and even thrash me with his belt sometimes, but he never. . ." Harry swallowed. His face was flushed an angry red now, but Severus kept quiet, hoping the child would continue to open up.

"They always hated me cause I was a freak and not normal and. . .and bad and worthless and they got stuck with taking care of me. They used to lock me up in my cupboard sometimes, but never more than a day or two. And Aunt Petunia usually gave me food at least every other day, even when I was being punished, until. . . well - it's just - they were never quite this nasty before, and he...he... he never whipped me on the bare before. . ." Harry whispered, clearly fighting back tears. "It's just the magic that makes them really mad, and they hate it so much that I guess they hate me even more now and that's why. . ." his voice was just a hoarse murmur of anguish now. "Anyway, it's only a little worse than before, and I'm used to it, so it's . . . I just don't want anyone to make a fuss over it, you know. I. . .It's not important." Harry shrugged, hugging his arms protectively across his chest.

Severus slowly reached out so as not to startle the child and tugged on of his hands, clasping it in his own. "It is important, Harry. You are important! They have no right to treat you that way. Your uncle is wrong to punish you for being who you are, even if he does hate magic." He squeezed the boy's hand tenderly. "Look at me, Harry."

After a tense moment, teary green eyes shifted up to meet his gaze. "Your Aunt and Uncle are wrong. You are not a freak. You are not worthless - you are not bad. The Dursleys are the freaks, Harry. They are bad and worthless. Anyone who would starve and mistreat a child the way they have, is vile and depraved. They are cowards. They are clearly afraid of magic and afraid of you, and like senseless animals, they attack what they are afraid of. That doesn't make them right. It makes them monsters - blind, heartless beasts!" Harry blinked up at him in stunned bewilderment. "I know you are brave, Harry. You have withstood their abuse for many years. But you shouldn't have had to - no child should be used to such terrible treatment. And it isn't going to continue. Those people will not be allowed to hurt you ever again. Do you understand?"

Harry nodded slowly, a single tear trickling down his cheek.

"I wish you had told someone, Harry. I wish you had confided in some adult. All of this should have been stopped long ago," Severus sighed, fighting to keep his fury at the despicable Muggles from showing on his face.

"I told a teacher one time," Harry admitted softly. "My first teacher - Miss Watson - she was really nice to me. She. . . she saw a bruise on my cheek once. . .from where Aunt Petunia hit me with a pan. She asked me if the Dursleys hit me. When I said that they did, she said she was going to make it stop." He sighed sadly. "I think she told the Headmistress. . . but she didn't know the Headmistress was Aunt Petunia's friend. Aunt Petunia told Headmistress Watterby that I fell down the stairs and that I was a dreadful liar - that I made up stories all the time to get attention. Then Miss Wilson went away and another teacher came to teach our class. Her name was Mrs. Midgen. She didn't like me right from the start. She told the whole class I was a nasty little liar and was going to end up in the Reform School some day."

Severus huffed in frustration.

Dear Merlin, what this child has been through! No wonder he doesn't trust adults.

"You never told anyone else, did you?"

Harry shook his head and shrugged. "Wasn't any point, was there? No one would believe it." He didn't have to voice his obvious belief - it was clear on his face...no one would care.

"We cannot change the past, Harry - but we will change the future. In order to do that, we will need your help. You don't have to do it today, but you will eventually have to tell the Headmaster how your relatives have treated you."

Harry slumped further down under his covers with an uneasy frown. Severus watched him for a moment, waiting to see the boy's reaction. When Harry didn't reply, he patted his hand again. "Don't worry about all of that right now. All you need to concentrate on now is getting stronger." He glanced around the empty ward pensively. "Now that you are staying awake longer, it must be boring sitting here in bed. Would you like me to bring you your books and parchment, or some books from the library, perhaps?"

Harry's face lightened and he nodded. "Oh, yes - please! I haven't been able to work on any of my summer assignments yet."

"I'll bring your things when I return. They are still in your trunk, aren't they?"

"Yes, sir! The password for the wards is bezoar."

Severus restrained an urge to chuckle and raised a brow in amusement.

"It was a word I knew the Dursleys would never use - even by accident," Harry explained sheepishly. He looked around the room. "Uhm. . .Where is my trunk?"

"It's in my quarters at the moment. When we decided where you will stay when you leave the Infirmary, I'll have it moved." He rose and called for Roker, giving the elf a few quick instructions. He waited while Roker popped out - returning almost immediately with a tray of soup and toast. "Is your stomach still unsettled?" he asked.

"No, sir - it's fine."

"Try to eat as much as you can. I will return when the meeting is over."

"Yes, sir," Harry obediently started on his soup.

With a meaningful glance at Roker, Severus swept out of the Infirmary, making his way to the Headmaster's office. He knew he should feel more nervous about the coming confrontation, but his righteous anger burned away any misgivings. It would be a ticklish situation . . . he would have to pay close attention to Dumbledore's responses in order to know in which manner to play his part. He wasn't terribly concerned about this. Maintaining a crafty dual role was his own unique talent after all. . .one he had been forced to rely upon for far too long. Under the circumstances, he felt no need for belated scruples now.

He reached the entry to the Headmaster's office just as Minerva was about to climb the revolving stair. She gave him a swift nod, her eyes glittering with obvious anger and disapproval.

"Do you have the memories?" he asked softly.

"Yes," Minerva pulled several clear vials that glowed a pale neon blue from her pocket. "I told him to ready his Pensieve. Filius and Pomona are already inside."

"So," Severus nodded grimly. "We begin."

Severus studied the Headmaster's expression as he pulled away from the Pensieve and slumped back in his chair. Albus lifted shaking hands to rub wearily at his face. Severus was secretly relieved to see signs of genuine shock and regret on the old wizard's visage.

"Dear Merlin!" Albus sighed, glancing at his four Heads of House with dismay. The usual twinkle had vanished from blue eyes now filled with sadness. "I never. . .I had no idea. . ." he shook his head in disbelief. "I. . .I knew the Dursleys were not the best sort, but it never occurred to me that they were this harsh!" He stared at each of them with a pleading apprehension, as if begging for their forgiveness.

"Of course you didn't," Minerva assured him automatically. "None of us believes you would intentionally place Harry in such misery. We assumed you weren't aware of the boy's predicament."

But you should have been. . . .you should have checked on the child, Albus. Snape kept his face impassive, careful not to reveal his thoughts.

"I did not expect excessive kindness from the Muggles, but I didn't anticipate such obvious neglect or malice," Albus mourned quietly. "I never suspected that Dursley was physically hurting the boy. How long has that been going on?"

"We don't know," Minerva replied stiffly. "Since Severus and Filius retrieved him, Harry has refused to speak of it, or answer any questions."

"He is still in shock," Severus responded to Albus' swift questioning glance in a cold, dispassionate tone. "It is common in such cases. He is ashamed and confused. Once he has recovered physically, I expect he will be willing to reveal the truth."

"I am thankful that Severus was here," Minerva commented. "With Poppy gone, he was the most qualified to tend Harry. He has been very helpful."

"Yes, indeed - it was fortunate that you returned from the Continent when you did, Severus," Albus gave him a approving half-smile. "I am grateful, Severus."

Severus shrugged, grimacing with distaste. "I had little choice in the matter," he confessed blandly. "You know how insistent Minerva can be." He gave her a sour scowl. "Once the boy's situation was discovered, I assumed you would wish me to intervene," he stared at Albus with frank reproach. "I may not be fond of the little prat, but he is a student here. I would have done the same for any student. I am not completely without principles, you know," he sniffed indignantly.

"Of course not," Albus agreed quickly. "You did exactly the right thing."

Severus shrugged again, appearing indifferent. "The thrashing did not concern me. . .Merlin knows the little monster probably deserved it," he silenced Sprout's and Minerva's attempted protests with a vicious glare. "It was the boy's physical condition that caught my attention. It was clear at a glance he was ill and underweight. At the time, I could think of no other course of action but to bring him here for medical attention. I assumed that is what you would have wished. I have done what I could, but he should probably be seen by a professional. My overall healing knowledge is limited to battle injuries. And even if I were so inclined, I cannot address Potter's emotional distress. I have neither the training or patience to comfort the obnoxious brat," he emphasized the word ‘comfort' with a derisive sneer. He scoffed at the collected glares of outrage from his colleagues. "I leave such coddling to those more inclined to it." He purposely ignored Minerva's sharp glance as she turned back to the Headmaster.

"Albus, what are we going to do?"

"Do?"

"About Harry," she snapped.

"Ah, yes," Albus nodded sorrowfully. "Poor boy. . .he has suffered woefully. . .it is clear we cannot let this continue."

"I should say not," Sprout huffed. "No child deserves to grow up in such a climate of hate and neglect! Where will you place him now?"

Albus clasped his hands together on the desk and stared pensively into space for several minutes. No one spoke, watching his passive face as he mulled over an answer to the crucial question. When he finally roused himself from his reverie, the Headmaster spoke lightly, avoiding direct eye contact with his staff. "For now, Harry should remain here. At least until Poppy returns and can assess his condition."

When he did not continue, Minerva prompted him warily. "And what then?"

"Well, he cannot stay here all summer, of course," Albus replied calmly. "Even if I were willing to contravene the school's regulations, the Ministry would never allow it."

"Why should the Ministry care?" Sprout frowned.

"The Ministry is deeply concerned with everything regarding the Boy-Who-Lived," Albus replied sardonically. His emphasis was clear to all present. They knew he referred to the ambitious Minster of Magic, Cornelius Fudge. "They would exploit any excuse to intervene in Harry's life. . .to gain control over his destiny. That is something we cannot allow. We can't defy Hogwart's Charter and give them an excuse to take custody of him."

"Do you think Fudge would attempt that?" Filius spoke up for the first time since their meeting began.

"I am certain of it. . .and if he did, there might be little we could do to stop him," Albus replied grimly. "He has, in fact, attempted to do that several times in the past."

"He has?" Minerva looked startled.

Albus nodded. "Three times since the Potters' deaths, Fudge has endeavored to make Harry a ward of the Ministry. He covets Harry's fame and wishes to utilize it to strengthen his own ambitions. Each time he has failed, for one reason only: because Harry has living blood kin - his aunt, Petunia Dursley. Despite Fudge's best efforts at bribing and influencing members of the Wizengamot, the Laws of Custody are incontrovertible. An orphaned wizard child must be placed with remaining blood kin, unless that custody is refused or legally proven to be unacceptable. The Minister cannot contest the Law - not even the Wizengamot can overrule it. That was one of the reasons I placed Harry with the Dursleys to begin with. The only other irrefutable legal guardians would have been his godparents." He eyed each of them dourly. "Sirius Black was named Harry's godfather."

Minerva gasped. "Oh, dear Merlin!"

"Exactly," Albus nodded grimly.

"Who is Harry's godmother?" Filius inquired curiously.

Albus sighed. "Alice Longbottom."

"Oh, dear," Sprout whimpered forlornly. "Poor thing!"

Severus sneered nastily to cover his surprise. He had never known about Potter's godparents. . . not even Lily had mentioned it.

"As a convicted criminal, Black was out of the question, of course. And poor Alice certainly couldn't take custody from the mental ward of St. Mungo's. . . Lily's sister was the only remaining choice."

"But now that we have proof that the aunt is unfit to be a guardian - what happens to Harry?" Sprout asked anxiously. "Can't we arrange custody with someone else? Surely someone better could be found!"

"Of course!" Minerva agreed.

"That is precisely the danger," Albus replied coolly. "If the Ministry learns that the Dursleys are unfit guardians, a new guardian would have to be assigned. Considering Harry's fame and future influence, I daresay half the Wizarding population would gladly apply. . .including those who harbor ill-will towards the child who defeated their leader. I have no doubt there are numerous pureblood families amongst Voldemort's former supporters who might apply for custody - supporters with enormous wealth and influence. Considering Fudge's weakness for corruption, he could easily insure that Harry goes to the highest bidder."

"But. . . but surely you could insure he goes to a proper home!" Sprout stammered, outraged. "Someone who would care for the boy, and love him! Merlin's Garters, Albus! Even one of us would make a better guardian than those Muggles. I, for one, would gladly raise Harry!"

"I know, Pomona!" Albus soothed gently. "As would I myself...I expect any one of us here would be glad to shelter the child." He ignored Severus' revolted glare. "But not even I have enough influence to guarantee that someone of our choice was selected. It would be a dreadful risk - if I failed, it could leave poor Harry at the mercy of his worst enemies. It is simply not a risk I am prepared to take!"

"Then what can we do?" Minerva demanded.

Albus sighed, a grimace of deep reluctance shadowing his face. "We have no choice. When he is sufficiently recovered, Harry must return to the Dursleys."

"WHAT!!"

Albus cringed visibly at the collected shouts and growls of outrage from three of his Heads of House. Only Severus remained silent, observing the scene with inscrutable detachment. He watched the Headmaster mutely allow his staff's strident objections and protests to wash over him. Although the old wizard's Occlumency shields were far too strong to penetrate, Severus' powers of observation were supremely acute. Behind the Headmaster's resigned expression, Severus sensed a calculated determination he had not noticed before, and he examined it with keen interest. After several minutes, Albus spoke again with remarkable calm.

"As long as the Dursleys remain Harry's guardians, there is no risk of legal or political interference," Albus insisted firmly. "But this is not the only reason for my decision. You all know the construction of the wards that protect Harry at the Dursleys. The blood wards based on Lily's sacrifice are the only. . . .I repeat, ONLY impenetrable protection the child has. I regret to say even Hogwarts is not as safe for the boy as those wards. I cannot remove Harry from their protection."

"But surely there are other measures..." Minerva whined.

"No other measures I could employ are as foolproof and certain," Albus insisted. "I dare not place him anywhere but within the protection of those wards."

"What good are wards, if the child is threatened within them?" Filius demanded acerbically. "If the uncle's violence towards the boy escalates, it won't matter if former Death Eaters can't reach him - his own guardians could murder the boy!"

"I do not think there is any risk of that," Albus objected huffily. "Dursley may be malicious, but we have no evidence he is homicidal!"

"And what if you're wrong?" Minerva spat. "You assume that Muggle won't kill Harry! But you assumed he wouldn't abuse him, either! You were wrong once. Are you willing to risk the child's life on your assumptions?"

"Of course not!" Albus snapped impatiently. "I do learn from my mistakes, Minerva. I won't leave Harry's safety to chance again. I will make certain the unkindness does not continue."

"Unkindness!" Sprout sputtered. "You speak as if those Muggles merely insulted the child! We are talking about abuse, Headmaster!"

"I know what we are talking about, Pomona," Albus replied with a hint of irritation. "I did not mean to minimize the boy's mistreatment. I assure you, I have every intention of protecting Harry from any future abuse. My point is, it is safer to correct the situation he is in, than to risk moving him. "

"Headmaster," Minerva interjected sternly. "I must officially protest this decision. I cannot, in good conscience, approve returning that child to a home where he has been so callously ill-treated."

"Your objection is noted, Minerva," Albus replied evenly. Beneath his calm, Severus recognized the glint of unshakeable resolve. It was clear further objections were futile. He made a swift decision, joining the argument for the first time.

"Under the circumstances, I think perhaps the Headmaster is right," Severus said. Minerva gaped at him. Sprout and Flitwick looked shocked. "After all, the blood wards are Potter's best defense against attack. He is safest in the Muggles' home."

"Severus! Are you mad? You saw how they treated the boy!" Minerva sputtered furiously. She stared at him as if he had lost his mind.

"Yes - and although I don't approve of their actions, I think the Headmaster is correct. There is no need to respond hysterically."

"Hysterically?" Sprout squeaked furiously.

"It's not as if they have gravely injured the boy, after all. I don't deny that Muggle lout was overly harsh in his discipline, but it was mostly likely out of sheer ignorance. They clearly have no idea how to raise a child. . . Potter's cousin - that spoiled lump of a son - is further evidence of their idiocy. Those moronic cretins overindulge one boy while neglecting the other," he spat with clear disgust. "However, Potter's lived there for eleven years without serious harm. I see no reason why he cannot return there, under the proper supervision of course."

He ignored his colleagues astonished stares and turned to Dumbledore. "Headmaster - if I might make a suggestion?"

Albus nodded, clearly pleased by Snape's sudden support.

"If you truly feel that Potter must remain with the Muggles for protection from his enemies, I would be more than happy to return the boy to his home - and have a little ‘chat' with the Muggles," Severus suggested with an evil smirk. "I believe I can persuade them to change their treatment of Potter," he raised a hand to halt Minerva's protest. "And just to be certain that they do, Professor McGonagall could continue her monitoring of the boy. I'm not suggesting around the clock surveillance, of course - the staff doesn't have time to watch him constantly, and I hardly think that will be necessary. But monitoring could be coordinated through the Squib. If we insist that the Dursleys allow Harry to check in daily with Mrs. Figg to report on his treatment, that should be sufficient to keep them in line. Figg could, in turn, report on Potter's status to Professor McGonagall, which I am sure will alleviate any undue concerns about him."

"A very sound and rational solution, Severus," Albus agreed happily.

"You must be joking, Severus!" Minerva snapped. "How can you even think of taking the boy back there!"

"While I don't approve of the Muggles' previous conduct, I hardly think there is any reason to overreact," Severus replied coolly. "I will insist that the Muggles change their treatment of him." He ticked off conditions on his fingers with composed restraint. "He must be fed properly - withholding food cannot continue. And while a few chores can only be good for the boy - it might keep him out of trouble to keep him busy - it is dishonorable to treat a wizard child like a house elf. I will insist they limit such chores to an hour or two daily. They won't be allowed to lock him up - nor to refuse him access to his school books and supplies. And naturally I will make certain that they do not raise a hand to the boy again. Though I personally have no objections to corporal punishment when judiciously applied, the Muggles clearly indulge in it merely for their own sadistic pleasure. I will prohibit them from doing so in the future."

"What if the Dursleys ignore your restrictions?" Sprout demanded.

"I will see to it that they cannot," Severus retorted with a chilling gleam in his eyes. "I will tell the Muggles that I have put a spell on the family. Any mistreatment of Harry will instantly be inflicted on the Dursley boy. If they starve or beat Harry - the Dursley boy will magically suffer the same fate. That should discourage any further mistreatment, I think."

"Is there such a spell?" Flitwick asked dubiously.

Severus shrugged, smirking evilly. "I don't know. . .but I don't actually have to cast it, do I? I only have to convince the Dursleys that I have done so."

"Headmaster, I still do not agree with this course of action," Minerva insisted angrily. She glared at Severus, who sneered in return.

"I understand your concerns," Albus replied soothingly. "However I fear I must overrule all dissent at this time. We will do as Severus suggests to insure Harry's safety."

Sprout opened her mouth to object, but was swiftly silenced by a furtive glance from Minerva. Flitwick remained silent.

"There is one point I feel I must make, however," Severus stated haughtily. "I think it best that we do not inform Potter of this decision just yet. He is still recovering from his illness, and any unnecessary worry or concern will hinder his recovery. I request that any mention of the Dursleys be postponed until we are ready to return him there."

"If you feel that is best," Albus conceded generously. The twinkle in his eyes had returned with the belief that he had achieved victory.

"I do," Severus sniffed. "I have spent considerable time and effort healing the boy. I don't wish my efforts wasted by an unnecessary episode of histrionics. I believe you said Madame Pomfrey will return on Saturday, Headmaster?"

"Yes, I believe so."

"Good. She can examine him when she arrives. If she feels he is sufficiently healed, then you can speak with him and I will return him to Surrey myself. With the proper management of the Dursleys' behavior, I believe the boy's safety can be assured without taking drastic measures," Severus said, ignoring the unhappy expressions on the faces of his colleagues.

He continued smoothly, revealing his ultimate bombshell in an offhand manner, as if it were a trifling matter. "If this strategy fails, then we can always revisit the issue and decide whether to take other action. If despite our efforts it becomes necessary to remove the boy permanently from the Muggles' care, then we will. We have already taken steps to insure that we can legally do so."

"Steps?" Albus stared at him uneasily.

"Yes, Headmaster. Considering our history of conflict with the Ministry, I wanted to make certain that we could prove mistreatment if need be. So I took the liberty of suggesting that we all create and safeguard legal depositions. Those depositions include all the details of neglect and abuse we uncovered, including Pensieve memories of everything each of us witnessed. My own includes my scan of the boy's physical condition when I brought him to Hogwarts. We each filed one copy of our depositions with our personal attorneys, in the unlikely event something should happen to one of us. We also placed another copy in secure locations: I placed one in my Gringotts vault. Should the need arise, there will be irrefutable evidence of Potter's mistreatment at the hands of his relatives."

There was a stunned silence for several moments. Dumbledore looked thunderstruck. Fury, frustration, and a touch of panic flashed across his normally inscrutable face before the mask slammed down again. He smiled at Severus with adroitly disguised vehemence. "That was very thorough of you," he said, his tone falsely pleasant.

"Thank you, Headmaster. I was sure you would wish us to take every precaution," Severus replied smugly. "You can be certain that the evidence is secure and cannot be tampered with."

"I doubt very much if such extreme measures were necessary," Albus said stiffly.

"Perhaps not, Headmaster," Severus shrugged. "But it could not hurt to be cautious, could it?"

"I'm not sure I can agree - it is rather risky, don't you think? If this information should fall into the wrong hands.." the Headmaster protested with mild desperation, clearly trying to salvage some control over the situation.

"We'll just have to make certain it doesn't, Albus," Minerva replied determinedly.

"I believe it was worth the risk, Headmaster. At least this way, if anything should happen to any of us, the evidence will still be secure." Severus allowed the faint threat in his words to sink in briefly. "Now, if that is all, I must excuse myself. I left Potter in the care of a house elf, but I dare not leave him too long. The brat has an infuriating talent for mischief. Even under the watchful eye of Roker, I do not trust him to stay out of trouble. If you will excuse me?" Without waiting for permission, Severus swept disdainfully from the room. The other professors slowly followed him, leaving a thoroughly stunned and disturbed headmaster staring after them.

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

Minerva couldn't resist making a visit to the Infirmary. She had no doubt that Albus would be aware of her movements, but knew the Headmaster could hardly object to Harry's Head of House checking up on him. When she arrived, Severus was bent over the boy, running a diagnostic scan. Minerva waited until his scan was done, then smiled at Harry in reassurance. "How are you feeling, Harry?"

"I'm fine, Professor," the boy replied quietly, a slight pout on his lips. "I don't hurt anymore and I feel plenty strong, but Professor Snape won't let me get up," he complained mildly.

"Your fever is gone but you are still slightly dehydrated," Severus scowled at him. The boy's resentful glance sent a twinge of guilt through his chest. He sighed in frustration. "If you behave yourself, eat a proper lunch, and take a nap after - and if your temperature remains normal - I'll permit a short walk on the grounds this afternoon," he conceded gruffly. "A supervised walk, mind you - and only if you behave!"

"I will!" Harry grinned happily. "I promise."

"Hrmmph," Severus snorted, fighting an answering smile to the boy's obvious delight. "We will see."

Minerva smiled down at the boy. He shyly returned her smile, but there were shadows in the unguarded green eyes. "I am so glad you are feeling better, Harry," she said.

"Thank you, M'am," Harry turned away, gazing forlornly out the nearby windows.

Minerva patted his arm gently, and gave the Potions Master a sharp look. He nodded and ambled back to Poppy's office, Minerva following him. When she closed the door, Severus flicked his wand to construct a privacy shield. He glanced at the antiquated portrait of a fourteenth century Healer over Poppy's desk and scowled. with quick movements, he conjured a heavy black cloth and draped it over the painting. An offended mutter signaled the Healer's outrage. Minerva quirked an eyebrow at the Potions Master and Severus shrugged sullenly.

Minerva dropped into one of the vacant chairs. "Well that was disappointing," she remarked sarcastically. She glanced at the dour Potions Master. "I'm glad you warned us about your little ‘act'. . .I wanted to smack you silly when you took Albus' side." She sighed heavily. "Oh, Severus! What are we going to do?"

"We are going to follow the Headmaster's instructions."

"What?" she gaped at him.

"I will do exactly as I have indicated," Severus replied smoothly. "Once Poppy has examined and released Potter, I will take him back to Surrey. Three times a week, for the rest of the summer holiday, you will interview Mrs. Figg to inquire after Potter's health. She will report to you, and you will in turn report to Albus, assuring him that the boy is safe and healthy, and not suffering from any mistreatment."

"You don't actually believe your ridiculous plan will work, do you?" Minerva snarled. "Even if you convince the Muggles to properly care for the boy - even if you Confound them to control their actions - you cannot change their animosity! They loathe and resent the child! Merlin only knows what emotional damage that boy has suffered already - how can you even think of letting him stay in such an atmosphere of fear and hate??"

"I never said I would," Severus replied smugly. Minerva blinked at him in confusion. Severus leaned forward, a sharp-edged gleam in his dark eyes. "I said I would take the boy to Surrey. . .I never said I would leave him there."

Minerva forced herself to close her gaping mouth and stared at him, her catlike eyes narrowing suspiciously. "What are you scheming, Severus?"

Severus leaned back in Poppy's desk chair with a mild smirk. "I will take Potter back to Privet Drive - accompanied by Filius, if he agrees. Once we arrive, either you or Pomona will distract Albus for a reasonable length of time. During that time, I will ask Filius to perform some very sophisticated and complex memory charms on the Muggles, and on Mrs. Figg as well. We will also take steps to insure that any tracking charms Albus may have placed on Harry, will confirm that he is safely behind the wards at Privet Drive. Then Filius will return to Hogwarts, and I will disappear with Potter."

"Disappear?"

"I will take the boy to a safe location, and take care of him until the new term begins and he returns to Hogwarts."

Minerva gawked at him in astonishment. "You?! Keep Harry?!"

Severus scowled indignantly. "Certainly. Do you doubt my ability to safeguard him?"

"Of course not,' Minerva waved a hand dismissively. "I can't think of anyone better able to protect him from danger. . . but to care for him? What. . . .how. . . ?" she shook her head in bemusement. "I'm not saying it isn't a workable idea, Severus, but really. . .do you have any idea how to care for a twelve-year-old boy?"

"I am a teacher and the Head of my House, Minerva," Severus snapped resentfully. "I do have some experience with children."

"It's not exactly the same thing, Severus," Minerva began hesitantly. "I mean, you will be caring for the boy day and night. . . you won't be able to send him off to his tower and disappear into your lab for hours on end!"

"I think I can manage, Minerva," Severus huffed. "At the very least, I can keep him safe. I can insure that he is properly fed and clothed; that he is healthy; that he is housed in suitable surroundings with a decent place to sleep! That alone is far more than his relatives accomplished!"

"I have no doubt you would provide for him, Severus. But Harry will need a bit more than just food and clothing and a roof over his head. He'll need activities to occupy his time, and considering his current state, he will need emotional support as well."

"I am very well aware of his needs, Minerva," Severus snapped. "And I will see to it that all of those needs are met. I am perfectly capable of caring for Mr. Potter, I can assure you! Frankly, I resent your obvious misgivings! Do you truly believe me so incompetent?"

"Of course not! I'm sorry, Severus," Minerva said contritely. "I didn't mean to imply. . . of course I know you are capable of caring for the boy. I'm just surprised you are so...well, willing."

Severus scowled at her. "I have my reasons. . . they don't concern you."

"All right, Severus. I understand," she soothed. She ignored his affronted glare and continued with her questions. "Where do you plan to hide him? And how do you plan to keep his ‘disappearance' hidden from Albus?"

"I have access to an appropriate location that no one - not even the Headmaster knows about. It is quite safe, I assure you. . .safer even than Hogwarts. As for Albus. . . he will not discover Potter's absence because he will not be looking for it. You will be reporting regularly to him that Potter is safe in Surrey. Filius and I will make certain he has no reason to believe otherwise."

"What about your absence? How do you expect to explain that?"

"Albus has assigned me an extended mission on the Continent. He will assume that is where I am. I will send him periodic reports on my progress. He'll never know my true undertaking."

"But what about the mission itself? How will you. . .?"

"I can handle the mission. . . there are other ways to accomplish what I must. . . you needn't concern yourself with that."

"Where will you take Harry?"

Severus shook his head. "It is best if I don't divulge that, Minerva. We can take steps to keep Albus from learning of this, but there is always a chance of accidental disclosure. For the boy's safety, I will tell no one of his location."

"I'm not sure that is wise, Severus. What if something happened to you? No one would know where the boy is."

"I have thought of that. I will take certain precautions to insure that he can be found in the event of such an emergency," Severus smirked ironically at her. "Don't fear, Minerva. You forget I was a very skillful spy. . .I wouldn't still be alive if I weren't. If I can deceive the Dark Lord, who is the ultimate epitome of paranoia. . . .surely you can trust me to mislead Albus, who will have no reason to suspect any ruse."

Minerva grinned wryly. "Aye. . . if anyone could pull this off, I suppose it would be you." Her smile faded and she frowned worriedly. "Do you really think this will work, Severus?"

"It is only for a few weeks, Minerva."

"Yes - but that's part of my concern. It is only a temporary solution. Even after Harry returns safely to Hogwarts, those horrible Muggles will still have legal guardianship over him. What do we do in future? How do we keep him out of their hands permanently?"

"I don't know. Perhaps by then we can convince Albus. . . ." Severus shook his head grimly. "I can't predict the future. Let's worry about the present for now. We can discuss other options later. . .if this plan succeeds."

"I suppose you're right," Minerva sighed. "What about Filius and Pomona?"

"I will need Filius to help cover my tracks. I don't know about Pomona. The safest option would be to limit knowledge of this to you and I alone. . .I may be forced to ask the others to allow me to remove any knowledge of this from their memories..." he rubbed his chin pensively, ignoring Minerva's frown of disapproval. "I think we need to arrange a private meeting with our co-conspirators. I will outline my plan in more detail, and we can discuss our options." He glanced back at the covered portrait behind him. "It would be best if we did this outside the grounds. Even with precautions, I don't like discussing this while Albus is at Hogwarts. Who knows what methods unknown to us, he may employ to keep track of his staff's movements."

Minerva nodded and stood. "I agree. I'll organize a meeting in a safe location and get back with you. When do you wish to meet?"

"As soon as possible. We haven't much time. . .three days minimum - maybe four, if Poppy keeps Potter in the Infirmary another day. We'll have to work fast."

"Very well. You stay with Harry. I'll return in a few hours with tea. . .and details of our arrangements." She halted by the door and gave him a piercing stare. "You realize the risk you take, Severus? Albus will not be pleased if he discovers your interference."

Severus shrugged. "I am well aware of the hazards, Minerva." He gazed up at her with an odd intensity behind his glittering black eyes. "I never wanted to oppose Albus, Minerva. It is a shabby act of betrayal to offer the man who saved my life and granted me a path to redemption." He sighed heavily. "But neither can I abandon the boy. I have sworn to safeguard him." He shrugged, smirking ironically. "Even Albus made me vow to protect Potter. . . . it is something I must do - even if it means protecting him against Albus himself. I doubt the Headmaster meant for me to interpret it that way, but I have no other choice. I don't know why he feels the Dursleys are the only option. . .I only know I believe he is wrong. I won't allow the boy to return there. . .even if it means risking everything."

Minerva granted him a small knowing smile. "Thank you, Severus," she said quietly. "You may be an obnoxious prat at times, but you are one of the most honorable men I have ever known."

Severus grimaced, a faint hint of color darkening his pale cheeks. "There is no need to become maudlin, Minerva," he grumbled uncomfortably.

Minerva laughed. "Perhaps not. . .but I confess it amuses me to do so...you are so very sweet when you blush, Severus."

She ignored his angry growl of embarrassment and sailed out of the office on a wave of smug satisfaction.

"I am grateful for your efforts to protect Harry," Minerva remarked. "I'm sure you will provide for him adequately. . .certainly far better than his relatives ever have. I just wish you could tell us a bit more about your destination."

Severus frowned at her probing stare. . .a stare that was blatantly repeated by their other two companions. He glanced around the secluded room to reaffirm their privacy. It was a small, intimate place, discretely out of sight off a back alley. As many times as he had visited Hogsmeade, he had never noticed the tiny teashop before, and he approved Minerva's prudent choice for their meeting. The few customers in the shop had paid them no attention, and the private room and their silencing spells ensured secrecy. Severus sighed, giving in to the inevitable. "We will be taking refuge in a home belonging to a friend of mine."

"A friend?" Filius looked mildly disturbed. "Is it anyone we know?"

Severus shook his head. "None of you know him. . .no one at Hogwarts has ever met him. In fact, no one of my acquaintance knows him."

"Are you certain?"

"Positive. I have taken great pains to ensure this," he smirked slightly and sipped his tea. "I have known since I graduated from Hogwarts that the time might come when I may have need of a safe place to. . . disappear. This refuge is one of several I have. . .collected. . .as future sanctuaries. I have never revealed the locations of these safe havens to anyone - not even Albus."

"Will your ‘friend' be there? Will he see Harry? Is it safe for him to know the boy's whereabouts?" Minerva queried anxiously.

"My friend has several homes. . ." Severus shrugged. "I don't know if he will be there, but if he should make an appearance, it will not place Potter in any danger - that I can guarantee with absolute assurance."

He studied their dubious expressions. "Where I am taking the boy, he will be completely safe. You will simply have to rely on me in this." When his reassurances failed to erase all of their visible concern he continued somewhat sullenly. "In addition to some rather extraordinary protective wards, both Potter and I will be disguised. We will be unrecognizable."

"A glamour?" Filius asked with a frown.

"Partly. . . with a few potions and a touch of Muggle deception thrown in," he smirked evilly. "I have had considerable practice - as well as motive - to perfect the art of camouflage. Once we are transformed, Mr. Potter and I could join you all for tea and not one of you would identify us. Trust me - I am quite good at such things."

"I hope you won't be too remote. It will be hard for the child to be away from his friends, without even the opportunity to write to them," Pomona fretted.

Severus snorted rudely. The plump Hufflepuff was true to her House....irredeemably soft-hearted. "We will not be utterly isolated. I have no intention of stranding us on a deserted island - nor will I lock the brat up in a barren dungeon!" he snarled. "I will ensure the boy has suitable companionship. . . possibly even children his own age. . .the surrounding community should safely provide the opportunity for whatever contact and amusements the boy requires."

He held up a hand to forestall whatever ludicrous thought was gleaming in Minerva's bright eyes. "That does not mean I intend to spend my time entertaining the brat! I will not allow him to fritter away his summer. More than anything, the boy needs structure in his life. He needs security. . . the security of order, and the safety of authority from an adult he trusts. I intend to see he receives that structure. He will have a reasonable schedule of summer study and a few light chores to teach him responsibility." He sneered at Pomona's grimace of dismay. "However," he continued stiffly, "I recognize that a child needs time to . . .relax. To engage in recreation," his lips curled around the word disdainfully. "I will ensure he is allowed time for such pursuits, as well as a suitable amount of fresh air and exercise. Now, does this program meet with your approval, or would any of you care to continue to interrogate me and question my ability to care for one small, annoying twelve-year-old boy?!" Severus growled impatiently. There was a long pause.

"I have every confidence that Harry will receive the best of care in your custody, Severus," Minerva replied softly and firmly. Their companions agreed with some chagrin.

"Of course, Severus."

"Oh yes, the best of care!"

"My largest concern is keeping my actions hidden from Albus," Severus continued, somewhat mollified.

"I think your plan is inspired," Filius remarked. "I see no problem with Mrs. Figg or the Muggles. I fear the real danger of disclosure may come from us." He studied Severus face with keen intent. "Do you wish to reduce the risk by Oblivating us?"

Severus grimaced. "It is not my desire, no. I don't object to memory charms on Muggles...I recognize the necessity at times. But I find it distasteful to advocate such methods with my. . . .colleagues," he admitted uncomfortably. "It suggests a certain lack of trust, that is neither appropriate nor valid."

"We appreciate your reluctance, Severus," Minerva replied with a small smile. "But we must place Harry's welfare above our own discomfort. If it is necessary, then I am sure no one will reproach you."

"Perhaps it won't be necessary," Filius said thoughtfully. "There may be other precautions we can take." He nibbled at a tea cake while the others waited patiently, giving the tiny Charms Professor time to sort his thoughts. They were all aware that Filius Flitwick had a shrewd and penetrating mind. . .he was not the Head of Ravenclaw by accident. Filius stroked his chin pensively. "We must keep Harry's location secret for six weeks, yes?"

"Possibly less," Minerva interjected. "The Weasleys have invited Harry to spend some time with them at the end of summer." Severus glanced up sharply at this. He had not heard this news before. "I haven't spoken to Albus yet, due to these unexpected developments, of course. . ." Minerva continued. "But I'm fairly certain I could convince him to allow Harry to visit the Burrow - perhaps the last two weeks prior to the beginning of term." She smirked grimly. "Considering the poor boy's misfortunes, I daresay Albus feels far too guilty at the moment to deny the boy a chance to be with his friends."

"Excellent," Filius nodded in satisfaction. "That reduces the amount of time we must maintain our subterfuge, to four weeks." He glanced up at the Deputy Headmistress. "We need not worry about you, Minerva. As an Animagus, you seem to have your own unique methods for protecting your thoughts - and of course, as Severus' contact, you must retain your memories of this." He nodded again. "Although I am no expert Occlumens, with the help of a little misdirection, I think I am sufficiently skilled to avoid revealing anything to Albus." He turned and smiled at Pomona. "What about you, dear?"

Pomona shrugged sadly. "Sorry. I never studied Occlumency. I can certainly avoid saying anything indiscrete, but I can't protect my thoughts if Albus should go looking. I can't imagine why he would - but still, there is a risk. Perhaps you should perform a memory charm on me after all," she sighed.

Severus studied the plump Professor broodingly. "Perhaps not. Have you ever considered trying to learn Occlumency, Pomona?"

"Not until this moment," Pomona replied dryly. "Now I wish I had. I would prefer to be an asset to our little cause - not a liability."

"If I volunteered to teach you - would you be willing to try?"

"Absolutely," she agreed promptly. "But that takes time. . . how do we protect my thoughts in the meantime?"

"Temporarily remove them from danger," Filius grinned suddenly.

"A temporary memory charm?" Pomona wrinkled her pug nose in uncertainty.

"No dear lady!" Filius chortled. "Remove you." He laughed at her confusion. "Pomona - you rarely take your full leave - no one can pry you away from your precious greenhouses long enough! How many weeks of leave have you accumulated over the last fifteen years?"

The Herbology professor pondered his question, turning slightly pink. "Uhmm... eighteen weeks?" she offered timidly.

"Eighteen weeks! Good heavens!" Minerva cried. "I had no idea! If I had known, I would have insisted you take more time off! You are entitled to your leave, Pomona!"

"I know," Pomona admitted sheepishly. "But Hogwarts is my home. And I haven't felt the need or desire to leave it since...well, since Herbert died, you know. . . except for a week or two each summer to visit my brother and his family, of course."

"Well I think it's time you paid a visit to your brother, Pomona," Filius scolded merrily. "A nice long visit. . .say - four weeks?"

Pomona's face lit with understanding. "Ahh! But of course! Do you think that would be all right, Minerva?"

"It's perfect!"

Pomona's chubby face darkened. "But...my greenhouses! It's such a long time to neglect them!"

"Put them in stasis - like you do when you leave for a week or two," Filius suggested cheerfully. "They'll be fine. You can return when Harry has been moved to the Burrow, and have two weeks to sort things out before term begins."

"All right," Pomona agreed thoughtfully. "I suppose that will do. And it is for Harry's sake, after all."

"That's all settled then," Filius rubbed his stubby little hands together with cheerful satisfaction.

"Filius Flitwick!" Minerva suddenly admonished with a wicked gleam in her eyes. "I do believe you are enjoying our little conspiracy!"

"Must you call it that?" Pomona scolded uncomfortably. "It's such a nefarious term."

"But that is precisely what this is," Severus replied harshly. He frowned at each of them. "We mustn't fool ourselves. . .regardless of our motives, what we are proposing to do here, is very serious." He watched as the truth of his warning affected each of his companions. "We are conspiring to abduct the Boy-Who-Lived from his legal guardians. We are agreeing to deliberately deceive the Headmaster, and conceal the child's whereabouts," he stated grimly. "Make no mistake about it. . .the consequences, if we are caught, could be severe. We risk more here than the loss of our positions. If prosecuted, I could be convicted of kidnapping. . .that is an unpardonable offense with only one possible verdict - a lifetime sentence in Azkaban. Each of you who assists me, would be guilty of, at the least, aiding and abetting a felonious crime." He paused a moment, allowing the gravity of his words to sink in, then continued quietly. "I say this only to make you think about what you are committing yourselves to. For myself, I have no other choice. I am sworn to protect Harry Potter. . .and I will face whatever risk that vow requires. But the rest of you. . .you do not need to become involved. The wisest course for all of you is to allow me to Oblivate you, and extract yourselves from this business before it's too late."

Minerva's brogue, thick with repressed passion, broke the long silence that followed his cold lecture. "Oh, no you don't, Severus Snape!" she declared adamantly. "You'll play no martyr for my sake. I told you before - I'll not see that child sacrificed to those horrid Muggles. I'll do whatever it takes - regardless of the risks - to protect that boy. That, my dear Severus, is my vow."

"And mine as well," Filius added firmly.

"And mine," Pomona agreed somberly.

Severus studied the determined faces of his companions. "Very well, then," he said, hoping his hoarse voice did not reveal his suddenly strong emotions. He raised his teacup in a wry salute and cocked a brow. "To conspiracy."

"To conspiracy!" his colleagues quietly echoed the toast.

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

Severus glanced down curiously at the solemn boy who walked along beside him in companionable silence. As soon as they exited the castle and began to stroll down to the lake, he had fully expected the child to chatter and bounce about as boys his age were wont to do. But Harry had shown no interest in running off, and had thankfully not insisted on maintaining the steady stream of frivolous chitchat that most children seemed addicted to. Although the boy had appeared genuinely delighted at the chance to leave the Infirmary, his initial excitement had diminished significantly as Severus had escorted him through the nearly deserted castle and onto the grounds. Severus began to wonder if the outing had been a mistake. He cleared his throat hesitantly.

"Are you feeling well?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. I'm fine."

Severus studied him surreptitiously as they walked. "Are you weary? Do you wish to return to the Infirmary?"

"Oh no, sir. I'm not tired." Potter glanced up at him shyly. "May we walk a little further?"

Severus nodded and paced slowly, careful to adjust his stride to the boy's smaller steps so as not to rush him. The boy remained gravely silent.

Oh, hell. This must be one of those emotional things. . . the boy is depressed - understandably, I suppose.

He sighed gloomily, and led the boy to the lakeside, pausing to look out over the sparkling water. The boy said nothing, but after a moment, he stooped to retrieve several small stones. He straightened and began skipping the stones across the water's surface with some skill.

Why must all little boys do that? What pleasure can they derive from throwing stones into water, for Merlin's sake? Is this some sort of boyhood ritual that I missed out on? Seems rather pointless to me.

As if the boy had divined his disapproval, Harry stopped throwing the stones and sat down on a nearby boulder, staring into the water. Feeling rather awkward just standing there, Severus finally moved to sit beside him. He watched Harry, who was watching a swarm of fat tadpoles squirming about in the mud at the water's edge.

I suppose he's wishing he could collect the silly things in a jar. Isn't that what little boys do? Collect tadpoles in jars and take them home? Dear Merlin - I hope he doesn't drag in all manner of wildlife this summer!. . .unless, of course, they're useful for potions.

"Where is their mother?"

The boy's soft query startled Severus, and he stared at the boy in bewilderment. "Whose mother?"

"The tadpoles," Harry answered evenly. He pointed at the wriggling swarm. "There's so many of them. But you never see their parents nearby - you don't see the grownup frogs looking out for them, or anything."

Severus frowned. Don't they teach even basic biology in Muggle schools anymore? "Adult frogs don't raise their young."

"They don't?"

"No. The female lays her eggs in the mud, then she swims off, and leaves them to hatch on their own."

"She doesn't take care of them? Protect them?" Harry stared up at him with a small frown. "What keeps other animals from eating them?"

"Nothing. Fish and birds eat many of the eggs. . .and the tadpoles too, when they hatch. That's why the female produces hundreds of eggs. . .so a few, at least, may be lucky enough to survive to adulthood." Harry blinked at him. "It's a question of odds, you see," Severus explained, feeling strangely foolish.

"Oh." Harry looked back down at the tadpoles with a disapproving frown. "That's harsh," he commented softly.

"Yes."

Severus settled himself more comfortably on the smooth boulder warmed by the afternoon sun. Harry pulled up his knees and draped his arms around them. He lifted his head and stared out, unseeing at the water.

This is not good. First he is depressed. Now he's confronting the cruelty of nature. . .mothers abandoning their young to fate. . .not a very comforting analogy. I guess I should say something. . .but what?

"Harry?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Are you. . . disturbed?"

"Sir?" The boy looked at him affronted, as if Severus had declared him mentally unbalanced.

"You seem rather quiet," Severus hastened to explain. "You were excited to leave the Infirmary, but now you seem less. . .enthusiastic. Are you troubled about anything?"

Harry dropped his gaze to his knees and shrugged. "I'm fine."

"Is. . .is there anything you wish to talk about?"

The boy tilted his head and peered cautiously up at him through his messy fringe of hair. "Like what?"

All right. We're going to be deliberately obtuse, are we? Very well.

"Like - your relatives, for example?" Let's go right for the gold, shall we?

Harry scowled and ducked his head. "Who wants to talk about them?" he snarled softly.

"You really need to, you know," Severus urged.

"Why?" the boy snapped petulantly. "I finally get to come outside, and it's a nice day and everything. . .why ruin it by talking about them?"

Severus chose to ignore the irritating whine that had crept into the boy's voice. Patience.

"We don't have to discuss it now, if you don't wish to," Severus agreed calmly. "But we will need to discuss it eventually, Harry."

"Why?" Harry grumbled. "Why can't we just drop it!"

"You want the nightmares to stop, don't you Harry?"

"Wha...?" The boy's head shot up and he gaped at Severus in alarm. "What. . .what nightmares?" he stammered. "I don't have nightmares."

Severus eyed him skeptically.

"I don't!" Harry shouted stubbornly, a flush of pink creeping up his neck and into his cheeks. "Only little kids have those! Who said I have nightmares?"

"I have watched you sleep for two nights, Harry. Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

"I. . .I don't! I. . .I talk in my sleep sometimes! It doesn't mean anything! You. . ." the boy floundered, overcome by embarrassment. "Why are you watching me sleep, anyway? That's creepy!" he hissed in fury.

Too upset. Back off.

"All right, Harry. Never mind. We can talk about it later."

The boy turned his head away and hugged his knees, his small body tightened into a tense ball.

"Calm yourself, Harry," Severus softened his voice to its silkiest croon. "It's all right. I said we don't have to talk about it now."

After several minutes, Harry's frame relaxed a bit, the tension slowly easing. "I don't have nightmares," he muttered sullenly under his breath.

"All right, Harry."

Severus gave him several more minutes to compose himself, then rose to his feet. "Would you like to walk a little more, or would you prefer to return to the castle?" He waited patiently while the boy considered his response.

"Could we. . .I mean, I'd like to walk some more - if you don't mind, sir." Harry stood and faced him awkwardly. "I'm sorry I yelled," he murmured uneasily.

"It's all right."

"It wasn't very polite, " the boy admitted.

No, it wasn't. If term were in session, I'd dock points, little lion.

"You were upset," Severus replied. "Let's walk down to the Quidditch pitch, shall we?"

Ah, Severus! You're going soft, you hopeless git!

The boy followed him wordlessly, lost in thought.

Anyone glancing out of a castle window might have been amused at the sight. . .the tall, imposing Potions Master, stalking slowly across the grounds, his billowing black robes out of place in the hot summer sun. And beside him, matching him stride for stride - a skinny boy, too small for his twelve years, in a tattered t-shirt and raggedy jeans. To most they would appear an odd pair. . .but to those with true insight, there was something visibly honest and content in their silent companionship.

Harry scowled in frustration, squirming on the bed. He glanced past Madame Pomfrey at his Potions professor standing silently by one of the windows. He wished the industrious medi-witch would go away. Snape had taken care of him all week – and he did it without all this fussing and fretting. Madam Pomfrey clucked disapprovingly when Harry wriggled and scanned him again for the fourth time. Harry gave Snape an imploring look, but the professor remained still, his face a stony mask.

“No fever, and no signs of dehydration…” Pomfrey muttered. “But you’re right, Severus. He’s undernourished. He’ll need to continue to take a nutritional potion for several months, I should think. How often have you been dosing him?”

“Twice a day,” Snape replied blandly.

“Twice?” Pomfrey looked surprise.

“It’s not the conventional potion. I developed a specific potion for Mr. Potter, that addresses his individual nutritional needs. He gets a dose with breakfast and again at dinner. The interval allows his body to absorb more of the nutrients, and stimulates his appetite.”

Pomfrey nodded, visibly impressed. Harry glanced curiously at Snape. He didn’t know the Potions Master had brewed special potions just for him. It made him feel funny – kind of warm in his belly but a bit embarrassed as well. He’s done so much already! I wish I wasn’t so much trouble. . .he must be tired of looking after me. I’ll bet he’s glad Madame Pomfrey is here, so he doesn’t have to bother with me anymore!

Madame Pomfrey straightened and sighed, smoothing her crisp apron. “Well, I must say, Severus, I’m very impressed. Based on the notes you recorded of Harry’s initial condition, it’s clear you did a fine job of healing him.”

“Of course,” Snape nodded imperiously, as if there was never any question of the quality of his work. To Harry’s surprise, the professor didn’t appear in any hurry to escape the Infirmary, but remained where he was.

Madame Pomfrey insisted Harry lay down in the bed again (even though he assured her he wasn’t the least bit tired) and made rather a fuss about tucking him in. Harry flushed in embarrassment. He didn’t like Snape seeing the medi-witch coddle him.She acts like I’m a baby or an invalid or something. I wish she’d go away.After warming his blankets and refilling his water pitcher, the overprotective healer finally wandered back to her office. Harry glanced over at Snape with a sullen pout. “I wish she wouldn’t make such a fuss,” he muttered.

A small smirk lurked around the stern professor’s thin lips. “She’s been like that since before I was a student,” he replied softly. “She cossets the staff the same way. If you discover a way to diminish her aggressive nurturing, do let me in on the secret, won’t you?”

Harry flashed him a shocked, guilty grin. Did Snape just make a joke? He had expected Snape to make some caustic remark about complaining children, or at least criticize Pomfrey for spoiling the Boy-Who-Lived. He hadn’t expected the man to agree with him, or make a snarky comment about another staff member. He watched the professor move to the chair beside his bed and sit down. Snape’s unexpectedly grave expression made him suddenly nervous.

“Harry, Professor Dumbledore will be down directly to speak with you,” Snape said, studying him solemnly. Harry squirmed in the pregnant pause that followed. “He will ask you about your treatment at the Dursleys.”

Harry scowled. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I know you don’t, and I would prefer you had more time before being questioned,” Snape replied grimly. “But I know the Headmaster, Harry. He will insist. . .as, frankly, he should.”

Harry studied his hands as if they were the most interesting items in the room.

“He must decide what’s to be done with you. . . whether to make new living arrangements, or to. . .to send you back to your relatives.” He raised a hand at Harry’s panicked look. “He cannot make an informed decision if he doesn’t know the truth, Harry. It’s crucial that he understand what your life has been like in their hands.”

Harry turned his face away. “I. . .it’s. . .it’s hard to talk about it,” he admitted in a whisper.

“I understand.”

He does understand. But he wants me to tell. . . .“Do I have to?”

“I think it is important.”Harry clutched the edge of the blanket nervously. “Can’t. . can’t you tell him?”

“I have told him what I know – but my word isn’t enough in this case, Harry. He has to hear it from you,” Snape said softly.Harry sighed.

I can’t do this. I can’t. but…but I have to! Snape says so. . .do you want him to think you’re a coward?. . .be a Gryffindor, for gosh sakes!“Okay,” he murmured unhappily.They sat in silence for a moment, while Harry worried the blanket between anxious fingers. Harry spoke again, saying the first words that sprang to his lips without thinking. “Will you stay with me?”

He cringed as soon he realized what he had said.Oh no! What a stupid, wimpy thing to say! He’ll think I’m a cry baby! He doesn’t want to hang around here, holding your hand, you wuss!“I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have. . .” he flinched when Snape cut him off.

“Of course I will.”

Harry couldn’t help staring up at the man beside him. The stern face was as stony as always. . .but there was something else. . .something in Snape’s dark gaze that seemed. . .pleased? Sympathetic?

“Thank you,” Harry whispered, a little stunned.Snape opened his mouth as if to say something else, but he was interrupted by the Infirmary doors swinging open with a soft squeak. From under the curtain of his shaggy bangs, Harry warily watched the Headmaster stroll toward them.

“Harry!” The Headmaster’s voice was warm and gentle. He came to stand by the bed, and gazed intently down at Harry, the normal twinkle in his bright eyes dimmed by regret. “I am so glad you are feeling better.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Harry answered automatically, avoiding the sharp gaze.

“I was saddened by the circumstances that brought you here, my boy,” Dumbledore continued. “I am so sorry for your misfortune.”Snape snorted softly beside him, echoing Harry’s uncertainty. Harry shrugged.The Headmaster waved his wand casually at a nearby chair, which slid closer. Another wave turned the stiff wooden chair into a cozy, overstuffed thing with a bright purple chintz cover. Dumbledore seated himself comfortably and gave Harry a sad, determined look.

“Harry, we need to talk.” He glanced sharply at Snape, clearly dismissing him.

“I have informed Mr. Potter of the nature of your inquiry, Headmaster,” Snape replied smoothly without moving from his seat. “Considering the reluctance Mr. Potter has displayed in discussing this topic, I think it would be wisest if I remain. If he manages to work himself into hysterics, I may need to dose him with a calming potion.”

Harry scowled at Snape, surprised and offended by his comments, but Snape merely glanced at him with a warning in his eyes. Harry shrugged and pretended to ignore Snape’s curt words.

“It’s all right, Professor. I don’t mind if he stays. He saw everything, anyway,” Harry muttered sullenly.

Dumbledore nodded solemnly. “Can you tell me, Harry – what precipitated this…altercation…you had with your Uncle?”

Harry swallowed hard and stared down at the blanket. With halting words, he slowly explained the events that had occurred from the time he had left Hogwarts and returned to Surrey. The two men listened without comment. When Harry hesitated a few times, Professor Dumbledore patted his hand gently. Harry stiffened each time and drew his hand away, but didn’t dare look at either of them.

“Do you have any idea what may have caused your relatives to behave so unreasonably, Harry?” Dumbledore asked at one point. “Have there been any other unusual problems at home – or at your Uncle’s place of work?”

Harry shook his head. “No, sir. . . there’s nothing unusual about any of it. They’ve always been like that.”

“Like what, Harry?” Dumbledore asked gently.

“They’ve always hated me,” Harry said truthfully.

“Now, Harry,” Dumbledore protested mildly. “That’s a pretty strong word – hate. I understand that you don’t get along very well, but I’m sure they don’t hate you.”

“Yes, they do,” Harry frowned. “They always have. I didn’t understand why until I got my letter from Hogwarts. They hate magic. And they hate me because I’m a wizard.”

“I can understand why some Muggles may be afraid of magic,” Dumbledore agreed gently. “People often fear what they cannot understand. Perhaps they are simply afraid of your magic.”

“Whatever,” Harry shrugged sullenly. “They can’t be too afraid of it, or they wouldn’t dare to do some of things they do to me. Anyway, I know they hate me. They’ve told me so often enough. And it’s not like I blame them or anything.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m a freak. I’m not normal. All I do is cause them trouble. I’m a burden. They had to take me in when my parents died and they never wanted me. I don’t belong there. I’m just in the way.”

“Oh, Harry – you know that’s not true,’ Dumbledore said sadly.

“Sure it is. I’ve always been a burden. It costs money to feed me and put a roof over my head. That’s why I have to work – to earn my keep,” Harry said emphatically. “I don’t mind working really. It’s just. . .”

“Just what, Harry?”

“Well. . . Uncle Vernon hates anything to do with magic – and he won’t let me have my books or anything from school and I can’t do my summer homework. . .and. . .” Harry angrily blinked back sudden tears. “And he and Aunt Petunia hated my parents. They always say terrible things about them and. . .and. . . and I don’t want to stay there anymore!” He swallowed back the hard lump in his throat and he could feel his hands shaking with the effort not to cry.

“Headmaster,’ Snape suddenly interrupted, his voice sharp with disgust. “I really don’t see where all this whining is getting us.”

“Severus!” Professor Dumbledore snapped in irritation. “Please!”

Harry bit his lip, too shocked to respond. What!? What does he mean, whining?

“Sir, I have a suggestion that may speed up this interrogation,” Snape insisted grimly. “And eliminate Potter’s overinflated self-pity and tendency to exaggerate.”

Dumbledore glared at him.Harry covered his face with his hands, suddenly too hurt and embarrassed to face either of them. Oh Merlin! Is that what he thinks? I thought. . .I thought he believed me! I thought he was on my side!

“I suggest you use your Pensieve, sir. You can collect the relevant memories, and view them at your leisure, without requiring Mr. Potter to relive his experiences or confess to anything he may be concealing.”

Dumbledore frowned. “I don’t believe Harry is concealing anything, Severus. . . however, there is merit in your suggestion.”

“What’s a Pensieve?” Harry asked shakily.

“It’s a magical device that one can use to store memories,’ Dumbledore explained.

“Memories?”

“Yes. You can place your memories in it. Then someone else can enter those memories and see events exactly as they happened,” Dumbledore rose. “Yes… that is an excellent suggestion, Severus. I will return to my office right now and retrieve it.” He patted Harry’s shoulder absently. “Don’t worry, my boy. . .all will be well.”

“How do I remove my memories? Will it hurt?” Harry asked anxiously.

“No, my boy – not at all. Don’t fret! I’ll return shortly.” With that, the old wizard swept from the room, leaving Harry alone with the Potions Master.

“Harry?” Snape surprised him by reaching for his hand as soon as the Infirmary Room door swung closed. Harry tried to pull away. “Harry, look at me.” The stern command was urgent and Harry found himself reluctantly looking up.“I didn’t mean what I said,’ Severus said quietly, staring intently at him. “About whining – or self-pity . . .none of it was true.”

“What?” Harry gaped at him, unable to disguise his hurt.

“We don’t have much time. . .the Headmaster will return soon. I can’t explain all of this right now – but I will. I promise you!”

Harry scowled at him. “Why. . .why are you being so mean to me?”

Severus sighed. “Remember last year – when I told you I had to pretend to hate you in front of others?”Harry nodded dubiously.“This is much like that. After Professor Dumbledore collects your memories, I’ll send him away. Then we’ll talk. Meanwhile – you have to trust me.”

Harry scowled again. “Please, Harry,” the Potion Master’s expression was cold and unfeeling, but there was a pleading in his tone that Harry had never heard before. . .that he could hardly believe came from the haughty wizard. Harry nodded slowly and Snape seemed to collect himself.“When the Headmaster returns, I want you to share every memory you can recall. Start as far back as you can remember. Can you do that?”

Harry nodded, his brow furrowed in confusion. “I guess so.”

“It will be all right, Harry. I promise.”Harry studied the man’s intent stare. He wants something. . .I think this is important. Harry was afraid to trust him. Adults always let you down, don’t they?. . . But Snape never has. . . he saved my life. . . he came when no one else did, and he took me away from the Dursleys. . .maybe I can trust him. . .for a little while longer, anyway. . .what could it hurt?He leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes. I’m so tired. . .I wish they’d all just leave me alone. . .I wish I could just go to sleep.

“I know you’re tired,” Snape read his thoughts from his weary face. “It will be over soon. Don’t worry about anything.”

Harry nodded but didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t want to think about all of this, but he didn’t want to disappoint Snape or the Headmaster either. It was hard to talk about the Dursleys. . .but they already knew some of it now. And he realized he felt a little strange. . .lighter somehow. Maybe talking about it did help. At least he didn’t feel quite so alone.

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

“We’d best let Potter rest now, Headmaster,” Snape said coldly. He tipped the cup to the boy’s lips and made sure he drank all of the sleeping potion. When Harry laid his head down, his eyes were already sliding closed.

“I spent considerable effort and time healing him – I don’t want him to relapse now.” He scowled at Albus’ benign smile. “I daresay Madame Pomfrey would be displeased, to say the least.”

The threat of Pomfrey’s volatile disapproval had the desired effect. Albus nodded and twitched his wand. The Pensieve rose from the bedside table and hovered next to him. “I’ll review the memories this evening, and we’ll discuss this further tomorrow. Good night, Severus. And thank you for your assistance.”

“Good night, Headmaster.”He watched Albus exit the Infirmary, the Pensieve floating gently along behind him. Only when he was certain the old wizard was gone, did he tuck the boy’s blanket around him and brush the messy curls from his forehead.“This won’t be easy, child,” he whispered to the sleeping boy. “I hope you will be able to forgive me.”

The wooden chest held twenty-four padded partitions, each of which cradled a glass vial with hinged stopper. Half of the vials had already been filled and sealed. Another dozen empty vials waited on the desk. Albus Dumbledore set his wand aside and called for a house elf. Sighing wearily, he leaned back in his chair and sipped the promptly delivered cup of tea.

I’m getting too old for this.

Sorting and storing the vaporous strands was delicate, exacting work. He hadn’t expected the child to provide so many memories. . .had he been alone with the boy, he would have limited the number Harry gave him. But with his brooding Potions Master witnessing the process, Albus had found no subtle way to dissuade the boy from loading his Pensive with memory after memory. Even with half the vials filled, the Pensieve still glowed brightly with the telltale radiant blue mist.

I wonder if twenty-four vials will be enough.

A glance at the spinning brass clock on his desk confirmed that he had already spent over an hour separating each memory and depositing it in a vial. He was beginning to wish he had followed his first instinct and destroyed them all. But as tiring as the process was, he had remembered Severus’ earlier precautions, and had to admit they were sound. The day might come when he needed to overturn his original decision and take the boy away from the Muggles. It would seriously endanger his plans, and was certainly not a desirable choice – a choice he would adopt only as a last resort. But if time and experience had taught him anything, it was that the Fates were unpredictable. Even his finest intrigues could be crushed in one unforeseen event - the tragedy of the Potters and the Longbottoms had proven that. So despite his misgivings, he had decided to store the boy’s memories against possible future need. Albus Dumbledore liked to keep all of his options open - even unlikely ones.

He frowned thoughtfully at the glowing Pensieve. Of course, the sorting process would go much faster if he took a quick look at each memory, instead of working blindly, but his reluctance to do so was still too strong. He really didn’t want to view those memories. He knew vaguely what they might contain – he had seen enough from his staff’s perspective to speculate on the boy’s home life. That speculation was distressing enough – he didn’t want those suspicions confirmed. He told himself it wouldn’t matter : that the truth wouldn’t alter his course. But he was too old and wise to deceive himself.

You’re a coward, that’s the crux of the matter. You don’t want your conscience troubled by the guilt of how your actions have hurt Harry. You don’t want to face the consequences of your choices.

But Albus reasoned there was more to his reluctance than the possible resulting guilt. He was afraid that full knowledge of Harry’s hardships might sway his decision. He already regretted that circumstances had forced him into this position. If he viewed details of the boy’s wretched existence, he might be influenced to abandon his long term strategy in order to rescue the child from his misery.

You’re soft on the boy. You didn’t expect to grow to love him. So like my dear James. . .so brave and pure. . . why is it that the best and brightest must always pay the price for peace? Why must the innocent be sacrificed?

He didn’t know the answer to this philosophical enigma – one of the most heartrending injustices of life. He had long since ceased looking for the answer. He had learned to accept the inevitable and to find ways to live with his chosen course, ignoring what he would not , or dared not change.

It was Severus who taught me that lesson. His pain. . .his tragedy was my teacher. I’ve lived too long with the shame of that failure. I won’t repeat it with Harry.

He sipped his tea, allowing his tired mind to wander in the past – to remember the frightened young Death Eater who knelt at his feet professing his sins that crucial moment long ago. Albus hadn’t bothered with the Pensieve that night. With Severus’ unconditional consent, he had entered the wounded young man’s open and vulnerable mind. What he saw there, left him breathless with horror and grief.

Severus had assumed that the Headmaster’s anguished reaction was based on the dark deeds that he had reluctantly performed in the service of his evil master. Even now, more than a decade later, he probably still believed that Albus silently condemned him for his misdeeds, despite his many sacrifices for the sake of redemption.

But Albus’ sorrow was not for the mistakes the young man had made. Severus’ sins were grievous, but not nearly as shocking as they might have been. Albus had seen much worse… he, himself, had done worse in the name of the Light. But Severus’ innate scruples had burdened him with excessive guilt. He possessed strong inflexible principles – far too noble for any mortal man or wizard to live up to – and because he could not forgive himself, he never expected Albus to. It was one of the shrewd young wizard’s greatest misconceptions.

What Severus never understood, was that Albus’ dismay at his shared memories was not for his Death Eater activities. Albus’ sorrow lay in the younger wizard’s earlier memories : memories of his childhood and years at Hogwarts. Viewing those had forced Albus to acknowledge what he had steadfastly overlooked in the past. He had failed Severus. He had seen and ignored the boy’s pain. He had allowed House prejudice and his fondness for James distort his perception of the young Severus. Albus didn’t blame Severus for his misguided alliance with Riddle. . .he blamed himself. His neglect and indifference had driven the boy into darkness.

I wasn’t there for you, Severus. I didn’t offer the support and compassion you needed. I made the same mistake with Tom. . .I won’t make the same mistake again.

As if his rumination had summoned the object of his musings, a soft chime alerted the old wizard that the required password had opened the outer door to his office and activated the revolving stairs. Severus was on his way up to see him.

No one knew how the Headmaster always knew who was about to visit him. Albus never revealed his secret, for he liked being thought of as vaguely omniscient – but many would have been surprised by the ludicrously simple answer. Regular visitors to the Headmaster’s office were keyed to his wards with a unique signal attached to the individual. There was a distinctive alarm for each staff member, as well as one for expected students. A variety of whistles, chimes, bongs, tweets and gurgles combined to identify the visitor; even that foolish prat Fudge has his own alert (one that sounded suspiciously like the braying of an ass.) Unexpected or uninvited guests were announced with a loud hoot like a startled owl – a piercing noise that usually gave Albus time to slip out of sight and identify the intruder from concealment before confronting them. The signal for Severus Snape was a single low melodious chime, so Albus was prepared when the somber Potions Professor knocked on his inner door and entered.

“Good evening, Severus!” Albus twinkled cheerfully at him.

“Headmaster,” Severus prowled across the room and slumped into the chair across from him.

“Lemon sherbet?” Albus smiled at Snape’s grimaced refusal, amused by the customary rejection. He doubted Severus knew the favored candies were laced with a mild calming draught, but the Potions Master’s natural suspicion prompted him to refuse on instinct.

“How’s Harry?” Albus asked, savoring one of the sour confections. Fortunately, habitual usage had made him immune to the candy’s slight effects.

“Asleep. . .thank Merlin!” Severus growled, rubbing his brow with a frown. “The brat is exhausting to be around – even when confined to bed!”

Albus chuckled. “I confess there are times I wished I still had the energy of a twelve-year-old lad.”

“Not I,” proclaimed Severus crossly. “I disliked rambunctious children – even when I was twelve myself!”

“Hmmm - you were an unusually solemn child, if I recall,” Albus admitted. Not wishing to pursue this particular topic, he redirected the conversation. “So, I’m glad to hear that Harry has regained his strength. Do you think he is well enough to return home tomorrow?”

Severus shrugged. “I don’t see why not,” he drawled impassively. “He’ll be free to leave the Infirmary in the morning. Better he were at home, than wandering about the halls getting into trouble, I suppose.”

“Poppy must feel he is well enough if she’s decided to release him.”

Severus peered at him from under slightly hooded eyes. “Madame Pomfrey seems surprisingly untroubled by Mr. Potter’s condition. Funny, that. . . . .” he added thoughtfully. “Normally, she is unduly overprotective of any child suspected of . . .ill-treatment.”

“Perhaps she realizes that the situation is not as serious as we originally believed,” Albus offered.

“Is it not?” Severus gazed pointedly at the vials and Pensieve between them on the desk. “Did your jaunt through Potter’s juvenile memories reassure you?”

“Partly,” Albus admitted uncomfortably.

“So the spoiled prat was exaggerating his mistreatment?” Severus sneered, his ebony eyes glittering dangerously.

“Not really. There is no doubt the Muggles have been less than kind to the child. But I don’t believe he is in any serious danger there.” Albus sighed forlornly. “In truth, I dislike returning him to a home where he receives so little compassion and support. . .but I still believe it is the safest place for him, and it’s best he remain where he is.” He glanced at the wizard across from him.

Severus’ expression was cool and unreadable. “When will you tell Potter your decision?”

“Tonight, after dinner. I’ll explain everything to him.”

“I’ll tell Madame Pomfrey to have a calming draught prepared, in case the boy is too elated to sleep,” Severus sneered nastily.

“Harry’s a strong lad,” Albus replied brightly. “I’ve no doubt he’ll manage.”

“If you say so, Headmaster,” Severus replied indifferently.

“And, of course, you will ensure that Harry receives better treatment in future when you speak with the Dursleys, won’t you, Severus?”

“Naturally,” Severus smirked unpleasantly. “It is a conversation I look forward to with keen anticipation.”

Albus fought his own urge to smile. “You will be careful, won’t you? We wouldn’t want to attract negative attention from the Ministry, after all.”

Severus arched a brow. “I will make certain my actions aren’t traceable,” he conceded.

“I appreciate your discretion,” Albus nodded with satisfaction. “Speaking of the Ministry, I managed to smooth over Harry’s little incident of ‘accidental magic’ the night before you retrieved him. You may tell him not to worry – all charges have been dropped. I have also informed my sources in that department that a member of my staff will be visiting #4 Privet Drive in the morning, and they assured me that they will ignore any legal magic performed on the premises tomorrow.”

Severus snorted at his emphasis on the word legal. “How kind of you, Headmaster. Isn’t it fortunate that legal magic used creatively can still be most effective?” His clipped words dripped with venom, and Albus shuddered in spite of himself.

“I almost wish I could accompany you,” he admitted darkly.

“I have asked Professor Flitwick to come with me,” Severus replied. “His skill at memory charms could prove useful.”

“Excellent idea!” Albus agreed. “Will I see you for breakfast?”

“I think not,” Severus took his cue and rose, knowing that he was being dismissed. “I mean to get an early start. As soon as we have the brat all sorted, I intend to return immediately to the Continent. My mission there has been delayed long enough. I have an important meeting scheduled in Belgrade in two days time. My contact there is tenuous - I don’t wish to risk losing him due to Potter’s childish predicaments.”

“Severus, I do wish you’d at least try to be more sympathetic to the boy,” Albus sighed. “I expect tomorrow will be difficult enough for him – don’t make it more unpleasant than necessary. The boy will need understanding and support.”

“Don’t worry, Headmaster,” Severus strode to the door and turned, gazing at him in an odd, inscrutable manner. “I’ll take care of Gryffindor’s Golden Boy for you. . . you have my word.” His robes billowed even more dramatically than usual as he stalked out.

Albus listened to the grinding growl of the stone stairs as they spiraled down to release Snape into the empty hallway. As he warmed his now cold tea with a wandless wave, he was unaware of the tiny figure that awaited the Potions Professor in the shadows of a nearby alcove. If he had heard the two words the taller wizard uttered, he wouldn’t have understood their significance. But the smaller figure did, and rushed off to pass the words along.

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

“We’re on,” Filius hissed, poking his head into Minerva’s office.

Minerva scowled and nodded. “Sev’s chambers?” she mouthed silently.

“Thirty minutes,” Filius whispered. “I’ll find Pomona.”

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

Albus rooted around in a lower desk drawer, searching for his private candy stash. He selected a rum toffee, peeling the gold wrapper carefully. Popping the candy in his mouth, he sucked pensively, lost in memory. Severus’ presence had brought that fateful night back to him even stronger than before.

Viewing the penitent Death Eater’s troubled memories and learning the truth of Severus’ unhappy youth had made his next task even harder. He remembered he had been sorely tempted to spirit the broken young man away on the spot. . .to soothe his guilt and shame, to hide and protect him from the consequences of his tragic choices. But Albus hadn’t been able to disregard the opportunity Severus’ defection provided to the war effort. So he had demanded the young Slytherin’s Loyalty Oath then and there, and convinced him to turn himself in. Albus himself notified the Aurors, who, after demoralizing failures and losses, were eager to bring one of Voldemort’s followers to justice.

Albus didn’t know what befell the young wizard during the long three weeks in the hands of the vengeful Ministry. He didn’t want to know. It was enough that the experience produced the desired results. As soon as Severus was released, he had stumbled back to Hogwarts, straight into the Headmaster’s waiting arms.

Albus could have spared the repentant young Death Eater much of the suffering he had clearly endured during his incarceration. He could have intervened sooner. . .he could have made certain the overzealous Aurors refrained from some of their more notorious interrogation techniques. He could even have used his considerable influence to get Severus released into his custody. But he was certain that the young wizard’s conscience needed – even desired punishment to atone for his mistakes. Severus needed penance in order to forgive himself.

Unfortunately, the poor stubborn fool had never forgiven himself. . . not even after his torment. And it was clear Severus had suffered. He had returned to Hogwarts a shattered shell of the young man he once was. It had taken him nearly three months to recover from the ordeal. But he had recovered. . .and his overwhelming gratitude to Albus for his release, and for his belief in him, had cemented an unshakeable, enduring loyalty.

So great was Severus’ gratitude and subsequent devotion to Albus, that he accepted all of the Headmaster’s conditions without complaint. He had turned spy for the Order, placing himself in almost constant mortal peril. He had accepted the teaching post at Hogwarts, even though he disliked children and had no love for the profession.

Gratitude. . .that was the ultimate motivator, wasn’t it Severus? Gratitude. The debt you owed me for your absolution. Gratitude and your own remorse made you mine. Gratitude has bound you to me and to Hogwarts forever.

Albus let his thoughts wander to a different lost child . . .a bright, bitter, misguided orphan who turned from the Light long ago. I failed you, Tom. I admit it freely. I waited too late. . .and I lost you.

Yet another abandoned boy lay in the Hogwarts Infirmary this very moment. This time Albus would get it right from the beginning. . .he would secure the boy’s trust and gratitude early enough to ensure his destiny.

Harry already loves Hogwarts – already considers this his home, he told me so himself. And why wouldn’t he? What else does he have – an unloved orphan with no other true home but here? His childhood has been much like that of both my lost boys: he has suffered as Tom and Severus did. His suffering and neglect reinforces his need for my protection and guidance. After his lonely summers, he will crave Hogwarts like a thirsty man craves water. His suffering will prime him to accept my influence and training.

But I won’t make the same mistakes I did with the others, Harry! I won’t wait too late this time – won’t leave anything to chance. I will offer you the pity and understanding I denied them. I will be your one solace in a harsh world. . .the Light in your darkness. Like Severus, you will turn to your beloved Headmaster in your loneliness and misery, and find love and encouragement. I will be the grandfather you never had. I will mold you and teach you – groom you for your fate. I will be your mentor – your guide - your leader, and you will be my loyal champion. And you will be grateful for my care, Harry. . .so very grateful. . . nothing will be able to shake your faith in me. Your devotion to me will be absolute. You will be mine.

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

Harry ate alone in the Infirmary. After earnestly promising Madame Pomfrey not to leave his bed for any reason, he had convinced her to join the rest of the staff in the Great Hall for dinner. Roker brought him his nutritional potion and his dinner tray. Harry had been very pleased with the shepherd’s pie and green beans the elf provided (Real food at last!) and had even asked for a second pumpkin custard. He didn’t get the second helping of pudding. (Honestly, that elf scowls more like Snape every day!) But Roker did bring him another tall glass of ice cold milk. Harry really loved cold milk. He’d never had it at the Dursleys, and when he’d first tasted it at Hogwarts he was hooked. He had missed Hogwarts’ food tremendously since summer started.

After he had eaten, he listlessly paged through his Charms text. He wasn’t in the mood for studying. . .the good food had made him a bit drowsy and he couldn’t seem to concentrate. The week in the Infirmary had deprived of him any privacy, and he was thoroughly tired of Madame Pomfrey’s constant pestering. But while he had initially enjoyed having the ward to himself for a change, now that he was alone, the huge room seemed awfully empty and isolated.

I’m lonely. I wish I had someone to talk to. I wish that sodding Dobby hadn’t stolen my letters!

He wondered what Hermione had written to him. He wondered if Ron had actually written. He wondered how they were and what they were doing.

Whatever it is, I’ll bet it’s a whole lot more fun than lying in the Infirmary, or being locked in your room. . .a lot better than getting thrashed, I’ll bet!Harry grimaced. Stop feeling sorry for yourself, you silly berk! You should be glad that Ron and Hermione are having fun. . .even if it is without you.

Thinking about his friends wasn’t helping his loneliness so Harry turned his mind to other thoughts.

I wonder where Snape is. He usually comes around at dinner to make sure I eat. He hasn’t been to see me all afternoon! Oh, well. . .he probably has better things to do. . .he can’t be sitting around entertaining you all the time. Other people have lives too, Harry!

He realized that he hadn’t seen any of the other Professors either – not since lunch, when Professor McGonagall had brought him some books from the library.

I wonder where everybody is? Professor Flitwick said he’d play a game of chess with me today. I wonder why he didn’t come?

By this time, Harry would even have welcomed a visit from Professor Sprout. . .even though she did tend to look at him that way. . .like he was a stray puppy she found by the side of the road, or something.

I wonder why Professor Dumbledore hasn’t come back. He’s had those memories all afternoon. . .surely he’s had time to look at them by now. I wonder what he thinks. He must think I’m pathetic now - a total wanker! What’s he going to do now? Will he let me stay here? Will he let me go to Ron’s house until school starts? He wouldn’t make me go back to the Dursleys, would he?

This line of thought only made him feel worse. He had to find something to keep his mind occupied, or he’d go mental thinking about this stuff.I know! I’ll write Professor Snape a thank you letter!

He had been thinking about this for several days. He had already thanked the man a few times, but after all Snape had done for him, he felt like the simple words just weren’t enough. Snape had saved his life – again! – or least saved him from a brutal beating. And he’d healed him, and talked to him. . .even brewed special potions for him. Harry was pretty sure that when a bloke saved your life, something more was required than just saying ‘thanks’. . .he just wasn’t sure what.

Then he remembered how Aunt Petunia used to write a ‘thank you’ letter when someone gave her a gift. . .(well, someone important, anyway. . .and only if the gift was expensive.) She wrote letters to Uncle Vernon’s rich clients who sometimes sent pricey Christmas gifts to people they did business with. And once, the Vicar’s wife had invited them to a posh dinner with a bunch of upper crust, very influential guests – even a few nobles - with lesser titles, of course! (Uncle Vernon’s description). His Aunt Petunia had written the Vicar a long, effusive thank- you-for-inviting-us-we-had-a-lovely-time letter the next day, and even sent flowers!

Harry didn’t think Professor Snape was the type to appreciate flowers. . .and Harry knew he would feel pretty stupid picking a bouquet for the dour wizard. . . but surely saving someone from a beating and healing them was more admirable and gallant than a dinner invite, and deserved at least a nice letter!

Harry drew some clean parchment out of his book bag and pulled the bed cart closer. He laid out his parchment along with the shimmery purple ink, and the Hanson’s Never-Leak quill Snape had given him for Christmas. He stared at the parchment for a moment, frowning.

Maybe I’d better practice first…write a first draft and get it just right…then I can copy it over with the nice ink and quill.

He retrieved an ordinary school quill from his bag and a scrap of parchment he had used earlier for History of Magic notes. With his brow furrowed in concentration, and his tongue poking habitually out of the corner of his mouth, he began to write:

Dear Professor Snape,

Uhmm. . .now what?

I am writing this letter to thank you for all that youhave done for me. Thank you for saving my life and for coming to Surrey to check on me. I am very grateful to you for stopping my uncle fromhurting me and especially for making him fly through the air like that. Thank you for bringing me back to Hogwarts and healing me. I didn’t know you had brewed special potions just for me, but it was very nice of you.

What else? Hmmm….

I know it must be very boring to check up on me all the time and to listen to me whine about my problems. Thank you for listening. It is hard to talk to most people about this kind of stuffbut I don’t mind so much telling you, because you listen really well. (And you don’t make that pity-face like some people do. . .I really hate that, don’t you?!)

I know you said I didn’t have to keep on thanking you, but what you did was really special and I wanted to write you this letter so you would know how much I appreciate it. Maybe someday when we’re really old you will find this letter and read it, and then you can laugh about that silly git Harry Potter and his dopey letter!

Thank you, and I guess that is all I want to say.

Sincerely,

Harry J. Potter

Harry re-read the letter carefully. Sounds okay. Maybe he won’t mind it too much.

Then he switched to his good quill and ink and slowly, carefully, wrote out a clean copy. When he was done, he was rather proud of his effort. It reminded him of his writing lessons with Snape those first few months at Hogwarts, and the letter was very neat. . .at least it didn’t have any ink spots or splatters. He reckoned even Snape might be satisfied with his penmanship.

He proofed the letter one more time. It made him feel a little sniffley, which both surprised and embarrassed him. Blinking back the unwelcome moistness in his eyes, he carefully folded the letter. Then he got out his sealing wax and Gryffindor stamp and with the help of a transfigured match, he melted the wax and sealed the letter.

He wrote: Professor S. Snape on the front in big letters and blew on the ink until it was dry.

I’ll ask Professor Sprout to send it to him by school owl tomorrow. I don’t think he’d like reading it in front of other people. He never reads his mail in the Great Hall like everyone else. . .I wonder why?

He piled his books on the cart and hid the letter under his Potions Book. He didn’t want Madame Pomfrey to see it. . .she was pretty nosy, he’d noticed, and she might say something and he didn’t want to explain it.

He was contemplating calling for Roker and asking for another glass of milk, when quiet footsteps in the corridor alerted him to approaching visitors. He was delighted to see Snape enter the ward, but less delighted by the sight of Professor Dumbledore following close behind him. Snape halted and turned to the Headmaster with a sour glare.

“Perhaps it would be best to wait for Madame Pomfrey,” he said to the Headmaster in a low tone. “She was right behind us. You might wish to ask her for a calming draught first.”

“Ah, yes,” the Headmaster agreed absently. He turned and waited by the door, waving down the hall for the medi-witch to join them. Pomfrey entered the ward, looking a bit put out, and led the old wizard to her office.

Snape crossed over to Harry’s bed and gazed down at him with an odd intensity. “Been behaving yourself, Mr. Potter?” he sneered.

“Yes, sir,” Harry answered, staring up at him. What’s wrong? Why does everyone look so jumpy?

Snape leaned over Harry and shoved the bed cart out of the way. From his bent position, he looked straight into Harry’s startled eyes. “Whatever happens. . . .don’t panic!” he whispered urgently. “Everything will work out.”

Harry blinked at him in astonishment as Snape straightened and flicked his wand to bring a second chair to the bedside. Before Harry could even begin to respond to the professor’s mysterious behavior, Dumbledore came out of Madame Pomfrey’s office, with a very disturbed medi-witch in his wake.

“I want you to know I don’t approve of this, Headmaster,” she hissed softly, giving Harry an apprehensive look.

“Don’t fret, Poppy. . .all will be well,” Dumbledore gave her a peculiar look. She blinked once and retreated into to her office and closed the door.

The Headmaster ambled over to Harry’s bed and sat down beside him. He smiled a reassuring little smile, the twinkle in his eyes a bit dimmed by sadness, and studied the boy in the bed. “Poppy tells me you are fully recovered, Harry. I was most glad to hear this.”

“Thank you, sir,” Harry murmured nervously. Something bad is happening. Why do Dumbledore and Pomfrey look so sad? And what did Snape mean – don’t panic?!

“Now that you are recovered, I am sure you are ready to leave the Infirmary,” Dumbledore continued.

“Yes, sir,” Harry watched him warily.

“And now we must decide what’s to be done with you, my boy,” the old wizard said somberly.

“Can. . .can I stay here? Until school starts again?”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Harry. I believe I’ve explained before that it is against school regulations.”

“Oh,” Harry fought the sudden dread that chilled his gut. “Can. . .I mean, may I stay with Ron? His family invited me!”

“They invited you for the last two weeks of August. I have agreed you may visit them then, but this is only mid-July. Six weeks is a bit too early for a visit, I’m sorry to say. The Weasleys have a very large family. . .I’m afraid caring for another child for that long a time would place both excessive responsibility and undue financial strain on Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. We don’t wish to burden them too much, do we Harry?”

“No, sir,” Harry whispered, swallowing around the hard lump in his throat. Uh, oh. Here it comes. “Then. . .then what will happen to me? Where will I go?”

---- --- ----

Despite Snape’s warning not to panic, Harry had been unable to suppress the sheer terror that overwhelmed him with the dreaded words that left the Headmaster’s lips. He begged shamelessly, too shocked to be embarrassed by his tearful pleas.

“Please, sir! Don’t make me!” he sobbed, struggling when Snape held his head and tried to pour the calming draught down his throat. “You don’t understand! Uncle Vernon will kill me! He hates me! And he hates wizards! He’ll blame me for everything! For the Professors coming in the house, and for knocking him out…and for taking me away! Don’t you see, he’ll blame me!” Harry wailed. “Please don’t take me back! He’ll murder me!”

‘Now, now, Harry. . . .calm yourself, my boy,” Dumbledore patted him on the arm as Snape finally forced the potion on him. Harry swallowed convulsively. His stomach churned with horror and he fought the sharp nausea.

“No one will hurt you. The Professors are going to talk with your family. . .they’ll make certain no harm comes to you,” Dumbledore reassured him kindly.

Harry wanted to punch him right in the nose. He would have too, if the strong potion hadn’t started to work. His mind clouded as the spike of fear receded, and he couldn’t seem to lift his arms. When his lips went numb, he swung his resentful gaze to Snape’s worried face. “Wha. . .wha’ jou do?” he mumbled dazedly.

“Double dose,” Snape admitted tersely. “Calm down – don’t fight it. It will make you sleep.” He gave the Headmaster a scathing glare. “He’ll be out in a few minutes. You’d better leave now, Headmaster. You’ll only upset him more, and he shouldn’t struggle against the effects of the potion.”

“Very well,” Dumbledore rose, looking rather disturbed. “I’m sorry, Harry. I know it’s not what you wished, but it’s for the best. . .you’ll see.”

Harry ignored him. Even in his increasingly muddled state, his anger at the Headmaster paled beside the gut-wrenching anguish of Snape’s betrayal. As the Headmaster shuffled sadly away, the Potions Professor lowered Harry’s head to the pillow and straightened the disheveled sheets around him. When Snape tucked the blanket under his drooping chin, Harry found the strength to grab his sleeve weakly.

“You promised,” he whispered hoarsely. “You swore!”

“Shhh,” Snape whispered back. “Don’t be afraid, child.” His black eyes glistened. “Trust me, Harry.”

It was the last words Harry heard before darkness overtook him.

Harry stood stiffly between Professors Snape and Flitwick, his eyes fixed firmly on the floor. He neither acknowledged nor replied when addressed, pointedly ignoring everyone in the room.

“I know how difficult this must be for you, my boy,” the Headmaster rambled, his rich voice tinged with kindness and regret. “But you mustn’t despair. . . .”

The old wizard had been prattling on for several minutes but Harry had tuned him out as soon as he began to talk. It was a familiar situation. Uncle Vernon had always been fond of long, disparaging lectures. Harry had learned from an early age how to ignore adults and withdraw inside himself, letting the words wash over him without meaning. He remained still and expressionless, his thoughts elsewhere. Mostly, he thought about Professor Snape’s promise: a broken promise now.

He said I wouldn’t have to go back there. He promised. Why does everybody lie?I believed him. . .I really thought he meant it. Maybe he changed his mind. I was too much trouble – a nuisance. He’s probably glad to be rid of me now.

A heavy silence in the room brought him back to the present and he realized that Dumbledore had stopped talking. Harry knew they were all looking at him. Normally, being the object of so many adults’ attention would have embarrassed him, but he was too depressed to care now. There was a movement in front of him, and the portly figure of his Herbology Professor stepped before him. He glanced up to see her round face tight with sorrow.

“Take care of yourself, Harry,” Professor Sprout sighed. “You’ll be back at Hogwarts with us in no time!” She surprised him by pulling him into an awkward, rather fierce hug. Harry stiffened at the contact but didn’t pull away. In class, he had always been a bit intimidated by the brusquely cheerful professor, but she had been kind to him while he recovered in the Infirmary, and he had grown used to her somewhat blustery manner. He thought he heard her sniffle a bit as she released him and moved away.

“Harry.” His Head of House placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing slightly. With her other hand, she gently lifted his chin and looked into his impassive face. Bright blue eyes behind the gold spectacles studied him shrewdly. “Do not worry, my boy. You will be well looked after – I can promise you. Don’t hesitate to contact me if you need anything – anything at all.” She also embraced him, tugging him against her and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. When she whispered in his ear, Harry was too startled to react. “Things aren’t always as they seem, Harry. Have faith in Professor Snape.”

Before he could decipher her odd words, Professor McGonagall stepped back and shimmering purple robes took her place. A wrinkled, aging hand settled on his shoulder and Harry reacted for the first time. He recoiled and shifted a step back, shaking the hand from his shoulder and keeping his eyes on the floor. His anger and disappointment was so intense he dared not look at the Headmaster. He heard the old wizard sigh. “In time, I’m sure you will see that this is all for the best, Harry.”

Bitterness left a sour taste in Harry’s mouth. Best? Best for who? Not me, that’s for sure.

“If the mawkish goodbyes are concluded, Headmaster, I would like to get on with this. I do have other important matters to attend to,” Snape drawled insolently. “Come, Potter.” He grasped Harry’s elbow and towed him briskly over to the hearth. Professor Flitwick followed them. “I’ll take the boy first,” Snape told the Charms Professor, and snatched up a handful of powder from an open jar.

“I’ll be right behind you,” Flitwick assured him calmly.

Snape stepped into the fireplace, pulling Harry in next to him. He pulled the dejected boy close, put a firm arm around him, tossed down the powder and snapped “Figg Home.”

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

If not for the Potions Master’s firm grip, Harry would have pitched from the fireplace onto his face. Pulling away from the man’s grasp, he coughed, rubbing the soot and ash from his eyes. I hate floo travel! he decided. He felt a ripple of air wash over him, and glanced down to see the soot on his clothes vanish.

“Give me your glasses,” Snape said quietly.

Harry pulled off his glasses and blinked as Professor Snape waved his wand, then gently positioned the now clean lenses on Harry’s face.

“Ah, Professor!” a familiar voice simpered. “I was told to expect you. I’ve already got the kettle on!”

Harry turned to stare dumbly at his old babysitter, Arabella Figg. A quick glance around confirmed that they now stood in his neighbor’s tiny kitchen. The old woman beamed at him, apparently unsurprised to see wizards step out of her fireplace. “Mrs. Figg?” Harry coughed again.

“Could we have a glass of water for the boy?” Snape spoke in a bored tone.

“Yes, yes – of course, poor thing!” the old woman bustled to the sink and fetched a glass. Harry gaped at her in confusion. “Dusty business, floo travel. Must remember to keep yer mouth closed, child!” she admonished, handing him the glass. “Now, let me just see to that tea,” she babbled happily.

“That would be very kind of you,” Professor Snape said quietly. He watched her turn to the stove, then stepped up close behind her. Harry saw his wand flicker discretely as the wizard murmured something under his breath. Without warning, the old woman stiffened and fell back into Snape’s waiting arms. Harry gawked as the professor carefully lowered the woman into the nearest chair and lay her head down on the table.

“What. . .what did you do to her?!” Harry squeaked.

“Just a sleeping spell,” Snape answered calmly. “She’ll be fine. It’s best she not witness certain events, and this is safer that Oblivating her later.”

The fireplace flared green and Professor Flitwick stepped out gracefully. He glanced once at Mrs. Figg’s unconscious form and nodded at Snape. “I best go ahead and clear the way. Give me about ten minutes.” He bustled out the back door, closing it behind him.

Snape sat at the table and eyed Harry’s shocked and confused face. “Sit down, child. We have a lot to discuss and not much time.”

Harry obeyed, stammering “What. . .what are we doing here?”

“It’s the only fireplace in the area connected to the floo network,” Snape replied calmly.

“But…but Mrs. Figg’s a Muggle… how?...”

“She’s a Squib, actually,” Snape replied. “The Headmaster placed her here when he left you with the Dursleys, in order to keep an eye out for you.”

Harry stared at the sleeping Mrs. Figg in shock. “Dumbledore placed her? . . .but. . .she used to babysit me!”

“Harry, listen carefully,” Snape’s solemn tone wrenched Harry’s attention away from the old woman. “It was Professor Dumbledore’s decision to send you back to your relatives,” Snape’s expression was grave and unexpectedly troubled. “The other Professors and I do not agree with his decision. We don’t believe you should return to them, and we’ve made other arrangements for you. . .if you are agreeable.”

Harry realized he was gawking and closed his mouth with a snap. He tried to make sense of what the professor was saying. “What. . .what arrangements?”

“I would like to take you away from here. . .to keep you safe until the fall semester starts.”

Harry blinked. “Away? But – where would I go?”

“To a secure place, far from here. . .no one but the four of us – Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, Sprout and myself – will know where you are.”

Harry frowned in bewilderment. “You mean. . .I don’t have to go back to the Dursleys?”

“No, Harry. . .you don’t have to go back to them. If you agree, you will stay with me. I will look after you for the rest of the summer.”

Harry’s heart turned over and his stomach twisted. He fought back the burn of tears that threatened behind his eyes. “You. . .do you mean it? You want to . . .uhm. . .look after me?”

“If you will let me, Harry. Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.” Snape stared at him, his dark eyes burning with an unnamed emotion.

“Why?” Harry blurted out the question without thinking. He blushed with embarrassment but didn’t take his eyes off the man’s austere face.

Snape’s steady gaze softened and his mouth twitched. “Because you deserve better,” he said softly. “Because you never should have been left in the hands of such monsters.”

“But. . why you?” Harry persisted. He knew what he wanted the man to say, but he didn’t dare to believe. . .

“Because I want to,” Snape answered bluntly. “Because I want to take care of you.”

Harry’s heart was beating so hard he thought it would leap right out of his chest. Is it true? Does he mean it? Or is it just another lie? To cover his confusion and fear, he grasped at the forgotten glass before him on the table with trembling hands and sipped the cool water.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you sooner, Harry,” Snape explained gravely. “You must understand, if we do this, we will be going against the Headmaster’s orders. He doesn’t know about this. . .we had to keep it from him. I couldn’t tell you before, for fear he might discover our plans. That’s why I pretended to go along with him…why I pretended to dislike you again – so Professor Dumbledore wouldn’t suspect me.”

Harry stared at him anxiously and gulped. “Will you get in trouble for helping me?”

Professor Snape shook his head. . .then did something Harry never dreamed he’d ever see the surly Potions Professor do. Snape’s mouth quirked into a mischievous smirk and he winked. “Only if I get caught.”

Harry mouth fell open again and he nearly dropped his water glass.

“There isn’t time to explain all of the details right now. We must move quickly. I’ll answer any questions you have later, I promise. For now, I need to know if you agree. . .if you are willing to place yourself in my care.”

Harry hesitated. He couldn’t believe this was happening.

“It’s only for a few weeks. . .if you change your mind, we will make other arrangements,” Snape added a bit stiffly. “If you decide later that you’re unhappy with the situation, I expect one of the other . . .”

“Yes!” Harry interrupted him.

Snape studied him with an uneasy scowl. “Are you sure? I know this is rather sudden. . .”

“I’m sure!” Harry assured him shyly. “If you want to. . .I do too.”

Snape’s tense face relaxed and Harry thought he looked almost happy. . .which, for the gruff professor, was a strange and rather startling expression.

“Excellent.” Snape rose and motioned for Harry to follow him into the living room. “We must take you to the Dursleys first.” At Harry’s dismayed expression, he patted his shoulder reassuringly. “The Headmaster is expecting me to return you there. We must trick him into believing that I have. Don’t worry - Professor Flitwick has gone ahead to ensure the Muggles will not interfere. Once we are there, we must take certain steps so that the Headmaster will believe we left you there. Then you and I will be on our way.”

He guided a reluctant Harry out onto the front walk. Harry closed Mrs. Figg’s front door and turned back, startled to discover that the Potions Master’s black robes had abruptly changed into Muggle clothes. He gaped at Snape, stunned by the change. The wizard looked amazingly different in dark slacks and a casual grey shirt. His long hair was pulled back at the nape of his neck and a jaunty black ivy cap shaded his sallow face. Snape glanced down at Harry and smirked at his expression.

“Why so surprised, Mr. Potter?” he sneered, “You grew up with Muggles. . .one would think you’d never seen Muggle attire before.”

He led Harry down the street, his dark eyes sweeping the area guardedly. Harry paced along beside him, his eyes drawn to Number Four with growing dread. When they reached the walkway that led to his relatives’ house, Harry paused, fighting down an abrupt wave of panic. Seeing him hesitate, Snape moved closer and surprised Harry by slipping an arm loosely around his shoulders.

“Don’t fear. They won’t hurt you,” he said softly. “You don’t have to speak to them. . .or even look at them if you don’t wish to. All we have to do is walk inside and go up to your room. This will only take a few minutes. Then it will all be over.” He gazed down at Harry, his black eyes glittering. “Trust me, Harry.”

Harry gulped, gathered his flagging courage and nodded. There’s nothing to be afraid of, he told himself sternly. Snape’s here…he won’t let them hurt me.

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

Harry sat on his bed, staring around at his old room. Nothing had changed in the week he had been gone. The sheets on the bed were still stained and dingy. . .the bars were still on the window. . .the empty wardrobe was open, a few loose hangers in a tangled pile on the floor. . .even the empty soup can, now black with mold, remained on the floor by the pet door. The only difference was the room’s barrenness. . . all of Harry’s belongings were still in the shrunken trunk in Snape’s pocket. The bedroom door with its array of locks was not closed. When Snape had gone back downstairs to help Professor Flitwick, he had left it standing open. Harry was grateful he had, for he knew if the door were closed, he’d feel trapped. . .as if nothing had changed – as if the past week had never occurred, and he was once more locked in his private hell with no escape.

Harry wondered what the two professors were doing downstairs. When they had entered, Snape had guided Harry straight up the stairs without pausing. Harry had briefly glimpsed his Aunt and Uncle on the lounge settee, their backs to the hallway. Professor Flitwick had been standing before them, his wand in hand and his face grimly focused. His mouth moved, although Harry hadn’t heard his words, and his wand danced in a complicated, arcane pattern. Then the scene passed out of sight as Snape had lead him to Dudley’s second bedroom. Harry wondered where Dudley was. He hadn’t seen his cousin downstairs, but he only saw a small part of the lounge and he supposed Dudley might have been in there, hidden from his view from the stairs.

I wish they’d hurry up! I wish we could get out of here!

Harry listened carefully, but no noises drifted up from downstairs. The house was eerily quiet.

I wonder where Snape is taking me? He said it was far away.

Harry didn’t really care where they were going. . .along as it was far from the Dursleys. He still couldn’t believe what was happening. Snape was taking him away! Snape wanted to take care of him! Harry was going to live with him for the rest of the summer!

Harry winced, thinking of his friend’s reaction. The hot-tempered redhead would never understand how Harry might want to live with the fearsome Potions Professor. Ron had parents who loved him and a big family. He could never understand what Harry’s life was really like. Hermione might. . .she was a girl, and girls seemed to understand stuff like that. But Ron never would. He wouldn’t know what it meant to Harry to have somebody want him. . . to want to take care of him. . .even if it was their most hated professor.

I wonder what it will be like, living with Snape. . . will he be strict, like at school? Will he make me spend all my time doing homework and studying? Will he make me scrub cauldrons and peel newts eyes all summer?

Harry grimaced but decided it didn’t matter. He’d rather scrub cauldrons for Snape than work like a slave for the Dursleys. At least Snape would feed him. And he wouldn’t thrash Harry. . .at least he didn’t think Snape would do that.

I just won’t give him any reason to punish me. I’ll be really good and do whatever he says and I won’t make him mad.Harry wondered again where they would be living. Will we live in a wizarding house or a Muggle one?

Harry couldn’t imagine Snape living like a Muggle. The tall, imposing wizard was just so. . .so wizardly! He couldn’t really imagine Snape living anywhere except the dungeons at Hogwarts.We’ll probably live in the dungeon of some deserted castle or old keep. Or maybe we’ll live in a cave.

An image of a dank, bat-filled cavern popped into Harry’s head and he snickered. He knew some of the students at Hogwarts believed Professor Snape was a vampire and turned into a bat at night. Harry thought they were stupid. He had spent plenty of time in Snape’s quarters and knew the professor lived a perfectly mundane, if somewhat reclusive life. He slept in an ordinary bedroom. He ate at an ordinary table. He didn’t keep creepy potions ingredients in his lounge, or brew poisons in his kitchen. . .and he certainly wasn’t a vampire. But even Harry couldn’t imagine the sinister professor living someplace like Privet Drive, with neighbors, and neat rows of houses all alike.

He tried to picture Professor Snape brewing in his Aunt’s bright, spotless kitchen. . . sprawled in his uncle’s recliner in front of the telly. . .washing a car or pushing a mower across the lawn, dressed in his long black robes. The images were so ludicrous, Harry couldn’t help giggling.

“I’m glad to see you can retain a sense of humor about all of this.”

Snape’s voice startled Harry so badly he nearly fell off the bed. He looked up to see both Snape and Flitwick staring at him in mild amusement, and couldn’t stop the blush that heated his cheeks. “Are we leaving now?” Harry asked hopefully.

“In a moment. First, Professor Flitwick needs to scan you for tracking spells.”

“Tracking spells?”

“We believe the Headmaster may have taken steps to ascertain your location at all times,” Flitwick replied, moving into the room and motioning for Harry to stand up. Harry stood uncomfortably while the tiny professor circled him, holding his wand a few inches from his skin and waving it up and down his body. Harry was reminded of a program he once glimpsed on Dudley’s telly where airline passengers were checked for concealed weapons, by security guards who scanned them with an electronic rod of some kind. He remembered with some amusement that the Muggle guards called the rods ‘wands’.

“Why would Professor Dumbledore put a tracking spell on me?”

“Most likely a safety measure,” Flitwick answered absently, his attention on his scan.

Safety? Huh! Lot of good it did.

Harry pushed these thoughts away. He didn’t want to think about Professor Dumbledore right now. The Headmaster’s insistence that Harry return to the Dursleys had hurt more than Harry wanted to admit, and he wasn’t ready to confront those feelings just yet.

“Hmm. . .as I suspected.” Flitwick paused, his wand pointing at Harry’s heart.

Snape moved to his side with a deep scowl. “Can it be removed?”

“Yes, but I prefer to transfer it. Hand me that pillow, would you Professor?” Flitwick took the pillow Snape handed him. He chanted softly in Latin for several minutes, then touched Harry’s chest with the tip of his wand. To Harry’s alarm, Flitwick lifted his wand and a golden strand of light clung to the tip, sliding out of Harry’s chest like a glowing thread. It reminded Harry of memory strands, but this strand was about a half-meter long and much thicker . When the end snapped away from his body, wriggling on the end of the wand like a scalded snake, Flitwick pressed the wand into the pillow and muttered something. A brief blue light flared, then the strand disappeared, leaving a weird afterglow in Harry’s stunned vision.

Flitwick placed the pillow on Harry’s bed. “If I simply removed it, the Headmaster might notice it was gone. This way, if he should check, the locater will indicate that Harry is in his room,” he explained. He looked solemnly at Harry. “Harry, it’s imperative that you do not use your wand until you return to school. All wands are registered with the Ministry. If you were to use yours – even by accident – not only would the Ministry know, but you could be tracked by its signature. I think it is possible that the Headmaster may have similar methods for tracking your wand signature. I recommend you give your wand to Professor Snape for safe-keeping. You aren’t allowed to use it during the summer anyway, and it would be best to take precautions against any slip ups.”

Harry nodded and glanced up at the Potions Master. “It’s in my trunk.”

“I’ll get it from you later,” Snape quirked an eyebrow at Flitwick. “Anything else?”

“We should be done here,” Flitwick replied. “We’ll use invisibility spells to get back to Arabella’s. . .Minerva will meet us there.”

“Good. Come, Harry. Time to go.” Snape lead Harry back down the stairs. This time Harry made no attempt to look into the lounge, or locate the Dursleys. He never wanted to see them again.

At the front door, Professor Flitwick waved his wand at Harry. He felt an odd tingle spread over his body but saw no change. Flitwick grinned at him. “We can see ourselves and each other. . .but no one else can see us.”

Snape opened the door and led the way back down the street to Mrs. Figg’s house. Glancing about to make certain no Muggles were watching, they re-entered the house and found Professor McGonagall sitting in the lounge.

“Everything under control?” Snape asked sharply.

“Yes,” Minerva answered with a wry smile. “The Headmaster was ‘unexpectedly’ called away to the Ministry. My contact there will keep him busy for at least an hour. We found two monitoring devices in Albus’ office. One seems to be tied to Harry’s wand. . .I managed to discretely disable it – I don’t think he will be able to tell. The other was a magical map that labels Harry’s current location.”

“The tracking spell,” Flitwick glanced at Snape.

“It indicated ‘#4 Privet Drive’ when I left the office. Pomona is still there. She’s watching it to see if it changes. If it does, we’ll have to find a way to deceive it.”

“It should already be neutralized, but it’s best to make certain,” Flitwick agreed. “Speaking of which, I should check each of us for similar spells.”

“You think Albus has tracking spells on Staff as well?” Minerva looked offended.

“He placed one on me years ago,” Snape revealed grimly. “When I was spying for the Order, it was an understandable precaution, but I have since deactivated it, and taken steps to prevent anyone from placing another on me. I recommend in future, you have Filius check each of you on a regular basis. . .particularly if you plan to contact me.”

Harry stood by the doorway listening with astonishment to his Professors scheming. He could hardly believe they were going to such obvious lengths to hide him. With a guilty twinge, he hoped they wouldn’t get into trouble because of him.

“Speaking of contact,” McGonagall reached into her robes and withdrew something. She opened her hand to reveal three small medallions on silver chains. “I borrowed the idea from the ‘old gang’. . .” she smirked, handing a medallion to Snape and Flitwick. “There is one for each of us. They operate on the same basis – the four of us can use them for communication and they’re invisible to anyone not wearing one. Come here, Harry,” she motioned him over.

Harry moved before her. She stood and draped the chain over his head, the small pendant settling against his breastbone. He fingered the medallion studying the embossed flower on the front.

“I copied the design from this pendant,” said softly, showing him an identical medallion around her own neck. “It was a gift from your mother, Harry. That’s a Blood Lily – your mother’s favorite flower.”

Harry gasped, a thrill of delight running through his heart. He felt like he had received a gift from his own mother.

“It’s invisible and cannot be removed by any hands except your own,” McGonagall continued quietly. “Never take it off, Harry. If you are ever in any danger, our medallions will heat up. It acts like a locator, allowing us to Apparate to wherever you are.”

Harry turned the pendant over, noting two letters on the back. “What does L.G. stand for?” he asked.

Professor McGonagall chuckled and glanced at the other professors. “That was Professor Sprout’s idea. She thought our little band of insurgents ought to have some sort of secret name. I hope no one objects - we elected to call ourselves the Lily Guild.”

“Appropriate,” Flitwick grinned.

Snape just snorted, and turned his attention to Harry. “Give me your hand.” He pulled something from his pocket and fastened a slender bracelet around Harry’s left wrist. Harry stared at the narrow hide strip that fit snugly but comfortably against his thin wrist. It was a simple band, made from finely cured dragon hide, with no decoration except the distinctive mottled scales of brown and black. The only ornament was the small platinum clasp, shaped like a dragon’s head in profile, with one eye set with an oval-cut emerald of deep green. “This is a portkey.”

“What’s a portkey?” Harry wondered.

“It’s a magical device for emergency transport,” Snape explained with a sigh. “It’s set for a specific location and is triggered by a password. If anything should happen. . .if we should become separated, or come under attack, you only need to touch the stone and speak the password, and the portkey will transfer you instantly to our destination. If you have to use it, stay there until one of us comes to you! Don’t leave the house and don’t try to contact anyone! There is a house elf there who will take care of you until I arrive. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The password is ‘safe home’. Can you remember that, Harry?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry agreed solemnly. “Are we using the portkey to get there…to this safe home?”

“No,” Snape shook his head. “It’s use will produce a recognizable energy surge. . . a kind of echo, or magical residue. We don’t want to leave any evidence of our departure. We must take extreme precautions to ensure that we cannot be traced. For that reason, we won’t go directly to our destination. . .we’ll make several short journeys, using both magical and Muggles means of transport, so no one can track us or follow our magical signatures. Once we leave the house, you must not do any magic until we arrive. Only use the portkey in an emergency. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.” Harry nodded, a kernel of nervous excitement sparking in his stomach. It was all so solemn and dangerous and mysterious. . .he felt like he was in one of those spy movies Dudley used to watch on the telly.

“It’s important that no one recognize either of us, Harry, so we’ll need to be disguised. Professor Flitwick will charm glamours on both of us to start. We’ll utilize other methods later on.”

Flitwick moved in front of Harry with an encouraging smile. “This won’t hurt, Harry. It may tingle a bit.” He waved his wand and murmured something. Harry felt a strange shiver swept down from the top of his head to his feet, and he suppressed an impulse to giggle.

“All right there, Harry?”

Harry nodded and shuffled over to a large mirror by the foyer. He gaped in wonder at the image reflected there. A small boy with wavy blonde hair and big blue eyes stared back at him. He nearly flinched when a strange man stepped up behind him. . .until the brawny man with short-cropped blonde hair and matching blue eyes smirked at him in the mirror in a very familiar manner.

“Well, the change is certainly dramatic,” Snape’s wry voice rumbled from the stranger’s lips.

“I thought it best to effect a look as far from your real appearances as possible,” Flitwick smirked back at him.

“Very impressive!” Professor McGonagall made no attempt to hide her impish grin.

“As you change disguises, I suggest you maintain similar appearances so that casual observers will assume you are related. There will be less questions asked if you both bear a family resemblance,” Flitwick advised.

“That was my intent,” Snape sneered at his image and glanced down at Harry. “Time to go, boy. I want to be clear of this place before Albus returns from the Ministry.” He led them all out through the kitchen, where Mrs. Figg still lay slumped on the table, snoring contentedly.

“I’ll alter her memory when you have left,” Flitwick promised.

They trouped out into the tiny, overgrown back yard, where Professor McGonagall checked carefully for watching neighbors, then nodded at Snape. As Snape grasped his arm, Harry waved at Professor Flitwick and his Head of House. “Goodbye! Thanks for everything!”

“Be safe, Harry,” McGonagall murmured.

Harry felt a sharp tug behind his navel, and the world around him shattered into dark shards. He felt like he was being squeezed into a tiny ball, then the feeling was over as abruptly as it began. He staggered a bit, his feet trying to find balanced purchase on the asphalt suddenly beneath his feet. His vision swam for a moment, then settled. He was astonished to find himself in an alley, staring at a dirty brick wall. He felt Snape’s steadying hand leave his arm and he blinked up at the strange blonde man. “What was THAT?” he gasped.

“Apparition,” the un-Snape-like face smirked at him.

“What’s app…appa..?”

“Apparition - a common mode of wizard travel. In this case, I had to bring you with me - it’s called Side-Along Apparition,” Snape turned and strode away. “Come along, boy. We’ve much to do.”

Harry hurried after him, trying to comprehend the strange experience. They exited the alley into a wide, busy Muggle street. “Where are we?” he asked.

“Liverpool.” Snape gauged the crowds hurrying along Church Street and grabbed Harry’s hand, pulling him forward into the throng.

Harry scowled up at him, tugging unhappily at the wizard’s grip. “I’m not a little kid, you know! You don’t have to hold my hand!”

“I don’t want to lose you!” Snape snapped, refusing to let go. “Stop squirming and keep up.” He strode hastily down the busy street, dodging people, until Harry nearly had to run to keep pace with him. They reached the corner, then waited for the traffic light, Snape’s eyes searching the area, sharp and alert.

“Are we going to live here, in Liverpool?” Harry asked.

“No.”

“Then what are we doing here?”

“Shopping.”

Harry gaped at the man. Snape ignored him, pulling him into the crosswalk when the light changed. Harry glanced ahead, reading the sign over the huge shopping center in front of them. “Clayton Square? Why are we going here? What are we shopping for?”

“Clothing,” Snape hissed impatiently, nearly dragging him onto the sidewalk, his attention focused on a large store that faced the street.

“Marks and Spencer? You buy your clothes at Marks and Spencer??” Harry eyed the man dubiously. He had never been in the famous department store himself. He couldn’t imagine the Potions Professor even knowing about the Muggle store, much less buying clothes there.

“Not for me, you foolish boy!” Snape growled. “Must you ask so many questions?”

“Yes,” Harry admitted as the man hauled him through the wide doors.

“We’re buying clothes for you!” Snape said, scanning a department map and guiding Harry forward. “I’ll not have any child in my care appearing in such pathetic attire! It’s time we get you out of those ill-fitting rags your atrocious relatives dared to call clothing, and acquire some decent apparel for you!”

Harry sipped his fizzy grape soda and slumped wearily in his chair.  The remains of his lunch lay abandoned on a tray on the shiny plastic table.  He stared around at the Muggles eating and chatting in the brightly lit café, and nervously shoved his invisible glasses up his nose.

"Leave them alone," Snape hissed softly with a frown. "Don't call attention to them."

"Sorry," Harry muttered contritely.  Flitwick had understood Harry couldn't see without his glasses, so he had made them invisible.  But Harry couldn't get used to the odd sensation. . .he could feel his glasses but not see them, and his hand seemed drawn to fiddle with them against his will.

"I'll provide a better solution when we change," Snape offered gruffly, sipping his tea with a scowl.

Harry sighed. He was tired and his stomach felt a bit queasy.  He had been delighted when Snape reluctantly allowed him to select where to lunch, and had happily chosen the cheery, garish café filled with noisy shoppers that bordered the shopping center.  He remembered Dudley raving about fish and chips and Harry had always wanted to try them.  They had tasted good at first, but now the greasy, salty meal sat uncomfortably in his stomach like a heavy lump.  The grape soda was almost too sweet and Harry wished the café served pumpkin juice. 

He watched Snape finish his large salad and calmly sip his tea as if completely at ease in the crowded Muggle eatery. The Potions Professor seemed surprisingly comfortable in the Muggle world - adapting far more easily than most non-Muggleborn wizards Harry knew.  The attractive blonde man looked like a successful Muggle executive, out for a day's shopping with his son. Snape's debonair glamour was actually quite brilliant, Harry thought.  He was less impressed with his own disguise. 

The lady clerk in Marks and Spencer had thoroughly embarrassed Harry by cooing and clucking over him like a broody hen.  She had gushed over his golden curls and made an unseemly fuss about his eyes, as if she'd never seen blue eyes before!  Harry was certain she would have pinched his cheeks, if he hadn't hidden behind Snape every time she reached for him.  

Snape had told her that Harry was shy.  He also told her Harry was ten years old, which had prompted the second of several terse, whispered arguments. . .(the first occurring when Snape immediately started to lead an outraged Harry into the Young Boy's department.)  Snape insisted that Harry pretend to be younger than he actually was, in order to enhance his disguise, claiming that Harry's undersized build encouraged this subterfuge.  Harry was rather touchy about his size, and didn't like being reminded that he was so much smaller than his classmates. . .and he certainly didn't want to be ten again, thank you very much! (He hadn't enjoyed being ten the first time and didn't care to repeat it.) A rather fearsome glare from Snape had temporarily silenced Harry's objections.  . .until Harry saw the clothes Snape brought into the fitting room for him to try on.

The conservative wizard's choices in apparel might have been appropriate - if Harry was attending a posh public school for spoiled trust-fund babies!  Harry grimly recalled the ensuing dispute.

"These are school clothes, sir," Harry pointed out with exasperation. "Pricey school clothes - for toffee-nosed rich kids!" 

"They are well-made, stylish attire,  entirely appropriate for a respectable young man of good family," Snape had sniffed huffily.

"They're impossible!  They look like something Malfoy would wear!"

"No Malfoy would be caught dead in Muggle clothes, you idiot!"

"Well, some Muggle prig like Malfoy, then!" Harry grumbled. "I'll look like a total berk in those things!"

"Don't be daft.  You'll look like a proper gentleman for a change."

"Linen trousers?  Silk blazers? Sir,  this is Summer Hol's - no one wears school clothes in summer!" Harry hissed.  "I'll stand out like. . . like a troll at a pixie pageant! I thought the whole idea was for us to blend in! Do you want everyone to stare at me?" 

Snape remained stubbornly skeptical, but after heated negotiation, they had finally settled on a compromise of sorts.  Two sets of preppy dress clothes were carefully packed away in his numerous shopping bags, along with three pair of jeans, several jumpers, and some comfortable knit joggers.  Snape had drawn the line at t-shirts, so Harry had been forced to concede to plain polo shirts in a variety of colors.  But the dour professor had surprised him when he insisted Harry purchase swim shorts, and even let him select ones he liked. Snape had hinted that their final destination was near the sea, and Harry might find an opportunity to swim, but when pressed, he refused to  reveal anything more.

The next minor altercation occurred when Snape had steered Harry into the underwear department. He mortified him by snatching up two packs, waving them at Harry and asking much too loudly "Boxers or slips?" 

Harry's scandalized expression and bright red cheeks must have alerted the man to his discomfort.  Snape studied him with concern, nodded with swift comprehension, and brusquely handed him the packages.  Then he wandered a short ways off, muttering something about meeting Harry in the shoe department when he was all sorted.  Somewhat mollified, Harry had selected what was necessary, including a pair of cotton pajamas and a robe, and then joined Snape in Shoes. There were no debates there.  Snape bought him black dress shoes, some sturdy leather hiking boots, and black trainers.  Harry didn't care what they looked like. . .he was just thrilled to have box-fresh shoes that actually fit his feet.

Harry felt odd about letting Snape pay for his new clothes and shoes.  It didn't seem right, but he had little choice - he had no Muggle money. So he had finally consented, but promised Snape he would repay him as soon as he could access the money in his Gringotts vault.  Snape merely shrugged and told Harry not to concern himself.

Although the styles were a bit conservative for Harry's taste, he was secretly elated to have new clothes of his very own - clothes never worn by Dudley or anyone....clothes in his exact size!  The well-fitting garments did make him look even scrawnier, but they felt so good next to his skin he couldn't mind too much.  He smiled down at his new jeans and rubbed a hand over the soft blue cotton shirt that Snape had insisted he wear out of the store.  (Dudley's old hand-me-downs were hastily consigned to the nearest bin.) 

Harry glanced up to see Snape was watching him.  The glamoured blue eyes were softer than the coal black eyes of the Potions Professor. . .they regarded him with benign curiosity.  "I want to thank you again for buying me all these clothes, sir," Harry said shyly. "They're brilliant!  I'm sorry I was so much trouble in the store. . .I've never shopped for new clothes before - except for my school robes, of course. I didn't mean to act ungrateful or anything."

Snape's eyes narrowed and his lips thinned.  "Think nothing of it.  I was concerned that your attire be appropriate to your station, but you have a right to chose what you like - within reason. You are the one who will be wearing them.  And you have already thanked me several times.  Repetition is unnecessary."  He scowled thoughtfully.  "You are entitled to adequate clothing, Harry.  As I have temporarily taken responsibility for your welfare, it is my duty to provide for you.  Gratitude is not expected or required."   He finished his tea with a slight grimace of distaste and rose, gathering up the packages piled around them.  "Come along, now.  We need to keep moving.  Follow me."

Snape lead Harry to the gents' loo in the far corner.  Fortunately it was unoccupied, and Snape locked the door and cast a quick protection ward.  He made Harry change his shirt and then shrank their purchases into one bag and transformed it into an overnight travel bag.  With a wave of his wand, he cancelled Flitwick's glamour. Harry glanced with relief at his own familiar face in the mirror over the lavatory. 

"We will alter our appearance several times on this journey.  That way, no one will be able to follow us," Snape explained.   "Give me your glasses."  Harry took them off and watched as Snape tapped the lenses twice with his wand. Their shape changed slightly, and the clear lenses darkened.

"Sunglasses!" Harry exclaimed happily.

"They will do until nightfall, at least.  Now hold still."  Snape pulled a small jar from his pocket and opened it, withdrawing a tiny flat sponge.  "This is Muggle make-up. . .it's employed by theatrical people. I'm going to use this to cover your scar."

"Why?" Harry squirmed a bit as Snape brushed his hair aside and began to smear the stuff on his forehead.  It was cold and a bit greasy - colored in a flesh tone almost as pale his own skin. "Doesn't the glamour hide it?"

"Only from Muggles.  Be still!"  Snape growled softly.  "A powerful wizard, as well as other magical creatures, can often see through glamours.  That scar is an instant giveaway. . .we can't take a chance you might be recognized.  I have found that Muggle disguises are most effective against wizards - they don't expect it."  He stepped back and peered at Harry critically.  Harry looked in the mirror again.  His forehead looked normal and his scar was practically invisible.

"Brilliant!" Harry breathed, quite impressed.

"We will utilize other Muggle camouflage later.  Now, hold still." He waved his wand and Harry again felt the strange shivery feeling rush over him.  He studied his new glamour with interest as Snape swiftly altered his own appearance and clothing. "Time to go." Snape cancelled the temporary wards and herded him out of the loo.  "We have a train to catch."

"Where are we going now?" Harry whispered.

"Crewe."

"What's in Crewe?"

"A train station."

Harry shrugged and followed the professor.  He'd never heard of the place, and was too tired at this point to really care.

The pretty server behind the counter peered back at the gents loo, wondering where the handsome blonde man and his adorable little boy had gone to.  She had noticed the attractive man and his son as soon as they came into the café. She had tried flirting with him, but the man had simply ignored her.  She sighed, not even sparing a glance at the stooped older man with mousy brown hair that lead an equally unremarkable, brown-haired boy out of the café. 

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

Severus shifted in his seat, careful not to jolt the sleeping boy who sprawled beside him, his head and shoulders draped over Severus' lap.  He gazed down at the child, mercifully quiet now.  He had to admit (to himself at least, if not to Harry) that the boy had done fairly well so far, considering.  He had obeyed orders, and had not offered any argument since the grueling shopping ordeal.  He had accepted each of Severus' glamour changes without protest, and didn't question his admittedly paranoid safety measures.  Harry hadn't even complained about the numerous Apparitions he'd endured.  He had chattered enthusiastically during the two hour train ride to Holyhead. It was evidently the boy's first train ride, other than the Hogwarts Express. . .in fact, he had confessed it was his first real excursion anywhere.

But by the time they stopped for dinner, it was clear the strain and excitement had worn him down.  Severus had selected a first rate restaurant near the port, determined to get some decent food into the boy, but Harry had barely touched his meal and had nearly fallen asleep in his plate.  By the time they boarded the last ferry to Dun Laoghaire, the boy was stumbling on his feet, too exhausted to take much interest in his surroundings.  They had settled on out-of-the-way seats in the aft section, somewhat removed from other passengers on the uncrowded ferry.  Harry had dozed off even before the ferry pulled away from the dock, then startled Severus by squirming halfway into his lap shortly after. 

Severus sighed and allowed himself to relax a bit.  He had vigilantly scrutinized the other passengers, and was reasonably certain they were all Muggles.  Wizards rarely took the Muggle ferry, preferring to apparate the short distance across the Irish Sea.  This was precisely why Snape had chosen the route.  The ferry ports were unlikely to be watched,  and few wizards would have any reason to be there.

He wondered again if he was being over cautious.  A hired car awaited them at Dun Laoghaire, with a long drive ahead of them.   He was sorely tempted to shorten their journey and simply Apparate with the boy, at least as far as Riverchapel.  But his natural wariness persuaded him to continue as he had planned.  The safest course was to avoid using magic from this point on, until they were securely behind protective wards.  It made for an exhaustingly long day, but was certainly preferable to the consequences of detection.  And Severus had come too far now to risk discovery.

Harry roused himself when the large ferry bumped against the Dun Laoghaire dock, shuddering into its berth. He sat up and stretched, apparently too groggy to notice or care that he had crawled into his stern professor's lap in his sleep.  He watched the crew carry out the mooring with sleepy indifference, and trailed blearily after Snape through the hectic terminal.  Severus stepped up to the silver-haired driver who stood by the curb, holding a hand-lettered sign that read "Belby". Harry gawked at the black Mercedes five-seater parked there.

"Welcome to Eire, Mr. Belby,"  the uniformed driver took Severus' bag and smartly opened the rear door of the sleek van, waiting politely for Severus and Harry to settle themselves inside.  Then he climbed into the driver's seat and turned to speak through the custom partition that separated him from his passengers.  "Would you prefer the direct route along the N11, or a scenic coastal drive, sir?"

"Direct route," Severus replied.  

"Very good, sir.  We should reach Ardamine in little over an hour. . .unless you have any stops you need to make?"

"No stops, thank you," Severus sat next to Harry and reached over to fasten his seatbelt for him, which earned him a nasty scowl from the tired boy.

"I can do that!" Harry glared resentfully.  "I'm not a baby, you know!"

Severus ignored his indignation and closed the partition between them and the driver. He discretely added a privacy shield to ensure they could not be overheard.  The car service was reputable and he'd used them often, but the driver was unknown to him. 

"Where are we?" Harry asked crossly, rubbing his eyes.

"Ireland."

Harry scowled.  "I know that! Where are we going?"

"South - to Ardamine. . . it's a small coastal town on the Irish Sea."

Harry sighed heavily.  "Okay.  Then what?" he snapped, his weary voice laced with petulance.  "What's next? A hot air balloon to France?  A camel ride to Egypt?"

Severus suppressed a smirk.  The boy's patience had apparently reached its limits. . .but he couldn't blame him.  That patience had lasted longer than he'd ever expected from the headstrong Boy-Who-Lived.  He decided to overlook the brat's impertinence. . .this time.

"This is the last leg of our journey. . .for the most part."

"For the most part. . .?" Harry eyed him skeptically.

"I need to explain some things before we reach our destination. . . preferably without insolent interruptions," Severus replied mildly.  "Are you awake enough now to comprehend and retain information?"

The boy had the good grace to look slightly sheepish.  "Yes, sir," he said meekly, sitting up and adopting an air of respectful alertness.

"We will be staying in the home of an old friend of mine, a few miles outside of Ardamine.  It's a working farm, run by a manager and his family, who live in their own cottage on the adjoining property.  The main house is magical and remains empty most of the year, except when the owner is in residence.  The house is Unplottable, heavily warded, and protected from intrusion by Muggle-repelling charms.  The farm manager's brother was a wizard, so he and his family are aware it is a wizard's home."

He paused, watching Harry's now fascinated expression, expecting a barrage of questions to burst from the inquisitive boy, but Harry seemed content to restrain his curiosity for the moment.

"Our host will most likely not be present, but there is a resident house elf who will tend to our needs.  The house is secluded but we will, by necessity, have some limited contact with the locals.  For this reason, it is imperative that neither of us is recognized.  We will have to maintain our alternate identities at all times. . .this will mean permanent disguises for the duration of our stay there.  Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," Harry nodded solemnly.

"I have invented false identities for us both. . .I will go over all the pertinent details with you tomorrow when we are both more rested. For now, a few simple facts are all you need to remember, in case you are questioned.   These are, as follows," Severus continued in his best classroom lecture tones.  "My assumed name is Professor Charles Westlake. I'm a history professor at Belmont Preparatory School  - a public boarding school in Dorking.  You are my ward, Cary Westlake. . .your late father was my first cousin.  I became your guardian five years ago when your parents died. You are ten years old, you attend school at Belmont, and you spend your summer holidays with me.  That should be sufficient for now.  Any questions?"

Harry gaped at him.  It was clear from his expression, he did, in fact, have a wealth of questions and simply didn't know where to begin.  He chewed his lip hesitantly, then plunged in.  "Are there any other wizards around?"

Snape nodded.  "There's a small, remote magical community nearby, called Glascarrig.  It's hidden from most Muggles, on the site of what locals believe to be the ruins of an old Norman castle.  Most of the villagers are Wizards or Squibs, though a few Muggle relatives also reside there.  Glascarrig is where we will acquire most of our provisions, although we can obtain Muggle items at other villages nearby."

"Will I be able to go to the village, or do I have to stay hidden all summer?"

"Once our disguises and cover stories are firmly in place, I see no reason why you can't explore the local countryside, on occasion, as long as I accompany you.  It's not my intention to make you a prisoner. But you may not, under any circumstances, leave the property without permission.  I'll explain about the wards later, and tomorrow we will discuss the rules that I expect you to obey."

"Rules?"  Harry asked nervously.

"Certainly," Severus replied sternly.  "You don't expect me to simply turn you loose and let you run wild all summer, do you?  I realize you are not accustomed to stable, rational supervision, but I have not entered into this responsibility lightly, I assure you.  I have already prepared for you a comprehensive list of house rules, as well as an outline of acceptable behavior that I expect you to abide by."

The look of apprehension and dismay on the boy's forlorn face left Severus feeling churlish and slightly disconcerted.  "You needn't look at me like that, Mr. Potter," he huffed defensively.  "I didn't say I would be running a concentration camp, for Merlin's sake!  I will not make unreasonable demands upon you.  But I will expect you to behave yourself and at least make some effort not to get into constant trouble!"

Harry blinked up at him timidly.  "Yes, Professor.  I'll try to be good, I promise."

Snape scowled at the boy's uneasy, earnest face and found it hard to remain indignant.  He glanced out the van window and tugged uncomfortably at the Muggle necktie he regretted being forced to wear.  "I'm sure we'll be able to come to some sort of equitable accord. Please do not distress yourself," he sneered half-heartedly.  "Now, I suggest you get some more rest.  When we reach Ardamine, I will dismiss the driver.  We will be walking to the farm - it's about 2 km - so I suggest you sleep while you can."

"Yes, sir."  Harry slumped awkwardly in his seat and closed his eyes obediently.

Severus glared down at him.  The boy would get a crick in his neck if he slept like that, and then he'd probably whinge all the way to the farm.   He reached down and shook the boy's shoulder lightly.  "Sit up, boy."  When Harry sat up, Severus unclipped his seatbelt.  "Lie down, for goodness sake!  You'll get a cramp," he grumbled impatiently.  "Put your head in my lap, and stretch your legs out - there's no sense in scrunching up like a blast-ended screwt in a jam jar!"  When Harry hesitantly followed his instructions, Snape readjusted the seat belt and clipped it loosely across his prone form.  Then he draped a protective arm over the boy's body, to make certain he didn't slip off the seat if the car should hit a bump in the road. 

Neither of them mentioned the broad empty seat behind them that would have eliminated the need to share.  Severus waited until Harry's slowed breathing confirmed he was fast asleep, before removing the boy's dark glasses and smoothing the conjured copper curls away from his glamoured face. 

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

"Good afternoon, Filius," Minerva strolled toward him across the grassy quad, smiling pleasantly as the petite professor joined her.

"Good afternoon, Minerva," Filius flashed her one of his infamous sunny grins.  "I was just taking a stroll down to the Lake.  I promised Hagrid to feed the Giant Squid while he was on holiday.  Would you care to join me?"

"I would indeed," Minerva agreed readily.  "It is such a lovely afternoon, I felt driven to escape my office and enjoy a bit of fresh air and exercise."

They ambled at a leisurely pace, chatting casually about trivial matters - the summer blooms in the herb garden; the excellent steak and kidney pie served at lunch;  Peeve's latest outrageous prank; and the rumored sightings of Irma Pince and Argus Filch, reportedly observed sharing a cozy tryst at Madam Puddifoot's the previous weekend.

When they reached the Lake's edge, Filius drew out a shrunken hamper of leftover toast from the kitchens. . . (the elves knew to save it for the Squid, who dearly loved toast.)  Together the two teachers shared the languid task of tossing the treats to the nearest glistening wet tentacle that trembled in squelchy anticipation.  Filius smirked at the creature's obvious enjoyment and murmured quietly,  "Any news on our package?"

"I'm happy to report our part of the delivery was a total success," Minerva answered with a small grin.  "There is no change in the tracking devices.  Said ‘package' appears to still be exactly where it was originally delivered. So far, there is no evidence that the sender is aware it has been moved."

"Excellent!  Any problems with the ‘stakeout' arrangement?"

"None that I foresee.  I should be able to report that ‘all is well' on a routine basis, neutralizing any potential suspicions."

"Good. I have confidence that ‘Catwoman' will readily confirm your reports. . .her memory was rather easy to manipulate, I confess."

Minerva sniffed distastefully.  "I shouldn't wonder."

"Has Pomona left yet?"

"She has.  Her sudden desire to take such a lengthy holiday wasn't questioned - thanks to a fortuitous coincidence.  It seems that Pomona's grandniece is expecting her first baby this summer. . .naturally Pomona wishes to remain on hand for the happy event!" Minerva smirked.

"Naturally," Filius agreed impishly.  He tossed the last of the toast to the eager Squid and brushed the crumbs from his hands.  Shrinking the hamper back to portable size, he gestured airily at the well-trod path that a century of strolling students had worn along the lakeside. "Shall we roam a bit?"

"Of course," Minerva consented happily, following him down the sandy path that wound its way around the vast lake.  When they had traveled a good distance - several kilometers, in fact - Minerva glanced back at the looming castle that gleamed in the distance.  "I should think we are far enough away from the school to be safe, but I suppose a privacy shield would not be amiss."  She waited while the Charms Professor set the shield and then turned to him with fierce determination.  "All right, I've waiting patiently all day - now I must know:  what did you and Severus do to the Dursleys?  Something nasty, I hope! "

Filius' kind visage transformed into a stern mask of malice.  "My own choice would have been a bit more direct and physical, I confess. . . but Severus came up with a brilliantly devious, very fitting retribution.  Have you ever heard of a curse called Somni Dolor Famulus?" 

Minerva shook her head, frowning as she struggled with the translation in her head.

"It's a very old, somewhat obscure curse. . .it fell out of use after the House Elf Reforms of the 1780's. . . although, it should probably be re-introduced, considering the rumored depravity of some of the darker Pure-blood families," Filius commented thoughtfully.

"What have house elves got to do with anything?" she asked in confusion. 

"The curse was originally created as a punishment for owners who brutally abused a house elf without just provocation."

"There is no just provocation for brutal abuse!' Minerva snapped indignantly.

"I agree with you, of course,"  Filius chuckled wryly.  "But house elves had no legal rights back then, you remember, and the maltreated had no lawful recourse.  But - if a qualified Wizard formally accused another Wizard of excessive abuse, and he or she was proven guilty,  they were sentenced to suffer under this curse for a predetermined time. . .normally a few weeks.  Roughly translated, Somni Dolor Famulus means ‘To Dream the Anguish of the Slave'.  It's a vicious little bugger. . . when cast, it forces the owner to suffer, in his dreams, all the abuse and torment he has inflicted on his house elf."

A grim smirk began to form on Minerva's pursed lips.  "How inventive!  So tell exactly me how it will apply here."

"Severus and I cast a variation of the curse upon each of the Dursleys.  Since they treated Harry worse than a house elf, he is the ‘slave' in this adaptation.  Every night, when those Muggle monsters go to sleep, they will have vivid, inescapable nightmares about all the abuse, both emotional and physical, that they have subjected poor Harry to over the years. But the crucial component to this punishment, is that in their nightmares,  each of them will be Harry.  They will take his place, feeling everything he felt, as they are abused by beastly versions of themselves.  It will seem to them as if they were trapped in Harry's body.  In short, the Dursleys will be the victims of their own cruelty and stupidity."

"Each night, the Aunt will suffer the anguish of every unkind word, every injustice, every deprivation she visited upon Harry.  She will feel Harry's hunger, his pain, his isolation - his weary, aching body as he labored unceasingly for her. . . . likewise, the cousin, Dudley, will suffer every act of harassment, will feel every punch and kick he delivered - he'll be the victim in every incident where he and his friends bullied Harry.  And best of all, the Uncle will experience every beating he ever gave the boy, as if he were receiving it himself."

"Hmmm. . .only in dreams, you say?" Minerva scowled.  "Doesn't sound very harsh, if you ask me."

"Oh, but it is," Flitwick assured her.  "Severus tells me these nightmares are so vivid - so unspeakably real - that the mind cannot distinguish between the dream-pain and literal physical pain. . .the only difference is the lack of permanent injury to the physical body. And there is no escaping it. . .the nightmares will begin every time they fall asleep, and they won't be able to wake up until every hurtful word - every vicious deed they have ever committed against the boy has replayed, with themselves in his place.   It is said to be an excruciating and degrading experience,  forcing the guilty to not only confront their own cruelty, but to repeatedly suffer the consequences of it as well."  Filius smiled grimly.  "The Dursleys are in for a rough time of it.  They won't know a single night's restful sleep until the curse has ended."

Minerva smiled with smug satisfaction.  "And how long will the curse last?"

Filius' mild expression hardened with dark ruthlessness.  "For the same length of time that the Dursleys had care of the child."

Minerva frowned.  "But. . .that's over ten years!"

"Yes, it is," Filius agreed.

"But, Filius, . . .they'll go barmy!  With no proper sleep, and unending nightmares, all three of them will be complete mental cases inside of a year!" She gaped at him in shock.

"Less than that, I would think," Filius corrected mildly.

"Oh, Filius!"  Minerva hissed.  "That . . . is. . . .bloody. . . MAGNIFICENT!" she crowed. And then the prim Deputy Headmistress astonished Filius by breaking into an impromptu dance of pure joy. . .a brief sort of zany, frenzied, highland fling that made him whoop with laughter.  "I swear," Minerva chortled with glee, "The next time I lay eyes on Severus Snape, I'm going to kiss the brilliant little bastard!"

"Now that's a spectacle I'd like to see!  Promise me I'll get to watch!" Filius laughed.

Giggling madly, he canceled the privacy shield around them and escorted Minerva back towards the school.  If anyone had been watching, they would have been astonished to hear the quiet summer day repeatedly disrupted by bursts of uncontrolled, quite undignified sniggers from two of the most distinguished professors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Harry was still muzzy from his nap in the car.  He barely noted Snape's dismissal of the driver, who was disturbed by the idea of forsaking his clients in the middle of the narrow, empty street. Snape had calmly reassured him that they would be met shortly by a local driver.  Harry didn't comment on Snape's surreptitious wand movements or the whispered spell that sent the driver on his way with altered, rather vague memories of his former passengers.

Harry stared around at their surroundings.  They stood on a worn cobblestoned street on the outskirts of what appeared to be a small village. . .although village was perhaps a generous label.  It was more like an untidy hodgepodge of tiny shops and cottages, scattered haphazardly around an old church and cemetery.  He could smell the sea and hear the faint sigh of waves in the distance. It was too dark to see much; light shone in the windows of a few of the cottages, and Harry could see more swaying lights, out on what he guessed were fishing boats beyond the quay.  But the buildings were quaint and rundown, some clearly abandoned, and a dull quiet enveloped the place with an almost wistful dreariness. Even in the murky light, Harry got an impression of a once-fashionable resort town that had outlived its popularity and fallen into faded obscurity.

When Snape turned and began stalking down the street away from the town, Harry stumbled after him.  He was too groggy to ask questions at first; keeping up with the professor's long stride took most of his concentration.   The cobblestones dwindled away after a short distance, replaced by a narrow dirt lane that wound its way up a long slope that stretched away from the sea.  The slow but steady climb was tiring but the cool night air did wake him somewhat, and Harry began to look around with renewed interest.

A crescent moon in the clear black sky provided enough light to see the road under his feet, but left the countryside around them shrouded in gloom.  Harry had a feeling there was little to see anyway.  The shoreline seemed to be strewn with modest beachfront cottages and caravan parks as far as the eye could see, but the slope was windswept and strangely desolate. The crown of the slope revealed more long, low hills, sparsely dotted with indeterminate clumps of shadow he guessed were farm buildings or cottages.  Although it was barely past nine by Harry's old watch, only a few lights twinkled in the dark landscape.  It seemed a sleepy rural setting, much quieter than he was accustomed to.

He glanced back over his shoulder as they crested the first rise, glimpsing the small cluster of buildings they had left below.  Beside the village, a white curve of beach glowed dimly in the moonlight. A pale glimmer of languid waves was all that defined the fathomless black void that was the night sea beyond.  The lonely sight made Harry feel small and isolated and he turned from the scene with a shiver.  He hastened to catch up to his silent companion.  Snape might not be genial or talkative, but his solid presence gave Harry a firm sense of familiarity and security, and he took comfort from the wizard's austere company.

When they had climbed the third slope, the lane turned south, mirroring the coastline for some distance until it faded out of view. To Harry's surprise, Snape left the lane and struck out across open land to the north.  Harry gamely followed him across dense grassy fields crisscrossed by a rambling network of low stone walls.  As he was scrambling over yet another of the seemingly countless rocky barriers, Harry twitched his nose and spoke for the first time since leaving the hired car.

"What is that smell?"

Snape reached for his arm, helping him over the crumbling stone hurdle.  "These are pastures," he replied blandly.

Harry brushed off his jeans and squinted at him. "Pastures?  Pastures for what?"

"Sheep, of course," Snape snorted softly as if the answer was obvious.

"Sheep? There are sheep out here?" Harry glanced around nervously, as if expecting to see a sudden stampede emerging from the shadows.

"Not in this particular paddock," Snape smirked slightly at Harry's anxious look.  "We're crossing only unoccupied enclosures. . .I have no wish to startle someone's flocks."

"Oh." Harry peered around suspiciously.  He wouldn't put it past Snape to lead him straight into a pen full of sheep just to prank him.

"There's no need to be fearful," Snape continued across the next field.  "They won't harm you."

"I'm not afraid!!" Harry snapped crossly, a bit embarrassed.

"The local farmers raise mainly Cheviot or Suffolk breeds," Snape lectured pedantically, ignoring his protest.  "These breeds are hornless, and quite docile.  You'll want to stay clear of the rams, however.  They are large and can be rather aggressive. This time of year they are kept away from the ewes, in separate enclosures. I recommend you stay out of their paddocks, if you don't want to end up knocked on your posterior and trampled on."

Harry was quiet for a moment, processing this interesting, if slightly alarming information. He wondered wryly if there was any topic the bookish professor wasn't an expert on?  He's worse than Hermione!  Where does a potions professor get off knowing so much about sheep, for Merlin's sake?  "Are there sheep on this farm where we're staying?"

"Yes, it's the main enterprise of the farm.  They grow some grain crops, and raise other livestock as well, but it's primarily a sheep farm."

Harry wrinkled his nose in disgust.  "If there aren't any sheep in this paddock, why does it smell so bad?"  He could have sworn he heard the man chuckle, but decided it must have been a passing bird or a field mouse or something.

"I suspect that a flock was only recently moved from this field.  Their waste is still fresh," Snape answered wryly.

"Waste?" Harry frowned, then gaped in sudden comprehension, halting abruptly. He raised one foot and glared at the dark smear on the bottom of his shoe with revulsion. "Ewww!" he scowled at Snape's amused sneer.  "You could have warned me, you know!"

"You could have watched where you were stepping," Snape countered mildly. 

"How?  It's too bloody dark to see anything out here!" Harry complained, balancing awkwardly on one foot while trying to scrape the other on the stubbly grass.

"Language, Mr. Potter," Snape scolded, grasping Harry's elbow to steady him. "What did you expect to find in a sheep pasture?"

"How would I know?" Harry whined, scuffing his feet fiercely and glowering.  "Sheep are a bit scarce in Little Whinging, in case you didn't know!"

"Then I am glad our excursion is proving to be so educational." Snape released his arm and strode off again, leaving Harry to stomp after him, grumbling under his breath.  If Snape heard Harry's unflattering and nastily inventive mutterings, he didn't acknowledge them.

When they climbed yet another stone wall, Harry was relieved to find a narrow dirt road at their feet. Snape turned right and followed it, Harry trailing tiredly behind.  It could scarcely be called a road, Harry realized.  It was more like an abandoned track or path, somewhat overgrown with disuse.  He could barely make out two ancient ruts that marked the passage of old carts or wagons.  A tall hedgerow of brambles grew wild along the left side of the track, apparently bordering a stream that Harry couldn't see but could hear gurgling in the dark.  His guess was confirmed when an opening abruptly appeared in the hedge, revealing a sturdy stone bridge that crossed the wide stream.  A gravel drive spread beyond the bridge, leading to several unlit buildings grouped together.  

Harry glanced hopefully at Snape, but the wizard continued past the bridge without comment.  Remembering a recent American film he'd heard Dudley talking about, Harry had an almost irresistible urge to start chanting "Are we there yet? Are we there yet?"  but he stuffed that urge away in that part of his mind where his especially daft ideas lived.  Snape would neither appreciate nor understand the reference, and Harry would feel like a fool trying to explain it.  Instead, he politely offered an observation that had occurred to him some minutes ago.

"I thought you said this place was only a 2 km walk."

"It is."

 "Surely we've walked that far already?"

"The property boundary is 2 km from the village," Snape replied calmly, giving him a wry look.  "We've been on the property for the last twenty minutes."

"Huh?"  Harry was too tired for eloquence.

"The cottage is about half a kilometer down this road," Snape said, his tone almost sympathetic.  "I know you're tired, but it isn't much further."  When Harry only nodded wearily, Snape seemed to feel a need to offer additional explanation. . . either that or he decided to talk to keep Harry awake a little longer.

"It was important for our safety that we not use any magic once we left the ferry - that's why I hired the Muggle car and driver.  But I didn't want anyone to witness our final destination. . . even memory charms, like Oblivate, can sometimes be overcome by a powerful Legilimens.  That's why I chose to walk from the village."

"A powerful what?"

"Legilimens. . . a person trained with the ability to extract emotions and memories from another person's mind," Snape waved dismissively.  "That is a subject for another discussion.  The point is, these measures ensure that no one can follow our magical signatures, or discover our whereabouts.  Once we are behind the wards on the cottage, our magic will be undetectable."

"You mean the wards don't cover the whole property?"

"There are basic protective wards around the entire property, to safeguard from harm everyone associated with the farm. But the stronger, more complicated wards...particularly the Notice-Me-Not and Muggle-repelling charms, are only on the main house.  Remember, the farm manager and his family are Muggles.  It would a bit difficult for them to run a farm they couldn't find, wouldn't it?"

Harry snickered at the mental image that comment prompted.

"The bridge we just passed leads to the  manager's house and most of the farm structures - the barns and such.  The working portion of the farm begins at the public lane and extends up to the main house wards. . . about 24 hectares - or 60 acres. The main house sits upon an additional 4 hectares - roughly 10 acres. That portion is not only warded and unplottable, it is protected under a Fidelius Charm.  Do you know what that is?"

Harry nodded, his face growing grim.  "My parents were under that charm.  It didn't save them," he grumbled darkly.

"Their Secret Keeper betrayed them," Snape agreed sourly, then he stopped and turned Harry to face him, searching his countenance with an odd expression. "That won't happen here," he claimed firmly.

"How do you know?"

"Because I am the Secret Keeper," Snape replied.  "No one can find the cottage unless I tell them where it is.  Only you and I will know its location, and even when you know, you won't be able to tell anyone.  Only I can do that."

Harry studied the unfamiliar hazel eyes that stared back at him and wished he could see behind the glamour  to the coal black eyes he trusted.  "What about the farm manager. . .he must know where it is?"

"He and his family know a house lies beyond the gates, but they cannot see it or speak of it.  Even if one of them could get past the Muggle charms and wards, they still couldn't see it. . .they would only see ruined foundations of a cottage believed to have burned down a century ago."  Snape squeezed his shoulder gently, his transformed face a mask of detachment. "I don't want you to be concerned.  As long as you are behind those wards, nothing can harm you.  No one will know where you are, except me."

Harry nodded thoughtfully.  "And your friend."

"Friend?"

"The man who owns the house. . .he knows we're staying here, right?"

"He does, yes. . .but even he cannot tell anyone.  And he wouldn't betray us if he could."

Harry squinted at him.  "You must trust him a lot."

Snape almost smirked.  "I trust him as much as I trust myself. . .perhaps more."

This was good enough for Harry, and he said so.  As Snape resumed their trek, Harry trudged willing beside him.  He realized that for all his moods and tempers, Snape had really gone to a great deal of trouble to protect him.  He felt a strange warmth spread through his chest.  He wasn't quite sure what to make of this, but he decided to enjoy it while it lasted. 

To Harry's relief, the worn track finally came to an end in front of a large rusty iron gate.  A tall stone wall spread out on either side, disappearing into the surrounding darkness.  A tarnished padded lock hung from the gate.  Snape turned to Harry and spoke slowly and quietly.  "Listen to me carefully.  Our safe haven is Fen Barrow, Lower Killegran, south of Knockroe Way. Can you remember that?"

"Uhm. . ." Harry blinked dazedly at him. 

Snape sighed.  "Never mind.  I'll write it down for you later and you can memorize it."  He turned back to the gate, which Harry discovered was no longer tarnished and rusty, but gleamed shiny black in the moonlight. The padlock had also transformed, into a white marble plaque with letters etched into it in a language Harry didn't recognize.  "Put your hand next to mine, palm against the marble," Snape instructed.  As soon as his palm touched the cool marble, Harry felt a weird flare of energy race down his arm and over his body like a cold flame.  He gasped, but didn't remove his hand until the energy faded and Snape dropped his own hand from the plaque. "You are now keyed to the wards," Snape explained, pushing open the gates without effort.  "You can come and go without my assistance, and the wards will notify you if any danger arises."  He turned to Harry with a fathomless expression, his voice low, lacking any hint of sarcasm. "Welcome to Fen Barrow, Harry."

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

Harry stepped through the gates and stared wearily down a long dusty drive between two rows of trees.  He could barely make out some sort of structure huddling in the dark at the end of the driveway.  He heard the gate shut behind him and Snape sighed very softly. He could have almost cried with relief when Snape declared, "I believe we'd best speed this up now, before you fall asleep at the gates, eh?" and slipped his arms around Harry. 

With a swift squeeze and a sharp popping noise, Harry found himself stumbling a bit in Snape's grasp, in front of a simple, moderately-sized cottage.  The walls were gray stone and it had a steep, thatched roof with two small dormer windows. There was a stone chimney on the left side and a small window on the right, and in the middle was a plain wooden door painted a deep scarlet.  Much to Harry's surprise, it looked like a perfectly ordinary cottage - similar to scores he had seen scattered across the Irish countryside on the drive down from Dun Laoghaire. "What? No dungeon? No moat?" he muttered wryly to himself.

"What was that?" Snape asked.

"Nothing."

When Snape opened the door to usher him in, Harry's final reserve of energy seemed to give out at last, and he staggered into the tiny foyer with bleary eyes.  He almost didn't notice the tiny house elf dressed in a bright green pillowcase, bouncing slightly on his toes in front of them.

"Welcome, Master Westlake!" the elf crowed happily.  "It is excellent to be seeing you again!"

"Thank you, Mercup.  It is good to see you as well," Snape replied, closing the door and setting down his travel bag. "Mercup, this is my ward, Master Cary Westlake."

"Welcome, Young Master!  Welcome to Fen Barrow!" Mercup chirped, snatching up the carryon.  "Can Mercup be getting the good Masters anything?  Some tea?  A light supper, perhaps?"

Snape stared critically at Harry's pale face.  "Are you hungry, Cary? Or would you rather go right to sleep?"

"Not hungry," Harry yawned, peering about with drowsy curiosity.  He had a vague impression of stone floors, low ceilings with exposed beams, and white plastered walls, but was too tired to really take in his surroundings.

"Right," Snape said crisply.  "I would very much enjoy a cup of tea, Mercup, but first I think I'd best get my ward into bed."

"Yes, Master Westlake!  Mercup has your rooms all ready.  I prepared the east room for the young master, just as you requested, sir.  May Mercup help the young master retire?"

"I can handle it, thank you.  Perhaps later you can unpack for Master Cary. . .everything in the bag belongs to him," Snape replied evenly as he guided Harry across the foyer.

"Of course, Master Westlake. I'll do that as soon as your tea is ready, Master Westlake," the elf nodded happily and popped out of sight.

Harry blinked up at the open wooden stairs before him.  They were narrow and steep, almost like a ladder and Snape put a steadying hand at his back as he started up. It's like climbing up a lighthouse or into a tree house, Harry thought dazedly.  They reached a small landing and turned right, climbing again to a narrow hallway at the top.  Snape opened a door to the right.  "This is your room, Cary," Snape stated succinctly, emphasizing the name slightly.  Harry nodded, understanding that they were to use the aliases from this point on.  He followed the wizard into the room and stared around gawking in amazement.

The room was oddly shaped, but fairly roomy.  The wood paneled ceiling was steeply slanted in the front and back. The furnishings were simple and homey, painted white, which lightened what otherwise might have been a dark room.  To the left of the door, a wrought iron single bed nestled under the eaves, with a matching nightstand beside it.  Across from the door, a large antique wardrobe stood against the outer stone wall.  Harry peeked around a corner to the right to discover a small desk, chair and bookcase, snuggled into a nook in front of the dormer window. The bed was made up in soft white linens and a bright quilt in splashes of red, blue and tan.  The floor was fashioned from wide wood planks, highly polished, and set off with a red and tan braided oval rug. A red and blue striped valance hung over the dormer window, with a matching cushion on the chair. The bright colors and white furniture gave the cozy room a cheery, inviting effect and brass oil lanterns burned warmly on the desk and night stand. 

Snape stood by the door, watching Harry's reactions. "I hope the accommodations will prove satisfactory," he said coolly.

Harry beamed at him.  "It's brilliant!"  He glanced back at the bed and looked up, gasping in amazement. "A skylight?!"

Snape smirked, pleased by his enjoyment.  "The cottage is quite old, but was renovated in the last decade. Most of the original charm was carefully preserved, but the owner did add a few contemporary innovations, including modern wizard plumbing and two skylights to bring a bit more light into the upstairs."

Harry grinned.  "It's wonderful!  I'll be able to see the stars right from my bed!"

"That door leads to your bathroom."

Harry opened the door beside the desk which lead to a small, old-fashioned, but very pleasant bathroom.  The tiles, sink and toilet were white, as was the interior of the claw-footed tub, but much to his amusement, the tub exterior had been finished in a bright cobalt blue. A matching blue rug graced the floor and fresh blue towels hung ready for use.

"Oh, sir!  I don't know what to say!" Harry stared about, hugging himself with excitement.  "It's the grandest room I've ever seen!"

"I hope it will prove comfortable," Snape demurred.  "My bedroom door is at the end of the hallway, if you should need me in the night.  Our two suites make up the entire first floor.  I will give you a tour of the whole house tomorrow, but if you should awaken before me, you'll find the dining room on the ground floor - left at the bottom of the stairs.  Now, why don't you get yourself ready for bed?" Snape suggested, in a tone that indicated he expected compliance.  "You should find all the essential toiletries in the bathroom.  I'll locate some pajamas for you and send them in directly."

"Yes, sir!"  Harry hurried off to the bathroom, eager to prove he could obey and was worthy of all his professor had done for him.  He found a new toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo and soap in the cabinet above the sink, just as Snape had predicted. The tub looked inviting but he was too tired to bother so he settled for a quick wash up.  He had just finished brushing his teeth when a set of the new pajamas he had bought in Liverpool popped into the room and neatly hung themselves on a hook by the door.  Harry changed quickly and went back into the bedroom, his dirty clothes bundled in his hands.  "What should I do with these, sir?" he yawned.

"You'll find a hamper on the floor of the linen closet in the bathroom.  If you put your soiled things in there, Mercup will tend to them,"  Snape motioned him to the bed.  "I'll take care of them this time - you get into bed.  You're nearly asleep on your feet," he scolded mildly. 

Harry happily complied, noting that Snape had unshrunk his trunk and placed it at the foot of his bed.  His new robe and slippers rested on top.  The soft bed proved every bit as comfy as it looked, and Harry slid under the clean sheets with a contented sigh.  The quilt was warm and smelled of sunshine and fresh air and the fluffy pillow was like laying his head on a cloud.  Harry gazed up at the skylight with a blissful smile.  He knew the cottage didn't actually belong to Snape, but he still hadn't expected to be given a bedroom that was so cheerful and pleasant. He had been a bit surprised when Snape didn't sneer at the bright colors and homey décor.

Not Snape, he reminded himself.  I have to stop using that name.

He drowsily studied the wizard when he returned from the bathroom and stopped to extinguish the lamp on the little desk.

"Sir? May I ask you something?"

Snape stalked over to the bed and looked down at him suspiciously.  "What is it, P-Cary?" Snape corrected himself irritably.

"What should I call you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you're supposed to be my guardian, aren't you?  What name should I call you?   I can't just call you Sir, or Professor.  If I've lived with you since I was five, then I would call you by something more. . .um, familiar, wouldn't I?"

"Hmm," Snape stared at him with a frown.  "Yes, I see your point.  We shall have to address this."  He startled Harry by sitting on the foot of his bed and settling his long robes tidily about himself.  "I agree a more informal title would be appropriate," he said thoughtfully, "but I won't consent to allow you to call me by my given name - even if ‘Charles' is a pseudonym.  I don't approve of children addressing their elders by first names.  It's disrespectful and unseemly."  He tapped his lips with a finger pensively.  "Is there some form of address that you'd prefer?"

Harry shook his head.  "I don't know.  The only guardians I ever had were the Dursleys." He scowled. "I just as soon not call you ‘Uncle' if that's all right."

"No, I understand why you would not," Snape agreed.  "I expect the reminder would not be pleasant. I'd rather avoid that association as well."

"What do wards usually call their guardians?"

"I expect ‘uncle' is most common as an affectionate title, although they may not be actual kin,"  Snape mused.  "Still, most such cases do involve blood relationships, where one might use the appropriate title, such as godfather, or grandfather or the like."

"You're not old enough to be my grandfather!' Harry snickered.

"Technically. . .mmm, perhaps not," Snape agreed, deciding not to correct his assumption.  "Godfather is quite common in wizarding society, although it doesn't carry the same religious connotations as in Muggle society, but I'd rather not use that."  He didn't offer to explain his reason, and Harry knew better than to ask.

"What did you say was Charles' and Cary's relationship?" Harry asked with a frown.  "I don't quite remember."

"Your father was my first cousin," Snape replied a bit brusquely.

"That would make us second-cousins, right?  Perhaps I could call you Cousin," Harry exclaimed hopefully.

"Yes,. . . yes, that would do nicely," Snape seemed almost pleased.  "You should address me as ‘Cousin Charles' in public situations - particularly in front of other adults.  Informally, you may shorten it to ‘Cousin' - but no cheeky diminutives or impertinent nicknames!" he warned darkly.  "The first time you dare to call me ‘Coz' or ‘Charlie' or some other such undignified nonsense, you will find yourself scrubbing cauldrons for a week!  Is that clear?"

"Yes, Cousin Charles," Harry answered meekly.  Only the tiny gleam in his eyes betrayed his amusement.

"If you should happen to slip and address me as Professor, that can be easily explained away.  I am supposed to be a teacher as well as your guardian, and you attend school where I teach.  If the situation was genuine, you would not be permitted to address me familiarly in class, and would have to address me as Professor, any other student would.  It would be understandable if you sometimes confused the two."

"Actually,  sir, most Muggle public school teachers are just called Mr. or Miss," Harry offered uncomfortably.  "They aren't called Professors like at Hogwarts. . .that's usually just at University."

"Indeed," Snape scowled in disapproval.  "Most disrespectful. . . .still, there's no accounting for Muggle customs. . .quite lacking in etiquette, if you ask me."  He thought for a moment.  "If it should come up, then we shall say I taught at University prior to taking the  Belmont post.  You still address me as Professor out of the deepest respect for my advanced learning and reputation as a scholar," he announced smugly.

"If you say so," Harry agreed dubiously. "Perhaps I had better just be very careful not to make a mistake in front of other people."

"That would be best," Snape had to agree. "And now, you must go to sleep.  We have had an exhausting, absurdly  eventful day and you are barely recovered from your injuries as it is," he rose imperiously.  "I would not be the least bit surprised if you suffered a relapse, and I shall be forced to nurse you back to health again!" He glared at Harry as if daring him to become ill.  "Can I trust you to remain in bed throughout the night, and not go wandering about?"

"Yes, sir," Harry nodded and yawned again. 

"If you need anything, you may call for Mercup.  If you have another nightmare, do not hesitate to come to my room.  Do you want a sleeping potion?"

"No, sir. . .thank you.  I expect I'm much too tired even to dream."

"Very well," Snape reached for the bedside lamp and hesitated.  "Do you wish me to leave the lamp lit?"

"No, sir," Harry scowled.  "I'm not afraid of the dark. . .I'm not really ten, remember!"

"I understand that.  I was simply concerned you might be alarmed if you were to awaken in a strange room."

"Oh.  No, sir.  I'll be all right."

"Very well, then.  Goodnight. . .Cary."  Snape turned down the lamp and started for the door.

"Oh!" Harry sat straight up in bed with a start. "I forgot!"

"Forgot what?"

"I meant to. . . that is I forgot to. . ." Harry stammered, overcome with embarrassment.

"What is it, Pot--Cary?" Snape snapped tiredly.

"I'm sorry,' Harry muttered unhappily. ‘I just...I meant to thank you, sir. . .for everything you've done for me today...for nicking me from the Dursleys, and protecting me and buying me all those new clothes. . ."

Snape sighed. "You've already thanked me, child.  I told you it was enough."

"But it isn't!" Harry protested.  "You took me shopping and bought me fish and chips and took me on the train, and the ferry, like a real holiday! . . . and then you brought me to this house and gave me this brilliant room, and . . and. . no one's ever, ever done so much for me before and I don't know how I'll ever thank you enough and..." To Harry's utter shame, tears started rolling down his cheeks and a hard lump formed in his throat.

"Oh, Merlin!" Snape hissed uncomfortably, and closed the door, striding to Harry's side with a look of near panic on his face.  "Now, now, silly child, there's no need to get yourself all worked up," he fussed, sitting beside him on the bed.  He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and shoved it into Harry's hands. "Calm yourself, child. . . hush your waffling, now."

"I'm sorry," Harry whimpered.

"I know," Snape reached around and awkwardly patted his back.  "You're overtired, that's all.  You're just exhausted. . .not surprising after such a day!  It's enough to make anyone a bit weepy and skittish."

"I am tired," Harry admitted tearfully.  "I didn't mean to go all puley on you and spoil everything."

 "You didn't spoil anything, foolish child!  I understand that you're grateful and I appreciate the sentiment, but you needn't go on about it!  What little I've done is not nearly as noble or as special as you give me credit for!"

"It's special to me!" Harry sniffled.

"I know. . . .that's the injustice of it. . ." Snape sighed.  "Treatment any normal child would expect as entitlement, you've been denied. . . taught to believe you don't deserve even the simplest acts of kindness.  Listen, we will talk about this some more when you are rested.  For now, I want you to lay back down and try to get some sleep.  Will you do that?"

"Okay," Harry blew his nose and slid back under the covers.  He didn't even object when Snape ‘tucked' him in, like a little child.

"Don't fret about anything," Snape ordered gently.  "Just close your eyes and let it all go."

Harry closed his eyes with a sigh.

"That's right. . ." the deep soothing voice caressed his ears like velvet. "Clear your mind. . .don't think about anything except the softness of your pillow. . .the smell of the sheets. . .the feel of your pajamas against your skin. . .that's right...don't think.......just feel. ....."

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

A bone-weary Severus Snape descended the stairs, heading for the lounge and the much-needed tea that he knew awaited him.  As he sat and breathed in the warm comforting scent, he wondered darkly if the boy's Muggle relatives were ‘enjoying'  his revenge curse.   Perhaps leaving the Dursleys alive had been unwarranted mercy.

Too bad Muggles can't be sentenced to Azkaban.  I would love to see at least the two adults Kissed.

He snorted cynically.

I wonder. . . if a Dementor were to suck out Vernon Dursley's soul. . .would anyone would notice?

Severus glanced up wearily when Mercup appeared with a small plate of cheese toast.  He rewarded the house elf with a small, rare smile.  “Ah, Mercup - you always know what I want, even before I know it myself.”

 “I assumed Master would be hungry, after his long day of travel.” The tiny elf beamed at him. “Would Master care for a drink?  I has his favorite aged fire whiskey all ready!”

Severus frowned thoughtfully as he nibbled his toast.  “That is kind of you – but I think not.  As tired as I am,  alcohol might dull my responses: until the boy is settled in properly, it would not be wise.”  He studied the elf seriously.  “Is everything in order? Were there any problems with my arrangements?”

“None, Master,” Mercup bowed proudly.  “Everything is as you ordered.  The house will meet all your needs as you has instructed. I has watched closely for anything suspicious, but all is as should be. I delivered your letter to Mr. Keegan and he knows you has arrived. You will not be disturbed.”

“And Mr. Keegan’s excessively large family?”  Severus sneered distastefully.

“All is believing your story, Master.  . .they is expecting to see English school teacher and his young ward, who rent the old cottage for holiday, sir.”

“Very good.”

“I thinks some of Mr. Keegan’s young ones is being close to Little Master’s age,” Mercup eyed him hopefully.

Severus snorted, washing down his toast with a sip of hot tea. “Hmmm. . .that’s a good thing, I suppose.  The boy will need playmates.  He may meet some wizard children at Glascarrig,  but close to home, I expect Muggle children would be safer.”

“Yes, Master.”

“What about the post?”

“A post box has been set up in the Wizards’ village in the name of Westlake, as you requested, Master.  Mercup will deliver and retrieve your mail as needed. . .nothing dangerous or traceable can be getting past the wards here.”

“Excellent.  You have done very well, Mercup.”

The elf beamed at the words of praise. “I has hoped Master would be satisfied.”

“I am. . .and I’m pleased you remembered my alias, however, you must be careful, Mercup.  You mustn’t call me Master.  You really must address me as Mister Westlake!”

The elf’s large ears drooped and his careworn features twisted into a sad grimace.  “I is sorry, Master!  I tries to remember but it is hard.”

“I understand,” Severus replied with unusual kindness.  “But it is crucial to our safety.  You may address my ward as ‘Master Cary’  or ‘Little Master’ – that is an acceptable title for any lad of his status that you might serve.  But you must not slip and call me Master – not even in front of Cary.  I doubt he would understand the connotation at this point, but I will be teaching him about Wizard society this summer, and he may eventually realize what the title implies.  It’s important that no one – not even the boy - know that you are bound to me.  Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mas…” the elf hesitated and quickly corrected himself.  “Yes, M- Mister Westlake! “ he stammered over the title, making a distressed face. “It is very difficult, sir! I is sorry to be so much trouble, sir!  It is hard for Mercup to use such a disrespectful title, sir!”

Severus sighed.  “Very well. Perhaps something else instead. . .” He thought back over his conversation with the boy.  “Would ‘Professor’ be easier for you?”

Mercup smiled tremulously.  “Oh, sir!  That is much better, Professor sir! It is a noble profession and a title of great merit and reverence.  I is happy to be calling Master,  Professor Westlake!  Thank you, sir!”

“It is an acceptable compromise,” Severus agreed thoughtfully.  “It’s appropriate for Westlake’s position, and a familiar title to the child.  No one will attach any significance to it, I think.”

“Yes, Professor!  Is much more easy to obey my Master in this! I am being most careful from now on, I promise!” Mercup nodded frantically, his normal pleased grin back in place.

“Thank you, Mercup.  I am grateful for your efforts.”  Severus rose and stretched his aching back.  “I’ll retire now, Mercup.  I have told Cary to call upon you if he needs anything, but I expect he will sleep through the night without incident.  The child was quite exhausted.”

“Yes, Professor!  I keep careful watch over him,” Mercup promised solemnly.

“No, Mercup – that isn’t necessary,” Severus scolded sternly.  “I will place a monitoring charm on him to alert me if he awakens. Do not concern yourself.  I know you have labored hard to prepare for our arrival.  I insist you get some rest now. . .” he eyed the tiny elf wryly. “You will need all of your ample energy in future.  Trust me - I know the boy. I’m afraid that caring for a mischievous, inquisitive lad like this one, will require considerably more effort than tending the needs of a stodgy old Professor – even one as cantankerous as I.”

“Oh, M-Professor!”  the elf looked scandalized.  “You mustn’t say such things! You is a very good master!”

Severus chuckled darkly. “It is kind of you to say so, Mercup. . .but we both know I am frequently demanding and bad-tempered.”

Mercup followed him into the foyer to the foot of the steep stairs. “I would never think so, Professor!” he insisted stubbornly.

“You disagree?” Severus eyed him with a mild smirk.

“Indeed, sir!’ Mercup declared, gazing up at him adoringly. “Professor is merely. . .particular, sir,” he sniffed smugly.  “He likes thing to be a certain way and Mercup understands what his Master wants and needs. Professor is never unfair or unreasonable.  Mercup could not wish for a better master, sir!”

Severus couldn’t help but give the tiny elf a fond, rueful smile.  “Then it is fortunate for me that you have such low expectations,  my dear Mercup.”  He forestalled any more protest from the elf with a weary wave.  “I’m going to bed now.  Please do the same.” He began the steep climb up the narrow stairs.

“Sleep well, Professor!” the elf called softly.

“And you, Mercup.”

The elf popped out as Severus reached the cramped little upstairs hall.  He paused a moment and opened Harry’s door, glancing in on the boy.  In the pale moonlight splashed across the bed, all he could see was a huddled bump under the quilt, and the bottom of one bare foot sticking out from under the covers.  With an annoyed sigh, he crossed to the bed and stared down at the still form.  It took a moment to make sense of the peculiar, baffling lump. He realized with some astonishment that the boy had fallen asleep on his face, his knees tucked up under him and his head under the pillow, buried in his arms.  The peak of the blanketed bulge proved to be the child’s arse, thrust comically up into the air.

He studied Harry worriedly, weighing his options. He couldn’t fathom how such a pose could be even remotely comfortable, and he longed to straighten the child’s frame out properly.  But he feared the attempt would wake the boy – something he definitely did not want to risk.   

A shiver of uncertainty gripped his heart.

He forced himself to ignore his abruptly rising self-doubts.  Clearly the boy was perfectly all right. If he were truly suffocating, he would shift himself.  With a shrug of defeat, he left the sleeping child as he was and settled for merely covering the exposed foot, and adding a warming charm to the quilt.

He waved his wand at the door, murmuring a spell that would alert him if the boy left his room. He started to leave, then turned back and scowled thoughtfully at the child. Another simple charm settled silently over the boy, designed to monitor any signs of fear or distress. Severus felt a bit ridiculous casting such a superfluous charm, but he knew Harry was prone to nightmares, and he didn’t want the boy to wake up alone and afraid in a strange place.  If he panicked he might do something foolish, like tumble down the stairs and break his fool neck.  Feeling his caution was reasonably justified, Severus dismissed the embarrassing moment of concern.

But despite his renewed confidence, he left Harry’s door open when he left,  and even left his own door slightly ajar as he retired to his bedroom.  The cool silky sheets of the large bed called to him, and he retrieved a nightshirt from the wardrobe and changed quickly.  Severus sank into the comforting softness of his featherbed with a relieved sigh of contentment.  He was asleep before he could even begin his customary nightly meditation.

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

Harry stirred restlessly, floating up from the depths of sleep with a vague feeling of discomfort.  His right foot was cold.  This was his first conscious awareness.  He shifted instinctively, drawing the chilly appendage under the covers. The rest of his body was remarkably warm and comfortable.  This was his second awareness.  His half-conscious mind toyed with this peculiar insight.  The idea was too foreign to ignore and he slowly awakened.  He lay still for a moment, his drowsy mind trying to assess his surroundings.

He was in a bed.  A soft, unbelievably comfortable bed. His body didn’t know what to make of this.  He had never known such comfort before.  His mind sifted through foggy sense memories : his bare cot under the stairs. . . his hard, threadbare mattress in Dudley’s second bedroom. . .the crisp, sterile firmness  of an Infirmary bed. . .even his dorm bed was coarse and lumpy compared to the fluffiness that cushioned his body now.  He felt like he was drifting on a cloud.  Was he on a cloud? Was he dead? 

The cold foot tingled as it warmed. No.  He probably wasn’t dead if his foot tingled. He decided to open his eyes. He squinted against the unexpected glaring light.  He blinked groggily and automatically reached out an arm.  His hand bumped a hard surface – groping and finding the familiar shape of his glasses.  He put them on and stared up.  A brilliant blue sky shimmered above him.  For a confusing moment he thought he was in a bed out of doors – then the memories flooded back.  Skylight.  Bedroom.  The cottage.  Snape.

He sighed happily, wakefulness expanding in a rush of excitement.  He sat up, glancing around with a sleepy smile.  He was in his room. . .the wonderful room Snape gave him last night.  Sunbeams from the skylight spilled across the bed and floor, making everything glow.  He dreamily ran a hand over his brightly colored quilt. It was rumpled and tangled a bit. . .evidence of Harry’s customary restlessness.  He always thrashed about in his sleep. . .it wasn’t uncommon for him to awaken shivering, with his pillow and blanket cast aside, or even dumped on the floor.  The fact that his pillow and covers were still relatively in place on the bed meant he must have slept very deeply.  He realized he did feel much more rested than usual.

He stretched like a contented cat, briefly considering just rolling over and going back to sleep.  The heavenly soft bed  and warm quilt would have made it easy.  But anticipation, curiosity, and an urgent pressure in his bladder chased away the temptation,  so he clambered out of bed and scampered across the room to the bathroom.  He tended to his most pressing need, then went over to the sink to wash up.  He nearly started at the unfamiliar reflection that blinked back at him from the mirror over the sink.  The boy in the mirror bore only a slight resemblance to Harry.  The nose was the same, as were the slightly round cheeks.  But the chin was sharper, and the hazel eyes behind squarish gold glasses looked larger and more slanted.  He brushed chestnut-brown curls off  his forehead, frowning at the lighting-bolt scar glaring against his pale skin.  Apparently, he had either unwittingly washed off the Muggle make-up before going to bed, or it had worn off during the night. He made a mental note to ask Snape if there was a spell to fix the makeup so it wouldn’t rub off.

Harry glanced up at the blue ceramic clock perched on a shelf above the toilet.  He was surprised to discover it was only a little after seven – earlier than he expected.  His stomach growled with hunger, but he decided he wanted a bath more than food.  The constant travel the day before had left him feeling grubby and dreadfully smelly. He filled the antique tub, even adding some bubble brew he found in the tiny corner linen cabinet.  To his relief, the iridescent blue bubbles didn’t smell flowery or feminine, but filled the room with a light clean scent that reminded him of sea air and mountain forests.  He indulged himself with a scandalously long soak in the hottest water he could stand. . .a blissful luxury he’d only ever experienced in the Hogwarts Infirmary. The Quidditch changing room and Gryffindor dorm baths were both limited to shower stalls, and the Dursleys had never permitted him to waste their hot water on a bath.  Hot baths were not for worthless freaks like Harry.

Since he was old enough to stand, Harry had been restricted to two-minute cold showers – and even then, only when he smelled so bad even his relatives couldn’t ignore the stench.   When Harry had first started school, the other children had complained loudly that the shy, skinny boy was ‘stinky’ and they refused to sit next to him.  Harry had been shocked and humiliated.  His teacher sent a note home the first day, politely requesting that Harry be taught proper hygiene.  His Aunt Petunia sent back a stiff reply, claiming she had tried to bathe her troublesome nephew to no avail, and that the boy had ‘inherited’ a chronic offensive body odor from his ‘low class’ father.  The teacher just looked at him with revolted pity. Harry had been mortified at his classmates’ hurtful remarks, and had hidden a bottle of water and an old flannel in his cupboard, to wash himself with as best he could between the infrequent showers he was allowed.  Even though he tried to stay clean, the ignominy followed him throughout his Muggle school years.  Urged on by a spiteful Dudley, many of his classmates continued to call him ‘Pongy Potter’ – saddling the shunned boy with yet another stigma to isolate him from his peers. 

When he started at Hogwarts, Harry had been thrilled and relieved to gain unlimited access to hot showers.  He showered religiously every morning – often at night as well – and was obsessively mindful of his own odor.  After every Quidditch practice, when he felt especially dirty and sweaty, he had always been the last to leave the changing room.  He soaped and rinsed himself at least three times,  causing some of his teammates to tease him about his excessive cleanliness.  Harry didn’t care – he had much rather be mocked for being too clean than being dirty.  And even when he was freshly showered, he sometimes worried that despite his efforts, he still smelled bad. He had never spoken of it to anyone, and it wasn’t something he gave a lot of conscious thought to, but deep down inside he still felt like the stinky, unwashed little boy so cruelly reviled by his classmates. It was a painful insecurity that had never really left him.

After dutifully scrubbing away every trace of his travel grime, Harry lounged in the scented water, contentedly watching his toes and fingers turn pale and wrinkled. By the time a timid knock sounded on the bathroom door, the small guest soap he had washed with was nearly melted away to nothing.

“Little Master?”

Harry recognized the high, diffident voice belonging to the house elf he’d met briefly last night. “Yes?”

“Professor Westlake has requested that I fetch you for breakfast,  Little Master.”

“Thank you – I’ll be right out.”

“Shall I lay out clean attire for Little Master?”

“No thanks,” Harry frowned in embarrassment.  He knew the tiny creature was only trying to help, but he could certainly dress himself, for Merlin’s sake!  “I can manage.  Please tell . . .” he hesitated, barely remembering their ruse in time. “Please tell my cousin I’ll be down directly.”

“Yes, Little Master!”

Harry let out the stopper in the tub and rose to dry himself off.  He would have speak to the elf about calling him by his name, he decided.  That ‘Little Master’ business would not do at all.  It made him feel like a right poncy prig and reminded him way too much of Draco Malfoy.  He could just imagine swarms of house elves fawning over the pampered Slytherin, bowing and squeaking “Yes, Little Master! No, Little Master! As you wish, Little Master!”  The thought made him snort derisively.

He glanced in the mirror again and swiped a hand through his clean wet curls.  He was perversely pleased that his transfigured locks stuck out all over his head almost as messily  as his natural hair did.  In a surge of boyish defiance, he decided not to comb it, leaving the untidy mop as silent proof that he was no spoiled, prissy Mama’s boy like Malfoy, thank you very much!

With a towel wrapped around his waist, Harry puffed up his skinny chest and swaggered out of the bathroom. Indulging his anti-swank mood a bit further, he rifled through the clothes the house elf had hung in his wardrobe, selecting the most ordinary, understated garments he could find.  He quickly dressed in jeans, his trainers and a plain black polo shirt.  The new clothes looked nice, but they were far from ‘Little Lord of the Manor’ and they didn’t make Harry feel like a complete berk, so he was smugly satisfied.

The smell of frying bacon and hot bread drifted into his room and Harry’s stomach gave an impatient snarl. He dashed from his room and clattered down the steep stairs, hanging on tight to the railing to keep his balance.  He peered briefly to his right, spying a pleasant room that looked like it must be the lounge, then followed his nose to the left, into a small cozy dining room.

The small room was simply and sparsely furnished, with white plastered walls and a slate floor.   There were two low windows – one facing the front of the cottage, and one facing east, where the morning sun was bathing the room in a golden glow.  Harry barely noted the sideboard to his left, and the door and small fireplace in the wall beyond it.  His attention was focused on the table loaded with food before him.  It was a modest table,  just large enough to seat four comfortably, made from light poplar with a smooth unvarnished top.  A slate blue jug filled with colorful wildflowers adorned the middle of the rustic table, surrounded by Wedgewood china platters stacked with enough food to feed ten grown wizards. 

Snape stared at Harry from the far side of the table by the window.  A frown was etched on his transfigured face, but Charles Westlake’s genial features and affable brown eyes masked the dark Potion Master’s usual frosty menace, and took the sharp edge off the attempted scowl.  Harry merely grinned at him and plopped down into the chair opposite the older wizard. “Good morning, Cousin Charles!” he chirped gaily.

“Good morning, Cary,” the wizard muttered tersely.  He watched silently as Harry loaded his plate with eggs, bacon and hot buttered bread.  “I trust you slept well.”

Harry nodded, mumbling uncouthly around the mouthful of eggs he had hungrily shoveled into his mouth.  “Amazingly well!” he babbled, not noticing Snape’s grimace of distaste.  “That’s the most comfortable bed I ever slept in!  I didn’t even dream, I slept so hard!” He crunched happily on a strip of bacon as he chattered on.  The bacon was perfect – just like he liked it – crisp and brown and not too greasy.  “And my bathroom is brilliant too – especially the tub!  I soaked so long, I almost fell back asleep!  I could have stayed in there half the day, I think, if I hadn’t been so hungry!”  He turned to the house elf who had just then entered from the far door with a hot platter of kippers.  “Mercup, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Yes, Little Master,” the elf bobbed his head, his ears flapping.

Harry winced slightly. “Did you make the food?”  At the elf’s nod, Harry smiled at him over a fork full of egg.  “It’s terrific!”

“Thank you, Little Master,” Mercup beamed happily.

“Yeah - about that,” Harry added seriously, swallowing and pausing his eating for the first time.  “Please call me Cary, Mercup.  Just Cary, all right? That ‘Little Master’ stuff really isn’t necessary.”

Mercup’s big eyes grew larger and his smile melted. “Oh, but sir. . .I couldn’t possibly! Oh, no, Little Master – it won’t do at all, no sir, not at all! It be much too informal, sir!”

“But I want you to call me Cary,” Harry insisted.  His heart dropped when he saw large tears swell in the distressed elf’s eyes.

“Oh, please, sir…such disrespect!  It’s very noble and generous of you to suggest so, I’m sure, but please - Mercup really couldn’t!”  the elf whispered in obvious horror.

Harry threw Snape a desperate, pleading look.  The wizard cleared his throat discretely.  “It would appear, Mercup, that the traditional title makes my ward uncomfortable,” the professor interceded quietly.  “Perhaps you could address him as ‘Master Cary’?”

The elf perked up, a tremulous smile gracing his homely face.  “Yes, Professor!  Of course, if the Little…if Master Cary wishes it so!”

“I do,” Harry replied earnestly.  “Thank you, Mercup.  I would really appreciate it.”

“If it makes Master Cary happy, Mercup is pleased to address him so,” the relieved elf nodded vigorously.

“It would make Master Cary very happy,” Harry declared with cheerful emphasis.

“Are those kippers?” Snape smoothly distracted the elf, much to Harry’s relief.  He let the elf serve him, then turned his attention back to Harry as Mercup left.  “Once we have finished our breakfast , I’ll give you a quick tour of the place.  You were far too tired last night to notice much, and I’m sure you’d like a chance to get your bearings.”  

Harry concentrated on his eggs and bacon, while surreptitiously studying his new ‘guardian’ with just a hint of wariness. 

“Something on your mind?” Snape asked without looking up from his plate.

How does he do that? Harry wondered.  “I was just wondering,” he admitted hesitantly.

“About what?”

“Well. . .yesterday you said we would talk about some stuff. . .”

Cousin Charles’s face tightened with a very familiar grimace.  “Please be more specific.  The word “stuff” is perfectly acceptable when used as a verb.  When used as a noun, it is trite, common, and revoltingly vague.”

For a fleeting moment, Harry actually tried to decipher this convoluted criticism, then he gave up with a shrug.  “You said something about, uhm, rules…and a schedule.”

“Ah, yes,” the man nodded.  “I did indeed.  The schedule can wait until tomorrow.  Our journey was most tiring and I feel it only fair to give you at least a day or two to recuperate.  The rules we can go over together after we’ve had our little tour.  I must also discuss some security issues with you, and you’ll need to decide what  guise you wish to retain for the rest of the summer.”

“Guise?”  Harry frowned.  “I thought these were our permanent disguises,” he admitted, gesturing at himself and then at Snape.

“They can be, if you wish.  If you do not like this one, you may chose a different appearance.  No one has seen us yet, except for Mercup, of course, and he will neither care or comment if we change. But whatever appearance you choose today, you will have to live with for the rest of our stay here.”

Harry shrugged.  “This one is okay with me. . . but I could use some help with my scar.  The make-up rubs off too easily.”

“I can stabilize the make-up with a preservation charm, so it won’t come off by accident.”

“Will it be waterproof?”

“Reasonably so,” Snape admitted.  “It should hold up for an afternoon swim. But do not take that as license to leave it on for days.  I expect you to cleanse your face every evening, and apply the make-up fresh each morning.  I will give you a suitable cleansing cream to use. The Muggle make-up is quite greasy and if you don’t wash regularly,  you will clog your pores and develop acne.”

Harry blushed.  He had observed some of the older students struggling with this bane of every teenager’s existence.  He thought the only thing possibly more embarrassing than getting acne, was having to hear to his professor lecture him about it!  He scowled indignantly,  very tempted to suggest that a person’s hair should also be washed regularly, or it might get greasy…but he wasn’t quite that brave. He might be a Gryffindor, but he wasn’t suicidal.

He glanced over at Snape curiously. Cousin Charles had chestnut hair like his. It was little darker than Cary’s, and more wavy than curly, but it didn’t look the least bit greasy.  He wondered if Snape’s real hair was habitually dirty or just naturally oily.  Neither was a very appealing notion, so he decided not to think about that any more.

“Should I keep these glasses, or do you think we should change them?’ Harry asked.

“Actually, I have a slightly different idea,” Snape sipped his tea languidly, a sudden gleam in his camouflaged eyes.  “There has been some significant progress made in a well known healing potion designed to correct weak vision.”

Harry frowned.  “Madame Pomphrey and the eye doctor both mentioned that to me.  The doctor said it wouldn’t work for my eyes. . .he says I have a s-s-stigmatism that can’t be healed,” he stammered over the complex word.

“Astigmatism,” Snape corrected. “The present potion will not work, I agree,” he smirked mildly.  “But at the Potions Conference in France, I had a little chat with the brewer who originally developed it.  I spotted the flaw in his version almost immediately, and I believe I know how to remedy it.”

“Really?  You mean it could fix my a-stigmatism? I wouldn’t have to wear glasses at all?”

“If my theory is correct…and I’m relatively certain it is.”

“Wow!”  Harry felt a surge of astonished hope. He really hated his glasses, although he pretended he didn’t.  It wasn’t that he was vain…he didn’t care what he looked like.  But wearing glasses was really a bother.  When he was young, other children teased him about his ugly glasses, and Dudley broke them every chance he got.  And even the new magical glasses that Professor McGonagall had gotten him – though unbreakable – were still inconvenient.   They fogged up in bad weather – they were hard to fly with (which was a nuisance during Quidditch ) and he couldn’t see a thing without them.  He hated waking up blind, and having to grope for his glasses just to get out of bed.  And considering some of the dangers he had already faced in just one year as a wizard, he knew they might prove a serious handicap someday.  He worried sometimes that if he ever got into dire trouble, they might fall off and leave him helpless and vulnerable.  The thought of actually being free of the cumbersome things was almost too good to be true.  Harry looked up at Snape, who was watching him curiously.   “You really mean it?  You really think you could fix my eyes?”

“I believe so.  It will take a bit of research, and a few clinical trials, but I had planned on experimenting with it this summer.  With a little luck, I should have a verifiable cure before we return to school.”

“That’s brilliant!” Harry enthused happily.

“In the meantime,  I was going to suggest contact lenses.  The absence of glasses significantly alters your appearance.  I have obtained some wizarding lenses that are self-cleaning and self-adjusting, so they will change as your eyes change.  And they are clear – colorless - so they won’t be affected by glamour charms if we have to change your eye color for security reasons.”

“But aren’t magical contacts expensive?”

Snape glared at him and Harry wished he hadn’t said that.   “We have discussed the issue of money before, I believe.  I have already told you, you need not be concerned with expenses.  I have no intention of rehashing this debate every time I spend a galleon on you. . . .is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry still wasn’t entirely comfortable with the situation, but decided he didn’t really want to start the day with another argument.

“I will give you the contacts later, and teach you how to insert them and care for them,” Snape continued a bit snappishly.  “The lenses I have procured are breathable, and can be safely slept in.  You will have two pair. . .you may wear one pair for a week, then change them out.”

“It will be brilliant to be able to see when I wake up,” Harry remarked, hoping to soothe the man’s irritation.

“As for the rest of our disguise, as I mentioned before, we will be using a variety of methods to maintain them.  Since some wizards can see through glamours, we will only use the glamour for certain features:  the shape of our faces, our complexions.  We will use a potion for eye color: it’s undetectable and lasts for about a week. And we will use an entirely different subterfuge to alter your hair.”

“Different?” Harry didn’t care for the tiny, evil smirk the wizard gave him.  Something told him he wasn’t going to like this.

“I’ll explain later,” the professor dismissed with a slight shrug.  “Finish your breakfast.  We have much to accomplish today and we won’t get it done if you continue to dawdle.”

Harry resumed eating with a tiny sigh.  He was truly grateful for Snape’s intervention with the Dursleys and his obvious efforts to make Harry comfortable and safe…but why did the man have to be so touchy?!  He had a sinking feeling he would have to spend the next month walking on eggshells around the irascible wizard.