It had been three weeks since Harry had moved into Aurelia's home with Severus and things between the two of them were starting to look up. Harry was gradually beginning to trust the older man, and finding that the greasy bat of the dungeons was simply a cover to hide the real Severus Snape, who was at turns, quiet, compassionate, keen-witted, and had a wry sense of humor. He could also be strict, sarcastic, and still bore a fearsome temper, but Harry had since realized that he didn't need to fear that his father would ever lose control of it and hurt him the way his uncle, aunt, and cousin had.

Severus had informed Harry that he would only dole out appropriate punishments for misbehavior, nothing excessive. They would include lectures, lines, being sent to his room, additional chores, getting his mouth washed out with soap, and grounding, which also included taking away his broom and being sent to bed at ten o'clock instead of the usual ten-thirty. Severus also reserved the right to extend or reduce any punishments given based on Harry's attitude and willingness to accept the consequences of his actions.

"Meaning as long as you behave and take your punishment gracefully, I might reduce it by a day or an hour or whatever. But pout, whine, and act like a spoiled brat and I'll extend your punishment to whatever I feel is appropriate until you modify your behavior. So be warned," his father told him at dinner after they had looked at the photo album. "Also, if you think my punishment is unfair, you are free to try and come up with three valid reasons why and present them to me in an essay, as well as alternative consequences. If they are logical and persuasive enough, I may agree to alter my decision. Otherwise, my original punishment stands. Are those terms agreeable to you?"

Harry said that they were. He was actually surprised at that last condition, for he'd always thought of Snape as inflexible in his decisions. Of course, there were exceptions to the argument rule, one of them being that if Harry ever risked his life, for whatever reason, there would be no getting out of the consequences Severus set for him. Said consequences would most likely include a lengthy grounding, loss of many privileges, a severe scolding, and possibly a swat or two. "I've noticed that you have a terrible tendency to leap first and look afterwards, you seem to rush into things without thinking and that is something that can get you killed, Harry. A good example is your recent decision to run away from the Dursleys without informing anyone, thus making yourself vulnerable to the Death Eaters. You might have written one of us or your friends a letter before running off that way, so we knew where you were. I want you to start thinking before you act, son, it's a skill that may someday save your life."

Harry reluctantly acknowledged that maybe Severus was right, and resolved to try and think about his actions in the future. Really, it was no more than what Hermione was always going on about whenever he and Ron planned something, like sneaking into the Slytherin common room to spy on Draco using Polyjuice Potion.

Recalling that incident now made Harry squirm guiltily, for he'd stolen several valuable and expensive potions ingredients from Severus's personal stores. Once that wouldn't have bothered him, but now it did, especially since he started helping the Potions Master harvest certain ingredients and saw how time consuming it was drying and preserving certain herbs and animal parts. The boomslang skin had to be imported from Africa, and it took days to dry properly, not to mention it cost over forty Galleons. That alone was enough to make Harry's conscience start nagging him.

He wondered if his father had ever figured out who was behind the thefts in his office or the exploding firework in his potions class that day. For one moment, Harry was almost tempted to confess it all to Severus. But then the normal teenage survival part of his brain kicked in, and he shoved that crazy notion in the back of his mind, next to the one of him standing in the Great Hall naked singing about Voldemort.

After all, he didn't want to die before he was sixteen.

Currently, he was working on completing his summer essay and reading in Transfiguration and Potions. He usually left his summer homework till the last minute because Uncle Vernon had locked his trunk away in the basement and he couldn't get his texts without resorting to magic, which was forbidden to underage wizards.

Now, under Snape's watchful eye however, he was encouraged-make that ordered-to complete his assignments in a timely fashion. Not only that, but he also had to show his essays to Severus and the teacher would then look them over and decide if they were acceptable. If not, Harry would do them over. Suddenly, being the son of a professor did not seem so wonderful after all. At least before, the only one who had ever criticized his essays had been Hermione. And Harry had the uneasy feeling that Snape's idea of suitable was even more exacting than Hermione's.

But at last he was finished with McGonagall's essay and had moved on to reading about certain types of poisons and their antidotes. He'd managed to get through a quarter of the reading before Aurelia called him for lunch. After he'd eaten, he had gone for a walk, reminding himself to ask his father if it was safe to ride his broom. He missed his daily rides on his Nimbus at school.

But when he returned from his walk, he found Snape waiting for him, wearing a frown of disapproval, his newly finished essay in his hand. "Harry, did you even read the text before you wrote this?"

""Uh . . ." Harry deliberated for a moment on whether or not to tell the truth, then wilted under Snape's knowing glare. "Not really. I guess I kind of . . .skimmed it. It was so dry and-and boring."

Severus shook his head. "Nevertheless, that theory is important if you're to understand the principles behind transfiguring an object into living matter. This essay is nothing but rambling and fabrication, with an actual fact tossed in here and there. This is not the kind of work you're capable of, Harry. Now do it over again and this time read the assignment first."

"But-but, sir, I spent two hours on that this morning."

"Two hours daydreaming, yes," his father said sternly. "Now look at my corrections and redo it. No arguments, or else you can spend tomorrow in your room also, doing an additional essay on why you should develop good study habits."

With a groan, Harry took the essay, noting it was full of Severus's red pen marks and comments. This was all he needed. Scowling, he stomped away toward his room, and almost slammed the door, before remembering what Severus had said about taking his punishments gracefully.

To his surprise, his father's comments were not as acidly sarcastic as they normally were and he was actually able to use some of them to help him comprehend his reading. The chapters were still dry and boring, but at least he knew there was a point to them and he managed to get through them without being totally confused.

Even so, he was still only on the beginning of his essay when Snape tapped on his door to tell him it was time for dinner. Harry tossed his quill down moodily and thought about just refusing to do this blasted assignment. Somehow, he didn't think that was an option, not with Severus as his father, the bloody perfectionist.

"How are you coming along?" his father asked when Harry came out from his room.

"Terrible," his son growled.

"Where are you having trouble?"

Harry eyed him askance. "Ummm . . .you're actually gonna help me? I thought I had to do this myself."

"That's the general idea, however, if you're having difficulty, you may always come to me and ask for help," Severus pointed out.

Harry chewed his lower lip then said, "You promise you won't laugh? Or say I'm stupid?"

"Have I ever given that impression before?" Severus asked, astonished.

"Sometimes." Harry admitted, digging at the carpet with his sneaker.

"If I have, I apologize. That certainly was not my intention. I had to maintain the fiction that I was hard and unapproachable in class, but most students knew that they could come to me for help if necessary."

"Even the Gryffindors?"

"Yes. I tutored Katie Bell and Oliver Wood in Advanced Potions last term. Was there a particular problem you were having with the reading assignment? Perhaps we can go over it after dinner and I can clarify what you don't understand."

"Okay," Harry sighed, though the last thing he wanted to spend time doing that night was his Transfiguration homework. He was sick of the sight of it. Maybe if he completed the blasted essay, he'd still have time to watch TV before bed. He disliked the fact that Snape thought he needed a bedtime, as if he was a little kid, but Severus insisted that he needed to get a decent amount of rest each night, for he was still recovering from the torture the Death Eaters had inflicted and sleep was essential to his recovery, both physical and magical. So Harry grumbled about being sent to bed at ten-thirty, the same way he grumbled about taking the Nutrient Potion two times a day, but Severus ignored him and Harry followed his dictates reluctantly.

Now he understood better what it meant when Ron complained about his parents being on his arse for every little thing. Funny, when he'd imagined himself with a father, he'd never thought about having someone hovering over him 24/7, making sure his schoolwork was completed and that he went to bed at a reasonable hour. In his dreams his father had been there to talk with and fly with and go to Quidditch matches or buy him stuff, but he'd forgotten that there was another side to parenting, the one where you were an annoying pest to your kid, always harping on doing chores and homework.

Well, Harry, you wished for a father back in that cell and it came true, so now you're just gonna have to deal with it. Like every other kid does.

"Sev?"

"Yes, Harry?"

"Can I watch TV later if I work on my essay after dinner?"

"Yes, you may watch TV later, provided your essay is complete."

"What if it's 95% complete?" Harry argued.

Severus cocked an eyebrow. "Turning Slytherin on me, are you?"

"Well, the Hat almost put me in there, you know."

"Really?" Snape's eyebrow climbed into his hair.

"Uh huh. Only, well, I kind of talked it out of it, ‘cause Ron told me that half the dark wizards came from there and I'd just met Malfoy and he was like the snob of the century and I didn't want to get stuck being friends with him, so I told the Hat not to put me there and it put me in Gryffindor instead."

"I see. Well, meeting Malfoy would be enough to put off an angel, so I can't say I blame you. Although, by and large, Slytherin's reputation for being a House of Darkness is unearned. Only a handful of witches and wizards from there ever went dark, unfortunately that handful included Voldemort, and the notoriety far outweighs anything the rest of its members have done." Severus coughed. "Ambition is not always a bad thing, you know. I had hoped once that my duties as a spy might offset the reputation that only dark wizards come out of Slytherin. Unfortunately, that was not to be. Come along, son. Aurelia and I made chicken marsala tonight and you don't want it to get cold. We can discuss this later."

"And my essay?" Harry pressed. "Do I have to totally finish it?"

"We'll discuss that later too. Now come," and with that, the Potions Master took his son by the elbow and led him towards the kitchen.

Harry enjoyed his dinner thoroughly and he didn't even mind washing up afterwards, in fact he lingered over it until Severus ordered him to quit dawdling before it got any later and the only thing he'd be able to do after finishing Transfiguration was go to bed. Harry quickly finished the dishes.

They spent twenty minutes going over the parts of the theory Harry couldn't understand and then Severus made an outline for Harry to use when writing the paper and told him to get to work. This time, Harry was able to write more clearly and concisely and he soon had the assignment finished. He just prayed that it met with Snape's perfectionist standards.

"Hmm. You spelled a few words wrong, but other than that, this is much better than the last thing you handed me." He gave the essay back to Harry. "Give me a clean copy with no spelling errors and you may watch TV."

"Thanks, Sev," Harry said sincerely, and went back to rewrite it. Then he muttered, "I wish I could use a pencil, this'd be so much easier to correct. Why can't they invent erasable ink quills?"

From behind him, he heard Snape chuckle. "Don't you know the reason why we wizards still use quills, Harry?"

"No. Why?"

"Because writing with a quill takes discipline and precision. Two things essential when using magic and casting spells. Now get going and finish, it's nearly nine." He shooed the boy away with a gentle swat.

• * * * * *

Harry chose to watch a sitcom called Friends for the rest of the hour-and-a-half before bed. Snape didn't care all that much for it, but he allowed Harry to choose the show tonight as a reward for finishing his essay. Once it was over, Harry bid his aunt and his father good night and went to get ready for bed.

After he'd brushed his teeth and combed his hair, which was now a straight silky black and not a messy dark brown mop, he spent a few minutes stroking Hedwig, who was given free run of the place, and fell asleep.

He thought he would be too tired to dream, but that wasn't the case. Once again the nightmare haunted his sleep, as it had done for the past four nights.

* * * * * *

Once more he waited on that deserted street corner, sitting atop his trunk, Hedwig in her cage beside him. He didn't know just what he hoped to accomplish doing that, but he was tired from dragging his trunk all the way down Privet Drive and over Sunset Avenue and he just needed a moment to catch his breath and get his bearings. He needed to get a ride to London somehow, so he could get to Diagon Alley and rent a room at the Leaky Cauldron.

But before he could even take three breaths, six figures in black robes and metal masks similar to Halloween ones, erupted from the air. "Don't bother to fight, boy," hissed one, pointing a white wand at him.

He drew his own wand, but a flash of light sent it spinning from his hand. Defenseless, he backed away. "Who are you? What do you want from me?" he cried, his voice crackling on the last word, much to his shame.

"We are Death Eaters, those who are pledged to the return of our Dark Lord," answered another one, his voice was suave and cold. "And that is all you need to know, Mr. Potter."

Then another pointed his wand and cried "Incarcerous!"

Ropes exploded from the wand and wrapped themselves about him, binding him fast.

He fell to the ground, striking his head and knew nothing more.

When he next awoke, he was in a dingy stone cell, freezing, his mouth tasted like old socks had been stuffed in it, his head was pounding like seven trolls were stomping on it, and he could barely see out of the film that coated his glasses.

When he reached out to wipe them on his shirt tail, he discovered he was alone and unbound. Once his glasses were clean and he could see again, he lost no time in searching for a way out.

But there was none. He was trapped like a mouse in a snake's glass cage. Helpless. Easy prey.

Then he heard the cell door squeak open, it was loud, like the ones in all those horror flicks Dudley used to make him watch when he was little, hoping to scare him to death. They never had, he'd always known they were make believe.

But now he was afraid. So very afraid.

The black masked figure, a Death Eater, was what they called themselves, came into the cell. The only thing he could see of the wizard's face was the eyes, cold icy blue eyes that roamed over the slender frame leisurely, the way a cat might eye a mouse before he pounced upon it.

"So. This is the famous Harry Potter. I must say, you don't look like much of a savior, Boy-Who-Lived."

He said nothing, knowing it was best to keep still.

"I think you just got lucky, boy. But now, unfortunately, your luck has run out." The Death Eater chuckled mirthlessly behind the iron mask. "I knew it was only a matter of time before that fool Dumbledore overplayed his hand. Putting you with Muggles was clever, I'll give him that, but he relied too much on the wards and blood ties and not enough on facts. And the fact is, thirteen-year-old boys never do what they're told. They always disobey, even if they're told it's for their own good. You were told to stay within the bounds of the property, weren't you, Potter? And what did you do? You ran away. Tsk, Tsk. Naughty little boy."

The Death Eater took a step forward, removing a white twisted cord with knots along its length from a pocket of his robes.

"Naughty, Mr. Potter. Now you pay the price and must be punished."

He pointed his wand and suddenly Harry was unable to move. Another word and his trousers disappeared and then the masked man brought the knotted cord down.

Burning pain shot across his backside and he gasped and cried out.

* * * * * *

In his sleep, Harry thrashed and moaned softly, but his subconscious mind was still trapped in the realm of dreams, reliving the torture he'd experienced at the hands of various Death Eaters. His forehead beaded with sweat, and he clenched his fists and bit his lip hard, steeling himself against the phantom pain.

He jerked and whimpered, but still did not wake, and his mind continued replaying the events in the cell.

* * * * *

His body was wracked with pain, as the Death Eater cast the Cruciatus Curse on him over and over. He hadn't known what it was, not until they'd told him, but the name of the foul magic mattered little.

He'd only wanted it to end, to stop the agony that burned like fire through all his nerves and limbs. "Make it stop!" he'd screamed. "Please, please . . .no more . . .!"

He'd wept and begged like a baby, all of his courage and Gryffindor pride shattered.

But that was not the worst of it.

The worst was when the Death Eater with the cold blue eyes had returned and cast a special spell on him. A spell that as yet had no name, because it was newly invented. A spell designed to strip a wizard of the most important thing he had-his magic.

"If this works, Mr. Potter, you can tell everyone you were its first recipient-the test subject, if you will," laughed the blue-eyed wizard. "You may have survived the Killing Curse, but even you shall not survive the loss of your magic!"

Then he'd pointed his wand and spoke two words.

"Fracta Magica!"

There was a blast of purple light that twined about him and pulsed, sucking the power right out of him.

He howled in agony, for he felt as if his soul was being torn asunder, as the power that was his birthright was ripped from him, leaving him broken and battered, bleeding from an invisible wound deep within his psyche.

The purple light had now turned black, as it absorbed all of his magic, bloated like an overfull pig bladder. He writhed on the floor, his voice gone from screaming so much.

And above him the Death Eater laughed in triumph.

The spell had worked perfectly, shattering the magic of the famous boy wizard.

The last thing he said to Harry before he left was, "Now my Lord is safe for all time from you and that blasted prophecy. For you cannot be his doom, Potter, if you are nothing more than a filthy Muggle. Now my master shall triumph and reign supreme at long last, as was foretold. Goodbye, Potter."

* * * * * *

Harry awoke at last, trembling from head to toe, the corner of the pillowcase stuffed in his mouth. He spat it out and gasped for breath, shivering and sweating at the same time, tears streaking his cheeks and dripping onto the pillow.

Sniffling sharply, he wiped them away. He could still hear that awful voice in his mind, saying the spell that shattered his magic, that stripped him of all that made him a wizard. Lost, it was all lost.

Once more he saw the bright purple flash, felt it curl about him and begin tearing his magic away.

No! I won't remember that! I won't!

He began to gasp for breath, then shake violently.

Anguish and black despair crept up on him and suddenly he felt as if there was nothing left for him. Shattered magic, shattered soul. Of what use was he now?

Moaning, he buried his face in the pillow, wanting desperately to go back to sleep, yet afraid he would dream again. In his restless state, he'd thrown off his covers, and he sat up to retrieve them.

A shadow hovered by the door, making him start.

"Harry? What are you doing still up?"

Wide emerald eyes, bright with fatigue and terrible despair, met dark ones. "It was . . .I had . . ." he stammered miserably, unable to articulate past the lump in his throat.

"A nightmare, child?"

Harry nodded, dropping his gaze to the blue coverlet.

Severus came into the room, moving like a shadow, one minute he was by the door and the next he was sitting next to Harry on the bed. "Would you like to tell me about it?"

His son shook his head, his eyes still fixed on the blanket fisted in his hands.

"Sometimes it helps to talk about it," Severus continued, sensing the boy was drowning in anguish and sorrow.

"Why? It won't change anything."

"Maybe not, but sometimes talking with another person can help put it into perspective, so to speak. What did you dream about? The Dursleys?"

Another shake of the head.

"Ah. Then it must have been about the Death Eaters."

The boy did not answer and for a minute Snape wanted to take him by the shoulders and shake him, just to make him acknowledge the fact that Severus was there. He squashed that impulse and cultivated the patience he'd honed as a spy, where he waited and watched for a scrap of information to fall from the lips of his enemies.

"So, you dreamed about the Death Eaters, I presume. They're a nasty piece of work, aren't they? Cold and cruel and fanatics of the worst sort. Wicked people who delight in hurting and killing any they feel does not belong in their narrow view of the world."

"If you know then why do I need to tell you?"

"Because I don't know, Harry. Not really. I think it might do you good to talk to me about what happened. You've been carrying around this burden for weeks now, please allow me to help you bear it, if only for awhile."

"You wouldn't understand. You've never been . . .afraid," Harry whispered, his tone bleak, but his green eyes accusing. "You've never been helpless. How can you possibly know how I feel?"

Severus reached out and very lightly rested his hand atop his son's clenched fist. "Trust me. I know exactly how you feel."

"How? You're an adult, a powerful wizard. How can you know?"

"Because once I was a boy like you. A boy to whom terrible things were done. Shall I tell you my story, Harry? Then perhaps you will be able to trust me with your own."

"All right. I guess. If you want."

For the first time that night, Harry looked up into his father's face.

Severus drew out a handkerchief and silently handed it to his son. Then he began his tale.