The explosion made the six o’clock news and would most likely make the front page of the paper by the next morning. The incidents surrounding it were bizarre. Some people said gas leak, others were babbling hysterically about terrorists. There was only one witness, one person to survive ground zero, and he had yet to say a word. His survival was probably the most puzzling incident of all.

At nine o’clock on a perfectly ordinary Saturday, number 4 Privet Drive in Little Winging, Surrey loudly turned itself into a black, smoking crater. The house, its front yard, its garden shed and garden were all destroyed. The houses next door ought to at the very least have sustained damage from the raining debris, but there didn’t seem to be any. The worst they had was minor smoke damage. Neither was the house behind harmed, nor any across the street. The street itself didn’t so much as have a crack in its pavement. In an almost perfect shape of the house’s lot there was nothing left but fine black ash, yet the rest of the street was left alone.

This was not perfectly true. Which is to say, the part about the explosion being meticulously contained certainly was, but the part about the house was completely destroyed wasn’t. The staircase was still standing. It was while the fire men were investigating, naturally curious about how the staircase still stood and whether it was likely to suddenly fall now and crush someone, that someone happened to notice the door to a cupboard under the stairs. The rescue worker couldn’t say what compelled them to open it; as soon as they touched the latch the chief firefighter was already barking at them to back away, yet still they opened the door. And screamed. Bright green eyes were staring from the darkness within.

The medical team rushed in, of course, determined to get the child (for they soon found it was a child, a very small one) onto a stretcher and away from the mess that surrounded it. The child didn’t answer any of their questions, nor did it seem inclined to climb out of the cupboard. It didn’t cry, or scream, or do much of anything but stare and stare through emerald eyes. There was talk of shock, there was talk of supposed burns and other hidden ailments. But when they finally, carefully, got the child out of the cupboard and into a position to be examined, no one could find anything wrong (at least in terms of something caused by the explosion. They determined that the child was a boy, a very small, severely malnourished boy of undetermined age. They discovered a few bruises, nothing more than what be expected from the normal scraps little boys get into but coupled with the malnourishment there was cause for concern. They even discovered that he was in need of glasses.

It was the police officers investigating the case who determined who he was. This wasn’t because the boy suddenly spoke but because they pulled up a record of who owned the house, and by process of elimination they determined that he must be Harry James Potter. The house had belonged to the Dursleys. Pictures of the son, Dudley, brought by a very distraught aunt showed that the boy taken from the ashes could not have been him. The aunt had admitted, reluctantly, that the boy’s cousin also lived in the house. She could not be troubled to even remember the boy’s name, and was quick to mention she wouldn’t be taking him.

None of the three Dursleys who lived in the house turned up and it was assumed all three had been inside the explosion. Despite the aunt’s reluctance to share information, the police had records with Harry’s name and relationship to the Dursleys. More disturbing was what was found in the cupboard. There was very strong evidence that it was, in fact, the boy’s room. The investigation also discovered that the boy was, in fact, six years old. He didn’t look, or act, like he could have been much older than three. Nor did he speak. The child psychologists who were on his case had yet to discover if this was a reaction to what had happened or whether he was non-verbal before.

Three days later, after the Dursleys had been declared legally dead, Dr. Leisel was trying to talk to Harry and determine if he understood what was happening. The boy tracked him with his eyes, obviously responsive. The psychologist was just offering Harry some crayons, hoping that if he wouldn’t speak Harry would be willing to try some other way of communication, when a knock came at the door.

“Excuse me, Doctor,” a woman said as she stepped half into the room, her eyes moving to glance at the tiny boy, “There are people here to see Harry. They say they are distant relatives.” Before she managed more than that, the door was shoved open wide and three people slid passed her.

The man in the lead looked ancient, yet he carried himself with a vitality that the psychologist envied. He had a long white beard and was a long purple coat, despite it being a warm day. Behind him was a tall black man in a business suit and another man all in a long black coat. All three men ignored the doctor in favor of looking towards the small boy. Harry didn’t look at them. He had finally taken a green crayon and was scribbling on the piece of paper.

“Excuse me,” Dr. Leisel said before the three could intrude further, “But I really don’t think…” At that, the youngest looking man in the black coat rolled his eyes, pulled out a stick, and spoke a series of nonsense words. That was the last the doctor heard before his world went black.

“Really, Severus,” the old man said as they watched the doctor fall, “Was that necessary?”

“Yes,” the man with the stick answered, a smug note to his voice.

“We are going to obliviate him, anyway,” the black man said, not seeming to care one way or another how the doctor had been handled. The old man sighed and then slowly approached the child.

“Harry,” he said in his gentlest, most fatherly of voices. The little boy didn’t look up from his drawing. Severus joined him, glancing down at the artwork. It consisted of many green scribbles, illegible as a means of communication. With one last meticulous curl of green, the tiny fingers lifted the crayon from the page. Then, with equal care and determination, he started again in a corner. All three men watched in surprise as the tiny boy, with no obvious skill and very flimsy motor skills, managed a legible rendition of his own first name. As soon as he finished the ‘y’, he lifted up his masterpiece and finally looked directly at them. He was showing them what he had drawn.

“Very good, Harry,” the old man praised, before glancing towards the other two. If Harry was concerned that he was surrounded by three strangers, or that the man who had been with him a moment before was now lying unconscious on the floor, he didn’t show it. Nor did he react to the man’s praise. The old man got down on his knees in an awkward attempt to be at the boy’s level.

“Harry,” he said, “My name is Dumbledore. I’m going to take you away from here. Would you like that?” Harry stared at him, pursed his lips together, and then turned away. He picked up a blue crayon and began to scribble on another piece of paper. Dumbledore frowned and glanced back at the other two.

“We have to take him,” the black man reminded him, “Before the ministry shows up.” Dumbledore nodded, hesitated, then motioned for Severus to come forward. The man rolled his eyes once more but got down on his own knees in acquiescence to Dumbledore’s silent request.

“Potter,” he said, and when the boy didn’t look up he put a one hand over the small boy’s, stilling the movement of the crayon, and the other on his shoulder. No longer able to ignore the man, Harry turned to look at him. Green eyes looked into black, each upraising the other. With his free hand, the small boy slowly brought his hand towards the other man’s face. Severus’s eyes widened, but he didn’t move as small fingers ran over his cheek and nose. Suddenly, and completely unexpectedly, the boy smiled.

“I go home?” The three men stared at his beaming face, completely baffled. Harry’s voice was high pitched and childish, to the point that none of them were certain that they heard what they thought they heard.

“I don’t understand,” Severus answered at last, “You want to go back to the Dursleys?”

“No Durs’ey!” the boy screeched, glaring at the other man, “No Durs’ey! Nononononono!”

“Harry,” Dumbledore said, joining Severus, “Harry, we aren’t taking you to the Dursleys.” But at the mention, once again, of that name Harry started to scream even louder, no longer forming coherent words. Severus, glaring towards Dumbledore in annoyance, clapped his hands loudly right in Harry’s ear. The boy stopped for one abrupt second before he started screaming again.

“Potter!” Severus cried, and when that didn’t make him stop screaming he shouted, “Harry!” Harry paused, but probably only because he was getting tired.

“Harry, listen to me,” Severus instructed in his severest, no nonsense voice, “No Dursley.” Harry hiccoughed, his face red and streaming but he appeared to be listening. He continued to cry quietly, however, and small fists latched onto the other man’s coat. Severus sighed, gave a swift glare towards the old man who still sat next to him on the floor, and then stood, taking the tiny boy with him. He held him, walking around in circles, until the silent crying slowed, and then stopped.

“No Durs’ey?” the boy asked, his lower lip trembling as he waited for the answer.

“No Dursley,” the other man answered firmly.

“I go home?” the boy asked. Severus hesitated.

“We are going to my home,” he answered at last. The boy smiled at him. The man looked at the red, snotty face and sneered in disgust, but the boy didn’t stop smiling.

“I go home!” Harry announced authoritatively, and then twisting to look at the other men he told them, “I go home!” Dumbledore smiled at the boy. The third man nodded his head towards the boy, but didn’t approach or try to introduce himself.

“You should take him now,” the man said, “Time is not on our side.”

“Of course,” Severus answered, and he took something from his pocket. Still he hesitated.

“Are you sure there isn’t somewhere else?” he asked Dumbledore, though he already sounded resigned.

“What we have discussed hasn’t changed,” Dumbledore answered. Severus hesitated a moment longer, before nodding.

“We go home?” the boy asked from within his arms. Severus sighed.

“Yes, we go home.” A second later, Severus and the boy had vanished. Five minutes and many obliviating charms later, the other two were gone as well. Within a minute, a second series of men and women in odd garb stormed the building. They did not find who they were looking for.

Severus Snape did not have a reputation for being an agreeable person. His pale, sickly complexion gave the impression that he rarely, if ever, saw the sun and his hard, dark eyes did not invite friendly conversation. He was tall and imposing and severe and anyone who met him would be absolutely shocked to discover he spent most of his days surrounded by children. But despite his appearance and his resigned scowl, he held the small boy with assured ease. Nor was Harry uncomfortable in his arms or uneasy of the man's appearance. The two popped into existence in a large empty field. The small boy leaned over, threw up, and then leaned back again without so much as a whimper of distress.

Severus glanced down at his young charge with a look of distaste, looking him over with some relief that the boy managed to miss his robes and shoes, while large green eyes stared right back. The lack of real expression in the boy's face was somewhat disturbing, as though the eyes took in everything and gave nothing back. He did not appear happy or sad or annoyed or worried or any number of things a child of his age ought to be feeling. He didn't talk, not even to ask yet again if they were going home. Perhaps the apparation had unsettled the child after all, sending him back into his non-verbal existence.

“The place we are going is warded,” Severus said, feeling he should explain even if the boy wasn't asking, “We have to walk a bit before we're there.” The boy didn't respond to his words, but a small hand did move once more unexpectedly towards his face. Severus allowed this for a moment, wondering what the boy was thinking but not quite daring to violate the child's mind with magic. Then the boy started to look around properly and he cried out softly, apparently only just noticing the field for the first time. Severus started walking.

There was no proper road to walk on, not even a dirt trail, nothing but tall grass and flowers all around as well as the occasional tree. Contrary to what his students would have thought, Severus didn't seem to mind the nature surrounding him in the least, or the ruggedness of his path. He walked with long assured strides, ignoring the buzz of insects or the occasional rustle of larger creatures fleeing the area as they went by. Harry sat up tall in his arms, turning his head every which way so as to see everything. Severus noted that he squinted a lot, when he bothered to watch the boy at all. Mostly he looked straight ahead, keeping half an eye out for snakes. They had been walking for at least half an hour through the field and then a small wood with a creek at its center which Severus levitated over, when they finally came into site of a small cottage.

They were coming at it from the back where a small stone fence was raised around a garden. Beyond the garden were fruit trees; Harry reached up a hand for an apple as they passed but missed. He came away with a handful of leaves which he let drop, one by one, except for the last which he clung to tightly. Severus didn't pause but walked directly to the wooden gate that led into the garden and then further right up to the back door of the cottage. Inside was a small kitchen with a small fireplace and many cabinets and a table but no stove or fridge or any other such modern conveniences. There was a sink but it didn't seem to have any pipes or faucets to go with it. Harry looked everywhere with wide interest.

“We home?” he asked, the first words he had spoken since they left the psychologists office behind.

“Yes,” Severus answered abruptly. He went swiftly through the kitchen, passed a bathroom and a staircase and into the front of the house. It was mostly a large, cozy living room but there was a small dining table in the corner nearest the stairs. There was another round brick fireplace and a couple of chairs that looked handmade and a wooden couch with blue cushions. There was also the front door, flanked on either side by large windows, which led onto a wide covered porch. Beneath the stairs was another door, not to a cupboard or closet but to a staircase leading down, not that either person could see that now as the door was closed. Altogether the cottage was small and cozy and it looked very likely that the upstairs would be smaller still, with two rooms at most. Severus set Harry down upon the soft blue rug that adorned most of the living room before he sat himself down upon the couch.

Harry sat where he had been put for a moment, looking around the room. Then he pursed his lips together, stood up, and walked back to where Severus sat. He didn't try and climb up next to him or request to be lifted up, but he did put one small hand on the other's knee.

“Two people will be visiting us soon,” Severus said, once more feeling the need to explain things, “You've met Headmaster Dumbledore. No doubt he will want you to call him Grandpa Albus or some other ridiculous title. He will be bringing someone else with him who you haven't met. Pomfrey is a healer who will look you over to make sure you are healthy.” Harry stared at him, giving absolutely no indication that he understood.

“They will probably have questions they will ask you, even though I expressly told them it is too soon. You do not have to answer, but you can if you want to. No one will hurt you here.”

“This home now?” Harry asked, his lips still pursed as though he were deep in thought, or perhaps upset about something, and then, “Mama here?” Severus blinked at him, his face blank of all expression. Before he could come up with an answer, there was a knock at the front door. Severus stood and swiftly glanced out the window before opening it. The old man with the white beard was standing there, just as Severus had predicted, next to a woman in healer robes holding a bag. Severus invited them both in by name.

Harry watched the intruders enter from his position by the couch, his wide eyes suddenly wary. He didn't run away, though, or start to cry or show his distress as a normal child would. Dumbledore immediately started towards the boy but was blocked by Severus's arm. Pomfrey hung back, respectfully waiting though her eyes were already raking over the boy with a professional air. Severus ignored them both after he stopped Dumbledore and he strode back to the boy.

“These are the people I told you about,” he said, taking the boy's hands in his to make sure he had his attention, “Madam Pomfrey is going to examine you now.” He nodded for Pomfrey to come forward. “Harry,” Severus continued, “This is Madam Pomfrey.” He took one of Harry's hands and gave it to the nurse, keeping the other hand to himself. Harry studied her, finally pulling his hand away from Severus so that he could reach out and run his fingers over her robes.

“Has he told you anything?” Dumbledore asked, still keeping his distance, “Does he know what happened?”

“He has hardly spoken at all,” Severus answered, “I told you it would take time. He might not even know.” The old man nodded, giving a tired sigh. For that moment, he looked his age.

“Come along, Harry, let me get you up on the table,” Madam Pomfrey said, ignoring the exchange between the two men. She lifted the boy up and he allowed it, though he frowned and turned his head towards Severus while she carried him to the table. There she pulled out her wand and cast a few diagnostic spells. The boy shuddered as the magic hit him, his face taking on the same surprised expression as when he had first noted the field. Madam Pomfrey paused.

“Can you feel that, Harry?” she asked, surprised. He didn't answer. She shrugged and went on with her tests. The conclusions were little different from what the emergency workers had discovered; he was malnourished and disturbingly small for his age. His magical core was also immature, more so than a six year old's should be, but somewhat depleted. He had let off a lot of magic recently.

“Hello, Harry,” Dumbledore said, coming up from behind her. Severus rolled his eyes as he also strolled over to the boy's side. He knew the old man wouldn't be able to resist his questioning for long.

“Hi,” Harry answered, suddenly and unexpectedly.

“I want to ask you something very important,” Dumbledore said, his voice gentle and friendly. Harry stared at him, not answering this time.

“Do you remember your house exploding?” he asked, staring into the little boy's eyes. The boy stared back, not answering.

“I told you it is too soon,” Severus said, smirking, “Unless you want to break into his mind.” Harry frowned, turning his head to look up at him.

“No,” Dumbledore sighed, “I don't think it would work, in any case. He is too young.” In fact, very powerful legilimens had been known to become trapped in the maelstrom of an infant's mind, their natural magic and chaotic thoughts wrecking havoc on the most well ordered mind. Severus wondered if there wasn't such a danger if Dumbledore wouldn't try it anyway. Not that he would mean any harm by it, no, he wouldn't see it as a violation but as a valid way to communicate when there is no other way. He would be gentle, easing himself in between the cracks, careful not to touch or upset. He would probably leave behind scars deeper than he could possibly comprehend.

“He couldn't have caused the explosion,” Madam Pomfrey insisted, “It was too well contained for wild magic. And he is too immature for control.”

“Isn't that what we decided?” Severus demanded, “Even if the minister is too stupid to feel that way.”

“There is still a lot of paranoia,” Dumbledore answered sadly, “Everyone keeping an eye out for the next dark lord. I'm afraid the papers are already running with it.”

“Is it true they kept him in a cupboard,” Madam Pomfrey demanded. She glanced towards the boy who didn't seem to comprehend anything they were saying.

“Yes,” Severus answered her abruptly, “The Muggles found him in it.” Madam Pomfrey clucked disapprovingly and she pulled out a few potions.

“For nourishment,” she explained, “One of your own, Severus. Now, drink this Harry, it will make you feel better.” She held the flask towards him. He turned his head away, wrinkling his nose.

“Harry, drink it,” Severus ordered in his no-nonsense voice. But Harry only glared, closing his lips together tightly.

“Now, now, dear,” Pomfrey said, pulling out a chocolate frog, “Drink this all up and you can have a treat.” Harry eyed them warily, not yet willing to give up.

“I doubt he knows what a chocolate frog is,” Severus pointed out, “Just pour it down his throat.” Dumbledore looked rather shocked but Pomfrey only sighed and expertly positioned Harry to do just as Severus had suggested. Harry started to squirm, making a high pitched keening noise until Pomfrey did, indeed, manage to pour the drink down his throat and make him swallow it. It all happened in a matter of seconds, and directly afterwards she put the chocolate frog into his hand. The boy stopped keening, staring at the wriggling bit of chocolate until it stopped moving. He looked back towards Severus with a questioning look upon his face. Sighing, the man lifted the boy's hand with the chocolate in it to the boy's mouth. Harry closed his mouth quickly, obviously expecting another bad tasting medicine. But as Severus only held it there the boy cautiously probed it with his tongue. Finally, he stuffed it all into his mouth at once, nearly taking one of Severus's fingers with him. The man eyed the child with thinly veiled annoyance but the boy didn't seem to mind, happily munching on the chocolate.