“So, Severus, you wished to speak with me? About Mr Potter, I believe?” Albus Dumbledore said encouragingly, holding forward a dish of lemon drops.

“No, thank you, Headmaster,” Snape replied, managing not to roll his eyes at the ubiquitous candy. Really, even with magic, how did the man have a tooth left in his head? Anyone in doubt as to Dumbledore’s magical prowess had only to compare his snacking habits with his dentition to confirm his enormous power. “And yes, it is about Potter. You had requested – “ ordered “- that I determine the appropriate substitute to those horrendous Muggles whom you considered suitable guardians for the past decade.”

Albus sighed. “I doubt I will ever be able to forgive myself. I am only glad that you were able to learn the truth so quickly and convince the boy to speak up.”

Snape allowed himself a small smirk. Of course, it wasn’t as if it had been due to anything but his own blind luck and the boy’s completely misconstruing the situation, but he wasn’t about to admit that.

“Clearly you have a special bond with the child,” Dumbledore continued approvingly.

Snape lost his smirk. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to think he cared about the brat. This was James Potter’s spawn, for Merlin’s sake! Already Minerva had contracted some wildly incorrect notion about his relationship with the boy, calling Snape his “protector”, of all things. He certainly did not want the Headmaster to fall into the same trap and imagine that he felt anything but loathing for the little creep.

After all, Harry Potter had already been the reason Dumbledore had actually levied a death threat against Severus – and meant it. Snape suppressed a shudder. He could still feel the power of Albus’ magic blasting past him as he issued the warning – the only warning Snape was likely to get on the topic. Obviously, his best strategy was to stay as far away from the brat as possible lest he do something stupid. Again.

Snape forced away the surge of guilt that still accompanied the mere memory of the skinny, raven-haired child with the enormous green eyes. It wasn’t as if he meant to strike the child – well, yes. In fact he had, but he hadn’t meant to strike him so hard – well, actually, at the time he had… But he instantly regretted his actions. Now he was tortured not only by the fact that he had lost control of himself enough to injure a child, but also by his memory that at the time, he had actually wanted to do so.

During all his time as a dedicated Death Eater, he had consoled himself with the thought that unlike many of the others, such as Lucius Malfoy or Voldemort himself, he had never taken pleasure in the torture and killing that accompanied their raids. Even before he lost faith and fled to Dumbledore, he had felt himself superior to the others for not sharing their perverse pleasures. When Dumbledore had saved him from Azkaban and encouraged him to spy on his former Master, he had been able to do so knowing that his attendance at any future Death Eater revels would only serve to strengthen his commitment to the Order of the Phoenix and cement his revulsion for the Dark Lord. How then was he to square that image of himself with the one who deliberately slapped a small boy hard enough to throw him into a wall?

Better not to think about it at all, and much better to avoid the boy in question as much as possible.

“No such bond exists,” he said firmly, frowning at Dumbledore. “The boy confided in me because I tricked him. As usual, Gryffindor naïveté proved no match for Slytherin cunning.”

“If you say so, my dear boy,” the Headmaster’s tone made it clear he was humoring the Potion Master.

Snape scowled more fiercely, but Dumbledore just twinkled back. “As I was saying,” Snape decided it was better to continue with the task he had come to discharge, rather than get immured in an argument he suspected he would not win, “I am here to discuss where Potter is to be placed.”

“Yes?” Albus invited.

“Following extensive research into child psychology, proper child-rearing practices, and best practices for the victims of child abuse –“ Dumbledore briefly closed his eyes, the pain on his face making even Snape feel a twinge of pity “- I have determined that Potter would be best served by a combination of environments. Having no experience with normal families, he requires exposure to typical family life. By immersing himself in a family, he will be able to observe a healthy parent-child dynamic as well as observing how siblings normally interact with each other. While he may have been raised alongside his Muggle cousin, it is clear that their relationship was anything but brotherly. Potter needs to learn about normal sibling rivalry as well as the closeness that – I am told – is possible. This will serve him well later in life, should he have children of his own, as well as assisting him in his interactions with classmates.”

“This sounds very reasonable, Severus. Do you have any potential candidates for such a family?”

“Potter has already befriended the latest Weasley, and since the parents were both Order members in the War, I assume they would be all too pleased to foster The Boy Who Lived. What is more, with the size of their litter, an extra child will hardly be noticed.” Noticing Dumbledore’s frown, Snape lifted a defiant eyebrow. “Besides, the always-impecunious Weasleys could doubtless use the allowance which you had provided to the Muggles. There is no doubt in my mind but that despite their greater need, they would be infinitely more likely to actually use it for things that would benefit Potter as well as the Weasley whelps, rather than, as the Dursleys did, reserving it for the exclusive advantage of that walrus of a son of theirs.”

Dumbledore nodded gently. “I quite like your idea, Severus. I have noticed how Ron and Harry have become close friends quite quickly, and I think Ron will benefit from Harry’s presence in the family as well. He is a bit too tempting a target for the twins, being without a twin of his own for backup, and while his younger sister might ally with him, Ginny’s status as the only Weasley girl in seven generations tends to result in her being protected from the twins’ more excessive pranks and her own tendency to overshadow Ron. I think having an ally his own age might be very good for him.”

“I hardly consider the Weasley child’s welfare to be an important factor in the decision,” Snape objected forbiddingly.

“Yes, Severus, I know,” Dumbledore’s tone was reproving. “That is why I had to consider it. Harry will hardly experience a harmonious and helpful family experience if his presence negatively impacts members of the family, particularly the one member with whom he is likely to bond most closely.”

“I… had not considered the matter in that light,” Snape admitted reluctantly. “Perhaps it was my own experience as an only child that made me less attuned to the complexities of inter-Weasley relationships.”

“No matter,” Dumbledore’s beaming smile reappeared. “After all, we are agreed that it will in fact be a good thing for both boys, and I agree that Molly and Arthur are very likely to agree to the arrangement. But I believe you mentioned something about a combination of environments? Does that mean you do not want the Weasleys to be named Harry’s guardians?”

Snape shuddered at the thought of consigning anyone – even a Potter! – to the exclusive mercies of the redheaded clan. “Hardly, Headmaster. I envision the Weasleys to be a frequent destination for the boy but not, under any circumstance, his guardians. While it is important for Harry to experience normal family life, it is even more imperative that he have a guardian with whom he can develop a close, trusting relationship. Given his history, this will be difficult. He has been told for years now that he is worthless and freakish; he will require guardians who can work to overturn this conditioning. They will have to be dedicated to assisting him in this by focusing on his unique needs. The books make it clear that Potter may not himself know what he needs, let alone be able to request it. For this reason, his guardians will have to be able to give him their undivided attention. The Weasleys can hardly do that.”

“Hmm. I see your point. Perhaps some young couple –“

Snape frowned. “Young couples breed, Headmaster. Did I not make myself clear? Potter must be their sole concern; I will not have his guardians distracted with their own mewling brats. Besides, Potter will likely require a firm hand – “ Snape colored at Dumbledore’s sharp look. “I do not mean that literally, Headmaster,” he protested defensively. “I meant simply that even under the best circumstance Potter must be considered a troubled child, and as such he will require his guardians to establish a clear structure for his life with appropriate consequences for misbehavior.” Snape cleared his throat. He hadn’t come up with a way to say this next bit without sounding all touchy-feely. “They will also be required to provide Potter with something called ‘positive reinforcement’ which seems to refer to copious amounts of support, encouragement, and reassurance. In short, l-l-love.”

Dumbledore’s eyes gleamed with amusement, but he merely nodded sagely. “So you think an older couple, with some parenting experience?”

“That would of course be ideal, but we must be careful that they have done a good job in their past child rearing. And of course, the risk of grandchildren requiring attention would then be present. I am given to understand that grandchildren can be even more of a distraction than children. I am also concerned that an older couple might not have the energy to keep up with a small child, let alone understand the current concerns of adolescents.”

“Hmmmmm. I do see what you mean.”

“Perhaps the most important aspect – beyond the willingness to devote their efforts to Potter’s behalf – is an understanding of what the boy has been through. It can be difficult for those with no personal experience of abuse to understand the behavior of survivors. That said, they must not pity the boy or excuse current misbehavior out of a misplaced desire to make up for the excessive discipline of the past. They will require great strength of character to stand up to Potter when he makes the sad puppy dog expressions that those manipulative little creatures employ.”

Dumbledore seemed to be fighting back a smile as he politely inquired, “Has Harry tried such tactics with you, Severus?”

“Hardly, Headmaster,” Snape retorted. “In fact, you have just proven my point about the need for Potter’s guardians to be familiar with abusive situations. Har – Potter has been trained, no doubt brutally, to accept any sort of treatment, no matter how vicious, as his due. In his current condition, he is incapable of trying to weasel out of a justly deserved punishment or even an unfair one, for that matter.” He couldn’t help but remember how instantly accepting Harry had been when he thought Snape planned to cane him for poor handwriting. He shivered; that was a little too close to some of his own memories of brutal childhood punishments. For some reason, such thoughts had been uncomfortably close to the surface of late.

“However,” he resumed, pushing away such uncomfortable reminiscences, “with appropriate treatment, as well as the Weasley spawn’s inevitable encouragement and guidance, it is to be hoped that Potter will eventually reach the point where he will attempt such emotional blackmail. His guardians will have to have sufficient strength of character to treat such blatant manipulation with the scorn it deserves and to enforce previously stated consequences.”

“I hope you are not suggesting Harry deserves a martinet. Surely compassion and caring should be the order of the day –“

“Headmaster, providing lemon drops and snuggles in the face of misbehavior will hardly give rise to a healthy adult,” Snape said impatiently. “Potter must learn what it means to be held accountable for his actions in an appropriate way – not beaten bloody for something his cousin did, but neither excused from all rules because of his own special status.

“And while I know your position on corporal punishment, let me state that if potential guardians wish to use appropriate physical chastisement on the boy, that is hardly grounds for their exclusion. Harry – I mean, Potter – has been ferociously thrashed for alleged misbehavior for so many years that he may not even recognize anything but a swat as an attempted correction. What is more, he needs to learn to distinguish appropriate treatment from inappropriate, and a blanket ban on any and all violence against his person is unlikely to be helpful in the long term. If nothing else, he needs to get out of the habit of curling into a ball to protect his vital organs at the first sign of conflict or – worse – obediently holding still for anyone who wishes to injure him.”

“You are suggesting that being struck will teach him not to hold still?” Dumbledore blinked.

“I am suggesting that abused children have often been trained out of resisting punishment. It would be better for Harry to learn to complain, argue, protest, flee, squirm, and howl. I suspect any of the Weasleys will be well able to teach him,” Snape added drily. “Once Potter learns that he does not have to hold still for anyone who wishes to beat him, and then realizes that not every smack will break bones, he will prove a much more adept student in the defense against the dark arts. Regardless of You Know Who’s current whereabouts and likely return, Potter needs to learn to protect himself, and he is currently terrified to the point of catatonia by any hint of physical punishment. He merely stands there, Albus! I am not trying to excuse my own behavior, but he didn’t even try to dodge the blow.”

Snape visibly reined in his emotions. Clearing his throat, he continued much more quietly. “This is why the child requires a guardian who will be utterly committed to him. Someone must help the child  - er, brat – regain his sense of self-worth. Without it, he will be easy prey for You Know Who, one way or another,” he added darkly.

“You do not have to remind me how seductive Voldemort can be for the wounded and unloved, Severus,” Dumbledore sighed. “I have failed many people in my long life, but perhaps none so badly as you and Harry.”

“Please, Albus, no more self-condemnatory angst,” Snape snapped. “We are talking about the Potter brat, not me.”

“Mm.” Dumbledore pursed his lips thoughtfully.

“Now then, as I was saying, the ideal guardian will not only require a strong character to withstand the blandishments Potter will one day seek to use, but also strength of mind. After all, in his day the brat’s father was able to talk virtually the whole of Hogwarts’ faculty into believing anything he said. He rescued himself and his little band of terrorists from their just desserts many times over. It is reasonable to assume that, once he is no longer beaten into a submissive state, this latest generation of Potter will prove just as facile with a credible explanation as his father, though I do hope that he never is in the position of arguing on behalf of a would-be murderer.’ Snape glared at the older man. “You will recall that the elder Potter’s glibness proved equal even to that task – a feat I still am unable to comprehend.”

The Headmaster sighed again and reached for a lemon drop. “As I have told you many times before, Severus, it was not James’ pleading that caused me to show such leniency to Sirius after his actions against you. If you wish to blame someone for that decision, then the entire responsibility lies with me. I made the decision not to expel Sirius out of a desire to save the only other innocent person in the affair besides yourself: Remus.”

Snape snorted in contempt and the Headmaster gave him a sad look. “I know you disagree, my dear boy, but Remus was innocent. To this day, I believe that Sirius never intended to kill you. I am confident that his usual irresponsibility and lack of forethought convinced him that you would merely be frightened witless by Remus’ werewolf form, thus preventing you from bothering them any longer and giving him the ability to taunt you about your fear. I am, however, equally confident that without James’ intervention, you would have been killed, and even you must admit that Remus Lupin would never have desired that.”

“Perhaps not my death,” Severus admitted sullenly. “But it’s not as if Lupin were much better than the other three either.”

“As you say,” Dumbledore agreed. “But when James did intervene and save you, then I had to determine whether expelling Sirius was worth Remus’ life. For while I know you feel that my refusal to expel him indicated a lack of regard for you, the fact is that had I expelled Sirius, Remus would likely have been killed. If it had merely been a question of whether Sirius deserved to be expelled for putting your life at risk, I would have removed him from school by that evening. But I was well aware that, had I expelled the Black family heir, his parents would have demanded a full explanation. They may have been estranged from their son – though they had not yet disowned him – but they certainly would not have accepted the disgrace of his expulsion without a fight. And that would mean that Remus’ situation would have come to light. The Blacks would undoubtedly have demanded not merely his removal from Hogwarts but his prosecution for attempted murder – we both know that the fact that doing so would have devastated Sirius would have been merely another reason for them to have done it. Given the Ministry’s view of werewolves, the Black family’s influence at the time, and fears about Voldemort’s rising power, it was extremely likely that Remus would have been tried and executed, and that – especially because you had not been seriously harmed – was what I was unwilling to permit.

“I am so terribly sorry that you felt I cared more for them than for you, my boy. I can only hope that my actions over the last several years have demonstrated to you how very dear you are to me and how much I care about you.”

Snape huffed and looked away, but in truth he rather liked hearing Dumbledore announce his feelings like that. It wasn’t as if Snape would ever encourage such maudlin statements by murmuring sappy endearments of his own, but if Dumbledore admitted how he felt while apologizing (again) for one of the few incidents in which Severus was morally blameless, the younger man wasn’t about to complain. Even adult survivors of child abuse tend to remain insecure about their own self-worth.

“Enough of this sentimental nonsense,” he said loftily, waving one hand in dismissal. He chose to ignore the knowing twinkle in Dumbledore’s eyes. “We are getting off the topic at hand. Potter will require someone who is smart enough to avoid whatever blandishments the brat invents. That means they must be someone who will not be swayed by protestations of urgent need or heroic intent – which means his guardian should not be another Gryffindor. Do you agree?”

“Well, Severus, you have certainly provided an excellent argument,” Dumbledore replied noncommittally.

“He will already be spending a significant portion of his time with Gryffindors between his House and his time with the Weasleys – Gryffindors all! Potter should have some exposure to other houses and ways of thinking.”

“Hm. I do understand your logic, Severus. Who were you thinking, then? A Hufflepuff family perhaps?”

“Albus! Have you not heard a word I’ve said? There were all too many idiot Hufflepuffs who were dimwitted enough to believe in You Know Who, then too loyal to disavow him even after his insanity became undeniable. You must first and foremost find someone who will pose no threat to the boy. It must be someone who fought against the Dark Lord.”

“The war is over –“

“Are you mad? Who knows when the Dark Lord will rise again? And even if he doesn’t return during Harry’s lifetime, have you forgotten the Longbottoms so easily? Even in You Know Who’s absence, he still has loyal followers and the danger to Potter is ever-present! He cannot be placed with anyone who has not proven where their loyalties truly lie.”

“Yes, I see your point…”

“Then you must also see that no Hufflepuff will have the strength of character to withstand the boy’s first crocodile tear! They will smother the brat with hugs and presents and excuse any misconduct with sad noises about his past life. I will not allow it!”

“Very well, Severus, if you feel that strongly about it. Perhaps a Ravenclaw would be better after all – Lily was quite an adequate student, wasn’t she?”

“Albus, are you becoming senile?” Snape snapped angrily. How dare the man insult Lily with such faint praise? “She was one of the brightest in our class, though she never acted like an arrogant know-it-all. She excelled in both Potions and Charms, and she had Minerva eating out of the palm of her hand – quite literally – with her skill in Transfigurations. How could you have forgotten her accomplishments?”

Dumbledore’s smile held an element of mischief. “Quite, quite, my boy. Thank you for reminding me. Well, do you not think Harry might have inherited some of that formidable intelligence?”

Snape sneered. “If you are asking whether James Potter’s heritage is sufficiently strong to overpower that of Lily Evans’, I would not hesitate to say no. The notion that Harry’s – I mean, Potter’s – only maternal inheritance is the color of his eyes is absurd. I am confident that Lily’s influence will in fact overpower that idiot’s, and the boy – brat – will resemble his mother a great deal, once his own personality begins to reveal itself.”

“I am a bit concerned, then, Severus. We both know that Ravenclaws, for all their fearsome intellect, do tend to be overly influenced by logical arguments. If Harry is able to combine Lily’s cleverness with James’ persuasiveness, I wonder if there is a Ravenclaw alive who will be able to withstand Harry’s arguments.”

Snape frowned. He hadn’t thought of that. “Well, Headmaster, there must be someone. It isn’t as if we can look to Slytherin. There weren’t many Slytherins in the Order during the War, and of those few of us, fewer still survived. Other than myself, I can only think of two, and Giles is in Australia while Jean is out of the question for – oh, no. No, no, no. Not on your life!”

“Now, Severus,” Albus said easily, “you must admit that you yourself admirably fulfill the criteria you have identified.”

“Absolutely not! I am not going to be that brat’s guardian! Have you gone mad?”

“Well, if you are so opposed –“ Dumbledore sighed.

“I am! And you must be insane to contemplate it. Especially after my actions of the other night, do you imagine Minerva or Poppy would consent to having me named as Potter’s guardian?”

“Well, Minerva seems to think –“

“She was clearly hallucinating. I have long believed that menopause did something to Minerva’s mind,” Snape snarled, too nonplussed by Dumbledore’s ridiculous suggestion to consider the wisdom of making such a statement without instantly obliviating all witnesses, including himself.

“Very well,” the Headmaster said airily. “Then let us think of who else might be suitable. It will obviously be important to find someone with whom Harry can form an attachment. After his deplorable treatment by the Dursleys, I wonder how difficult that might be.”

Severus laughed, highly relieved to have dissuaded the Headmaster from his previous, highly inappropriate line of thought. “I wouldn’t worry too much, Albus. After all, the boy has already showed signs of having bonded to me.” Too late, he saw the trap.

“No! Wait! I –“

“Well, well, my boy. It does seem as if we keep coming back to the same place, no matter what route we take,” Albus beamed. “It would seem to be destined for you –“

“NO.” Snape bolted to his feet, looking about wildly as if for an escape route. “This is madness! I am wholly unsuitable!”

“How so?” Dumbledore interrupted genially. He completely ignored Snape’s frantic head shaking and panicked pacing. “You are certainly able to give Harry the attention he requires. You have no other family commitments nor plans for any. You have already done extensive research into the proper treatment of such a child. You understand all too well what being the victim of abuse is like. You are also better placed than anyone else to understand the dangers that Harry faces – and will face – from Dark powers. You have sufficient strength of character to withstand any emotional manipulation, and your intellect will certainly demolish any spurious arguments, not to mention nipping overly ‘Gryffindorish’ tendencies in the bud. I am certain that you will have no difficulty establishing a clear framework of rules and responsibilities, and while I suspect that you may need to work on demonstrating emotional openness and caring, I imagine that Harry will be able to help you in that regard.”

“Headmaster, I will not –“

“And your being here at Hogwarts is all the more convenient, as you will be able to provide Harry with support even during the school year. Of course, the strong wards here will keep him safe, even without the blood magic of the Dursleys… Yes, Severus, I think this is quite the best option. After all, whatever else may happen, I know you at least will never attack the child.” The “again” was unspoken, as was the threat of what would happen if Dumbledore’s faith was misplaced.

Snape swallowed hard. The Headmaster wasn’t nearly as dotty as he liked to pretend, nor as oblivious. It was obvious – very, very obvious – that his own protests were going to be ignored, and to continue to fight could potentially lead to another display of Dumbledore’s power. Was he prepared to keep remonstrating? When he might, in the end, still lose? Was, in all honesty, likely to do so?

“I can’t. Even if I wanted to, I can’t. If You Know Who does return and he finds out Potter is my ward, he’ll expect me to turn him over immediately. If I don’t, he’ll know I no longer serve him. I won’t be able to function as your spy any more.”

“True,” Dumbledore agreed blandly, still smiling.

“I am not a nice person, Albus. I am hardly the best choice in the entire Wizarding world to deal with an emotionally fragile, abused child.”

“Molly Weasley will, I’m sure, be able to provide all the cuddles and hugs Harry could desire. And I suspect you will surprise yourself. In fact, I’m quite counting on it.”

At those words, Snape knew his fate was sealed. The whole conversation had been a sham – a way for Dumbledore to get him to agree, more or less, to what Dumbledore was going to make happen no matter what. All the time he thought he was lecturing the old man on what was needed, the infuriating old coot was just nodding and smiling and watching Snape dig himself deeper and deeper. How could he have missed it? He, of all people, should have spotted Dumbledore’s manipulation from the start! How could he even call himself a Slytherin after having been played like this? He should replace Sprout as Head of Hufflepuff.

“Now, now, my dear boy, don’t be too hard on yourself,” Dumbledore soothed, showing that uncanny ability to read the mind of even the foremost Occlumens at Hogwarts. “You know you’ve always had a bit of a blind spot where Lily is concerned. Now by all means go back to your quarters and sulk about the indignity of it all, but then be sure to go and get the Weasleys’ agreement. I’d suggest you break the news to Harry this weekend – I know he’s been worrying a bit.”

Snape was doing a very credible impression of a basilisk, but unfortunately Dumbledore appeared immune, perhaps because of extended exposure to Fawkes. He gently steered the younger, speechless wizard out the door, giving him a pat on the shoulder and a tin of lemon drops. As the door closed upon Snape’s outraged expression, the last thing he saw was Dumbledore selecting a sherbet fizz with the unmistakable air of rewarding himself for a job well done.

Severus remained in his quarters for the next few hours – thinking, not sulking, he was quick to tell himself – but in the end he knew he had to do what Dumbledore instructed. Much as he would like to fortify himself for the ordeal with a glass of fire whiskey, he suspected that the odor of alcohol on his breath would not go over well with the Weasleys.

For a brief moment he considered showing up drunk, in the hopes that they would rush to Dumbledore, insisting he was an unfit guardian, but he reluctantly dismissed the idea. It would take no effort to convince the Weasleys of his unsuitability for the role, but Dumbledore was made of sterner stuff, and he would see right through Severus’ plan. Snape gnashed his teeth. Just his luck. He went from serving a near-omnipotent, egomaniacal lunatic to serving a near-omniscient, manipulative old coot.

Why couldn’t he have ended up like all the other Potion Masters? He read their letters to the Journal of Potion Educators. The other Potion Masters complained about how their headmasters didn’t provide them with enough room for their supplies or refused them funds for new cauldrons or were snippy about the occasional potion-related mishap. But no one else wrote in complaining about being compelled to adopt a prophesy-marked child or having to participate in setting up elaborate traps on school grounds for Dark Lords who were after a half-mythical treasure.

Severus mentally composed his letter: Dear JPE, I would be interested to learn how other Potion Masters balance their time commitments. I find it challenging to create new lesson plans and prepare for laboratory sessions while simultaneously spying for the Light. Does anyone have any helpful tips about combining Death Eater meetings with NEWTS prep? No, no one else seemed to have these problems. Lucky him.

He realized that the hour was getting late. He would have to do it now or explain his lapse to Dumbledore, and if he had to deal with one more twinkle or lemon drop, he would go stark, raving mad. Life in the bed next to the Longbottoms was looking more attractive by the day. He took a deep breath and activated the floo.

“Mrs Weasley?” he called out to the redhead bustling about the comfortably shabby living room.

“Yes? Why, Professor Snape!” Molly’s eyebrows rose in surprise, then drew down in a fearsome frown. “What did they do this time?”

“Surprisingly, I am not calling about the twins,” Snape replied drily. “May I come through?”

Molly’s look of surprise returned. “Of course.”

No sooner had he entered the Burrow than Molly Weasley had him ensconced in an armchair that was only slightly battered, with a cup of tea at his elbow. He struggled to hand back the plate of homemade biscuits. “Thank you, no,” he insisted as politely as he could through gritted teeth.

“Are you allergic to chocolate?” Molly asked sympathetically. “I have some peanut butter ones in the kitchen. Or would you prefer oatmeal raisin? Or shortbread? I could whip up some scones –“

“No!” he caught himself and forced himself to abandon his “start listening to me or you will blow up your cauldron and I will feed your internal organs to the squid” tone. This was a parent, not a student. An annoying parent, to be sure, but a parent nonetheless. “I mean, nothing for me, thank you. I’m fine.”

Molly looked hurt. “You don’t like my cooking?”

Severus could feel his blood pressure rising as he grabbed a biscuit from the plate. “Mm. Delicious,” he snarled.

Molly smiled and sat down. “What can I do for you?”

“I have something I would like to discuss with you and your husband. Is he available?”

“Yes, he’s just in the back with Ginny, de-gnoming the garden. Can you give me some idea what this is about?”

“I think it would be best to explain it to both of you at once. And perhaps your daughter could be sent away for an hour or so?” He paused, thinking of how best to ensure her compliance without having to (a) explain more or (b) consume additional biscuits. “I am here at the Headmaster’s request.” More or less.

It was obvious that Molly was afire with curiosity, but as an old Order veteran, she responded predictably to Dumbledore’s name. “Of course.”

Within five minutes, Ginny had been dispatched to her grandmother’s via the floo, and Arthur, Molly, and Severus were gathered in the living room. “I apologize for disturbing you tonight – and sending Miss Weasley away – but I felt it best for our discussion that there was no chance of being overheard.”

Now both Weasleys were wearing expressions of concern as well as curiosity. “Is something wrong, Professor?” Arthur asked, brow creasing. “Are the boys all right?”

“Your children are all fine,” Snape assured him. “I am here to ask if you would like one more.”

Hm. That didn’t seem to come out properly. Now they were both staring at him with their mouths open. “Not full time,” he hastened to explain. “More on a short term lease.”

“You’re renting out children?” Molly asked, her voice rising to a squeak.

Arthur took her hand. “I’m sure it’s not what it sounds like, dear.”

Severus frowned. It wasn’t that complicated. Honestly – leave it to a bunch of Gryffindors to need everything spelled out. He decided to take it very slowly. “You have, I believe, met Mr Potter –“

“Harry?” Molly exclaimed in surprise. “That sweet little bespectacled boy? My heavens, what a lovely child!”

“Ron seems to have become friendly with him,” Arthur agreed. “And the twins and Percy also wrote, saying nice things. I understand he was sorted into Gryffindor.” The “of course” was politely withheld, given present company.

“Indeed,” Snape said flatly. “I discovered that Mr Potter’s home life is unacceptable, and so –“

“What do you mean?” Molly demanded. “Didn’t Dumbledore put him with his family after James and Lily were killed? I remember there was a big fuss because he wouldn’t tell anyone where Harry was, but he assured all of us that the child was safe.”

Severus smirked. “Apparently not. Albus made the absurd assumption that ties of blood are synonymous with ties of affection. The boy was placed with Muggle relatives who were – at the very least – both neglectful and abusive.”

Molly’s eyes grew wide. “Abusive? No! That poor child!” Arthur patted her shoulder, but he looked very grim.

“Does the Ministry know of this?” he asked.

Severus shrugged. “You may take that up with Albus, if you wish. My concern lies with Mr Potter’s current situation, not why he was allowed to remain with unsuitable guardians for the last decade.”

“So you want us to take Harry?” Arthur asked. Beside him, Molly stopped sniffling long enough to look up excitedly.

“Take Harry? Of course we will! I told Dumbledore ten years ago that we would be willing to –“

“I am not here to ask you to adopt Harry, nor even to become his guardians. Rather, I would like you to consider providing him with a regular destination he can visit for extended periods over his school holidays.”

Arthur glanced at his wife, then turned back to Severus. “I suspect from Ron’s letter that we’d be likely to do that anyway – given how well the two boys are getting on.”

Molly frowned. “Why can’t we adopt Harry? You just said he needs a home. If we don’t take him in, who will?”

“The Headmaster has another guardian in mind,” Severus hedged.

“Who?” Both Weasleys demanded.

“Me,” he replied coldly, hoping to avoid the inevitable reaction.

It was, as expected, inevitable. “YOU?!”

Molly recovered first. Ignoring Snape entirely, she turned to her husband. “That’s it. Dumbledore is senile. You’ll have to alert the Ministry in the morning.”

Arthur shot an apologetic glance at Snape. “Now, Molly, let’s not be hasty. I suppose that Professor Snape –“

“Arthur! He was a Death Eater. And that’s who Dumbledore wants to put in charge of Harry? The Boy Who Lived?”

“He was a spy,” her husband pointed out. “Dumbledore said so.”

Molly snorted. “Eventually. Maybe. But he bears the Dark Mark. You think he got that deliberately, just so he could be a spy? Who are his people, anyway?”

“I think he’s one of the Princes, isn’t he?” Arthur had by now followed Molly’s lead and forgotten Severus completely.

“Well! What else do you need to know? The Princes were all Darker than pitch and even crazier than the Blacks!” Molly paused. “Well, except for that one poor girl. What was her name? The one who was quite a few years ahead of us. Elizabeth? Elaine?”

“That was my mother,” Snape said with what he felt was admirable restraint.

“But there was something wrong even with her,” Molly went on, tapping her chin. “Let me see, what was it? What was it? Oh yes, she married that horrible Muggle.”

“That was my father,” Snape pointed out.

“Yes, well, it would have been, wouldn’t it?” Molly agreed distractedly. “Oh, Arthur, this is terrible. We can’t possibly allow Dumbledore to go ahead with this. Harry needs love and family and –“

“Potter needs attention and consistency and guidance.” Snape had had enough of being ignored. “None of which he is likely to get in this household amongst your litter of children.”

“Well!” Molly glared at him. “I like that! You have the nerve to come in here and insult us even as you ask for a favor?”

Arthur patted her hand. “Let’s hear him out, Molly. He’s right that Harry may need more attention than he’s likely to get in a big family like ours.”

Snape gave a jerky nod of formal thanks to Arthur. “Exactly. I meant no offense to you, but while your home is well suited to model healthy family dynamics for Harry, he also will require someone whose sole focus is his welfare. Given his – difficult – background,” Molly began to sniffle again, “it would be unfair to place him in such a large family where his unique needs might be unmet. By having the Burrow remain a special treat for him, he will learn the necessary lessons without having to give up the attention that he can receive as an only child in – “ he swallowed hard “ – my household.”

“And why are you willing to take on this role?” Arthur asked, giving Severus an odd look.

“My reasons are none of your concern,” Snape snapped.

“Actually, they are,” Arthur shot back, undaunted. “You are asking us to – in essence – co-parent with you, and a child like Harry will have needs that are complicated not only by his background but also by his likely future.” Snape frowned, but couldn’t deny that Weasley’s delicate implication of Death Eater interest in Harry was well-founded. “We need to know what we are getting into.” Seeing that Severus remained unconvinced, Arthur grinned. “Besides, if we are going to play such a big role in Harry’s life, then I’m sure we’ll hear plenty about you. And since most of his comments will likely be couched as complaints, it would be helpful if we’re in a position to defend you.”

Snape’s face fell into a ferocious scowl. How dare Weasley suggest that Potter would have anything to complain about!

“Severus,” Arthur said, highly amused. “Every child complains about his parents. It’s normal. But if we are all going to survive Harry’s adolescence, then we will need to work together. Trust us on this.”

Snape didn’t like it, but he had to admit the older man had a point. “I agreed to do this – reluctantly! – because I have a certain… familiarity… with what Potter has gone through.” He glared at the couple, daring them to ask for details, but both were quiet. “In addition, I was very close to Lily Evans. We grew up in the same neighborhood. We were friends until near the end of our Hogwarts days.”

“Oh dear,” Molly said sympathetically. “Did James come between you?”

Snape swallowed his emotions and looked away from her kind eyes. “In a matter of speaking. I – I was extremely foolish. Our friendship never fully recovered.” He took a deep breath. “But I am willing to take on the guardianship of the boy. With your assistance as well as my own, I anticipate that he will be able to recover from his treatment by those Muggles,” he spat the word. Molly and Arthur exchanged a meaningful glance. Severus wasn’t sure whether they took his venom as proof of his residual Death Eater sympathies or his apparent devotion to the child. Perhaps they were deciding that so long as he was devoted to the child, some Death Eater tendencies were a good thing, particularly when dealing with the Muggles who had mistreated him.

“There is one other matter we must discuss,” he added quickly, eager to change the topic of conversation. “There will be a stipend associated with your agreeing to participate in this plan.”

As expected, both bridled. “We don’t need to be bribed to help Harry!” Molly said indignantly.

Snape sighed. Gryffindors were so predictable. “It is not a bribe. It is a source of funds to defray the additional expenses that you will incur.”

“We can mana-“

“Harry will need to be clothed and fed. If you wish to go on family excursions, there will be the cost of his participation and travel to consider.”

“We would never exclude –“

“You will do Harry no favors if you treat him like a charity case,” Snape said forbiddingly. “This way, it is clear that there is a mutual benefit.”

“He’ll imagine that we’re only doing it for the money!” Molly argued.

“You will – unlike the Muggles – be expected to provide an accounting of the funds. It will be clear to Harry, should the issue arise, that you are not benefiting financially from his presence. You are merely not suffering additional hardship because of it.”

Arthur and Molly exchanged a long look. Snape tried his best not to roll his eyes in exasperation.

“Well… I suppose we could agree to accept a small allowance that would be spent on Harry.”

“Or for his benefit - for example, it could be used towards your grocery budget or upkeep on the house as he will be living here at times,” Snape pointed out, heroically refraining from mentioning several obvious areas where funds were sorely needed, starting with the lumpy armchair in which he was currently seated. “And if you don’t accept, I will find a different family.”

Molly sat bolt upright. “You wouldn’t!”

Snape just looked at her. She glanced worriedly at Arthur.

“All right. We agree,” Arthur nodded.

“And we will need to strengthen the wards around the Burrow,” Snape said. “I am aware that they are already quite strong, given your war records, but with The Boy Who Lived in frequent residence…”

“No arguments from us on that one,” Arthur said promptly. “Should we ask Bill and the goblins or would Dumbledore prefer to do it himself?”

“I will confer with the Headmaster and let you know. I suspect he will prefer to handle it.”

“I’ll look forward to seeing him!” Molly had a militant glint in her eye, and Snape fought down a snicker. Albus was in for a shock when he arrived.

“So you agree?” he pressed, needing clear acceptance.

Arthur glanced at Molly. “We’d be happy to help you and Harry, Severus. I suggest that you bring Harry over here to give him a chance to spend some time with Molly and me. If that goes well, then we’ll bring the boys home this weekend and have a family meeting and let them and Ginny know what’s going to happen. After that, you and Harry can come to dinner and then maybe Harry can sleep over Saturday night. What do you think of that?”

Severus was grudgingly impressed. Weasley had come up with a reasonable plan. After all, he and Harry had never met, and it would be prudent to ensure that Harry liked the adult Weasleys as much as he appeared to like the current Hogwarts’ crop. “Very well. I will be speaking with the boy in the next day or two.”

“Why don’t you bring Harry over for dinner on Thursday?” Molly suggested. “Come when you can. Arthur can come home early and we’ll have the chance to get to know each other, just as he suggests. Your being here will reassure Harry.”

Snape nearly snorted. Reassure the boy? Considering his past treatment of the child, it was much more likely that he’d find Snape’s presence unnerving, but Snape wasn’t about to admit that to the Weasleys. “Fine.”

They all stood, and Arthur and Severus shook hands. Molly smiled a bit uncertainly. It was clear she was still worried about the Prince family’s reputation, but Arthur gave her a reassuring squeeze. “Until Thursday, then,” Arthur smiled.

“Until Thursday.” Snape ducked back into the floo and headed for his fire whiskey.

“What on earth are you doing here?” the Fat Lady demanded.

“Open up,” Snape snarled.

“Not likely,” she replied haughtily. “Run along, little Slytherin.”

“I’m not a student any longer, you idiotic scrawl. I am the Head of Slytherin House and the school’s Potion Master, and I want to speak with one of my students. Now open up!”

“Shan’t,” she retorted airily.

Snape’s eyes narrowed. “Open up or I will –“

Just what Snape would have done was never made clear, as at that moment, the portrait opened and a third year Gryffindor started to step out. Finding his way blocked by the looming form of everyone’s least favorite professor, he squeaked in terror and fell backwards.

“A model Gryffindor,” Snape sneered. “Byerly, go fetch Potter.”

“I – I – yes, sir!” Byerly managed to gasp out, then raced away. The Fat Lady tried to close the entrance, but Snape seized hold of the portrait frame and held it open.

In a very short time, what appeared to be half of Gryffindor Tower had hurried up. “Um, Professor Snape, sir, what can I do for you?” Oliver Wood, Quidditch team captain, had apparently been nominated as their spokesperson.

“Produce Potter,” he replied with both brevity and menace.

Wood swallowed. “Er, what do you want him for, Professor? I mean,” he quickly added, seeing Snape’s expression, “should I get Professor McGonagall? If Potter’s in some kind of trouble, then she should be notified…”

“I did not request your Head of House, merely Potter,” Snape pointed out, with rapidly dwindling patience. “Kindly produce him.”

“He’s gonna make him into potions!” came a frightened whisper from the crowd. “What if he’s planning to hand him over to Death Eaters?” came another. “Idiot! He is a Death Eater!” said another. “We can’t give Harry to him!” “Quick! Hide him!” “I told you he was extra-nasty to Potter.” “Has somebody gone for McGonagall?” “Get Harry back to his dorm!”

“Erm, does Harry have a detention with you?” Wood asked uncertainly.

“Ten points from Gryffindor for nosiness,” Snape snarled. His eyes caught a movement at the back of the crowd as if someone were trying to push their way through and being rebuffed. “And five points from anyone who blocks Potter’s path!”

As if by magic, the crowd parted and a flushed Harry could be seen at the back. He colored even brighter, then hurried forward.

Snape noted some of the students’ worried looks turning suspicious as Harry came forward willingly. He seized Harry by the scruff of the neck the instant he was within reach, and intoned, “Five points from Gryffindor for dawdling, Potter!”

“But, Professor, I wasn’t –“ Potter’s protest broke off with a squawk as Snape raised his arm, hoisting Harry onto his tiptoes and cutting off most of his air.

He spun around and stormed away, dragging Harry with him. Behind him, as the portrait closed, he could hear several comments, most of them containing the term “git”. Well, at least they were no longer angry with Potter.

As soon as he turned the corner, he released his hold on the boy. Harry dragged at his collar and looked at Snape, wide eyed.

“Do not argue when I am deducting points, you foolish child,” Snape scolded. “You will merely lose more for being rude.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Harry gulped. “But I wasn’t trying to dawdle. Honest! I just couldn’t get them to move.”

“And you think I don’t know that?” Snape demanded, catching Harry by the shoulder and pulling him along. “Don’t I have eyes?”

“But – but if you know that, then why did you take away points?” Harry asked in bewilderment.

“Because your fellow Gryffindors were becoming suspicious of your compliance with my orders,” Snape retorted. “Your complacency in the face of their alarm was considered odd, and Gryffindors, being of little brain, do not like oddities.”

Harry pondered this as he trotted at Snape’s side. Finally working out the meaning, he frowned. “I don’t think Gryffindors are of little brain. Hermione Granger’s awfully smart.”

“Hm. A veritable Ravenclaw in lion’s skin,” Snape said sarcastically.

Harry chewed his lip. He couldn’t figure out why Snape wanted to talk with him. He hadn’t even had Potions class that day. The last time he’d actually spoken to Snape had been nearly a week ago, when he was still in the Infirmary.

Snape had come in and promptly been pulled into Pomfrey’s office. After a lengthy period, he had emerged with two bright spots of color on his cheekbones, while the medi-witch appeared grimly triumphant. She had ushered him over to Harry’s bedside and left the two of them with a final, “And I’ll be watching you, Severus!”

“Potter,” Snape had growled.

“Yes, sir?” Harry had been cautiously optimistic. Snape had made him a promise that he was fiercely hoping the man intended to keep. Just because he could hit as hard as Uncle Vernon didn’t mean he wouldn’t keep his promises… Did it?

“Potter. I owe you an apology,” Snape had said in a rather strangled tone.

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. An apology? From a grown up? What for? What would Snape have to apologize to him for?

Oh, no! Was he apologizing because he couldn’t keep his promise? Was the Headmaster determined to expel Harry after all? It was true that his handwriting was awful and he didn’t really know any of the material like Granger did, nor even much about the Wizarding world, like Ron did, but he was trying really, really hard. It had only been a few days! Surely they’d let him try a little longer before deciding he really was a worthless freak?

But no, if Snape were apologizing then it must be because he couldn’t do the things he had promised about not being expelling Harry or returning him to the Dursleys.

“That’s okay, sir,” he said around the enormous, hot lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat. “It’s not your fault.” He blinked hard, forcing back his tears. No one liked a crybaby.

He just hoped that Uncle Vernon wouldn’t be too mad when he showed up again. Madame Pomfrey had just given him some awful tasting medicine that had healed all the welts and bruises on his bum as well as the cuts and lump on his head. He really didn’t want to get another thrashing now that he was finally feeling better.

“What are you talking about, Potter?” the professor demanded angrily. Here he was, actually apologizing to a student, and the little idiot was only half listening. How dare he say it wasn’t his fault! What was he suggesting, that Snape had been controlled by Voldemort’s ghost?

“ ‘S okay,” Harry insisted, hastily wiping at his eyes when the traitorous tears leaked out. “I know you tried. ‘S my fault. I should’ve worked harder.” Though in all honesty, he really didn’t know how he could have. He was already staying up late every night trying to do all the reading and work on his handwriting and learn about wizarding society. “It’ll be okay. They prob’ly won’t be that mad.” After all, his uncle’s last words to him had been, “They’re not going to like you any more than we do, you little freak!” Uncle Vernon would probably be pleased to have been proven right. That might save Harry from a beating for a day or two. Maybe longer, even, if he got right to work and painted the garden shed or something.

Snape ground his teeth in anger. What was the little brat babbling about? Why couldn’t he just accept the apology, gloat like his bastard father would have, and let him return to his dungeons? But no, now he was whimpering and sniveling and acting as if Snape had fired a stinging hex at him. Any second now Poppy would be storming over, and this time she probably would make good on her threat. Snape really didn’t want to see what a talented medi-witch considered “an appropriate punishment for child abusers”. How dare the little monster play up like this just to get Snape into more trouble? “Stop that whining at once, Potter!”

Then something the brat said caught his attention: “Who won’t be mad?” Dumbledore and the other staff were already mad at him, as the little creep must very well know. Why else would Poppy have hauled him bodily into her office as soon as he crossed the Infirmary’s threshold? If he hadn’t been so quick with a muffling spell, they would have heard her yelling at him all the way down in the Slytherin common room.

“My relatives,” Harry answered, surprised.

Snape scowled horribly. Did the wretch think that he could threaten Snape with his Muggle relatives’ displeasure? Would his dreadful uncle take exception to someone else using the boy as a punching bag? “What are you talking about? What do your relatives have to do with anything?”

“Wh-when you send me back. They didn’t think they’d have to see me again until next year. I just meant that –“

“What? Who’s sending you back to those Muggles?” Snape exploded. “Did the Headmaster say that-“

Bad move. As soon as he started yelling at the brat, Pomfrey flew out of her office. “Severus Snape! I warned you! Now –“

Rather more alarmed by her determined expression than he wanted to admit, Snape hurriedly pointed at Potter. “He said Albus is going to send him back to the Muggles!”

That distracted Poppy all right. “WHAT?” She was even louder and angrier than Snape. “HE SAID WHAT?”

Harry looked from one to the other, panicked. “No, no!” Somehow everyone was all confused, and he had a sinking feeling it was all his fault. Things usually were.

“ALBUS DUMBLEDORE, GET DOWN HERE!” Poppy stuck her head in the floo.

A moment later, the twinkling Headmaster appeared, only to be confronted by two irate staff members. “What do you mean, telling Harry he was going to return to his relatives?” Poppy demanded.

Dumbledore blinked. “What?”

Poppy turned to Snape, annoyed. “Isn’t that what you told me?”

Snape turned to confront the boy, only to find an empty bed behind him. “Where is that little monster?” he seethed.

“Ahem.” The Headmaster pointed.

Both Snape and Poppy crouched down and looked under the bed. In the far corner, Harry had curled into a small ball, only his frightened green eyes were visible above his knees. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Please don’t be very mad.”

“Potter, get out here!” Snape snarled.

Poppy punched him in the shoulder. Hard. “Shut up!” she hissed. “Mr Potter,” she said in much sweeter tones, “come here. No one will hurt you.”

Harry’s eyes flickered over to Snape and Poppy punched him again. “Get away!”

Affronted, Snape withdrew to nurse his sore shoulder. “Come on, Harry,” she wheedled. “No one will hurt you. Come to Poppy.”

To Snape’s secret delight, the witch’s coaxing was completely ineffectual. After a few minutes, she gave up in defeat. “What on earth is wrong with him? I promised him that he had nothing to fear…”

Albus twinkled at her. “Yes, my dear, but he had just seen you strike Severus. Twice. Quite firmly. I imagine he might have assumed that if you would hit a fellow teacher, you would be even more likely to strike a student.”

Poppy’s eyes grew wide with dismay. “Oh! I never thought of that! Albus, you try.”

The Headmaster stooped. “Harry, my boy, will you please come out here?”  No answer. “Harry? Please?” Nothing.

He straightened with a sigh. “It appears I have yet to earn the boy’s trust.”

Snape sneered. “Considering that he has you to thank for his living conditions for the last ten years, I think he shows remarkable perspicacity.” Ignoring Poppy’s scandalized look, he turned back to the bed. “Potter,” he said, once again crouching down. “Are you going to come out of there?”

“Are – are you very angry?” Potter gulped.

“I will be if you don’t get out from under the bed,” Snape retorted. “Hurry up!”

To Poppy’s shock, Potter crawled out from under the bed. He stood up, half-flinching, but didn’t jerk away when Snape picked him up and deposited him back on the bed.

“There.” Snape couldn’t resist sending a look of triumph at the disgruntled medi-witch.

“Harry,” she said, coming forward very slowly and tentatively. “I promise I won’t hurt you.”

“Yes’m,” Harry acknowledged nervously. That’s what they all said, right? Well, not Snape. He’d never made such a ridiculous claim. That was why he could trust the man. When he was mad, he let you know it.  He didn’t lie or pretend.

“Why did you say the Headmaster was going to send you back to the Muggles?” Poppy asked gently.

Oh no. Not again. If there was one thing Harry really hated, it was being asked why he had said or done something he hadn’t. He knew better than to deny it, of course, but taking a punishment for something he hadn’t done always made him that much angrier inside. Still, there was nothing he could do. He forced down his fury at the injustice of his life. Getting mad or talking back would just make things worse for himself. “Sorry, ma’am.” He shut his eyes tight and hunched his shoulders, waiting for the first blow.

“Potter!” It was Snape again. He swallowed hard. He knew just how much a smack from the tall, dark man could hurt. “Look at me!” He didn’t want to open his eyes, he really didn’t, but he knew that he was just making them angrier. Uncle Vernon sometimes wanted you to see it coming, too. He forced his eyes open and glanced up warily through his fringe. The Potions professor was glaring at him, but his arms were crossed over his chest. Harry blinked. How was he going to hit him from that position?

Then Harry realized that Snape and the others had actually retreated a bit. No one was currently within arms reach, and Harry sat a little straighter.

“Potter,” Professor Snape was looking at him oddly. “When I said I was sorry, you replied that it wasn’t my fault.” Both the headmaster and the medi-witch looked at him in surprise. “Is that correct?”

Harry nodded immediately. This was a lot better. He might still end up getting hit, but at least it would be something he’d actually said.

“What did you mean?”

“J-just that I know you tried, sir. You had said you would. So I don’t blame you.”

“For what?” Snape pressed. There was something wrong here. Merlin, what was the boy talking about?

“For my getting expelled.”

Now both Snape and Pomfrey were staring at Dumbledore. “You expelled him?” the medi-witch breathed.

Even Snape was looking bewildered. There was no artifice in the boy. He truly believed he was expelled, and where would he have received such information but from the Headmaster? But why on earth would Albus do such a thing? Yes, the old coot played a very deep game, but to expel the boy? To remove him from one of the few places where he was safe from harm?

“Harry,” the headmaster stepped forward, and Harry flinched back. Okay, here it came. He still wasn’t sure what he had done, but obviously he just kept doing it. Dumbledore held out his hand, and Harry tried not to cower. They hated when you cowered.

“Lemon drop?” the Headmaster offered, and to his amazement, Harry realized that the man was holding a tin of candy in his hand.

He glanced nervously at the Headmaster and then at the other two. What was the right answer? But the old eyes were twinkling at him, and though they were sad, they seemed kind. Harry slowly reached forward, and when no one shouted at him or slapped his hand away, he carefully took one. “Thank you, sir,” he said politely. Even if they jeered at him and grabbed it back the next minute, he still had to be polite when anything was offered.

Just as slowly, he moved the candy to his lips, waiting for the snarl or the cuff, but they didn’t come and then the delicious lemony taste was filling his mouth. He couldn’t suppress a smile, and the Headmaster smiled back.

“Now then, Harry, I wonder if you can help me,” Albus said easily.

“I’ll try, sir,” Harry agreed. He looked over to Snape. Was that okay? The Potions Master was just standing there, glowering, but he didn’t seem any angrier than usual, which meant Harry probably hadn’t done anything stupid. Yet.

“It seems that there is a little confusion here,” the Headmaster continued. “What makes you think you have been expelled?”

“You mean, I haven’t?” Harry asked, confused.

“Answer the Headmaster’s question, Potter!” Snape snapped, and Harry jumped.

“Yes, sir!” he gulped. “Sorry, sir!” He looked at the Headmaster, and although the old man didn’t look angry, he still scooted back just a bit. After all, Snape was pretty big and scary, but even he listened to the Headmaster, That must mean that the Headmaster was even more powerful, and hadn’t he been the one to send Harry to the Dursleys in the first place? Obviously he wouldn’t think twice about sending him back to them.

“You were telling me why you thought you had been expelled,” Dumbledore prompted gently.

“Because Professor Snape apologized, sir,” Harry explained.

“And that apology was because…”

“He couldn’t keep his promise, sir. He had promised that I wouldn’t be expelled, so…” Harry trailed off. He could tell that something was wrong, but he couldn’t figure out what it was.

“Harry, did Professor Snape actually say that he couldn’t keep that promise?”

“N-no, sir,” Harry admitted. “But what else would he have to apologize for?”

Poppy let out an odd noise, halfway between a sob and a snort, and left abruptly. Albus merely patted Harry’s foot under the blanket for a few moments. “I see.” He patted some more.

Harry looked from the Headmaster to the professor. Snape was scowling as if he was about to explode, while the Headmaster looked very old and sad. “Sir? I’m sorry,” he offered. He still had no idea what he’d done wrong, but an apology was usually a good idea.

“Potter, stop apologizing!” Professor Snape snapped. Okay, maybe not such a good idea after all.

“Yes, sir, sorry, sir,” Harry replied automatically, then realized what he had done. “Sor-“ he cut himself off before he did it again.

Dumbledore chuckled softly, though it didn’t sound like he thought anything was very funny. “I see you have your work cut out for you, my boy.” He rose to his feet, gave Harry’s foot one last pat, then placed the tin of lemon drops on the bed. “For you, Harry.”

Then he was left alone again with Professor Snape. “Sir? I’m – “ Harry thought better of apologizing again. “Um, what did I do wrong?” he asked. He knew it wouldn’t excuse him from punishment, but maybe if he knew what he’d done, he could avoid doing it in the future.

Snape frowned at him. “Be still, Potter. Just listen.”

Harry obediently straightened up and looked attentive. “You are not being expelled, Potter. I meant what I said about your not going back to those relatives. You will not live with them again. Ever.” Harry’s eyes flared with hope and Severus caught his breath. Lily looked out at him, and he had to fight to keep control of his voice.

“You are staying here at Hogwarts, and even if you were to do something so egregious as to require expulsion – which is hard to imagine, given the current Headmaster – even then you would not return to those disgusting Muggles. Do I make myself clear?”

Harry nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak. He got to stay! He got to stay!

“My apology to you was for the injuries I caused you yesterday,” Snape continued. “I should not have struck you in that fashion, and I apologize.” Now why was the child frowning at him? That had been a very nice apology – even Minerva would have been impressed. “What?” he demanded, aggrieved.

“Why are you apologizing for that?” Harry asked blankly. He’d misbehaved in class, messed up his lines, and tried to leave detention early. Why was the professor apologizing for punishing him?

Snape stared at him. Was the boy trying to be funny? But no, even without Legilimency, it was clear that Harry genuinely saw nothing wrong with how he’d been treated.

“We will discuss that at a later time,” he temporized. “For now, you will merely accept my word that it was inappropriate.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said obediently.

“Continue your recuperation,” Snape instructed, his voice once again coldly formal. “We will talk after you are feeling better.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

And now Snape had pulled him from his dorm – presumably to have that postponed talk? At least that’s what Harry hoped. He didn’t think he was in trouble… But then again, there were plenty of times when he’d made that mistake. Better to check.

“Sir, am I in trouble?” he asked, trying not to sound nervous.

“Do you know something I should?” Severus asked drily.

“No, sir!” Harry assured him, shaking his head vigorously.

“Very well. Step through,” Snape instructed, opening a portrait with a muttered password. Harry obeyed and found himself in a large sitting room. Tea and biscuits awaited on a low table.

“Sit down, Potter,” Severus pointed to the couch, and Harry tentatively obeyed. This was a little odd. Why was he in what had to be the professor’s private quarters?

The next moment, the fireplace roared, and Professor McGonagall’s head appeared in the flames. “Severus? Do you have – Ah. Mr Potter, you are there.”

“Yes’m,” Harry answered obediently.

“Severus, perhaps you could explain why half my Tower came rushing to my office to inform me that you had abducted Mr Potter and were likely in the process of disemboweling him?”

“Perhaps because your students are insolent, disrespectful idiots who have read too many heroic epics?”

 “Severus Snape, there is no call for such rudeness!” Minerva, annoyingly, used the same tone on him as she did on her little lions, and Severus heard a muffled giggle behind him. He shot a look promising instant death to the brat on the couch, and Harry hastily hid behind his teacup.

“I went to fetch Potter and your students instantly assumed I was up to no good. Are they always this prone to paranoid fantasies? I had thought such ideation was largely confined to my House.”

She smirked back at him. “Only where you are involved, Severus. I shall reassure them as to Mr Potter’s continued good health.”

“You had also best award points to them for whatever euphemism you use to refer to mindless bravado masquerading as overprotectiveness, or Mr Potter may be criticized for his part in bringing me to your doorstep,” Snape added reluctantly. It hurt – oh, how it hurt! – to even contemplate awarding points to Gryffindor, but he did not want the brat to get off to a bad start with his Housemates. He knew too well what it was like to have to make it through seven years at Hogwarts without the friendship and support of your House.

Minerva was obviously taken aback, but then her gaze shifted to over his shoulder and her expression softened. “You are a good man, Severus Snape,” she said unexpectedly. Before Severus could comment acidly upon this new habit of spouting non sequitars, she returned her gaze to him. “I think twenty points for protecting a Housemate should do it.”

“Fifteen would be more than sufficient!” Snape retorted. “Ten, even, considering the rude comments that were made about my personal hygiene.”

That prompted another giggle behind him, quickly converted to a cough.

“Thank you for the suggestion, Severus. You’ll see that Mr Potter is returned safely?”

“No, Minerva,” he snapped. “I will turn him loose to wander the corridors until he is either captured by Filch or eaten by Fluffy.”

“Sarcasm is most unnecessary,” she sniffed and, with a final nod to Harry, withdrew.

Harry kept his eyes firmly focused on his tea. Maybe he would get away with the snickers. Maybe Professor Snape hadn’t actually heard him. Maybe…

“Did you find that amusing, Potter?”

He looked up, scared. “Sorry, sir!” But looking closely at the man, Harry realized Snape wasn’t that upset. Oh, he was still scowling, but he was always scowling. His eyes weren’t snapping, though. If anything, they almost looked a little, well, resigned. But that couldn’t be right, could it? “I’m sorry, sir.”

Snape rolled his eyes. “Now what are you apologizing for, Potter?”

“Um, for being here?”

“I brought you here, Potter. Did you forget that little fact?”

“No, I meant for being here when Professor McGonagall said that stuff. She, erm, she kinda treats you like a student sometimes, doesn’t she?”

Snape growled, but Harry didn’t think it was aimed at him. “Never take a teaching position at your alma mater, Potter. Not unless there has been a complete staff changeover.”

“Um, yes, sir,” Harry agreed obediently. Poor Professor Snape, no wonder he had to be so snarky all the time. It wasn’t just that students were likely to blow up half the castle if they didn’t listen to him, it was that the other teachers didn’t show him much respect either. Harry knew what it was like to be the odd man out. He gave Snape a sympathetic look.

Snape frowned. What was that for? The brat’s expression was almost friendly. How could this urchin feel anything for Snape but dread and loathing?

“Potter, we need to talk about your future,” he announced sternly.

Harry felt his stomach lurch. He trusted Snape that he wouldn’t have to return to the Dursleys, but then where would he go? An orphanage? Could he still attend Hogwarts and just return to the orphanage during hols? He watched the professor fearfully.

Snape frowned in thought as he sat down opposite the brat. He had had a brilliant idea after talking to the Weasleys. If Harry objected to Snape’s nomination as his guardian, surely Dumbledore wouldn’t insist. The old coot seemed genuinely distraught at the boy’s past treatment, so if Harry threw a fit at the notion of Severus being his guardian, the Headmaster couldn’t possibly force yet another hated adult upon the boy.

So all Severus had to do was to present the plan to Potter, wait for the brat to start screaming, and then summon Albus. Snape could hardly be blamed if the young Gryffindor didn’t want the Greasy Git to be his guardian, and Albus would just have to reopen his search for an appropriate parent. He nearly smirked. Perhaps the Headmaster would pick on Minerva. He could just see the old witch’s expression the first time Potter hid under the bed. Or maybe Dumbledore would take the boy on himself? But no, Severus remembered with more than a hint of gratification, Harry had made it abundantly clear he didn’t trust the Headmaster.

“Potter, as I said before, you will not be returning to your Muggle relatives,” Snape began, passing the boy the biscuits. Might as well start off slow and easy and let Dumbledore see that he had tried to ingratiate himself. It wasn’t his fault if Harry was a Gryffindor through and through and would never accept a Slytherin’s supervision.

“Thank you, sir!” From the expression of joy in the boy’s eyes, Severus assumed he wasn’t merely expressing appreciation for the food.

“Their treatment of you was unacceptable, and –“ The brat started to speak but then obviously thought better of it. Snape sighed. This timidity would get old very quickly. Not that he wanted the boy to inherit his father’s arrogant ways, but to see a Potter cringe was strangely upsetting. “What is it, Potter? Ask your question.”

“Well, I was just wondering what it was that they did that was wrong. Not that I want to go back!” he added hastily. “But… why am I being taken away now? Was it because of the letter?”

Snape frowned. “What letter?”

“The Hogwarts letter. Was it because they wouldn’t let me answer it? Is interfering with the owl mail a really bad thing?”

Snape frowned at the boy’s innocence. This was rather alarming. What was next? Excuse me, sir, but how do you know Death Eaters are evil? I mean, they don’t actually wear signs that say so. Are we sure they mean to kill me? Maybe I should strike up a conversation with them when we meet, rather than put up a shield, just to be sure.  Potter would have the life expectancy of a housefly if someone didn’t teach him some simple facts of life.

“No, you absurd child. What they did wrong was to beat you and starve you and call you names and lie to you. They are disgusting, evil creatures who took out their frustrations on a child.”

Harry blinked. “But…”

“What?” This half-starting a comment then biting it back would drive Snape mad. Good thing he wouldn’t be dealing with the brat much longer.

“But they’ve been doing all that for forever!” Harry burst out. “So why didn’t I get taken away sooner?”

Ah. Maybe he wasn’t such an idiot after all. Severus considered. What should he say? He did feel a loyalty to Dumbledore, and he knew that Potter’s mistrust hurt the old man deeply. On the other hand, he found it hard to believe that the ancient wizard’s decision to place Potter with the Dursleys had been quite as innocent an error as it appeared. What if Dumbledore had known exactly what kind of home life Potter would have and yet still went ahead and placed him there for reasons of his own? If Snape knew one thing from his spying activities, it was that Dumbledore would put people in harm’s way if he felt it was for the greater good. If he were convinced that having Harry grow up in an abusive, unloving home would make him a better weapon against Voldemort, would Albus have hesitated? Snape honestly didn’t know.

In the end, he said the only thing he knew to be true. “As soon as I learned of your situation, Potter, I took steps to end it.”

Harry’s eyes widened, and then he nodded. There was a look in his eye that Severus didn’t recognize, but he dismissed it as unimportant and continued.

“As I have said, you will not be returning to the Muggles. However, you are obviously too young to be on your own, so a new home and guardian must be found for you.”

“Could I go live with Ron?” Harry asked, then quickly clapped his hand over his mouth. He knew better than to interrupt.

Snape ignored the gesture. “I have already spoken with Mr Weasley’s parents. They have invited us to dinner tomorrow to discuss your spending some time with them every holiday.” Harry’s eyes were shining with delight. “I would suggest you not speak of this to your schoolmates yet, as it is not settled. You must first meet Mr and Mrs Weasley and see how you get along.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But even if all goes well, the Weasleys will not be adopting you.” Snape almost felt badly as he watched Harry’s face crumple. He was oddly compelled to explain quickly, almost as if he cared about the boy’s distress, but that could hardly be the case. After all, he was the horrible, nasty, Death Eating Potion Master. He didn’t care if a student was in tears. But he still went on rapidly. “The Weasleys have a large family and are happy to extend it to encompass you. But you require more than a seat at a dinner table. You also need a family of your own. One that will not be distracted by the competing needs of other children. So you will have a guardian who will be focused on you, and you will also have the opportunity to spend time in a family setting with the Weasleys. Do you understand?”

Harry’s sadness had magically evaporated. “You mean I get two families?”

Snape considered. “I suppose you could phrase it that way.”

“Wow!”

“Yes, well…” Snape cleared his throat. “With regards to who your guardian will be –“ Here it came. He mentally prepared himself for the tantrum and made sure the floo powder was handy. He would need to contact Dumbledore while the brat was in full hysterics.

“Could it be you?” Harry’s voice was so soft Snape wasn’t sure he had really spoken.

“What!”

Harry ducked his head. Stupid! He was so stupid! How could he have just blurted it out? He should have known better than to ask something like that. Now Professor Snape would be furious with him. Why would someone like Snape want a freak like Harry? It wasn’t like Harry was a member of his House, even. He was just one of the professor’s Potions students, along with practically every other kid at Hogwarts.

Harry peeked through his fringe and hurriedly dropped his gaze. Oh yeah, Snape was mad all right. He had that wide eyed, maniacal expression that he’d had just before he’d clouted Harry last time. Harry surreptitiously curled his fingers around his seat cushion, hoping that it would help to anchor him if he got hit again.

“What did you say?”

Harry gulped. “I’m sorry. It was really rude of me to ask that.”

“What did you say?”

“I asked if you could be my guardian,” Harry said in the lowest voice he could manage and braced himself. He stared at the floor, preferring to be surprised by the blow rather than have to see the look of revulsion he was certain the professor wore.

Snape blinked in utter shock. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been this taken by surprise. Well, except for the night he’d learned about Harry’s home life. Why was it that this annoying brat kept shocking him? He was supposed to be unshockable, unmovable, unfeeling. Yet this irritating child kept sneaking through his shields.

“Why would you want me to be your guardian?” he demanded. He was pleased to note that the bewilderment came out sounding like anger.

Harry wouldn’t raise his gaze. He raised one shoulder in a half-shrug.

“Answer my question,” Snape commanded sharply.

Harry wasn’t sure if his not yet being hit or sneered at was a good sign or a bad one. He knew Snape wouldn’t agree to his request – when was the last time Harry ever got something he had asked for? – but he thought that maybe, just maybe, he could explain so that the man would at least feel a bit flattered, rather than repulsed. “Y-you’re nice.”

“Potter! I am not nice!” It was as if he had accused the man of some truly vile practice.

“You were nice to me,” Harry said stubbornly. “No one else is. Well, except for Hagrid or Ron. And you already said I’m going to spend time with the Weasleys, and Hagrid, well, I don’t think he’d be a good guardian. He’s a great friend an’ all, but I don’t think he’s really, y’know…”

Snape smothered a snort of amusement. Well, the boy wasn’t a complete dunce. He obviously had Hagrid figured out.

“Go on.”

“And you haven’t lied to me. And everyone says you’re really smart. And no one ever picks on you, so maybe if you were my guardian, no one would pick on me, either.” Harry’s voice trailed off and he slumped in despair. Good one, Harry. Of all the things you could have said, you had to pick one that shows how needy and desperate you are. Of course he’ll choose you now. Who wouldn’t want such a useless, whiny little freak?

Snape suddenly found it hard to swallow. The scrawny, dark haired child, huddled so forlornly in the corner of the sofa, had brought back an unexpected surge of memories. Wanting desperately to belong, needing protection, craving someone – anyone – to show him some caring… And of course, receiving nothing but violence from all sides: his father, the Marauders. So much for Hogwarts being a sanctuary. Yes, it had spared him the worst of his father’s excesses, but it hadn’t exactly offered safety, not when he was constantly ambushed and mocked, without even friendly housemates to defend him. Little wonder he had fallen prey to the blandishments of the Dark Lord. Though of course, in the end, he turned out to be yet another sadistic, violent tormentor.

Snape forced down his emotions with brutal efficiency. This wasn’t about him. It was about the Potter spawn… Though he didn’t really look like a spawn all huddled over like that. More like some pathetic, broken… Stop. Stop right there. You are getting ridiculously sentimental, he told himself firmly. What difference is it to you if James Potter’s son has had as awful a childhood as you did? Why should you care if – and then the child looked up, and Lily’s eyes begged him.

“Yes.” He nearly looked around to see who had spoken. That couldn’t have been him, could it?

The boy’s shining eyes told him that yes, it had been him. Before he could curse himself or obliviate the boy, Harry’s body had rocketed into his, grabbing him about the waist. The entirely unexpected force of the boy’s small but solid body knocked the wind out of Snape, and it was a moment before he could actually speak… Or at least that’s what he fiercely told himself.

“Yes, all right, all right,” he said testily, patting the brat gingerly on the shoulder. Were all children this… childish?

“Do you really mean it?” Harry looked up at him, but maintained his tight hold around Snape’s middle. This had the effect of digging the brat’s pointy little chin into his solar plexus, and made Severus’ words come out a tinge more breathlessly than usual – well, that’s how he explained it to himself.

“I said it, didn’t I?” he snapped. “Are you accusing me of mere insincerity or outright deceit?”

“No, no!” Harry protested, eyes widening with horror. “I just meant – I didn’t think –“

“Obviously.” Snape glared down at him. Somehow his hands were still around the little monster’s shoulders, despite his very clear intention to have pushed him away well before now.

Harry ducked his head and buried his head in Snape’s robes, further jolting the man’s midriff and forcing out a grunt.

“Thank you,” the brat mumbled into his robes.

“You’re welcome,” he replied gruffly. Merlin – what have I done? Now how will I get rid of the brat?

“Am I doing this right?” Harry asked uncertainly, still holding onto Snape as if he were never going to let go.

“Doing what right?” Snape demanded irritably. Now what was the little horror on about? Was this how it was going to be? Never ending questions? The need for constant reassurance? He himself had never been this needy! …You never had anyone to whom you could express your need, a traitorous voice at the back of his mind pointed out.

“Hugging.” Harry looked up again worriedly. “I only did it once before, when Mrs Weasley said goodbye to me and Ron at the station. She hugged him first and then she hugged me. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. Ron pulled away, but that seemed rude, so I didn’t, but I didn’t know if I was supposed to do something else instead.”

That effectively ended any questions Snape might have had about how the Muggles treated the boy.

“Right.” His homicidal fury, unable to be unleashed at the proper targets, found outlet in another direction. He pulled the boy off and set him back on the couch, pinning him with his eyes. “You and I need to have a little talk.”

Harry immediately flinched back, eyes darkening with panic. Stupid! Uncle Vernon had had these “talks” with him before. He mentally kicked himself. How could he have been such an idiot? He knew better than to try to hug someone – he’d been slapped around enough times for trying it with his relatives – and just because the professor was nice enough to help him avoid the orphanage didn’t mean that he wanted to be touched by a freak like Harry. As soon as Snape agreed to be his guardian, Harry had gone and grabbed him. No wonder he was going to catch it; he could only hope the professor wouldn’t change his mind about everything else. “I’m really sorry,” he gabbled. “I won’t do it again. I just got excited. I won’t touch you again. Honest.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed. So the precious little Gryffindor didn’t want to touch the nasty Slytherin? “And just what is wrong with me that you dare not soil yourself with my touch?” he demanded menacingly. If the little brat thought that he was going to be able to insult him with impunity…

Harry’s face clouded with confusion. “It’s not you. It’s me. I know I’m not supposed to touch normal people.” Then he really panicked at Snape’s expression. “I’m sorry!” he cried out, cringing back before the inevitable blow.

“Potter!” Snape forced his fury down. He was so going to enjoy visiting those Muggles. “Stop cowering and apologizing!”

“Sor –“ Harry caught himself. He watched Snape with frightened eyes. He couldn’t understand why, given the man’s obvious rage, he hadn’t yet struck Harry. What was he waiting for?

The professor took a deep breath and used all of his occlumency skills to calm himself. “Potter,” he said, in much more measured tones. “Who, precisely, do you consider ‘normal’ people?”

Harry blinked. “Um, you know. People who aren’t freaks.”

“And who exactly is a freak?”

“Me,” Harry spoke with an utter lack of self-consciousness. He could have been discussing the color of his hair.

Snape ground his teeth. Those Muggles would pay for this. “And why are you a freak?”

“Um, well, because I’m different. You know, from normal people.” Harry studied his professor with confusion. Why was he asking such simple, basic questions? He might as well ask why the sun was hot.

“Normal people being your relatives?” Snape spat.

Harry nodded.

“Then you are considered a freak for being different to the Muggles?” Another nod. “For being a Wizard?” Another nod. “Then obviously you consider me to be a freak as well.”

Panicked, Harry started to shake his head. No, no! He hadn’t meant to insult Professor Snape!

“And therefore you need not avoid touching me, as we are both freaks together,” Snape continued inexorably, so caught up in his rage at the Dursleys that he was oblivious to the fact that he had just given the boy permission to hug him. “In fact, you can hug anyone in the Wizarding world, which includes everyone here at Hogwarts except Filch, and I cannot conceive of even you being desperate enough to hug that squib.” Harry was staring at him, mouth agape. “However, if you ever so much as contemplate hugging that walrus of an uncle of yours or any of the rest of those despicable Dursleys, I will have Madame Pomfrey confine you to the Infirmary until the mind-healers from St Mungo’s can collect you.” Snape glowered at him. “You idiotic child, how dare you imagine that you are the freak? Have you not yet realized that your horrible relatives are the unnatural monsters? Every word they spoke to you was either a deliberate misstatement or a blatant lie. The next time you quote them, I should wash out your mouth with soap. Their lies are filthier than any expletive could be.”

Harry blinked, stunned by this chain of logic. Yes, he’d known that his relatives hadn’t been honest with him from the moment that Hagrid walked in – well, blew in – the door, but he still hadn’t quite realized how all-encompassing their lies had been. It wasn’t until Snape laid it out like that that he realized his entire view of the world might be somewhat … off.

“Do you remember those despicable Muggles’ rules?” Snape demanded. Harry gulped and nodded. “Right. You are to forget them. Entirely.” Harry goggled at him.

Snape glared. The boy looked adenoidal with his mouth hanging open like that. “What is so difficult to understand, Potter. I am now your guardian, and you will have a new set of rules.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry managed to stammer. That made sense, at least.

“You will naturally attend classes as previously arranged and live in your dorm with your Housemates. However, I will arrange with the Headmaster for another room to be added to my quarters for you so that –“

“A room? A whole room? For me?” Harry couldn’t help himself; it just burst out.

Snape rolled his eyes. Merlin save him from idiot Gryffindors. Why couldn’t the boy at least have been a Ravenclaw? “Yes, Potter. A room. For you. Where else would you sleep? A cupboard?” To his astonishment, Harry merely nodded. An awful suspicion took root in Snape’s mind.

“Potter, where exactly did you live in those bastard Muggles’ home?”

“Like it said on my Hogwarts letter,” Harry explained, wondering why this was news to the professor. “The cupboard under the stairs.”

Snape hadn’t wanted to hex something this badly since Harry’s father and godfather had tried to sabotage his NEWTS potion. “And what exactly was a typical day like in that house?”

Harry bit his lower lip, wondering why Snape was so curious. Then it dawned on him. He probably wanted to know what kind of chores Harry was good at, so he could assign him his new tasks. Harry sat up – hopefully he could impress Snape with all the things he could do. The man wouldn’t mind having adopted him once he realized how useful Harry could make himself.

“I’d get up first and make breakfast for everyone,” he began obediently. “Then after serving everyone and cleaning the kitchen, I’d do my morning chores. If it wasn’t a school day, then I’d usually do the garden first, then the house, and on Sundays I always washed the car. After making lunch I usually got to have a sandwich or some leftovers before starting on my afternoon chores. If Aunt Petunia had her garden club or bridge club or book club or something coming over, then I’d get the living room all set for them before making tea. I’d usually finish any outside chores before making dinner – Uncle Vernon liked me to repaint the garden shed and fence anytime they looked dingy, so I did that a lot. After my relatives finished dinner, if I was allowed to eat, I’d do that before cleaning the kitchen and washing the floor, and then I’d go to sleep.” He paused, thinking. “Oh, and I’m a good cook. Even the bridge club ladies said so. And I can paint things really well, without drip marks or anything. I’ve done a lot of gardening, from planting things to mowing the lawns to weeding to pruning the hedges. And I can clean the bathroom really quickly, so I don’t get in the way. I know to be careful about fingerprints and stuff, so you don’t have to worry.”

Snape was staring at him. That idiotic old coot had turned Harry into The Boy Who Lived To Be A House Elf For Muggles. Even Snape’s own father, for all his brutality, hadn’t expected such a level of servitude. What had Dumbledore been thinking to allow those hideous Muggles to mistreat this child so badly? “Do you really imagine I agreed to be your guardian because I am in need of a house elf?” At Harry’s blank look, Snape remembered that the boy was new to all things magical. “A slave.”

Harry frowned. “How else am I going to earn my food, sir?”

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. This was getting thoroughly depressing. “Let me guess. Another rule at the Dursleys was no work, no food.”

Harry nodded. “If I don’t do a good job, I don’t deserve to eat, and I get punished.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed. “Punished how? In addition to starvation, I mean,” he added sarcastically.

Harry’s eyes dropped. He guessed it was only fair that his new guardian knew how his relatives had punished him, but he really hoped that the professor might not be quite as strict as Uncle Vernon. Of course, he reminded himself consolingly, while he was attending Hogwarts, there were three meals a day, so whatever other punishments he got, he probably wouldn’t go without food. …Unless the professor decided to order him to skip meals.

“Well?” Snape’s harsh voice broke in on his musing, and Harry hurried to answer.

“Mostly just a slap or a smacking and being locked up in my cupboard,” Harry explained. “But if I got in real trouble, like at school or for doing – “ he shot a quick glance at the professor “- freaky stuff, then I’d get the belt.”

“What about restriction of privileges? Withholding treats or toys? Extra chores?” At Harry’s blank look, Snape rolled his eyes. Of course the boy would be puzzled. How could you withhold privileges or toys from a child who never got any in the first place? And it sounded like there were no extra chores for the boy to do, because he was already doing them all.

“Out of curiosity, Potter, how did they punish that whale of a cousin of yours? Did they strike him as well?”

“Dudley?” Harry asked in surprise. “I don’t think they ever punished Dudley.”

“And you see nothing wrong with such an inequitable situation?”

Harry guessed what “inequitable” meant. “Well, they wanted him. They were just stuck with me.”

“Potter, you will drive me mad with your lack of insight,” Snape scolded. “You were a child. You are a child. It is an adult’s responsibility to treat any child in their care appropriately. Children are to be fed and housed and clothed and protected from harm. They are -”

Harry looked over at Snape worriedly. That sounded like a lot of work. What if the professor decided Harry would be too much trouble? “Please, sir, I’ll be good. I won’t be any bother, and I’ll do whatever work you want me to do, and …”

Snape interrupted this pathetic litany before his blood pressure could rise any higher. “Shut up, Potter. I’ve already agreed; you need not try to convince me further.”

Harry relaxed with a sigh of relief. The professor was really nice. Maybe he wasn’t going to be hit for the hug after all. Maybe this “talk” was to be just that.

Snape scowled. He really didn’t want to open this next topic, but he knew he had to do it. “Potter, in the infirmary, you said you didn’t understand why my actions to you at your detention were inappropriate. You thought my treatment of you was justified.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It was not. Faculty at Hogwarts do not strike students. What is more, my blow was excessively harsh. No child should be treated in that fashion.” He paused. “That is a rule.”

Harry tried hard to understand what the professor was saying. “But, if teachers don’t punish students like that,” he said slowly, thinking it out, “then why did you hit me?”

Snape fought not to squirm. Trust the irritating brat to ask the one question he really didn’t want to answer. But he owed the little monster the truth. “I wasn’t hitting you, Potter,” he retorted. At Harry’s look of complete bewilderment, he forced himself to elaborate. “Yes, of course, I hit you, but I wasn’t really aiming at you. I – “ he broke off in frustration and decided to try a different approach. “You… strongly resemble your father, Potter,” he began. The boy sat up straighter at his words.

“I do?”

Snape glared at him. “Of course you do. Haven’t you seen pictures?” Oh. Of course not. Not in that household.

Even as the thought occurred to him, Harry shook his head. “My aunt and uncle said they didn’t want to have any pictures of ‘worthless drunks’ in the house. I haven’t seen any pictures of my parents, and I – “ he colored, as if confessing a grievous sin “- I don’t really remember them.”

Snape fought back pity. “Naturally you don’t, you foolish brat. You were little more than a year old when they were killed.” Should he? Shouldn’t he? In the end, he said what he knew Lily would have wanted. “I have some pictures of your mother. I’ll show them to you at some point.”

For a moment he thought the brat would hurl himself at him again, and he braced for the onslaught of the bony little frame, but Harry restrained himself, though his glowing expression of gratitude spoke volumes.

Snape cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I suspect there will also be pictures of your father somewhere around the school. He was always attracting attention to himself,” he spat. “I will speak with the other faculty and see if they have any photos that could be copied.”

“Thank you,” Harry managed to gulp out around the enormous lump in his throat. Snape might call him names and snap at him, but the man’s kind actions belied his snarky tone.

“Hmf.” Snape huffed, highly uncomfortable with both the boy’s thanks and the worshipful look that was growing on Potter’s countenance.

“As I was saying,” he forcibly dragged the conversation back on course. “You resemble your father and –“

Again the boy interrupted him. “Don’t I look like my mum at all?” he asked plaintively.

“You… have her eyes,” Snape admitted reluctantly, then stifled a snort as the boy practically crossed his eyes trying to see his own features. With a glower at the delay, he conjured up a hand mirror and handed it to the troublesome creature. Harry stared at his face as if he had never seen it before, trying to feel some connection with his dead parents.

Snape felt his throat start to tighten in pity, and he hurriedly transformed the mirror back to its original form. “If you are quite done interrupting me,” he snapped at the boy, and Harry meekly nodded. “You are very nearly a carbon copy of your father, as he appeared when I first met him. We… did not get on. During your detention, your appearance made me think of your father and when I misunderstood something you were saying, I –“ Snape felt himself flush “-lost control of my temper. I struck you quite brutally while thinking of your father, and for that I have apologized.”

To his complete shock, Harry leaned forward and patted him on the arm. “I sometimes get confused too,” he whispered confidingly. “Like when my teacher would lean over my desk and I’d think it was Uncle Vernon about to hit me.”

Marvelous. The brat had flashbacks. As if Snape needed further confirmation of how awful Potter’s home life had been. It was amazing the child wasn’t catatonic, and yet Albus thought Snape was the best person to look after this broken, damaged child? The Headmaster really was delusional. Perhaps he and Potter could get a group rate at the mind-healers.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Yes, well, those memories will likely start to fade now that you are away from that dreadful environment,” he explained, “and since you will no longer be treated in that fashion.”

Harry stared at him. “You mean I’m not going to get hit? At all?” This was sounding perilously close to the meaningless words the other teachers had mouthed. He gave Snape a distrustful look.

“You will not be hit by your instructors,” Snape replied, relieved that they were getting away from the specifics of his own transgressions and into more general topics. “That is against school policy. If anyone were to try to harm you, I expect you to defend yourself.”

Harry looked as if he had suddenly started to spout gibberish, and he supposed that, to the boy, he had. “Potter, when your uncle struck you, you were obliged to remain still and silent, correct?” The boy nodded. “Those were his rules.” Harry nodded. “And what did I tell you about those rules?”

Harry’s eyes widened. “You said to forget them. Then you mean, I – I don’t have to hold still?”

“Didn’t I just explicitly tell you not to do that?” Snape demanded.

“Yes, but…” Harry trailed off. He hadn’t really thought the man was serious.

“When I tell you to do something, I expect you to do it!” Snape admonished him severely. This was much better. He was good at this sort of thing. “Do you imagine I speak merely for my own benefit?”

“No, sir!” Harry shook his head vigorously. “Sorry, sir!”

Snape paused, thinking. How much should he tell the boy? Would it be better to put him on notice now about Voldemort and Death Eaters and the fact that to many in the Wizarding world, Harry was an irresistible target? Should he explain that Harry would require special tutelage in defense and dueling? He looked over to the small boy, so recently released from one form of bondage and slated to another kind of indenture – this time to the entire Wizarding world. He decided not to reveal everything just yet. First Harry had to become accustomed to not being a punching bag. There was plenty of time to explain that he was still a target.

“You are my ward,” Snape decided upon his tack. “As such, your discipline is my responsibility. The other teachers may assign you punishments or dock points, but none of them is to lift a finger to you. If they do – “ he tried hard not to think about Quirrel in particular “- you are to defend yourself and prevent them from harming you. That is also true of your classmates. If any of them seek to harm you, you are to defend yourself. Vigorously.” He was the most hated professor at Hogwarts for good reason, and it wasn’t inconceivable that some of the more foolish students might try to get even with Snape by attacking his ward.

Harry would need to demonstrate that he was far from easy prey in order to dissuade assaults, though hopefully Snape’s position in Slytherin and Harry’s sorting into Gryffindor would reduce the likelihood of such attacks. Assuming the lions and snakes wouldn’t attack him, that only left Ravenclaws or Hufflepuffs, and Snape wasn’t all that worried about those Houses. Besides, making Harry an honorary Weasley should provide him with plenty of backup.

“Merlin help you if you start a fight,” he continued, giving Harry a menacing glare, “but if another little dunderhead is foolish enough to try something with my ward, you had better demonstrate that you are well able to protect yourself. I will not have my reputation diminished; do you understand?”

That Harry could understand perfectly. The Dursleys were very concerned about their reputation too. It made sense that Professor Snape wouldn’t want Harry to seem weak or stupid, now that he was going to be responsible for him.

“This is also why I will expect you to succeed academically,” Snape continued firmly. “I will not be embarrassed by poor marks.”

Harry bit his lip. “But I’m not good at school stuff.”

“Who told you that?” Snape demanded.

“My aunt said –“

“And what did I say about your quoting them?” Snape interrupted before Harry had even finished speaking. He was half tempted to make good on his earlier threat.

“Y-you said they were liars and I shouldn’t?” Harry offered nervously, his mind going down on a similar track as Snape’s.

“Exactly. Shall I have you write that five hundred times in order to remember it?” Snape threatened. “Or do you prefer the soap?”

Harry tried to distract the dour man. “But I’ve never gotten good grades, sir. I got in trouble for falling asleep in class and the teachers were always yelling at me.”

“Potter,” Snape managed to gain control of his temper. At this rate he was going to have an ulcer before the week was out. “Do you not see that some of that was due to your relatives’ treatment of you? Can your tiny mind comprehend that being undernourished and overworked impaired your scholastic performance? Your parents were accomplished wizards and excellent students, and I expect no less from you.” It pained him to admit that about Potter, but it was undeniably true.

“But my uncle said that freaks were stupid and my parents were worthless drunks who couldn’t hold down an honest job,” Harry protested. He didn’t want the professor to think that he was smart and be disappointed later. “That’s why I had to learn how to earn my keep by doing chores.”

“Your relatives are appalling creatures who mistreated you since you were a toddler. You are a child. You do not have to ‘earn your keep’. It is the adults who are obligated to care for you, not the other way around. You are obliged to attend your classes and obey the rules. I am responsible for feeding you, clothing you, housing you, caring for your emotional and physical maturation, and otherwise ensuring your welfare and safety. Do you understand?” There. That was clearly stated in small words. Even a Potter should follow that.

Naturally, the boy looked confused. “But Uncle Vernon said –“

That did it. “Five hundred lines, Potter! I told you not to pay attention to that lard-filled balloon.”

Harry flinched at the tone, but couldn’t restrain a giggle at Snape’s description of his uncle. “Yes, sir. I’ll try to get good marks. But I really don’t know very much.”

Snape rolled his eyes in exasperation. “I realize you are your father’s son, Potter, but perhaps you might consider studying or doing homework? Perhaps reading a book once in a while?”

“I’m allowed?” Harry asked cautiously. “I’m not supposed to read or do homework in case I get better grades than Dudley.”

“And who told you that?” Snape asked silkily. He would give the brat another 500 lines and wash his mouth out with soap if he uttered that Muggle’s name, he swore he would.

“Unc –“ Harry caught himself and actually grinned. “Oh. Right.”

Snape glared at him another moment before continuing: “From what you tell me, it is obvious that you will require remedial tutoring. I shall speak with your Head of House. If – as I suspect – Gryffindor is lacking in suitable tutors, you will report to my quarters several times a week until I am satisfied with your performance.” Snape gloomily bade farewell to his peaceful evenings free of horrible, mewling brats. At least Death Eater meetings were adults only.

“So I just have to go to class and follow the rules?” Harry said in tones of dazed happiness. “That’s all?”

“That was too much for your father,” Snape sneered. “I trust you have not inherited his talent for mischief or you will not like the consequences. You will find me, at least, difficult to manipulate.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. He really wanted to hear more about his dad – though Snape’s tone was far from encouraging – but he was more worried about those threatened “consequences”. “I’ll be good, sir!” he promised.

“You’d better be,” Snape retorted, though he wondered what he would do if the boy misbehaved. Well, aside from verbally filleting him. He was reluctant to do anything that smacked of the boy’s previous life, and cleaning cauldrons or being confined to his room were uncomfortably close to what the Dursleys had done. Oh, Harry wouldn’t make it through Hogwarts without having a few detentions with Filch, but Snape wanted such punishments to be related to his student status. It was one thing to be punished the same way as his classmates, another to be treated – again – like a house elf or prisoner by his guardian.

So what did that leave? The boy had no trinkets or hobbies which could be temporarily forbidden. Lines and essays might work, Snape mused, but he would need to make a foray to the toy stores of Diagon Alley to find some things that the child liked. Only in order to withhold them as punishment, he reassured himself hastily. It wasn’t as if he were desperate to make Potter happy, for Merlin’s sake.

Then again, considering how abysmally ignorant the brat was about all of Wizarding society, he probably should take him on regular outings to various Wizard destinations, such as Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade. Then, when the little monster misbehaved, he could be denied the excursion. That should be worth a few tears. Snape smirked in satisfaction. Never let it be said he couldn’t find ways to torture a Potter, even if it did mean a further curtailment of his own free time.

“Honest, sir!” Harry gulped. “You won’t need to belt me hardly at all.”

“Did you not hear what I said before?” Snape exclaimed angrily. “Irritating child! You will learn to pay attention to me.”

“But – but –“ Harry gazed at him in confusion. “What did I say?”

“I told you that I will not mistreat you.” Again, Snape silently added. “You will not be beaten with a belt, Potter.”

Oddly, Harry did not look reassured. “Please, sir, not the cane.”

Oh, for Merlin’s sake. He really needed to get the boy some adequate spectacles. “Come with me,” Snape ordered, yanking Harry up and pulling him down the corridor to the door into his classroom.

Harry’s heart thudded wildly. Why had he even bothered to ask such a ridiculous thing? After the professor had been nice enough to promise that no one else would hit him, and that he could run and duck and even protect himself from bullies, what had Harry done? Had he thanked Snape? Or promised to make him proud? No, he had sniveled about not wanting to be whacked with the cane. It would serve him right if the professor walloped him for his ingratitude and cheek.

In fact, Harry saw with a sinking feeling, that was precisely what was about to happen. They had come through a hidden door and were now standing in the professor’s classroom, right next to his desk. This was just where Harry had nearly been caned a few nights ago; this time he doubted he’d have the same miraculous escape.

Well, you’ll just have to take it, he told himself stoutly. At least he didn’t have to worry about holding still and keeping quiet anymore. The professor was a lot nicer than Uncle Vernon in that regard.

Snape dug under his workstation and pulled out his polished cedar cauldron stirrer. “Come here, Potter!” he ordered.

Harry forced himself to move forward, trying not to look at the cane clutched in the professor’s hand.

“Do you know what this is?” Snape demanded.

“Yessir,” Harry gulped, eyes averted. “ ‘S a cane, sir.”

“Idiot. Do you think canes have inscriptions on them, commending me for winning the 143rd annual All-Counties Potion Making Competition?” Snape demanded, brandishing the stirrer under the little simpleton’s nose. “This is a charmed cauldron stirrer, Potter. It is both rare and expensive and is not to be abused by bringing it into contact with annoying children’s posteriors.”

Harry blinked and squinted at the stirrer. “But – but – you mean…” He looked up at Snape, an incredulous grin breaking over his face. “You’re not going to hit me with it?”

The professor rolled his eyes. “No, Potter,” Snape drawled sarcastically, “I went to all the trouble of winning this award just so I could break it across your impervious backside.”

Harry snickered. The professor was kind of funny, once you got used to his sense of humor.

Great. Now the little brat thought he was a comedian. “Stop that ridiculous sniggering, Potter. It wasn’t that funny.”

“Yessir,” Harry replied cheerfully.

Snape glowered at him. So with the threat of the cane removed, suddenly the boy was all smiles, was he? It would do him no harm to realize that he wasn’t completely immune to the only form of discipline he’d ever known. “You will find that I have no need to rely on vicious beatings to punish you, Potter.” Since when does any Slytherin worth his salt have to rely on brute force? “But you will feel my hand if you violate my two most important rules.” He paused impressively. “You will not –“ he paused. What was the little wretch supremely unlikely to do? The last thing Snape wanted was to have to carry out the threat he was about to make. He eyed the now-apprehensive child in front of him. “- deliberately disobey me –“ that should work; the boy had been beaten into complete submission by the Muggles. “- or place yourself in jeopardy.” that was another good one. The boy was timid to the point of catatonia; he wasn’t about to put himself in harm’s way. But now Snape had gone on the record as placing a high value on the brat’s life, thereby helping to overcome the decade’s worth of disparagement and undermining from the Dursleys and their penchant for the term “worthless freak”.

Harry’s eyes were wide. “I won’t!” he swore.

No kidding. “See that you don’t,” Snape said darkly, “or your backside will regret it.”

“But those are the only things I’ll get hit for?” Harry asked uncertainly. “Not for other stuff?”

“Such as?”

Harry shrugged. “Not doing well on my homework. Being cheeky. Breaking something. Not listening.”

“You may think I have nothing better to do with my time than obsess over your petty misdeeds, Potter, but I assure you I do,” Snape said austerely. “I have no intention of spending every waking moment stalking you, watching for minor indiscretions, and then striking you for them. I have already told you what actions are sufficiently egregious for me to resort to corporal punishment. See that you avoid those actions and you need not worry.” He pretended not to see the boy’s expression of incredulous joy.

“And if someone tries to hurt me, I can hurt them?” Harry sought clarification.

“You are not only permitted to do so, Potter. I expect you to do so. You are absolutely forbidden from sitting there like a lump waiting for someone else – probably me! – to come rescue you. I have enough to do, thank you very much. If someone is trying to hurt you, then get off your lazy bum and stop them. Need I make it any clearer to you?” Snape’s Slytherin instincts were abuzz. If and when Voldemort returned, he would surely go after this child. By that time, Snape wanted Harry to be completely comfortable with the idea of fighting back – or even launching a preemptive strike.

Harry grinned wolfishly, and Snape was strangely heartened to see a glimpse of his father. Of course, the last time he’d seen that expression, Potter Senior and Black had been stalking him. “What are you thinking?” he asked the child, curious.

“Just that I’d really like to go back and visit my cousin, sir,” Harry replied with a glint in his eye.

“I told you you were not to start anything,” Snape cautioned him, but he was relieved to learn that the boy’s spirit had not been entirely quashed.

“Oh, that’s okay. As soon as he sees me, Dudley would try something,” Harry said confidently. Then his face fell. “But he’d probably have a bunch of his friends with him. He usually did for ‘Harry hunting’.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed at the term, and any thoughts he might have had of sparing the Dursley whelp from his vengeance went out the window. “So they would gang up on you?”

Harry nodded despondently. “There were usually three or four. I couldn’t hope to fight them all at once.”

Dear Lord Voldemort, Snape’s mind busily penned an imaginary letter, I am writing on behalf of the Boy Who Lived. Would you please be kind enough to refrain from sending more than one Death Eater at a time after him? It is quite unsporting of you to gang up on the boy. “Potter,” he said sternly, “you must learn to defend yourself against superior odds. To do anything else is foolishly unrealistic.”

“That’s –“ Harry caught himself.

Snape raised an eyebrow. “What? Easy for me to say?” Harry nodded, shamefaced. “I will have you know, Potter, that when I was a student here, I was routinely set upon by a gang of four bullies, and more often than not I was able to hold my own against them.”

Harry’s eyes were shining. “Really? Could you teach me how?”

Snape preened a bit. “I suppose,” he allowed, with seeming reluctance.

Suddenly Harry’s eyes clouded. “Sir…?”

Snape frowned at the abrupt change in demeanor. “What is it?”

“Sir, was one of the four…” He broke off and tried again. “Was my father – Is that why you didn’t get along? Because my dad was one of the four bullies?” Harry stared anxiously at the professor.

Snape’s shields snapped up, just in time to prevent his shock from showing. Now that had been an impressively quick feat of deduction. But what in Merlin’s name was he supposed to reply? If he told the truth, the boy would likely decide that his dead, sainted father knew best and promptly reject Snape’s guardianship, but to lie was unsupportable. There were too many people around Hogwarts who knew the truth; the boy would learn it sooner or later.

Besides, he scolded himself, why was he acting as if the brat’s renouncing him would be a bad thing? Hadn’t he started this conversation desperate for a way out of the guardianship?

He ignored the sudden hammering of his heart and said, with all the cool disdain he could muster, “Yes, Potter. Your father was one of them.”

The brat’s eyes fell. Here it came – the look of contempt or revulsion. The demand to know what Snape had done to incur the elder Potter’s enmity. The implication – or perhaps explicit statement? – that such feelings must have been deserved, and therefore Snape was obviously an inappropriate guardian for James Potter’s only son.

But instead when they slowly rose, Harry’s eyes were wet with unshed tears. “I’m really sorry, Professor. I’m sorry my dad was a bully. He must have been awful, just like my cousin, to pick on you like that.”

There was a roaring in Snape’s ears. It was incredible. Unbelievable.

If anyone had asked the younger Severus Snape for his fondest wish, it would have been for James Potter and Sirius Black to beg his forgiveness on bended knee. But suddenly Snape saw that for the dross it would have been.

How much better, how much more ineffably sweet, to have the man’s only son apologize on his behalf, repudiating his father in the bargain. Now this was truly a Slytherin’s revenge – and to make matters even better, he hadn’t even had to manipulate the brat to extract it. He had, if anything, taken the moral high road. And still he got his apology. Truly, nothing that could possibly top this moment.

He reveled in the inexpressible satisfaction of the moment, the unutterable sweetness of his revenge, before managing to veil his emotions and nod briefly to the boy. “Apology accepted, Mr Potter.” He even managed to add, “Do not think too harshly of your father; boys do foolish things.”

“You didn’t.”

Snape choked and nearly swallowed his own tongue. “What?”

“You didn’t gang up on anybody when you were at Hogwarts,” Harry said angrily. “You didn’t bully anyone. You don’t have to pretend my father was something better than he was.”

“Potter,” Snape struggled awkwardly for words. Suddenly he didn’t feel so morally superior. He was, after all, the one who allowed some childish bullying to drive him into the arms of the Dark Lord and commit atrocities a thousand times worse than anything Potter and Black had done to him. “We all do foolish things. Some more foolish than others. You just – you just need to try not to harm others by your actions.”

Harry’s eyes held both tears and fierceness. “I would never hurt anyone like that. I’m going to protect people from bullies, not become one.”

Snape felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. And so it begins…

Snape dismissed the boy back to his Tower not long after that declaration. Anything else would be anti-climactic. He had informed Potter that after his last class on the following day, he was to report to the dungeons so that the two of them could join Mr and Mrs Weasley for dinner. “Wear your best clothes, Potter,” he had instructed. “You need to make a good impression.”

Just because he knew that nothing short of a rabid hippogriff would keep Molly Weasley from fostering the child was no reason for Potter to be complacent. The boy had nodded obediently to that, as well as to the repeated command not to mention anything to any of the Weasley boys. It would be up to the parents to decide what and how to tell their brood, and Snape wasn’t about to have Potter spill the news prematurely.

His own classes ended early, after a third year Hufflepuff managed to produce a cloud of poisonous gas instead of the Blood Replenishment potion he had assigned. He still wasn’t certain exactly what the idiotic girl had done, but he suspected that she’d been too busy eyeing the Ravenclaw boy at the next bench to actually select the right ingredients, let alone combine them in the proper order. No matter, the fumigation spells would clear the air by morning, and only three of the students had ended up at Poppy’s.

Snape used the unexpected leisure time to lurk about the Quidditch pitch. The Gryffindor and Slytherin first years were having their first flying lesson with Madame Hooch, and Snape was eager to see if there was any new talent for the House team. The Potter brat’s being there was merely a coincidence, he told himself. The fact that Potter had been raised by Muggles and would likely fall off the broom and break something had nothing to do with him. Just because he was now the boy’s guardian didn’t mean he was expected to, well, guard the boy. Hooch was in charge of teaching flying and it was her responsibility to ensure that none of her students was injured.

Not that she did a very good job, Snape reminded himself darkly, but that was Potter’s problem, not his. He was there to look for Slytherin talent, not to protect some Gryffindor brat. The fact that he had his wand in his hand and a cushioning charm on his lips was merely coincidence.

Sure enough, the lesson had barely begun when that plump nitwit Longbottom promptly broke something. Obviously his ineptitude for potions was the rule, not the exception. And Voldemort insisted that purebloods were superior? Obviously the Dark Lord needed to spend some time teaching at a magical boarding school. That would cause him to revise his theory of eugenics pretty quickly.

Hooch hustled the crying boy off to the Infirmary, ordering the remaining students to wait quietly for her return. Ah yes, that was likely to happen, Snape sneered. Take a class full of young dunderheads, give them some broomsticks, remove all adult supervision, and expect them to sit politely. How rational. And the Headmaster rebuked him for his methods of maintaining classroom order.

Maybe if Hooch had beaten a few of them with their own broomsticks before departing, she might have had a hope of being obeyed, but Snape rather doubted it. Sure enough, it took just a few seconds for hostilities to break out, and – perhaps unsurprisingly – it was Malfoy who started it.

Snape’s eyebrows drew together. That spoiled little horror. The first day, after the Feast, he had delivered his usual lecture to his entire House about not embarrassing the Slytherin name. He directed his usual, particularly menacing glares at the first years, but at the time, he’d suspected that Draco’s arrogance would cause him to require additional persuasion that the rules did in fact apply to him. Now, here was the proof.

The only surprising aspect was that Malfoy’s opponent in the conflict was Potter. Snape would have expected it to be Weasley – who better for a pureblood to taunt than an alleged blood traitor – but perhaps Draco couldn’t resist taking on the famous Boy Who Lived.

Snape was too far away to hear what the argument was about, but it was obvious that for all his timidity and past abuse, Potter was holding his own against the blond Slytherin. Then, abruptly, the argument escalated and suddenly Draco was airborne and – no! That disobedient little brat! – Potter was somehow in the air beside him. More than that, he was keeping up.

Snape blinked. To his certain knowledge, Draco Malfoy had been receiving special tutelage in flying since his sixth birthday, and now Potter, in what had to be his first time ever on a broomstick, was matching him.

Damn. Snape hated to admit it, but perhaps the brat had inherited something worthwhile from that prat Potter after all.  What’s more, if he enjoyed flying, then that was one more thing that could be withheld for punishment. Snape smirked at the thought of having yet another hold over the boy.

Obviously, though, he would need to purchase the brat a broom – and given his obvious talent, it had better be a good one – because unless Harry had a broom of his own, how could Snape confiscate it? Snape smiled to himself at the thought of all the tears that would doubtless be shed… though the image of a radiant Harry unwrapping his new broom kept intruding. Snape irritably shoved such thoughts out of his head. He wasn’t interested in pleasing the child, just in finding ways to torment him when he misbehaved.

But then Draco shouted at Harry and hurled something away from him. A snitch? A rock? Whatever it was, Harry instantly shot after it, and Snape surged forward in horror. That little fool! He was surely going to crash into the castle wall! He couldn’t pull up at that speed! He was going to – and then Potter did the impossible.

Somehow, he managed to snatch the item and simultaneously twist around a mere instant before he would have – should have – smashed himself to paste against the stone walls of Hogwarts. Snape found himself storming towards the Quidditch pitch, absolutely incandescent with rage. He had almost reached the students, who were busily twittering about a proudly beaming Potter, when he was nearly run into by an equally incoherent McGonagall. “Severus – Did you – I couldn’t – Never in all my years – I can’t believe – That boy…!” she sputtered at him.

“I completely agree, Minerva,” he said grimly. “Wait until I get my hands on him.”

“Oh, no!” she said abruptly. “He’s mine! He’s in my House!”

“And he is my ward,” he retorted furiously.

“That is irrelevant!” she said, her voice uncharacteristically shrill. “He was sorted into Gryffindor. That makes him mine.”

By now their raised voices had attracted the children’s attention, and suddenly Potter was looking apprehensive. Snape fought down his ire. What were they fighting over, anyway? Obviously Minerva was as furious with the boy as he was. If they coordinated his punishment, it would probably be better for Potter anyway. That way, he would see the adults presenting a united front. “All right, Minerva,” he said, lowering his voice so that the students couldn’t overhear. “There is no need for us to be at odds over this. It will probably be best if we share –“

“Absolutely not!” Minerva declared. “Don’t think you can get around this one, Severus! The rules are unequivocal. It makes no difference if a parent works at the school or not – a student’s House allegiance is exclusively based on where the Sorting Hat placed him. Harry is a Gryffindor and will play only for Gryffindor.”

Snape blinked at her. “Play for – What are you talking about, you daft woman?”

McGonagall looked smug. “Quidditch, you idiotic bat. The boy will play for my team, not yours.”

Snape gave serious thought to strangling the older witch. Potter had come within millimeters of death, flying an unfamiliar broom at unconscionably high speed directly at a stone wall, and the only thing his Head of House was thinking of was her chances for the House Cup. No wonder she and the Headmaster got along so well. They shared the same priorities.

“You seem to have forgotten the other rule, Minerva,” he purred. “The one that says that first years do not go out for Quidditch.”

She made a rude noise. “With his talent? I’m sure the Headmaster will make an exception for Harry.”

“Which his guardian can override,” Snape pointed out silkily.

He watched with satisfaction as Minerva’s eyes widened in horror as she realized the truth in his words.

There was a distinct pause, then McGonagall spoke again, her tone suddenly honeyed. “Severus, surely you wouldn’t deny the boy an opportunity to enhance his popularity within his House? He has a talent that should be nurtured and –“

“Save it, McGonagall,” Snape said rudely. “Your dreams of Quidditch glory are based on my ward’s reckless endangerment of his life, not to mention his complete disregard of Madame Hooch’s orders. Aren’t you the least concerned with that?”

McGonagall cleared her throat. “Er, yes. Yes, of course. And I was going to speak with Potter very firmly about that. Very firmly indeed. But, er, about the Quidditch team –“

Before Snape could hex the witch in an effort to derail her one track mind, Madame Hooch came hurrying up. “What’s all this, eh? What’s going on?” she demanded.

“Potter! Malfoy! Get over here!” Snape thundered, and, looking scared, the two boys hurried up.

“These two miscreants,” Snape told Hooch, glaring at the pale children, “deliberately disobeyed you and went flying in your absence.”

“Did they now!” Hooch scowled at them. “Young blighters!”

“And Potter displayed flying talent that we have not seen in a generation,” McGonagall put in slyly.

Hooch’s eyes lit up. “Did he now? Really? A chip off the old block, eh?”

“Even better,” Minerva said with a conspiratorial wink.

“Really!” Hooch rubbed her hands together with gusto. “Well!”

Snape gnashed his teeth. Merlin save him from Quidditch addicts. “Malfoy, Potter – go wait for me at the castle wall.” The boys fled. His tone alone told them that they were about to be very, very sorry for the impromptu flying.

“Now then, if you two could kindly focus on the children’s well being instead of your pathetic desires to vicariously live your own Quidditch dreams through your students,” Snape began, ignoring the affronted huffs from both women, “I would be interested in learning what penalty you are planning to assign the children for their abysmal behavior.”

“Well, I didn’t actually see anything,” Hooch began, but at Snape’s expression, hastily changed her mind. “Er, how about five points from each for failing to obey instructions?”

“Please, Professors,” the Gryffindor know-it-all had to stick her nose in, “Harry just wanted to rescue Neville’s rememberall. He dropped it when he fell. Malfoy took it and was going to smash it against the wall – that’s why Harry had to go after it.”

Snape’s fury surged anew. A blasted rememberall? The boy had nearly killed himself over some silly trinket?

Worse, he saw McGonagall nodding in approval. “Protecting a Housemate – how very noble of him. Five points to Mr Potter.”

Snape nearly strangled on his own anger. The silly witch was rewarding the brat? For risking his neck over some easily replaced bauble, which – knowing Longbottom – he was likely to lose within the next 72 hours anyway? How exactly was that supposed to teach Harry that his life had value and was not to be risked needlessly?

Idiot Gryffindors. Always bleating about “heroism” and “nobility” but never bothering to look at the big picture. No wonder the Weasleys bred like rabbits – Gryffindors had the survival instincts of a brick.

“If you will excuse me,” he ground out, “I will go see to my ward and my student.”

Minerva trailed after him anxiously. “But Severus, you won’t really oppose Harry joining the House Quidditch team, will you? It would be such a wonderful way for him to honor his fa-“ she abruptly broke off. Gryffindor she might be, but Minerva wasn’t stupid, and she knew that invoking James Potter would not help her cause. “It would give him something to talk to the other children about, help introduce him to Wizarding society –“

He interrupted before she could ramble on any longer. “If I support you in this, I assume I will have your full support in my dealings with Potter, even over the Headmaster’s objections?”

McGonagall paused, eyeing him shrewdly, then: “Deal.”

He nodded, grimly triumphant. He was quite certain that Albus’ meddling in Potter’s life was far from over, and he wanted to ensure that he had plenty of allies in the inevitable battles. He also wanted to be sure that he didn’t have to worry about Minerva quibbling with him about his handling of the boy. Harry’s placement in Gryffindor gave her a certain responsibility for the boy – though Snape couldn’t see that she had been particularly vigilant in evaluating and providing for his needs – and he didn’t want her second guessing him at every turn.

She left him as they drew near the boys. “I’ll fetch Wood and meet you in your office,” she called as she headed through the doorway.

He nodded, then turned to the boys. “So.” He turned his fiercest glare upon them and had the satisfaction of watching them quail. “You decided to ignore Madame Hooch’s instructions and lost each of your Houses five points.”

Potter gulped. “Sorry, sir.”

“Oh, you will be, Potter. Go to my office and wait for me there.”

With a last glance back at the Quidditch pitch, Harry obeyed, leaving Snape and Malfoy alone.

“Mr Malfoy. You have barely arrived here at school and you are already losing our House points.”

“I’m sure I’ll quickly make it up in another class,” Draco tried to emulate his father’s sneer, but failed miserably.

“That isn’t the point, Mr Malfoy,” Snape said, his voice low and curiously hypnotic. “You were warned about embarrassing the House. You were told not to bring disgrace upon the name of Slytherin, and yet what do you do? In one of your first classes, you demonstrate deep disrespect for your instructor.”

“It’s j-just flying,” Draco tried desperately to bluster his way out of it.

“No, Mr Malfoy. You not only demonstrated disrespect towards Madame Hooch and her orders to your class, but also towards me and my orders to our House,” Snape gently pointed out. Draco paled further.

“I do not treat disrespect lightly, Mr Malfoy. I am surprised you appear unaware of this.”

Draco tried to speak but no sound came out.

“You will return to your dormitory where you will spend the rest of the afternoon writing, ‘I apologize for my disrespectful actions’ five hundred times.” He ignored Draco’s dismayed expression. “This weekend, while your classmates enjoy their free time, you will serve two detentions with Mr Filch, learning humility by scrubbing the Owlry floor with a toothbrush. If I hear even a hint of complaint from you or Mr Filch, I will owl your father about my dissatisfaction with your conduct. Need I point out the likely consequences of that action?” Draco was now a light green in color and was shaking his head vehemently.

“You are not only an arrogant and foolish little boy, Mr Malfoy,” Snape continued in the same quiet, dangerous voice, “but you are also an extremely ill-informed one. Mr Potter has come under my protection.” Draco’s jaw dropped. “He is now my ward, and any action against him will be considered an action against me. He is to be thought of as a Slytherin and treated accordingly. If I see you arguing with him in public, I will take it as a deliberate violation of our House code: Slytherins United, One Against the World. Do you understand?”

“Y-yes, sir,” Draco managed shakily.

“Then I suggest you start those five hundred lines. If I do not have them by breakfast tomorrow, we will make it two weekends of detention. And do pass on my warning about Mr Potter to the rest of the House, will you? I will be very displeased with you if someone repeats your error.”

“Yes, sir!” the blond stammered and fled.

By nightfall, Snape mused, the Owlry will likely be empty as every Slytherin writes home about this news. It would be very interesting to see what happened next.

Meanwhile, outside Snape’s office, Harry was waiting with a deepening sense of dread. The look on the professor’s face… He shivered.

Snape often snapped and snarled, but he didn’t really feel angry. This time, the anger was radiating off of him in nearly palpable waves. Harry thought he might sick up if he had to wait much longer. He didn’t know what Snape was going to do to him, but he was utterly terrified that the man would change his mind now that he had seen how much trouble Harry could be.

“In,” Snape swept up behind him, robes billowing, and opened the door with a wave of his wand.

Harry scuttled in and stood before the desk, head down and eyes on the toes of his shoes.

“Potter, I am prepared to hear whatever excuses you may have to offer for your behavior,” Snape said coldly, standing next to him, arms folded.

“No excuses, sir,” Harry whispered, feeling his stomach clench.

“Then perhaps you can explain what you were thinking?”

“I – I just got mad when Malfoy took Neville’s rememberall. He’s been awful to Neville, really mean and nasty, and when he tried to break it, I – I just didn’t want to let him do it.”

“So you allowed Malfoy to manipulate you into breaking the rules and losing points for your House. Had he led you by the nose, it would hardly have been any less deliberate,” Snape said bitingly. Harry winced. “Are you always so easily controlled, Potter? Are you completely incapable of thinking for yourself? Of deducing another person’s intentions?”

“I knew Malfoy was trying to get me in trouble,” Harry protested, eyes welling with tears, “but I didn’t want Neville to lose his rememberall. I’m sorry about disobeying but it –“

“Potter!” Snape’s voice cut like a lash. “You moronic child! Why do you think I am so angry with you?”

“B-because I didn’t listen to Madame Hooch.” At Snape’s contemptuous snort, Harry was surprised enough to look up. “Then what?”

Snape was in front of him in an instant, and had him by the shoulders. Stooping down so that he looked directly into the child’s eyes, Snape punctuated each word with a little shake. “You – could – have – killed – yourself – with – that –stunt! How dare you fly at the castle like that!”

Harry’s eyes were wide. “I didn’t even really see the wall. I was just after the ball,” he gulped.

If anything, that just made the professor angrier. “Do you think so little of your own life, of your parents’ sacrifice, that you don’t even consider the consequences of your actions?” Snape demanded furiously.

Harry felt a little warm glow begin deep in his belly. The professor wasn’t mad because he had disobeyed. The professor was mad because he might have gotten hurt.

This was the first time Harry could remember where anyone, especially a grown up, had ever been worried about him. When he was ill or hurt back at the Dursleys, they had only cared what it meant for his ability to do his chores and make their food. Occasionally they might worry about what the neighbors would think, but they never, ever cared about Harry for his own sake. Yet here was Professor Snape, absolutely furious over the fact that Harry might have been hurt.

He didn’t even care that Harry hadn’t been hurt. He was still mad that Harry might have been. The butterflies in Harry’s stomach were gone, replaced by a warm, happy feeling.

He risked a quick glance up at the professor’s livid face, and quickly dropped his gaze again. Harry fought to keep the tiny smile off his face. He cared. He really cared.

The insufferable brat, Snape fumed. Grinning over his harebrained stunt like it was something to be proud of! Obviously it would take sterner measures to communicate his message.

“Potter,” he said dangerously, “do you remember what I said I would do if you were foolish enough to place yourself in jeopardy?”

Harry’s eyes widened. Ha! That had wiped the smirk off the little snot’s face. “Y-yes, sir,” he stuttered.

“And what did I say I would do if you deliberately disobeyed?”

“The same thing, sir.”

“Obviously you didn’t believe me,” Snape said coldly.

Harry looked up at that. “No, sir! I believed you! I just – I just…”

“Since you obviously require a reminder of how seriously I take such behavior, I am happy to provide you with one. Or two, as the case may be.” Snape stepped forward and turned Potter by the shoulder until the boy stood at right angles to him. “You are not to put yourself in jeopardy.” He gave the boy a sharp whack on the seat. “You are not to disobey your instructors – without a very good reason,” he added cautiously, then administered a second brisk smack. This one wrung a little yelp out of the brat.

“I trust I have made my position clear?” he said sternly, turning the boy back to face him. If the little brat thought he wouldn’t make good on his promises, he had just been disabused of that idea.

Harry’s expression of shock was almost comical. Snape fought down an unfamiliar feeling of guilt. The brat had deserved it.  He’d been warned, and he’d gone ahead anyway, then had the temerity to snicker at his scolding. Well, if it took a stinging backside to get the boy to take him seriously, then he would accommodate him.

#

“Potter, do you remember what I said I would do if you were foolish enough to place yourself in jeopardy?” Harry’s heart sank. He remembered all too well.

“Y-yes, sir.” He hung his head. He hadn’t even been the man’s responsibility for a week and already he’d earned his first whipping.

Although, Harry remembered hopefully, the professor had said he wouldn’t use a belt. Or a cane. So maybe he’d just get walloped with a hairbrush. It wouldn’t be much fun, but at least he’d be able to keep any marks hidden from the other boys.

The professor sounded awfully disappointed in him. That was bad. But Harry couldn’t help feeling just a little bit happy. Even if he was getting smacked, for the first time it was because someone was worried about him. Harry decided that wasn’t such a bad thing to get whacked about.

Harry was sorry to have been foolhardy. Professor Snape was so smart; he would have known what to do in that situation. Harry just blundered ahead without thinking. No wonder the man was annoyed with him… But the fact he was annoyed sort of proved that he thought Harry should have come up with a better plan. And that meant he thought Harry was at least a little smart. Uncle Vernon would never have whacked Harry for doing something stupid – he was always pointing out how dumb Harry was. He’d have been only too glad if Harry did something foolish. But Professor Snape had higher expectations of him. He expected Harry to use his brain, and he was disappointed when he didn’t. Harry straightened up a little. It didn’t feel nearly as awful to be punished for not living up to your potential. He rather liked the idea that Professor Snape expected a lot from him. No one else ever had.

“And what did I say I would do if you deliberately disobeyed?”

“The same thing, sir,” Harry spoke up more strongly. It had just occurred to him that the professor was keeping his promises about the whacking, and that meant he was likely to keep his other promises. Like the one about being Harry’s guardian. Besides, he wouldn’t go to the bother of smacking Harry if he weren’t planning to stick around, right?

“Obviously you didn’t believe me.”

Harry was startled. He hadn’t doubted Professor Snape for a second. “No, sir! I believed you! I just – I just…” He trailed off, not having the words to describe how he felt. He just didn’t think in terms of his own safety. He’d never had any reason to do so. No one in his life had ever cared enough to get annoyed with him if he put himself at risk, so he’d never learned to consider his safety. But now he had Professor Snape. And the professor was making it very clear that he did care about Harry, and he wasn’t going to allow him to do stupid stuff any more. That realization was worth a month of spankings, as far as Harry was concerned.

“Since you obviously require a reminder of how seriously I take such behavior, I am happy to provide you with one. Or two, as the case may be.”

Harry gulped. Two smackings? This was going to hurt a lot, but he guessed he deserved it. And Snape had warned him.

When the professor put his hands on his shoulders and moved him about a quarter turn to the right, Harry wasn’t sure what was happening. When was Snape going to have him drop his trousers and bend over? Or lie across his lap?

But the professor was speaking again. “You are not to put yourself in jeopardy.” Almost before he knew what had happened, the professor had landed a swift whack on Harry’s bum. Harry jumped, more in astonishment than pain. The professor hadn’t even pulled Harry’s robe aside, let alone had him lower his trousers.

“You are not to disobey your instructors – without a very good reason.” A second whack fell on the same spot, and Harry was so surprised he let out a little yip. Was this the promised smacking? But it barely stung.

Before he could sort out his whirling thoughts, he’d been pulled back around to face the professor. “I trust I have made my position clear?” Snape asked sternly. Harry could only gape at him, eyes wide and mouth in an “O” of shock.

Snape struggled with himself. He would not apologize. He had told Potter what to expect and he had followed through with the consequence. The fact that the boy had been abused by his Muggle relatives didn’t earn him a free pass on all future behavior. All the books had been most explicit about setting consequences and enforcing limits.

But when the child was staring at you with such a look of shock – and betrayal? – it was hard to obey the bloody books.

“Well? What is it, Potter?” Snape’s patience ran out. If the boy was going to howl or protest, he should just do it!

“That – that was it?” Harry stammered. “But you said – “

Snape scowled. “I was perfectly clear, Potter. I told you that if you disobeyed me in this, you would feel my hand against your backside. And you did. You got one swat from my hand on your clothed backside for putting yourself in jeopardy, and another one for disobeying. In future, if you don’t want two swats, then don’t break both rules at once.”

“But it didn’t really hurt,” Harry blurted out. His hands had automatically flown to cover his rear, but what little sting there had been was fading fast.

Snape rolled his eyes. “Potter, don’t be a dolt. First off, if my goal was to hurt you, I would hardly use Muggle methods. There are Dark curses that will leave you screaming in agony for days on end.” Harry’s eyes widened, and Snape abruptly remembered he was supposed to be reassuring the brat. “I am your guardian – it’s my job to protect you, not hurt you. It was only because those bastard Muggle relatives of yours have such a perverted views of the world that you think adults are supposed to cause you pain and misery. We are actually here to try to ensure you don’t experience those things.” At least that’s how it’s supposed to be, Snape thought. You and I both got stuck with atrocious childhoods, but it wasn’t either of our faults. “I told you that if you were foolish enough to break the two most important rules – about keeping yourself safe and following the rules – then you could expect a special punishment, and that is why you were smacked, Potter – because I am very unhappy with you. But that’s all the smacks are for. If I were to want you to truly suffer, I have many other, more efficient ways to do that.” And he gave him a very Slytherin glare.

And that was all it took for Harry to burst into noisy tears.

Snape froze.

What the bloody hell - ? Harry hadn’t cried when Snape had bounced him off the walls, but two little whacks on the tush and he collapsed into a puddle? No one was going to believe that. He wasn’t sure he believed it himself.

Oh, Merlin, I’m dead. Neither Albus nor Minerva would ever believe that he hadn’t done something awful to the little creep, not after his track record. And Potter really did look pathetic, standing there with tears pouring down his cheeks and snot dripping from his nose. The second anyone saw the child, they’d assume that Snape had hexed him bloody then quickly healed him before anyone could see the evidence. How on earth was he going to get out of this alive?

Had it been that last threat? But he’d been so careful to tell the brat that he wasn’t going to hurt him. He’d even been sure to use small words, appropriate for a Gryffindor. And those whacks were mere love taps compared to the hellish beatings Potter’s horrible uncle had regularly put him through. So why all the tears?

Was the brat having a flashback? Well, if a light swat was enough to bring back the demons, then how was he ever supposed to teach the child to duel? The instant he felt even a mild stinging hex, he’d be wailing under the nearest desk. The child obviously required professional help, despite what Albus might want to believe.

“Potter,” he began tentatively, taking an uncertain step forward. Why did this sort of thing always happen to him? He didn’t see Sprout having to deal with emotionally unstable students, and she was the bloody Hufflepuff!

Looking back on it, the step forward had been a mistake. The second he approached the brat, Potter moved, but to Snape’s surprise, rather than bolting for the farthest corner of the room, the boy grabbed onto him and started bawling into his robes. His nice, fresh, clean robes.

Snape didn’t know what to do with his hands. He really didn’t want to touch the slimy, snotty child, but he could hardly stand there with his hands in the air either. He decided that the child’s back was probably the driest surface available and put his hands there. The fact that to the uninitiated observer it might look as if Snape were actually hugging the brat simply showed that appearances could be misleading.

Now what? Stand here until the brat cried himself into a dehydrated state and passed out? Weren’t you supposed to slap someone who was hysterical? But slapping the little monster is what got him into this problem in the first place. He could call Poppy, but the medi-witch would doubtless just punch him again.

Of all the times not to have a calming draught in his pocket! Snape cursed his lack of forethought. “Potter, what’s wrong?” he finally burst out, from sheer frustration.

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m happy!” Potter wept into his chest.

Snape blinked. Then blinked again. What? The brat was destroying his robes and taking years off his life because he was happy?

He grabbed the boy by the upper arms and yanked him out to arms’ length. “Potter! Do you mean to tell me all this fuss and nonsense is because you’re HAPPY?”

The boy sniveled and nodded. “You’re so nice to me. No one’s ever been so nice to me before.”

The “nice” man fought down an urge to slap Potter’s head off his shoulders. “Stop this outburst at once, Potter! I mean it! In 30 seconds, if you are not calm and quiet, I will conjure up a bucket of ice water and stick your head in it.”

The brat had the temerity to laugh at the threat! But before Snape could shake off his shock and conjure up the bucket to drown the little fiend, Potter had managed to hiccup and sniffle his way to a somewhat sodden state of calm.

“S-sorry,” Harry managed to gulp. He really didn’t understand why he had bawled like that, but all at once he had just felt safe. Like some horrible danger that he didn’t even recognize any longer was finally over. The final straw had been realizing that he would never again have to worry about being beaten bloody or smacked until he couldn’t sit down. All of a sudden, it had sunk in that Snape was going to care for him and protect him and make sure no one – at all – ever hurt him again. It was that realization, that for the first time since his parents died he was no longer alone, that had completely undone him, and he had broken down in a way he never had before. It was sheer, unmitigated relief, and he couldn’t have stopped it if he’d wanted to. Which, frankly, he didn’t. It had felt so good just to cry and cry.

Though now, of course, he felt like a complete wally.

He dragged his eyes up to meet the professor’s. “Um, sorry,” he offered. His gaze fell on the slimy spot on the man’s robes, and he winced. Really, was he eleven or one? Had he actually wiped his nose on the man’s chest?

Snape’s eyes followed his, and he prepared to tell the horrible brat just what he thought of overemotional little fiends who couldn’t be bothered to use a handkerchief, but before he could begin, there was a knock at the door. McGonagall called out, “Severus! I have Wood!”

“Wait a minute!” he shouted back, annoyed. St Mungo’s really needed to study how it was that otherwise rational people could be driven insane by Quidditch. Perhaps McGonagall had suffered one too many Bludgers to the head during her playing days.

He turned back to the boy and was startled to find Harry’s eyes upon him, wide with fear. “Please, sir – don’t let her. You said they wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t what?” Snape demanded. Great Merlin, the child was worse than one of those Muggle yo-yo’s. Would these infernal mood swings never end?

Inwardly, he marveled that Harry would still turn to him for help, even when it was clear he was irate with the boy. How had Potter come to view him with such trust?

“Cane me. You said the staff didn’t hit students.”

Snape frowned down at the frightened boy. “What are you talking about, silly child? Your Head of House isn’t going to cane you.”

Harry looked slightly less worried. “Wood isn’t a cane?”

Snape rolled his eyes and gave Potter’s shoulder a little shake. It was an exasperated shake, not a reassuring squeeze. Definitely not. “Wood is a student, not a cane, you little idiot. Oliver Wood. He is the captain of your House Quidditch team.”

“Oh!” The tension left Harry’s shoulders, as Severus could feel, since his hand was inexplicably still resting there. He quickly removed it. “I know Oliver. Ron pointed him out. Ron really likes Quidditch,” the boy explained.

“And you?”

Harry shrugged, wiping the last of the tears from his cheeks. “I don’t really know much about it. Ron thinks it’s great, so I guess I like it.”

Snape rolled his eyes at this further proof of the boy’s inability to think for himself. “Well, Professor McGonagall would like you to try out for the team. She believes that, based on your flying today, you might be suitable.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Yes. Of course, I pointed out that as your guardian, I was certainly not going to reward you for endangering yourself, not to mention disobeying an instructor.” Harry’s face fell. “However, since being on the team would provide you with sorely needed instruction on how to fly safely, I have agreed with Professor McGonagall that you may meet with Wood and try out for the team. You will still be punished for today’s actions, however, and if I see any further signs of such reckless behavior, with or without a broom, I will not hesitate to pull you from the team.”

Once again his breath was knocked out when Harry hurtled into him. Really, did the child need to launch himself in such an uncouth fashion?

“Thank you! Thank you!” Harry said over and over.

Snape finally managed to pry himself loose. “Yes, well, you will not feel like thanking me once you hear your punishment, Mr Potter. I expect two hundred lines of ‘I shall not take unnecessary risks with my health and welfare’ – and don’t think I have forgotten the five hundred lines you owe me for quoting your uncle the other night!” Harry looked guilty. “And you will spend two nights next week in my quarters, writing an essay about the need to think before foolishly rushing into action.” He frowned forbiddingly at the boy, but Harry was surprisingly unsquelched.

“Yes, sir,” the brat chirped happily.

Snape glared at him. What did the wretch have to look so pleased about? Hadn’t he just lost several nights of free time and been harshly scolded? He’d been called a “moronic child”. He’d even been smacked!

So why was Potter eyeing him so thoughtfully? “What?” he demanded defensively. Did he expect another cuddle? Well if so, he was in for a long wait. Severus Snape, Death Eater and spy, did not cuddle disobedient, headstrong brats.

“I was just thinking about what to call you,” Harry explained guilelessly. “Outside of class, I mean. When it’s just the two of us.”

“What!” Snape squawked.

“Well, I don’t much want to call you Uncle Severus,” Harry explained, oblivious to the way Snape’s eyes bugged at his use of the appellation, “ ‘cause that reminds me too much of my Un – well, you know who. But I don’t really think I should call you Dad either.” Now Snape was truly incapable of speech. Only his certain, delicious knowledge that James Potter was spinning in his grave allowed him to remain conscious. “Hmm.” Harry thought a moment longer, then shrugged. “I’ll just have to keep thinking, I guess. Thanks, Pr’fessor! I’ll go meet Oliver and Professor McGonagall and as soon as I’m done I’ll come back so we can go to the Weasleys.” He paused then grinned impudently. “Guess I won’t be able to start on my lines until tomorrow.”

While Snape continued to fight for air, Harry headed to the door then, just before he reached it, he turned and darted back. The breath that Snape had nearly managed to regain was knocked out of him anew as Harry flew into him. “Thank you. I’m really sorry you had to smack me,” he mumbled, squeezing his professor as tight as he could. “And I’m really glad you’re my guardian.”

And then he was gone, sprinting through the door to the loud welcomes of the other Gryffindors, leaving behind a breathless and very, very pensive Snape.

Snape had – mostly – managed to regain his composure by the time Harry returned to his quarters late that afternoon. Hearing a Potter contemplate calling him “Uncle” or – Merlin help us, the world was wobbling on its axis – “Dad”, had been enough to require two calming drafts and a cold cloth on his forehead.

Even if Voldemort hadn’t existed and James and Lily were alive, it was unlikely that Snape would have been a welcome visitor to Potter’s home, let alone on friendly terms with their offspring. Harry’s artless comments had shaken him to the core. A man who had, since childhood, avoided nearly all close friendships was all too easily undone by a child’s naïve words.

Snape had barely emerged from the trauma of losing Lily’s friendship when he had taken the Dark Mark. His service to Voldemort and the war in which they were engaged had occupied all his time and efforts, and he was certainly not inclined to build friendships amongst those ranks. To the purebloods, he was a lesser creature, tolerated because his skill with potions had made him one of the Dark Lord’s favorites, but certainly not someone you would befriend. Snape himself was still an awkward adolescent when it came to relationships, and knowing how badly he had botched his friendship with Lily made him more reluctant to risk being hurt again. When he had become a spy for the Light, it was too dangerous to become close to anyone – whether in terms of their learning his secret or by placing someone he cared about in danger.

Then had come that awful Halloween and Severus felt his life had ended. He had retreated into a dark, bitter, bleak world from which that no one – least of all himself – cared enough to coax him. Albus had tried, but he had been distracted by all his other duties, and Severus had fought him tooth and nail. In the end, the Headmaster had sadly resigned himself to waiting the saturnine man out.

By the time the rawness of his emotions had begun to ease, Snape had created a life for himself as the Evil Bat of the Dungeons, the quintessential Slytherin whose caustic tongue blighted scores of childhoods. How could he even think of seeking “normal” friendships when his only experience with such a thing had been with a redheaded witch nearly two decades previous? He had no idea how to get along with people – only how to intimidate, alienate, or otherwise push them away. If it weren’t for Dumbledore, he would literally go months without having a civil conversation with another human. He’d burned any and all bridges with the other faculty within weeks of his arrival as a staff member, and the persistent rumors – suitably embellished by years of Hogwarts students – about his (literally) Dark Past hardly made him anyone’s idea of a suitable date or even someone with whom to have a few pints at the Leaky Cauldron.

So perhaps it was no surprise that Harry’s simple words had rocked the foundation of Severus’ world. In many ways, despite (or perhaps because of) the lonely, angry years, he was still that awkward adolescent, desperately seeking love and affection. And the unconditional, unwavering love of a child was very, very seductive.

On principle – he was a Slytherin after all – Snape expected the worst, so it was no surprise when he found himself assuming that the brat’s attitude towards him would change the instant Harry found himself among the Weasleys. After all, they were the archetypical parents. Their children patently adored them. They probably knew how to handle all sorts of crises and didn’t insult their children to their faces, let alone backhand them into a wall. Threadbare they might be, but you could practically feel the love oozing off the walls at the Burrow. Snape had always claimed it was Molly’s diabetes-inducing biscuits that made him nauseous on his infrequent visits there – usually related to the twins’ extra-curricular activities – but if truth be told, it was the palpable feeling of Home that always unnerved him.

Harry would doubtless blossom under their care and forget all about the snarky loner who dwelt in the dungeons and hadn’t the faintest idea how to be kind to a child. Terrorize children, oh yes. In that he was unparalleled. Even his Slytherins didn’t like him. They respected him, appreciated his fierce protectiveness, honored his loyalty… and avoided him like the plague. The most homesick Firsties quickly decided to seek comfort from a Prefect than their Head of House.

And yet despite his spiky temper, his acerbic put-downs, his utter lack of gentleness or indulgence, somehow Snape had impressed Harry as “nice”. Without even trying. In fact, while trying very hard not to be. But Harry hadn’t been driven away by Snape’s efforts. Instead he’d somehow misconstrued them to the point where he openly preferred the Potion Master to the Headmaster’s grandfatherly approach, the medi-witch’s blandishments and sweets, and even his own Head of House’s Quidditch-obsesssed adultation. Snape’s Slytherin heart rejoiced at the thought of how much this state of affairs must irritate his colleagues, but his past history convinced him that it would be short-lived. Gloating now would only lead to later pain when Harry renounced him, and the others had their chance to take revenge.

Snape sat up, flinging the compress off his eyes and savagely stalking through his quarters. What was wrong with him? Acting as if he cared if the brat lived or died? Well, all right – he did care about that. But only because of his Unbreakable Vow. It wasn’t as if he cared two knuts for the little monster. Disloyal brat that he doubtless was. Let’s see how long it took for the Weasleys to win him over.

Snape dressed in yet another of his relentlessly black outfits. With a rare show of sensitivity, he chose a set of robes that, while entirely presentable, were far from new. He would still show his respect to his hosts, but without highlighting the difference between his own resources and their limited means. He glanced at the clock and cursed. Where was that little snot-nosed –

A knock interrupted him before he could get a really good rant going. A flick of the wand opened the door and Harry tumbled in, flushed and breathless.

“I’m sorry!” he exclaimed before Snape could snarl at him for his tardiness. “Professor McGonagall and Oliver kept me forever. They kept making me catch that little golden thing. Over and over and over til I thought my fingers would fall off. They just kept getting more excited and saying ‘Once more!’ I don’t know what was so special about it, do you?”

Snape glared at the urchin. So much for his House’s chances at the Cup. Given how the little idiot was so blithely prattling on about capturing the Snitch “over and over”, Gryffindor would be nearly impossible to beat.

Undaunted by his guardian’s lack of response, Harry swung his bookbag off his shoulder and squirmed, stretching out his back muscles and rubbing his bum. “Sitting on a broom for that long hurts, you know? I had no idea that Quidditch was such hard work. I’m going to be sore tomorrow. It feels like when I had to weed all of Aunt Petunia’s flower beds.”

Snape scowled harder at this reminder of how those Muggles had pressed a Wizarding child into servitude. In one pace he was at Harry’s shoulder, ignoring both the boy’s reflexive flinch and subsequent embarrassed flush. “Where does it hurt?” he demanded, probing along the boy’s back and shoulders.

Harry blissfully closed his eyes, wriggling in delight at the impromptu massage. “Urr, right there. Between my shoulder blades. And lower down along the back.”

Snape frowned at the knots along the boy’s back. His trapezius was wildly overstressed and his lumbar area had been wrenched by all the acrobatics. “Where else?”

“Erm, well, lower,” Harry admitted, coloring. “You know…where you sit.”

Ignoring Harry’s squeaks of humiliation, Snape bent him over and continued his examination. Yes, Harry’s gluteus maximus muscles had been abused by too much exercise, and his backside and thighs were likely chafed and sore from gripping the broomstick through numerous dives and twists. McGonagall was a complete fanatic, Snape snarled to himself, irate that the witch would encourage his ward to overstress his body in this way. Hadn’t she realized that the boy’s muscles were exhausted? A few more minutes and his strength would have failed, most likely just as he was risking his fool neck on some absurd stunt those idiots encouraged.

“Ow. Ouch,” Harry protested as Severus’ strong fingers kneaded his tender back and bum, but he had to admit he felt a lot better after the muscles were forced out of their spasm.

Snape released the boy and Accio’d a potion and jar from his storeroom. Harry watched curiously, even as he absently continued to massage his backside. “Drink this,” the professor ordered.

Harry wrinkled his nose. He might be new to the Wizarding World, but he’d already learned how foul the vast majority of potions tasted. He sneaked a glace at the professor, hoping he might be able to wheedle his way out of it, but one look at the man’s stern face and he knew better. He sighed and accepted the vial. Holding his nose with one hand, he tossed the contents down his throat with the other.

“UGH!” he exclaimed, shuddering violently. “That tastes worse than dirty socks.”

“As you might expect, considering they are the main ingredient,” Snape said drily.

Harry stared at him. “Really?” he whispered, more than a little nauseated.

“Idiot. Of course not.” Snape rolled his eyes. Gryffindors! “I can see that Remedial Potions will figure prominently in your future, Mr Potter. Before our next class, you will present me with twelve inches on the actual ingredients of a healing potion.”

Harry actually grinned. “You got me!” he admitted cheerfully, much to Snape’s confusion. He had just insulted the brat and assigned him – rather unfairly for a first year in his first week of classes – a punishment essay, and Harry thought it was a good joke?

Harry stretched, beaming. Professor Snape just kept on taking care of him. Even though – as Professor McGonagall had taken pains to explain – Harry would be playing against Snape’s own House Quidditch team, the man had been interested in his tryouts. What was more, the instant Harry had so much as mentioned not feeling well, he’d been all over him. Harry hadn’t really meant anything by the mild complaint about soreness. The Dursleys had liked hearing him groan, feeling it showed that he was working hard, so he had gotten into the habit of moaning a bit. Not enough to be guilty of whinging, mind you, just enough to indicate he wasn’t slacking.

But never in a million years would his aunt or uncle have rubbed his back – or bum! – to make it feel better, let alone given him medicine. Harry squirmed in sheer happiness. The professor took really, really good care of him.

He was funny too. Pretending that Harry was really drinking dirty socks. Harry grinned. That was a pretty good one – he’d have to see if he could get any of the other kids to believe it. And giving him permission to study ahead? That was another sign of how nice Professor Snape was. The Dursleys would never even let him do his assigned homework, lest he make Dudley look even dumber than he was, and most of his teachers therefore decided he was as lazy and stupid as his cousin. Any questions Harry might have had about his schoolwork were answered briefly and simply, since such a slow student couldn’t possibly understand complex concepts. Yet Professor Snape not only expected him to know the answers, he wanted Harry to try to figure things out for himself when he didn’t.

Harry liked reading – at the Dursleys it had been his only escape – so being told to look something up was a welcome excuse to spend time with his books. And knowing that the professor was willing to take the time to look over what he found, and tell him if he was right or wrong… Well, that was more effort than anyone else had ever been willing to spend on Harry.

“How do you feel now?” Snape asked, wondering if the potion had unexpectedly combined with the toxins from the overstressed muscles to create a paradoxical giddiness. Why else would the boy – er, brat – be grinning to himself in such a peculiar way.

“Better,” Harry answered instantly. He gave his bottom a last rub. “Still a bit sore, sir, but lots better than before. That potion is brilliant, even if it does taste awful!”

Snape scowled, more out of principle than anything else, and handed the boy the small jar. “Rub this salve into your backside and thighs before bedtime and again in the morning. Those muscles are particularly strained, as you have not flown before. You will need to build them up gradually over the next several weeks.” He paused as a thought struck him. “Did Wood show you how to stretch before and after your workout?”

Harry shook his head blankly. “No sir. You stretch the broom?”

“Idiot.” Snape shook his head. “You stretch your muscles in order to avoid the very difficulties you have just experienced.” His eyes narrowed as he contemplated how he would exact revenge on the Gryffindor captain. He would teach Wood to ignore the welfare of a first year in his mindless excitement over finding a new Seeker.

“Sir?” Harry’s voice roused him from pleasant fantasies of watching Wood whimper as he started scrubbing out his fifteenth cauldron of the night. Oh, he’d show that twit what a sore back felt like!

“What?” he demanded.

“Shouldn’t we be going to the Weasleys, sir?” Harry asked tentatively. He wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that the Weasleys had changed their mind. After all, the professor was a great guardian, and he was already taking better care of Harry than he’d ever dared hope. Having a second family on top of that, well, it almost felt greedy. Harry would have understood if the Weasleys had decided they had enough kids to keep them busy and didn’t need a fre – oh oh. Harry caught himself in mid-thought and looked guiltily at the professor. Given the man’s other talents, Harry wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that he could read minds as well.

If Snape heard him referring to himself as a freak again, Harry figured he’d be lucky to end up with another set of lines. The professor had made it clear that he did not like Harry using that term. He didn’t think Snape would actually make good on his threat about the soap, but he didn’t want to find out either.

The professor had been, by and large, unexpectedly, amazingly gentle. His “smackings” were little more than an admonitory tap on the bum, and for all his snap and snarl – and despite Harry’s giving him plenty of provocation – he’d not yet given Harry a clout like the one that first night. Harry wasn’t sure why. Yes, Snape had said that it had been “inappropriate”, but Harry knew perfectly well that sometimes he was really, really bad. Like when he’d disobeyed Madam Hooch. And if he’d learned one thing at the Dursleys, it was that bad behavior was punished. But Snape, while far from over-indulgent, didn’t seem to grasp the concept of punishment.

Instead of hauling off and really slapping Harry a good one, he did things like assign him lines, which would actually give him lots of needed practice in using a quill. Or have him write essays that would teach him something. Or insist that he had to come and spend time with the professor. Harry frowned. Professor Snape seemed to have the whole “reward” and “punishment” thing confused.

Harry knew that punishments were supposed to hurt, but even Snape’s spankings didn’t, not really. Of course, knowing that the professor was upset with him did hurt. A lot. More than any of the Dursleys’ beatings, in fact. Feeling that he’d disappointed the man or let him down made Harry’s heart ache more than his backside ever had, and that pain didn’t fade nearly as quickly.

Harry wrinked his brow in thought. Maybe the professor did know something about punishment after all.

Snape stifled a sigh. He couldn’t put it off any longer. They had to go to the Burrow and dine with the Weasleys. He growled to himself, wondering if Molly would reprise her objections to his guardianship in front of the boy. Well, fine. Let her. If the brat chose to spend all his time with that clan of red-headed simps, let him. It wasn’t as if Snape gave a damn.

He looked the boy over. He’d obviously washed up after Quidditch; that messy mop he called hair was damp and even more unruly than usual. “Come here,” he ordered, crooking a finger to where the boy was frowning to himself, obviously lost in a daydream. Snape sneered. Probably wondering what would be for pudding tonight.

Harry obediently walked over to the professor and stood, transfixed with shock, as the man caught up each hand to inspect his fingernails, then checked behind his ears. “What?” Snape demanded, catching sight of the boy’s expression. “Do you imagine I would let you embarrass both of us by arriving poorly groomed?”

“N-no, sir,” Harry gulped. “It’s just that no one ever – I mean, I hadn’t – “ He broke off, unsure how to explain that Aunt Petunia never cared if he looked like a complete ragamuffin, so long as he didn’t walk too close to her family. He’d never had anyone go to the trouble of ensuring he looked appropriate. Usually he just had to rely on the other kids at school laughing at him to figure out things like what “inside out” meant or that he’d buttoned his shirt wrong.

Snape snorted in derision at this further example of the brat’s inarticulateness. Unable to find fault with the boy’s hygiene, he turned his attention to his clothes. “Why are you in your school uniform?” he demanded. “Didn’t I tell you to dress in your best? Didn’t I tell you to make a good impression? Do you think I was talking to myself?”

Harry snickered at the mental image of Professor Snape having a pleasant conversation with himself, but hastily swallowed his mirth when Snape’s eyes narrowed. “No, sir,” he said, bending over to retrieve his satchel. It felt good to be able to turn his back on someone without worrying that they’d take the opportunity to wallop him – or worse. He’d learned never to turn his back on Uncle Vernon or Dudley; not after the last time when a kick had not only lifted him off his feet but also sent him flying halfway across the living room.

Yes, Harry mused, it was a great feeling to be able to trust Professor Snape. And to know he had the man’s permission to defend himself if anyone else tried to hurt him. He wondered if the professor knew how good it felt to no longer have to worry about a blow coming out of nowhere.

Snape stared at the bag in disbelief. The little monster really did plan on moving in with the Weasleys. “What in Merlin’s name are you doing with that, you atrocious brat?”

The snot tugged out some stained rags. “Well, I know you didn’t want me wearing my school uniform, but my other clothes really aren’t very nice. I thought I’d bring them and you could decide.”

Snape wrinkled his nose and plucked the offensive “garments” from the boy’s hands using as few fingers as possible. “These cannot possibly be your best clothes,” he hissed, glaring at the boy. The cheap T-shirt and jeans were grimy and enormous. They would have hung off Potter’s slight frame like a clown’s costume.

Harry flushed. “I’m sorry,” he said miserably. “I guess I should have gotten some regular clothes when Hagrid took me to Diagon Alley, but they weren’t on the list…”

Snape incendio’d the rags, wishing he were doing so to the Dursleys themselves. So they clothed Lily’s child in poorly fitting castoffs that no self-respecting charity would accept, and then made the boy feel it was his fault that he hadn’t a pair of underwear to call his own. Rage made his voice even harsher than usual. “Of course they weren’t, you moronic child. Normal parents and guardians provide suitable clothing for their children, and it is therefore unnecessary to specify it on the school’s list. You had the misfortune to be placed with disgusting creatures whose freakishness is apparently limitless. You and I will need to do some shopping in the near future. I intend to break, once and for all, the lingering legacy of your relatives’ awfulness.”

Harry gulped. The professor looked awfully fierce, but instead of soundly scolding Harry for his lack of foresight, he had instead promised him a shopping excursion. Harry was getting awfully confused. Professor Snape really must be new to this whole parenting thing to have punishments and rewards so mixed up.

Oh! Maybe that was why they were going to the Weasleys? So that Ron’s parents could explain things to the professor, like how children should be disciplined and how many hours a day they should spend on chores and stuff. Professor Snape obviously didn’t really understand how things were supposed to be, and the Weasleys, with all their kids, would be able to set him straight. Harry gulped. He wondered how strict the Weasleys were. Ron had said his mum was famous around Hogwarts for her “howling”. Harry didn’t think he would like the professor to howl at him, though he guessed it still was better than getting slapped around by the Dursleys. Still, his stomach gave a little jump at the thought of having the professor scream at him the way his relatives used to do.

“Very well, Potter. You will wear your school uniform. Now come along.” Snape led the way to the floo, wondering why his stomach felt so leaden. Of course the boy would prefer the Weasleys to him. That was a given. And that had been the whole point, hadn’t it? To give him over to a real family so that he could be snuggled and pampered by those redheaded nitwits.

Potter, predictably, stopped dead at the fireplace. “What – what are you doing?” he gulped.

“Have you never floo’d?” Snape said impatiently, then rolled his eyes. Of course he hadn’t. A horrible thought struck him and he bent to stare directly at the boy. “Did your relatives ever burn you? In the fireplace or with the stove?” If that were the case, then the child might be truly incapable of using the floo network.

Harry blinked. “No,” he answered honestly. As awful as the Dursleys had been, they hadn’t been that depraved. Swats and smacks and beltings, insults and neglect and expressions of disgust – all that had come his way, but his relatives hadn’t been sadistic. They had had an unwelcome, freakishly dangerous child forced upon them, and they had made sure he was aware of that fact every moment of his life, but they hadn’t hurt him just for the sake of hurting him. “Mostly, they were just mean – you know, with what they said and what they called me and how they looked at me – but even when they hit me, it was usually just with their hand.” Of course, Uncle Vernon’s hand hurt rather a lot, as did Aunt Petunia’s, but it was clear that they didn’t really want to touch him. “I got the hairbrush or the belt sometimes, but usually they’d just yell and smack me as I walked past. It was more that I never knew when it would happen than that it was all that bad. Usually,” he amended, remembering those times when it really had been pretty awful. “It’s not like they broke bones or burned me or drowned me or anything,” he added, mildly indignant.

Snape let out a snort that was half-relief that the Muggles’ distaste for magic had led them to be more neglectful towards the boy than abusive, and half-irritation that they could be so arrogant and insular in their thinking. Stupid Muggles! “All right, then come along.”

But the boy still hesitated, watching the licking flames with dread.

Snape exhaled in frustration and snatched the boy up in his arms. Startled, Harry instinctively wrapped himself around the professor’s body, and as Snape marched steadily towards the fire, he gasped in fear and buried his face in the man’s neck.

Snape exhaled in frustration and snatched the boy up in his arms. Startled, Harry instinctively wrapped himself around the professor’s body, and as Snape marched steadily towards the fire, he gasped in fear and buried his face in the man’s neck.

Harry heard the professor snap out, “The Burrow”, but the rush of heat that he expected never came. Instead, there was a weird rushing noise and then suddenly the professor was walking forward again, then halting. Harry cautiously peeked out and saw two redheaded adults staring at him, expressions of utter shock on their face.

Encouraged, Harry straightened up and saw that they were now in a cozy living room, with magical toys and books scattered throughout the room, along with a multitude of family pictures. “Wicked!” he grinned. “That was amazing, Pr’fessor!”

Snape cleared his throat. What in Merlin’s name was the boy still doing in his arms? He’d run out of patience at the boy’s dithering – understandable though it might be to someone who was so new to the Wizarding World – and had snatched him up so that they might make it to the Weasleys sometime before Voldemort rose again. It hadn’t been out of a desire to protect or reassure the brat, but simply that the boy was still small enough to be bodily picked up and forced into compliance that way. When Potter had clung to him like some primate, he had been too nonplused to remonstrate with him. Besides, it had prevented the brat from inhaling soot and then sicking up all over Snape’s good robes.

Their arrival at the Burrow had created quite a stir. Snape would treasure forever the look on Molly Weasley’s face as he materialized through the fire with the Potter brat snuggled into his arms like some bloody infant.

Arthur recovered first. “W-welcome to the Burrow, Severus, Harry,” he said, only a faint tremor in his voice revealing his astonishment at the sight in front of him.

Snape would have liked to have sneered, but realizing he was acting in the capacity as a role model, he forced himself to reply civilly. “Thank you, Arthur. We appreciate your kind invitation. Harry,” he ordered sharply, giving the boy a nudge. Why isn’t he standing on his own two feet? “Say hello to the Weasleys.”

“H’lo, sir, ma’am,” Harry said shyly. He knew perfectly well that he was behaving like a toddler. Any self-respecting eleven year old would have scrambled out of the professor’s arms at the first opportunity, mortified at being treated like a small child. But Harry had never been treated like a small child, even when he was one, and he found he really rather liked the sensation of security that being carried in an adult’s arms provided. What’s more, he knew that once the Weasleys had a chance to talk to Professor Snape, they’d make it clear that eleven year olds were much too old for such coddling, so he figured this was his one and only opportunity to get carried like this. Besides, there were no other children around to witness his embarrassing regression, so to hell with it. He was staying put until Snape pried his fingers from around his neck.

Severus tried to put the boy down, but the little brat merely tightened his grip around his neck and clung harder with his legs. “Potter,” he hissed in the brat’s ear. “Get down.”

To his intense irritation, the boy gave him a cautious glance, then ignored him entirely. What on Earth had gotten into the brat? He’d not shown signs of intense shyness before, but then it wasn’t as if Snape knew him that well either.

“Er, shall we sit down?” Molly suggested, as the seconds dragged on and it became clear to the adults that Harry wasn’t going to get down voluntarily.

“Why don’t you take this chair? It’s the most comfortable one,” Arthur invited, indicating the lumpy armchair that Snape recalled all too well from his previous visit.

“Thank you,” Snape managed to get out from between gritted teeth. He sank into the chair, managing to maneuver the boy so that he was sitting in Snape’s lap. A Potter! Sitting in his lap! HIS LAP! Snape would never live this down.

Harry beamed, leaning back against the professor’s broad chest. He couldn’t believe that Snape hadn’t shoved him away. He’d never sat in anyone’s lap before, not even the department store Santa’s, since the Dursleys explained that Santa didn’t bring gifts for little freaks. He squirmed, finding a comfortable spot – the professor had rather bony knees – and looked around with interest.

Arthur Weasley had gotten over his original surprise and was now trying hard to suppress his mirth. He knew Severus Snape mostly from his work as the Order’s spy in the last war and his sons’ teacher. In neither incarnation had the man been anything other than menacing and grim. To see him now, awkwardly settling a child on his lap… Arthur wondered if the apocalypse were upon them.

Molly blinked and kept blinking. It just didn’t make sense. The Severus Snape she knew – or thought she knew, she admitted silently – would have no patience for a clingy child. Even if he hadn’t brushed him off with a stinging slap, which is what she would have expected, Molly would have anticipated Snape put the boy in his place with a few vicious, cutting insults. Instead, he had tolerated the boy’s blatant defiance – Molly had excellent hearing – and was even now rubbing the boy’s back reassuringly.

Severus fidgeted nervously. He hated social evenings. He was terrible at them, not to mention wholly inexperienced. Dumbledore had forced him to attend a few “parent-teacher” social events early in his tenure, but after he had reduced several parents to tears with his biting remarks about their children’s scholastic prowess, upbringing, and likely career path, even Albus had given up. Snape was given special dispensation to avoid all events which were likely to bring him into direct contact with parents, and so his social calendar for the past decade had been largely confined to Death Eater meetings. Spying and socializing were a poor mix, and even his fellow Death Eaters had quickly learned not to invite him over for dinner.

As a result, he felt like a gauche teenager at these things. What was he supposed to do? Was it his role as guest to make conversation, or the Weasleys as his hosts? Once again, he envied Lucius Malfoy’s effortless savoir faire. Say what you would about pureblood bigots, at least they all had exceptional manners. Not that they often chose to use them, but at least they could.

Dear Pureblood Monthly, he thought, what advice would you have for a half-blood Death Eater (retired) who is invited to dinner at the home of blood traitors and finds himself with The Boy Who Lived glued to his knee? Do I use a fish, butter, or steak knife to surgically remove the brat? Is it considered poor form to cut my own throat rather than suffer through such an excruciating evening? If not, which knife do I use? Is suicide considered more or less of a faux pas if you wait until after the meal has been served?

Snape cleared his throat. He had to say something. Anything. He glanced wildly about the room, seeking inspiration, and realized to his horror that in his nervousness, he had absently been patting the little monster.

Harry relaxed with a happy sigh as the professor gently rubbed his back. His muscles were still sore from all the Quidditch, and then he had tensed up again, worrying about the Weasleys. It was awfully nice of the professor to realize this and help calm him down. And he was doing it in front of the Weasleys, even! He wasn’t hiding how he felt or pretending one thing in public and something else in private. Wow. Harry was really lucky.

“So, Harry, how are you enjoying Hogwarts?” Mr Weasley asked, realizing that his normally voluble wife was, for once, shocked speechless by the sight in front of her.

“It’s brilliant!” Harry replied, smiling broadly.

“What’s been your favorite part so far?”

Harry glanced over his shoulder. “Meeting Professor Snape,” he answered honestly, turning back to his best mate’s dad.

Arthur did his best to ignore the choking noises which emanated from both his wife and guest at Harry’s reply. “Really? And why is that?” he continued, feeling that he were dropping ever further down the rabbit hole into some topsy-turvy alternate universe.

“’Cause he’s been really great,” Harry explained. “He’s taking care of me now, you know.”

“Harry, wouldn’t you like it if we took care of you?” Molly asked feebly. She kept her eyes on Harry’s face, ignoring both the deadly glare from Snape and the disapproving frown from Arthur.

Harry shrank back against Professor Snape’s chest. “Um…” He wasn’t sure how to answer. He didn’t want to insult his best mate’s family, and he did want to visit a lot – probably – but he didn’t want to lose Professor Snape either. Even if the Weasleys explained to the professor how the whole parenting thing should work, and stopped him from being so indulgent, Harry still liked having someone so big and scary looking out for him.

Molly shook herself. Harry’s body language said it all and, Merlin help her, Severus Snape had bristled with protectiveness for the boy from the moment he’d come through the floo. Obviously her preconceptions had been wrong. Harry was – amazingly – happy with the dour man, and she’d be damned if she would permit anyone, even herself, to interfere with his choice. Of course, if it ever changed, then she’d be the first one to snatch the boy away, but for now, it was clear that Harry was where he needed to be.

“Well,” she forced herself to inject cheer into her voice, “even if you don’t want us to take care of you all the time, maybe you’ll still be willing to visit part of the time?” She looked at him hopefully. “And of course, Professor Snape can come along whenever he wishes.”

Harry looked back at the professor again, seeking reassurance. If Snape was there too, that was different. He smiled at Molly. “That’d be nice.”

She sighed in relief. Then gasped. “My starters!” She bolted for the kitchen.

“Harry, other than Potions,” Arthur said with a wink, “what have been your most favorite and least favorite classes so far?”

“I think transfiguration is really hard,” Harry admitted, “even if it is taught by Professor McGonagall. She doesn’t give her own House any special treatment,” he said, glancing slyly at Professor Snape.

Arthur laughed, well aware from his sons of Snape’s preferential treatment of Slytherins. “Do you think that having your child in your class will be easy or hard, Severus?”

Snape choked again. His child? Had Weasley actually said that? He wasn’t so far gone as to miss how Harry straightened up proudly at the question. The brat was now beaming at him with – good grief! – a downright proprietary air.

“I have already put Mr Potter on notice that I expect a high standard of behavioral and scholastic excellence from my ward,” he finally managed to get out, though his usual sneer was marred by the tremor in his voice.

Harry sighed and rolled his eyes. “He’s awfully strict,” he told Arthur, leaning forward and lowering his voice confidingly. “I already owe him like 700 lines, and it hasn’t even been a whole week of school yet!”

“I’m sitting right here.” Snape poked the little brat irritably. How dare he refer to him in the third person! To his further annoyance, Harry giggled and Arthur chuckled. Obviously he needed to poke harder. Or maybe a good pinch…

“So what’s your favorite class?” Arthur continued, pleased at how Harry was relaxing. At least raising six boys made it easy to strike up a conversation with one.

“I like flying! We had our first class this afternoon,” Harry answered, his eyes shining. Molly, who had just entered with small plates of savouries, smiled as she saw his animation. She put down one plate in front of the child, just as he explained, with a guilty look at Snape, “I got into trouble though.”

“What happened?” she asked consolingly. “Did you fly too high?”

Harry squirmed. He hadn’t meant to admit this to the Weasleys. He didn’t want them to think he was a troublemaker or anything. “Madam Hooch had to take Neville to the infirmary, and she told us to stay on the ground, and I sort of didn’t listen.”

“Harry James Potter!” Molly scolded in a voice that even Harry recognized as a mum’s “you are in big trouble, young man” tone. “That was very dangerous!”

“Particularly when he nearly smashed against the castle wall in an effort to rescue a silly trinket,” a silky voice put in from behind him, and Harry turned to look reproachfully at his professor.

Snape smirked. That would show the Weasleys that Prince Potter wasn’t such a little angel after all.

Sure enough, Molly looked even more concerned. “Harry! Wasn’t that your first time on a broom? What if you hadn’t been able to stop in time? You could have been hurt! Promise me you won’t do anything so foolish again, or I won’t be able to stop worrying about you.”

Harry hung his head, but inwardly he was exultant. All of these people were worried about him! Even as they were scolding him, it was because they were worried he might have gotten hurt. This was great! “I promise,” he said, as Molly reached out a gentle hand and tipped his chin up. He smiled into her anxious eyes. She really liked him too!

“I won’t do it again, honest,” he said, trying to reassure her. “Professor Snape saw and he was really angry! He smacked me and everything.”

Abruptly the temperature in the room dropped several degrees, and Snape groaned internally as both Weasleys leveled angry glares at him. He glared right back. He wasn’t about to explain himself. Let them go yell at Dumbledore if they wanted to challenge his guardianship.

“Hmf,” Molly huffed, giving him the evil eye. “Harry, dear, would you like to help me bring in the drinks? Butterbeer tends to fizz if it’s accio’d.”

Harry nodded agreeably and hopped off Snape’s lap. Mrs Weasley was as nice as he remembered, and Mr Weasley seemed nice too. Maybe they wouldn’t tell Professor Snape to be too hard on him.

“I see he’s gotten into trouble already,” Arthur said quietly once Harry had left the room. “Are you having second thoughts?”

Snape wasn’t about to admit anything to a Weasley. “I hardly expected an eleven year old child to be a model of perfect decorum.”

“It sounds as if you’ve made that clear to Harry as well,” the older man commented neutrally.

Harry and Molly returned at that moment with the drinks, and conversation resumed, mostly about the elder Weasleys’ memories of Hogwarts and their adventures there. Harry listened happily, delighted to learn more about his new school, while Severus glared at his butterbeer and longed for the evening to end.

When they moved to the dinner table, groaning beneath enough food to feed an army – or the entire Weasley clan – Harry hung back.

Snape glared at him, but when the boy didn’t join them at the table, he stepped over to him. “Whatever is the matter?” he demanded impatiently, keeping his voice down. “Do you need the loo?”

Harry shook his head. “Where should I go?” he whispered.

Snape frowned in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Do I go into the kitchen? I could start washing the pots if I do, or do the Weasleys want me to wait in the living room? Or maybe Ron’s room?”

“What are you talking about?”

Harry sighed. Sometimes grownups, even Professor Snape, could be really slow. “While you’re eating. What do I do? Back at the Dursleys, I always was sent to my cupboard when there were guests over for dinner, but I don’t know where to go here. Should I go to Ron’s room to wait, or do you think I should start cleaning the kitchen?”

“You are to join us at the table,” Snape said, too taken aback even to insult the child. “You were invited to dinner, not to watch the adults eat while you act like a house elf.”

“But… You mean, I get to eat with you? Together?” Harry’s jaw dropped. He’d been surprised and pleased when he’d been allowed to join the adults for butterbeer and nibbles. He’d never imagined that he’d actually get to sit at the table for the meal.

By now, their whispered tête-à-tête had captured the Weasleys’ attention. “Everything all right, Severus?” Arthur asked, while Molly eyed Snape distrustfully. Harry’s offhanded comment about the smacking had rekindled all her doubts.

“Yes,” Severus replied in a tone that dared them to challenge him. He dropped a hand to Harry’s shoulder and pulled him along, speaking quietly. “You are to sit at the table and comport yourself like a gentleman. Watch me or the Weasleys if you are uncertain how to hold your utensils, and do not bolt your food like a ravenous beast.” Snape added that last, having remembered what Ron looked like at the Gryffindor table.

Harry dazedly took a seat at the table. This was unprecedented. He cast an uncertain look at the Weasleys, more than half-convinced that Severus had made a mistake and they would send him from the table. But Arthur was smiling at him, and Molly was already passing him the basket of rolls. Harry took one and his resulting radiant smile brought tears to Molly’s eyes.

Harry did quite well, all things considered. He watched Snape carefully, and the professor slowed down his movements, making it easy for the child to mimic him. The Weasleys immediately spotted what was going on, and even Molly began to think she’d been mistaken. Then Harry tried to lift the platter of roast beef and winced.

“Are you hurt, dear?” Molly asked worriedly. “That’s too heavy. Arthur, help him with it.”

“Thank you,” Harry said politely, spearing a piece of meat as he’d seen Professor Snape do.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Harry said cheerfully. Snape flinched, knowing what was coming. “I’m just still a little sore.”

“Sore!” Molly repeated with a rising inflection, her eyes fixed furiously on Severus. Naturally enough, having heard that Harry had been punished earlier in the day, she leapt to the conclusion that he was referring to the aftermath of that punishment. “You’re still sore?”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, completely oblivious to the currents swirling around him. “Professor Snape says it’ll take a while until I’m used to it. He gave me some balm for my backside though. That’s even more sore than my back and arms.”

Arthur took one look at his wife’s face and was on his feet, pulling her into the kitchen. “Er, Severus, would you give us a hand. Just keep eating, Harry,” he instructed calmly, “we’ll be right back.”

The instant the kitchen door had closed behind the adults, Arthur cast a silencing spell over the room. He was just in time. “USED TO IT? YOU EXPECT HIM TO GET USED TO IT? THAT’S IT! I’M CALLING DUMBLEDORE RIGHT NOW!”

Snape rubbed his forehead. Theoretically, if this were happening to someone else, it could be seen as quite amusing. Given his role in the drama, however, he found it more than a little annoying. “You have misunderstood the situation,” he told Molly, not really expecting her to listen.

To his surprise, she paused. “How so?” she demanded. “Are you saying you didn’t strike that child? That poor, defenseless child?”

“That poor, defenseless child nearly smashed his miniscule brains to paste against the castle walls! He deserved to be punished.”

“Then let his Head of House punish him! What do you mean by intervening and then punishing him so that he is still sore hours later? What in Merlin’s name did you do to that boy? His back, his arms, his bum – if Albus doesn’t call the Aurors, I will!”

“He’s not sore from his punishment, you ridiculous woman!” Snape snarled. “He’s sore from Quidditch. Minerva McGonagall saw his flying and promptly claimed him for her House team! She subjected him to a two hour tryout, and that is why he is sore.”

“That is the most ridiculous excuse I have ever heard!” Molly retorted. “Have you forgotten that I have seven – SEVEN – Quidditch obsessed children? I know perfectly well that first years don’t play on House teams. Do you have any idea how many complaints about that rule I have heard over the years? Including this year?”

“Madam, you may think me capable of brutalizing a child, but do you really imagine I would be stupid enough to beat the boy and then bring him here to tell you about it?”

To his mingled gratification and offense, that made her pause. “Well, no. Actually, that doesn’t make any sense,” Molly admitted. “And your behavior when you arrived… But I am not taking any more chances with that child’s well-being. You told me yourself that Dumbledore placed him with abusive Muggles for the last ten years, so why should I believe that he’s done better this time?”

Snape was annoyed to realize that he actually had common ground with a Weasley. Worse, she was a formidable opponent, and one that could come in very handy in his future battles with Dumbledore (and McGonagall) over the boy’s upbringing. Obviously he had to co-opt her to his side. His Slytherin instincts kicked in.

“Answer a question for me,” he said abruptly, startling both Weasleys by the change in subject. “If Ronald had disobeyed Madam Hooch and engaged in life-threatening aerobatics, but also displayed remarkable flying ability, what would you have done?”

The Weasleys exchanged a glance. “Scolded him until his ears were ringing, sent him to bed without supper, confiscated his broom for a week, and then tried to find the money to get him extra flying lessons,” Arthur answered for both of them.

“Would you have permitted him to join his House team, assuming an exception was granted by the Headmaster?”

“Yes,” Arthur nodded.

“Would you have permitted him to join his House team without punishing him?”

“I should say not!” Molly huffed.

Severus nodded. They would do. “Very well. I believe this co-parenting idea may work.”

“I beg your pardon!” Molly interrupted hotly. “I was about to call the Aurors!”

“You are operating under a misapprehension. Minerva wanted to ignore everything except the boy’s flying prowess – oh, beyond a token chastisement. I made it clear that that was unacceptable. I did not however,” he added hastily, “injure the boy. He received two swats, one for disobedience and one for putting himself in danger, as well as lines and an essay. He then went to the tryout and was pummeled mercilessly. Of course he is sore – they kept him on an unfamiliar broom for two hours forcing him to catch the snitch over and over.”

Molly paused, considering his words. She still had a suspicious look on her face. “You expect me to believe that Minerva McGonagall was willing to overlook deliberate disobedience in one of her lions?”

“Have you seen her expression when she looks at the House Cup?” Snape asked wearily.

“Well, yes…” Molly hesitated. “But what about your treatment of the boy, Severus? I’ll not have him pay the price for his father’s treatment of you!”

Snape flushed. How dare this witch sit in judgment of him? “Oh, and you’re not trying to atone for your own disregard of him for the past ten years? I thought you were so close to the Potters, yet you were obviously too busy with your own children to spare a thought to the welfare of their orphan.”

Molly gasped. “That’s a terrible thing to say!”

Snape smirked. “A little truth hurts?”

“You greasy haired bat –“

“You fertility goddess-wannabe –“

##

Once he had felt reasonably certain that Molly and Severus would not hex each other into oblivion, Arthur let himself out of the kitchen and rejoined Harry at the table.

“Did I do something wrong?” Harry asked worriedly, looking over to the quiet kitchen.

“Only in flying class, from what you tell me,” Arthur replied easily, reseating himself and putting a few more vegetables on Harry’s plate.

The boy made a face but obediently started eating them.

“Harry, I don’t think I quite followed what you were saying before. Why are you sore?”

Harry looked up in surprise, broccoli dangling from his fork. “Didn’t I say? I made the Gryffindor Quidditch team!”

Arthur’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “As a first year? You’re joking!”

“No, honest!”

Arthur looked at him, then asked a shrewd question. “Is Ron chuffed for you, or green with envy?”

Harry had to laugh. “A little of both, I think. I didn’t have much time to explain stuff to him, because I had to hurry to come here.”

“It’s been a very long time since a first year was allowed on a House team, Harry. You must be very good. Had you flown much before coming to Hogwarts?”

Harry proudly shook his head. “Not at all. Oliver Wood, he’s our captain, he and Professor McGonagall tested me for like two hours this afternoon. They had me fly and chase stuff over and over and over. But at the end, they said I could be on the team, since Professor Snape said it was okay. When I finally was able to get off the broom, I felt like I’d gotten smacked with the world’s biggest hairbrush. I’d never been on a broom before, see. My relatives – “ he looked awkward “- they don’t like magic.”

“Some Muggles are like that,” Arthur said comfortably, and Harry relaxed again. “Well, that explains why you’re so sore. I think if I had just spent the afternoon in Quidditch tryouts, I’d be lying on the couch moaning.”

Harry laughed. “Professor Snape gave me a potion – it tasted awful, but it made me feel better right away. And he even rubbed my sore muscles until they didn’t feel so bad.” He looked anxiously at Arthur. “What are you going to tell him?”

“Who? Severus?” Arthur didn’t understand. “About what?”

“About how to raise me. He does a lot of stuff he shouldn’t,” Harry admitted unhappily. “Are you going to tell him to stop?”

Arthur threw a glance at the kitchen door. No sign that they were about to be disturbed. “I could tell him to stop,” he agreed carefully, lowering his voice and leaning towards Harry. “What does he do that he shouldn’t?”

Harry gulped, feeling tears gather. He knew it wasn’t fair of him to take advantage of the professor’s ignorance, but he dreaded the thought of losing the gentle touch, the cuddling, and the light swats in favor for more orthodox shouting and whacking and being told to act his age.

“Harry?” Arthur’s voice was soft. “What should the professor stop doing?”

“I – I guess you should tell him about real punishments,” Harry choked out, wiping away a tear. “He doesn’t really get that.”

“What do you mean? How did he punish you earlier today?”

Harry looked at Arthur fearfully. The man seemed nice, but would he punish Harry all over again? This time for the disobedience towards Madam Hooch?

“Harry?” Arthur’s voice was gentle but insistent.

“He- he just said I had to write some lines and an essay,” he admitted, lowering his gaze. “But that’s just going to help me practice my handwriting. And I’m supposed to write the essay in his quarters, so I get to spend extra time with him. He doesn’t realize that punishments are supposed to hurt.” He sniffled back more tears. “I’m sorry that I didn’t tell him. Please don’t be too mad. Are – are you going to have him punish me again, but show him how to do it right this time?” He waited bleakly for Mr Weasley’s stern agreement.

Arthur sat there and blinked. Harry was worried that Severus Snape, whose name alone was enough to scare the pee out of several years of Hogwarts’ students, was unfamiliar with fearsome punishments? That he, Arthur Weasley, was going to teach Severus how to really discipline a child? His own kids were more scared of Snape than they were of him. Even Ginny, who had never met the man, was leery of Snape through the tales of her brothers, but viewed her own father’s stern scoldings with maddening calm – or artful penitence.

“But Harry, I thought you said he spanked you.”

Harry sighed. “He doesn’t even smack right,” he confessed. “He thinks it’s not supposed to hurt, just show me that he’s really mad. He says that if he wanted to hurt me, he’d use magic, but then he said he’d never do that, so that means he’ll never really hurt me, not even if I’ve been really bad.” He forced himself to look at Arthur. “I know you have to teach him how to really smack – you know, so it hurts and all – but please, could it not be too hard? I mean, I know Professor Snape can hit as hard as Uncle Vernon, but he thinks that’s wrong and he said he won’t ever do it again. So maybe you could just tell him to hit harder than he does now, but not as hard as he could. Please?”

“Let me be sure I understand this,” Arthur said, once again feeling like he was in an alternate reality. “Severus has told you he won’t use magic to hurt you.” Soberly, Harry nodded. “Did he talk about anything specific, like stinging hexes or Crucio? Or did he just say he wouldn’t use magic at all?”

Harry frowned. “He just said if he wanted to hurt me there were spells that would do that, but that’s not what adults are supposed to do.” He sighed. “He really doesn’t understand. Every time I do something bad, he does something nice. Like when I told him I hadn’t known to buy good clothes when I was in Diagon Alley, he just said he’d take me shopping instead of punishing me for being stupid. And when Draco and I disobeyed Madam Hooch, he was madder about me maybe getting hurt than about my not listening to a teacher.” Harry bit his lip as he watched Mr Weasley’s expression. The man’s face was all twisted up in bemusement. He must not have realized how much help Professor Snape needed.

“So Severus said he won’t hurt you with magic. Any magic. And he also said he won’t hit you hard?”

Harry nodded again.

“When he swatted your bum today – “

“It didn’t hurt. Not for more than a few seconds. He didn’t even put me over his knee or anything. He just sort of reached around and gave me a little slap,” Harry acknowledged sadly, wishing he didn’t have to betray the professor’s ineptitude. Poor Professor Snape! Mr Weasley would think he was a real no-hoper.

“You’re worried that I’m going to tell him that he’s supposed to smack you a lot harder?”

“I know you have to teach him how to be a dad,” Harry explained, trying not to cry. “But I like that he lets me hug him and he didn’t even get mad when I got snot all over him from crying. And he lets me act like a real baby sometimes without telling me off. Like when he carried me through the floo thingy, he didn’t make fun of me or anything. I know you’ve got to tell him to stop all that, but –“

“Harry.” Arthur interrupted. “Is there anything that Severus does that you wish he didn’t do? Anything that makes you sad or hurts your feelings or makes you uncomfortable?”

“No, sir.”

“He doesn’t say anything strange or touch you in certain places or have secret games that you’re not allowed to tell anyone about?”

Harry frowned in bewilderment. “No, sir.”

“He doesn’t harm you in any way? Your only worry is that he’s too nice to you, and I need to tell him to stop that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Because he doesn’t hurt you or insult you or make you feel stupid or unsafe?”

“No, he makes me feel safe,” Harry protested. “And he said if anyone tries to hurt me, even an adult, I can protect myself.” A half-smile tugged at his lips. “I guess you’ll need to tell him that you and Mrs Weasley c’n whack me.”

“Harry, I think you are confused about something,” Arthur said slowly. “It’s not Severus who has the wrong idea about being a dad. It’s you.” Harry looked at him in confusion. “Dads aren’t supposed to hurt their children. If you ask Ron, I think he’ll tell you that he’s not scared of me or his mum. That we don’t hurt him. That we often urge him to stop trying to act so grown up. That no one is allowed to attack him. All these things that Severus has told you – they’re true. He’s being a good dad. There’s nothing I have to teach him.

“In fact, it’s probably true that he can teach me a few things, because there have been times when I have lost my temper with Ron and the others. I probably have given them swats that hurt longer than a few seconds or said something that hurt their feelings or made some other kind of mistake. And Harry, it may be that as Severus takes care of you, he makes a few mistakes too. But I bet that if you remember that he’s doing his best to be a good dad, and you keep trying to be a good son, then the two of you will do just fine.”

Harry’s mouth was open in shock. “You mean it? He’s doing it right? But Uncle Vernon said –“ he gasped and both hands flew to cover his mouth. “Don’t tell Professor Snape I said that!” he begged. “He’ll go spare!”

Arthur couldn’t help but smile at Harry’s agitation. “Will he really?”

Harry nodded vehemently. “He’s really mad at the Dursleys, and he says that what they told me is worse than any bad word I could say. I’ve already got to write 500 lines about them being stupid liars, and he said if I quote them again, he’ll wash my mouth out with soap.” He glanced over his shoulder at the kitchen door. “I don’t think he’d really do it, but I don’t want to find out.”

Just then the kitchen door flew open, and Molly and Severus stormed out. Arthur was pleased to see that both were still standing and no blood was visible.

Harry, taken aback at the sudden resumption of noise as the silencing spell was canceled, jerked in surprise, and his hand knocked over his glass of pumpkin juice. Molly reached over his head to grab it, and Harry flinched violently. Everyone froze.

I’m such an idiot! Harry thought miserably. He knew – well, he was pretty sure – that Molly hadn’t been going to hit him.

Arthur and Molly exchanged shocked looks. The Dursleys’ treatment of Harry had to have been worse than they imagined for him to have such ingrained reactions.

Then the silence was broken by a calm voice. “Excellent reflexes, Mr Potter. As I told you, I expect you not to just sit there and let someone harm you. You moved out of the way quite speedily. I’m glad you are following my instructions so well. Next we will work on distinguishing friend from foe, but I’m certain Mrs Weasley was impressed by your ability.” And with that, Snape reseated himself.

“Er, yes, Harry, dear,” Molly agreed. “That was very well done.” She slowly moved to right the glass and a quick wave of her wand vanished the spilled juice.

Harry straightened up and sent a look of gratitude to Severus. Leave it to the professor to save the day! Now the Weasleys wouldn’t think he was weird or stupid – they’d understand that he was just practicing. He smiled up at Mrs Weasley. “Dinner was really great,” he told her.

She cupped his chin in her palm and looked deep into his eyes. “I’m very glad you enjoyed it, Harry.” She planted a gentle kiss on his cheek. “Did you save room for pudding?”

He grinned. “Yes, ma’am!”

“Let me help you with that,” Arthur said, and the two vanished back into the kitchen.

Harry looked after them thoughtfully. Adult wizards certainly seemed to like spending time in the kitchen. “Sir?” he said to Snape.

“Mm?” Snape was prodding his cold dinner with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

“I like the Weasleys.”

“Hmf.” Snape did his best to ignore the cold chill the words sent up his spine.

“Do you think they like me?”

“I’m quite certain they do,” he replied with as much disinterest as he could muster.

Harry beamed. “Good!” Now that he didn’t have to worry about Arthur turning the professor into Uncle Vernon, he was enjoying this visit a lot more.

“Sir?”

“What?” Snape snarled.

“Will we be able to go soon?”

“What?” This time, Snape didn’t sound impatient, he sounded stunned.

“I like it here,” Harry hastily explained, “but I just thought if we could leave soon, then maybe I could stay in your quarters for a while. Before going up to the Tower.” He glanced at the professor from under his fringe, assessing the man’s response. “I could do some of my lines,” he offered.

“You can do those in the Gryffindor Tower,” Snape pointed out, eyeing the boy. What did the little brat want? Why on earth was he willing to leave the Burrow in order to linger with Snape in the dank and clammy dungeouns?

Harry pouted. “I want to have some time with just us,” he admitted. “Unless you’re still mad at me?”

Snape decided that the warm feeling in his chest must be heartburn from Molly’s cooking. After all the shouting, the two had finally reached a somewhat tentative truce, though Snape still didn’t quite understand how.

After several minutes of hurling insults at each other, she had abruptly burst into laughter, hugged him (!), and said, “I begin to understand what Lily saw in you, Severus! There aren’t many men who can hold their own against a redheaded witch.”

He had no idea what a woman’s hair color had to do with his own parenting ability, but it seemed that she had decided that he was in fact treating Harry well. She had even accepted his word that he hadn’t beaten Potter to a jelly – in her place, he would have insisted on physically examining the boy, but she hadn’t even suggested it. Instead, she muttered something about Harry’s body language and dropped the subject.

Heartened by her unexpectedly conciliatory attitude, he had rather uncomfortably explained the situation with Harry’s wardrobe and inquired as to what a normal eleven year old boy should have in his closet. She had promised to owl him a list, and when she heard of his plans to take the boy on a shopping spree, she had begun to grin. “Tell me again how much of a burden you consider Harry, Severus?”

“Do not project your maudlin sentimentality onto me,” he had snapped. “I am merely ensuring that the brat’s material needs are adequately addressed.”

“Hm. So you’re not planning to stop by a Quidditch shop then?”

He colored. “I fail to see what relevance that question has to the issue of the boy’s clothing. If I choose to purchase some – additional items – for the child, it is merely to ensure that he does not get up to mischief while he is in my quarters. I will not have him idle and looking for trouble.”

“Ah. That sounds quite plausible. Keep practicing,” she smirked, and he had fled – er, stormed out of – the room.

After all this upset, it was therefore no wonder that the food was upsetting his stomach. Though the warmth wasn’t actually uncomfortable. Quite the opposite, in fact.

“No, I am not still mad at you for your dunderheaded stunt,” Snape told the brat. “You have been punished, have you not?”

“Sort of. I mean, I still owe you the lines and essay,” Harry pointed out.

“Then perhaps it is appropriate for you to stay in my quarters until curfew and get started on your punishment,” Snape said austerely. Obviously the little monster would need constant supervision.

Harry grinned down at his plate. Ha! He’d gotten him to agree. “You’ll be there, right?” he said, suddenly panicked as a thought occurred to him. “You’re not going to go away to make a potion or anything?”

“Potter, you do not ‘make’ a potion, you ‘brew’ a potion, and if you think I will leave you to roam my quarters unsupervised, you are sadly mistaken. You will remain in my immediate presence until I am confident that you know how to behave yourself to my satisfaction.”

“Will you show me how to hold a quill?” Harry pressed. “I mean, if you’re going to have to read all the lines, you should help me write good.”

“Write well, Potter,” Snape growled. What did Muggles teach in their schools these days?

“Well. Will you?” Harry begged. “Please?”

“Oh all right, Potter. If only to stop your incessant whining,” Severus snarled.

Molly and Arthur emerged at that point. Both looked very happy and rather amused, much to Harry’s bewilderment and Severus’ annoyance. Harry demolished three helpings of chocolate pudding and only declined a fourth when Severus gave him a glare combined with a sharp tap on the ankle.

“So, Harry, would you and Severus like to come back for dinner on Saturday? We’ll have the whole family over at that point, and we can talk about making you honorary members of the family,” Arthur announced.

Harry perked up happily, but Snape choked on his last bite of pudding. “Me!” the Potion Master finally managed to wheeze. “An hon-hon –‘

“Well, of course we’re talking about both of you,” Molly said, an evil glint in her eye. “You’re a package deal, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Harry agreed quickly. “Right, Professor?”

Snape subsided into incoherent splutterings which the rest of the table optimistically took as agreement.

“Don’t mention anything to the boys, Harry,” Molly instructed. “We’ll be bringing them all home tomorrow night to explain everything, then you two can come on Saturday and perhaps you’ll stay overnight with Ron and the others.”

“Like a slumber party?” Harry asked hopefully. He’d never been to one, but he’d heard kids at school talking about them.

“Yes,” Molly agreed. “Just like that.”

Harry looked over to where Severus looked like he was chewing on his napkin and decided now might not be the best time to ask permission. “I’d like that,” he said honestly. “Thank you.”

“We’ll be glad to have you here, Harry,” Molly said softly. “Before you leave, do you want to take a wander around the house?”

Harry glanced at Severus and receiving a nod, he shot off.

“I suspect that Fred and George may find they’ve met their match in Harry and Ron,” Arthur said, hoping to change the subject to something that was less likely to infuriate their guest. “I understand from Harry that you’ve made it clear he’s not to be bullied or picked on.”

Snape nodded, looking grim. “His Muggle cousin used to do something called ‘Harry hunting’, and his parents prevented any retribution. I have made it clear that he is no longer bound by those rules.”

Arthur looked weary for a moment. “Considering that there are wizards out there who truly are ‘Harry hunting’, that is a lesson he needs to learn quickly and well.”

Molly looked at the two men. “Do you think it’s starting up again? We’ve had ten years of near silence…”

Snape raised on eyebrow. “Silence doesn’t necessarily mean there’s nothing out there.”

“I know. But he’s such a small boy… Teach him well, Severus.”

“I intend to,” he retorted shortly, but without his usual snarl. “As you can see, however, there is much work to be done. His relatives were appalling. He has not felt physically safe for most of his childhood.”

“I’d say he’s beginning to feel that way now,” Arthur smiled. “He tells me that you said no other adult has the right to touch him. He sounded very impressed.”

Snape fought back a desire to preen. “That is quite correct. And that is true for his time here as well. If he misbehaves, he is to be returned to me for punishment.”

Molly raised her eyebrows. “If he misbehaves in any way? You do remember he’s an 11 year old boy, correct?”

Severus scowled. “Over the past ten years he has been beaten, starved, locked up, and used as slave labor. It is important that no current punishments remind him of life with his horrible relatives.”

“How about this?” Arthur suggested. “We certainly won’t strike him or deprive him of meals, but if he gets into minor trouble with our kids, then Harry will face it alongside our bunch. If he and Ron get sent to bed early, for example, or have to de-gnome the garden, will that bring back bad memories for him? If he’s being punished right alongside Ron, wouldn’t that be a way for him to see that he’s part of the family?”

Snape grudgingly agreed that might be acceptable. Molly and Arthur shared a not-very-well-hidden grin.

“Should we –“ Molly’s question was interrupted by an almighty crash from the stairwell.

The adults rose as one and rushed to find a guilty-looking Harry struggling to his feet. “’M sorry,” he blurted as soon as they appeared.

“What happened, Harry?” Molly asked, hurrying over to check him for injuries.

He shrank back. “I tripped on my way down the stairs. I’m really sorry. I think I might have broken the banister.” He hesitatingly pointed to one of the spindles that ran along the stairs, but he kept a wary eye on both Weasleys and tried to sidle closer to Severus.

“That’s all right, Harry. We’re just concerned you might have broken you,” Arthur said. “Did you get hurt?”

“No, sir,” Harry said quickly. “I’m fine.”

“Harry, your leg!” Molly pointed to a rip in his trousers.

“I’m sorry,” he said nervously, looking at Severus. “I can fix it, honest!”

“Harry, you’re bleeding,” Molly persisted.

“It’s okay,” Harry protested, but Severus already had his wand out and was casting a diagnostic charm.

“Mr Potter,” he snapped a moment later. Harry flinched at the tone. “I believe I have indicated my intolerance for falsehoods?”

Harry gulped and nodded. “But it wasn’t a real lie, sir. I just –“

“Mr Potter,” Snape leaned over to make eye contact, “is this one of the Dursleys’ rules? No admitting when you are injured?”

Harry trembled as he gazed into his professor’s snapping eyes, but he was unable to look away. “Y—yes, sir,” he finally admitted.

“And what did I tell you about their rules?”

“To forget them.” Harry’s voice was very small and apologetic. The professor snorted.

“If you are injured or distressed in any way, I expect you to tell me about it,” Snape said sternly. “I will consider failure to do so as not only a lie but also an example of your putting yourself in jeopardy. Do you understand?” he asked pointedly.

Harry unconsciously covered his bum. “Yes, sir.”

“Then perhaps you would like to answer Mr Weasley’s question again?”

Harry nodded hastily. “Yes, sir. Um, my wrist and my leg hurt, sir.”

“Your wrist is strained. I will give you a potion when we return to Hogwarts. As for the cut on your leg –“

“Leave that to me,” Molly invited. She took Harry’s hand and smiled at him encouragingly. “After seven accident-prone children, I’m practically a certified Healer.”

She led Harry over to the living room couch. “I’m not as flexible or as slim as I used to be,” she explained to Harry, “so rather than bend over to see your knee, why don’t we both sit on the couch?” She sat down, had Harry sit next to her, then helped him swivel around so his back was against the armrest and his bent knees lay across her lap. She gently raised his trouser leg and tutted over the small cut.

Harry watched, amazed and delighted, as she gently scourgified the wound, removing all the blood, then magically sealed the laceration with a murmured spell, tracing the tip of her wand over his injury. “How’s that?” she asked.

“Great!” he beamed. That would sure have come in handy plenty of times in the past!

Another spell and his trousers were cleaned and mended, and Harry was even more sold on magic than he had been. “That’s brilliant, Mrs Weasley! Thank you!”

He started to get up, only to be gently pushed down. “Oh no, Harry. We’re not done yet.” Arthur grinned and nudged Severus.

At Harry’s puzzled look, Molly explained, “In this house, if you get hurt, you have to sit for a few minutes and let the healing spells take effect, and there’s a rule. When you get hurt, you get cuddled. Is that all right?”

Harry blinked. Ron’s mum was willing to give him a cuddle? But wasn’t she only supposed to do that with her own kids? And wasn’t he too old anyway?

She must have seen the indecision in his eyes, for Molly leaned over and whispered, “Don’t tell him I told you, but Ron twisted his ankle two days before going to Hogwarts, and he didn’t mind the cuddle.”

Harry felt his heart start to beat faster. He was finally going to see what it felt like to get hugged by a mum! Of course, it was someone else’s, not his own, but that was almost as good, especially since he was practically an honorary Weasley. “Well,” he said carefully, “if it’s a rule…”

Molly grinned and held out her arms. A moment later, Harry was cuddled against her and she was rocking him, crooning in his ear.

Snape thought he might sick up at all the sentimentality, but an odd feeling of envy was also making itself felt deep in his chest. He could have done that. Not that he would have wanted to, but he could have.

Harry felt wrapped up in clouds of love. He hadn’t known that it was so soft and felt so safe to be hugged like this. When he had hugged Snape, he had felt safe and warm, but this was different. This was… softer.

After several minutes, he heard Professor Snape clear his throat, and he dutifully looked up. To his surprise, Molly’s face was wet with tears as she smiled down at him. “You’re such a good boy, Harry,” she said, and she kissed him.

Harry decided that he might have to fall down the Burrow’s stairs on a semi-regular basis.

As Harry got up and crossed over to join an impatient Snape, Molly let out an exclamation. “Oh! I nearly forgot!” She hurried over to a small cabinet and lifted out a flat box. “I have something for Harry.”

Harry didn’t move closer. “It’s not my birthday, Mrs Weasley,” he said, mystified.

She laughed. “I’ve been saving this for you for a very long time, Harry. We can count it as a birthday present you’ve just not picked up, okay?” She seated herself back on the couch and patted her lap. Obediently, Harry went over to her.

She pulled him onto her lap, so that his back was against her front, and she brought the box around to sit in his lap. “Close your eyes,” she instructed.

Harry glanced at Professor Snape. Severus frowned and drew closer. Not that he didn’t trust Molly Weasley, but he wasn’t about to take chances either. He stopped about a foot away, his hand resting inconspicuously on his wand. “Go ahead.” He nodded once.

Harry closed his eyes tight. Molly whispered a spell and took the lid off the box, holding it up so it was just beneath Harry’s nose. “What do you smell, love?” she asked softly.

Harry sniffed. A fragrance rose to meet him and his heart lurched. Somehow, on a level too deep for conscious thought, he recognized the sweet, citrusy smell. His whole body tensed, and he dragged in another, deeper breath. His throat tightened. “Mummy,” he whispered, tears beginning to seep from under his closed lids.

Snape froze. It couldn’t be.

Molly’s brimming eyes met his, and she lowered the box enough for him to see. A sweater, carefully folded, lay in the box. “Open your eyes, Harry, love,” she whispered. “This belonged to your mummy. I’ve been keeping it for you.”

Harry reached out a single finger and with gentleness approaching reverence, lightly brushed the blue wool. “How - how did you get it?” he asked, his voice thick with tears.

“Your parents were in the Order with us,” she began.

“What’s the Order?” Harry interrupted, glancing up from where he was still staring at the sweater as if it were a holy icon.

Molly caught Severus’ headshake. “It was… a group that we were all in, Harry. Your parents, Severus, Arthur and I – we were all members. And your mum and I were friends. We were both pregnant at the same time – although I was a few months farther along than she was – and before your parents went into –“ she broke off abruptly. “Before your parents went away, she would often come over to the Burrow. On one of her last visits, she left her sweater behind. I was planning to give it back to her, but… I never got the chance. When I heard that she had died, but you had survived, I put the sweater away with a stasis spell so that you would have it when you were older.”

Harry choked back a sob. Somehow, being able to smell his mother – a scent that he had completely forgotten on a conscious level – suddenly made him miss her a thousand times more. It was as if she had just stepped away and could come back any second, except he knew she never would. It made it infinitely worse and immeasurably better, all at once. It was as if she were there in some way, but not in the way he wanted. But it made her real, in a way she hadn’t been to him, not since he was a baby. For the first time in a very very long time, Harry Potter desperately wanted his mother. “Mum!” he gasped out, and then he had twisted around and buried his head into Molly’s chest, letting the tears come.

Molly instantly pushed the box out at Severus and folded Harry into her arms, rocking and murmuring to him as he wept. Arthur took Snape, now holding the precious box like a religious relic, into the kitchen. He took one look at Severus’ face and left, returning a moment later with a tumbler of fire whiskey. He put the glass at Severus’ elbow and left him alone.

Snape delicately stroked the fine wool in much the same way Harry had. Lowering his face to just above the box, he inhaled deeply and let Lily’s fragrance fill his mind. Memories overpowered him. The Muggleborn child who had first befriended him, the teenaged Lily of their Hogwarts days, the young woman he caught an occasional glimpse of at an Order meeting… She was here – and yet she wasn’t. Her eyes lived on, and her compassion, her boundless capacity for love – they all lived on in Harry. Her child. Her son – who he suddenly knew was now the most important thing in his life. Lily’s presence pressed upon him, and suddenly, although far from a spiritual man, Snape was convinced that she was there with him. Watching. Waiting.

“I promise, Lily. I promise I will care for him as you would have. I promise,” he made his second Unbreakable Vow, and he could swear her fragrance intensified. He closed his eyes, desperate to see her one last time even if only in his mind’s eye. He felt something brush his cheek, but when his eyes flew open, he was alone, Lily’s sweater sitting beside him in the box.

It was some time before Snape left the kitchen, his eyes reddened, the sweater safely returned to its box and stasis spell, and the fire whiskey still burning his throat. He found Arthur and Molly sitting quietly in the living room, Harry fast asleep in Molly’s arms.

“He cried himself to sleep,” Molly explained in a whisper. “It’s been such an emotional day for him.”

“Indeed,” Snape said stiffly. He held the box out to Molly but she shook her head. “It’s Harry’s, Severus, and I know no one will safeguard it for him better than you.”

He fought down an uncharacteristic lump in his throat. “This was very – thoughtful – of you.”

“To know Lily was to love her, Severus, but I think you, Harry, and James knew that better than anyone.”

He automatically bristled to hear his name linked in any way with James Potter, but he couldn’t find the energy to sustain his outrage. He nodded and shrank the box to fit it in his pocket. He reached down and scooped Harry up into his arms. The boy lolled bonelessly and he shrugged him around until Harry’s head lay against his chest.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Severus said formally.

“It was our pleasure. We’ll see you again this weekend,” Arthur said. Molly waved as Arthur threw the floo powder into the fire for him.

Severus stepped out into his quarters and contemplated the small child in his arms. He knew the proper thing, the Snape-like thing, to do would be to shake him awake and send him up to his dormitory. The boy was eleven, after all, and long day or no, he was old enough to put himself to bed. So why on earth was Snape laying him down carefully on his couch and tucking him in with a heavy afghan?

Severus scowled as he pulled off the brat’s glasses and placed them on the adjacent table. He was not going soft. It was just that it was nearly curfew and he had no intention of hearing McGonagall complain about his keeping her students out after hours. Besides, he was the boy’s guardian, so it was nobody’s business if he chose to keep the brat here. Better to do that than run the risk of the Weasley brats interrogating him on where he had been. Yes, that was it. He was keeping the boy here so as to prevent him from having to face awkward questions from his Housemates. Perfect. That was it. It had nothing to do with a blue sweater and a raft of memories. Nothing at all.

Severus groaned in torment, longing for the blessed escape of death. He couldn’t believe he’d been stupid enough to be captured in this fashion. He should have known better. He did know better. But somehow he’d been distracted, let down his guard, and this was the result.

Severus had survived the tortures of his father, his Housemates, the Marauders, and Voldemort. He had suffered under the Cruciatus more times than he wanted to remember, to say nothing of the lesser – but still excruciating – Dark curses, humiliating and painful hexes, and of course, the Muggles’ favorite, brute force. He probably had endured more punishment than any other living Wizard (except for those who enjoyed that sort of thing), and his pain tolerance was remarkably high. But not high enough. Not for this.

He bit back a whimper of anguish. He would not beg. He would not scream aloud. He would not give his tormentor that satisfaction. Even when he had writhed under Voldemort’s wand, he had not wept for mercy, and he would not start now. Surely he would slip from consciousness soon…

The only thing that remained for him now was vengeance. It was what kept him clinging to life, what prevented him from actively seeking the release of suicide. This was all the fault of that wretched brat Potter, and if it was the last thing he did on this earth, Severus vowed to exact bloody retribution from the little fiend.

He saw his torturer approaching, an eager gleam in his eye, and he prayed for deliverance. Please, please no more. Please – a portkey. A massive aneurysm. The return of the Dark Lord. Anything to rescue me from this agony.

“Severus!” Albus Dumbledore exclaimed happily. “Look! They have a version of Wizards’ Chess, only with Quidditch! Harry will love it! Do you want to give it a try?”

Severus still couldn’t believe he hadn’t been smart enough to lie when the Headmaster had noticed him leaving the castle that morning and asked where he was going. He should have known that Dumbledore would insist on accompanying him on the shopping expedition to outfit Harry’s new room, and he should have expected that the crazy old coot would turn what should have been a brief, efficient mission into endless, hellish hours.

No store was omitted. Why Dumbledore thought they needed to examine kitchenware had entirely escaped Snape. Did he imagine Potter was going to participate in the 83rd Annual Super(natural) Sweets Bake-Off? They had actually spent over an hour in a bloody linens store, debating whether Harry would prefer animated dragons or hippogriffs on his bedsheets. Or rather, Albus debated about the sheets and Severus debated bludgeoning himself unconscious. And after the dotty old man had finally decided on hippogriffs, then they had to start all over again on the color of the draperies. Severus had pointed out – with the last threads of his self-control – that he lived in a dungeon. A windowless dungeon, but that had only deflected Albus from draperies to carpeting.

At the Magical Body Shoppe, Snape had at first thought it might sell some kind of wizarding pornography and he had been about to argue with Albus that while Harry might be a growing boy with a natural, healthy curiosity, Snape was not about to encourage that sort of thing. But then he had realized – to his infinitely greater horror – that it was a sort of fancy toiletry shop in which no self-respecting man, wizard or Muggle, should be caught dead. Amidst what appeared to be a million different soaps, lotions, shampoos, creams, powders, and cosmetics (not to mention vaguely obscene-looking gadgets whose function Severus did not want to think about) Albus began a lengthy dialogue with the witch behind the counter. Severus hid as best he could amongst the cluttered, aromatic merchandise – the store made Ollivander’s look empty – and hoped for an attack by Death Eaters.

While Severus endured the curious stares of the other customers (all female, of course), Albus discussed proper skin care for pre-teens with more concentration than he normally brought to meetings of the Wizengamot. After the headmaster had purchased a bagful of products that the witch insisted would guarantee Harry a spot-free adolescence, Severus made a beeline for the door, only to be dragged back by Albus’ magic.

Mortified beyond words – that spell was used by mothers on wayward toddlers! – Snape had opened his mouth to tell the Headmaster just what he thought of his behavior, but he’d been shocked into speechlessness by the realization that Albus and the shopwitch were now discussing hair care. Specifically, the care of his hair! All of his protests, shouts, arguments, and fuming were blithely ignored, and he was kept at the counter – under threat of a sticking hex – as his scalp and hair were meticulously examined. To his intense dismay, several of the customers joined in the resultant discussion, offering their own remedies and advice, and it was a good twenty minutes before he was finally allowed to escape, with an even larger bag of supplies than the one intended for Harry.

His afternoon had gone downhill from there. In the clothing store, he had actually threatened to Avada Dumbledore if he didn’t stop selecting the most extreme examples of psychedelic clothing. At the bookstore, Albus was only prevented from purchasing Harry a private library equal to Snape’s and Dumbedore’s combined volumes by urgent reminders that Madame Pince would surely take such an action as a personal insult and retire to the stacks in tears. At the pet store, the headmaster had wanted to purchase Harry a familiar, but Snape managed to persuade him that Hedwig was unlikely to welcome the intrusion of a kneazle or crup.

But it was at the toy store – predictably – that Albus had gone insane, and now Severus was rapidly following. “No. More. Toys. Albus,” Snape managed to snarl between clenched teeth. The pile of toys at the counter was already more appropriate for a new satellite shop location than the small bedroom of a single wizarding child.

The Headmaster’s face fell. “Oh, but Severus, they have – “

“No. No more.” Seeing the older wizard was about to argue, Severus turned crafty. “What will you get him for Christmas if you buy out the store now?” he asked, refusing to imagine what Christmas with the brat would be like. All tinsel and ho-ho-ho’ing and enough holiday cheer to make Snape nauseous for a month.

“Hmmm. You do have a point,” Albus finally agreed, and Snape wasted no time in hustling him out of the shop.

“Ooh – wait! Quidditch!” Albus said, pointing, as Snape tried to drag him along to the apparition point.

“While you were busy dithering over the best material for Potter’s dress robes, I went to the Quidditch shop,” Snape informed him, callously ignoring Dumbledore’s disappointed expression.

“Maybe you forgot something?” he suggested hopefully.

“Christmas, Albus. It’s only a few months away,” Severus retorted, not easing his pull on the older man’s arm

Dumbledore sighed, then brightened. “I can’t wait to see the look on Harry’s face when –“

“No, Albus. You are not going to turn this into an excuse for a surprise party. I will not have my private quarters invaded by half of Gryffindor Tower, to say nothing of assorted moronic faculty members like Trelawny.”

“Perhaps just a few of Harry’s closest friends…”Albus began.

“Can you imagine the havoc Hagrid would wreak if he stumbled into my potion supplies? No.”

The headmaster sighed in defeat. “Very well, my boy. But I may require you to show me Harry’s expression via Penseive.”

“The brat is still working through his punishment for the flying incident,” Snape said coldly. “I have not yet decided when he might be allowed one or two of the smaller items.”

Dumbledore sighed again. “You shouldn’t be so strict, Severus. Was it not you who emphasized the importance of positive reinforcement?”

Snape glared. “If you do not like the job I am doing you should not have forced it upon me. I would remind you that this was not my idea.” It was intensely gratifying to see Albus’ meek nod, though the sensation lasted only until Albus’ next words.

“Very true, my boy. So it is all the more satisfying to see you embracing it with such dedication. I understand from Molly and Arthur that they were impressed with your handling of Harry over dinner last night. They said you were quite a natural,” Albus smirked.

Severus gnashed his teeth. Bloody, overtalkative Gryffindors!

He managed to get some of his own back by refusing to allow Albus help him arrange Harry’s new room, though in retrospect he wished it had been the headmaster who had to deal with the house elves. When they learned the new room was intended for Master Harry Potter Sir, the little creatures went mad with excitement and about thirty popped into existence, dashing about the room and readying it for its new occupant. Snape had to intercede in innumerable arguments amongst the high-strung little creatures and it took all his Slytherin cunning to prevent them from carrying out mass self-punishments when they decided a piece of furniture would look better on the other side of the room after all. By the time the room met with their unanimous satisfaction, he was convinced that it would have been easier by far to do it himself the Muggle way.

When he’d roused the boy that morning from where he had slumbered on Snape’s couch, Harry had been alternately embarrassed and delighted to find he’d been allowed to stay in the professor’s private quarters. “Um, thanks for letting me sleep here,” he mumbled, pink. He propped himself up on one elbow and scrubbed at his eyes. Wow – the professor had let him sleep on his good couch and everything!

“Yes, well, it was very late and I had better things to do than walk you all the way back to the Tower,” Snape sniffed. He tugged the boy up by his ear, lest the brat think he was getting soft. “Get washed and dressed, or you will miss your breakfast,’ he threatened darkly, though he had no intention of releasing the too-skinny brat without a full, nutritious meal in his stomach. “The house elves are waiting to send it up.”

“That’s okay,” Harry assured the professor, even as he obediently headed down the corridor to the bathroom. He didn’t want the man to go to any trouble on his behalf. “I c’n just grab a sweet roll and eat it on the way to class – eep!” He broke off as the professor’s strong fingers closed again on his ear and dragged him around him to face the man.

He blinked in surprise. The grip on his ear didn’t hurt exactly, but Harry knew better than to resist it.

“Potter, if I see you stuffing your face with unhealthy sugary treats, I will order the house elves to spoon feed you your meals for the next month,” Snape threatened furiously. “I expect you to eat three balanced meals a day, and to limit your intake of sweets. How do you expect to add muscle and height to your scrawny frame if you don’t eat properly? Chocolate frogs and sweet rolls and three helpings of pudding are going to make you as wide as your whale of a cousin. Do you understand?”

Wide eyed, Harry nodded. His relatives barely gave him enough food, let alone cared if it was nutritionally balanced or not.

“We shall discuss this in greater length later,” Snape promised sternly. “For now, though, you should get in the habit of following Miss Granger. She appears to eat quite sensibly.”

Harry wrinked his nose. “She always takes lots of vegetables and green stuff,” he protested. “She eats like a girl.”

“And Mr Weasley eats like a bottomless pit, and you, young man, are well on your way to a spotty and unhealthy adolescence. Now do as I say or you will regret it.” He sent the boy towards the bathroom with a glare. Really! Such insolence – and so early in the morning too!

Harry hurried to the bathroom and performed his morning ablutions. His heart was singing. Merlin, Professor Snape worried about him! It wasn’t enough for him that Harry ate, he insisted that Harry ate the right foods. And he was even going to teach him what they were, just so Harry would grow up to be strong and healthy. Harry grinned at his reflection. He guessed that if the professor had anything to say about it, Harry would be taller than Ron by the end of the school year. It would be a nice change from always being the runt of the class.

Scrubbed pink, Harry slid into his seat at the small table in Snape’s kitchen, under the professor’s stern glance. “G’morning, sir,” Harry said, remembering his manners a bit belatedly.

“Good morning,” the professor replied. A plate of eggs, toast, and fruit appeared with a pop, and Harry smiled happily. “You will be sure to finish your milk, Mr Potter, and this vial of dietary supplementation as well. It will make up for some of the…nutritional inadequacies of your previous life.”

Harry gave the potion a dubious look, but he figured it was safer not to protest. He remembered how Mr Weasley had given him extra vegetables last night, and he decided it was a dad thing.

“You will take a daily dose of this potion,” Snape continued, pleased that Harry was too busy forking eggs into his mouth to protest, “until Madame Pomfrey informs me that you have caught up to your age group on the growth charts.”

“Does it taste awful?” Harry inquired with a sigh.

“Undoubtedly.” Snape smirked as the boy groaned. This was quite fun. It wasn’t even his first class and he had already tormented a child. “As I am certain you have not so much as begun the lines you owe me –“ Harry’s guilty blush confirmed his suspicions “- you will report for detention with me this afternoon, immediately after your last class.”

“Awwww,” Harry protested. “It’s Friday!”

“And you have detention,” Snape informed him heartlessly. “Would you care to try for Saturday detention as well?”

Harry grumped and stabbed moodily at his fruit.

“And just what thrilling plans did you have for the afternoon?” Snape sneered, irritated at the boy’s sulking.

Harry shrugged. “I dunno. I just figured Ron an’ me would –“

“Idiot. Have you forgotten that Mr Weasley and his brothers are being summoned to the Burrow immediately after classes?”

“Oh.” Harry thought for a moment. If Ron weren’t around, there really wasn’t much to do. Granger would probably try to convince him to study with her, and though Dean and Seamus might include him in their plans, it was just as likely that they wouldn’t.

He really did need to work on the lines, and it would be better to do it here where he could get the professor’s help with his handwriting than back in the Common Room where everyone would see he was being punished. Given Ron’s absence, the professor was right: this really was the best time to do the assigned lines, when he wouldn’t be missing out on anything else.

Harry glanced over at the professor. Here the man had selected the perfect opportunity for Harry to get his punishment over with, when he wouldn’t have to forego other, more enjoyable activities, and Harry was whining at him. What’s more, Professor Snape had been awfully nice about his not finishing the lines quickly. Plenty of other teachers would have gotten cross if he hadn’t handed them in the very next day. “’M sorry,” he mumbled guiltily.

“Hmf.” Snape, still scowling, didn’t even look up from where he was perusing a potions journal as he sipped his morning coffee.

Harry drooped in his chair. Now the professor was mad at him, and properly so. He poked at the last of his fruit, his appetite abruptly gone.

“Finish your breakfast, you horrible brat,” Snape ordered sharply. “Classes will start shortly.” He reached over and fixed the little monster’s collar where it was twisted at the back. Honestly, couldn’t he even dress himself?

Harry looked up hopefully through his fringe. Maybe the professor wasn’t all that mad if he were fixing Harry’s shirt?

“I said, eat!” Snape gave the defiant child a cuff on the side of the head. It was definitely a cuff, not a pat. And certainly not a tousle of the brat’s wild hair. It wasn’t his fault if his fingers got caught in the rat’s nest.

Reassured, Harry grinned and demolished the rest of his breakfast. “Y’ssir,” he mumbled around the last of his milk.

“And don’t talk with your mouth full!” Snape snapped, but the rebuke went unnoticed as the brat slipped from his chair and, snatching up his bookbag, ran for the door.

“See you this afternoon, Pr’fessor!” Harry shouted over his shoulder.

“It’s a detention, Potter!” Snape yelled angrily. “Not a party!” Ooh, he seethed, he’d teach that little wretch to fear his detentions. Chirp a happy farewell, would he? When facing an afternoon of punishment? He’d have that brat writing lines until his fingers fell off, and then he’d really make him suffer…

By the time classes ended, Snape had regained his good humor by reducing four NEWTS students to tears and awarding Oliver Wood a detention guaranteed to have the boy begging for mercy. By the time he was done bending over to scrub a decade’s worth of potion splatters off the legs of Snape’s classroom desks, Wood’s back would be in spasm for days. Or at least until he managed to limp up to the infirmary.

The Gryffindor Quidditch captain had apologized and groveled while Snape verbally flayed him for not showing Harry proper warm up and cool down exercises before the tryout, but what had really made his eyes fill with horrified tears was Snape’s threat to switch the boy to the Slytherin team if the Gryffindor team didn’t take proper care of its players. Wood had gabbled out panicked promises and offered to let Snape take any further injuries that Harry suffered out of his own hide. “Why, Mr Wood,” Snape had silkily replied, “I was already planning to do so.”

After all the threats, the actual punishment was a welcome relief to the twitching Wood, and Snape left him scrubbing away as Harry entered the room.

“H’lo, sir,” Harry said politely, quickly stuffing the chocolate frog he’d been munching into a robe pocket.

Snape took his chin in a firm grip and, taking out a clean white handkerchief, he scrubbed the urchin’s face. “Hmmm?” he asked menacingly, showing the brat the smears of chocolate that had, until a moment ago, decorated his countenance.

“Erm… It’s the Patil twins’ birthday,” Harry explained pleadingly. “They were giving frogs to everyone. It would’ve been rude to refuse.”

“No dessert tonight.” Snape pronounced in tones that brooked no argument.

Harry sighed. “Y’sir. C’n I at least finish my frog then?” he asked hopefully.

“No.” Snape extended his palm, and Harry mournfully deposited the half-eaten frog upon it. It was rather linty after its stay in his pocket, he admitted to himself. Snape regarded it with loathing and Vanished the treat. He took Harry by the shoulder and moved him briskly down the aisle to a seat in the front row.

“Hi, Oliver,” Harry said as he was dragged past the older Gryffindor.

“Hullo, kid,” Wood grinned up at him from where he was bent over the tall desk, scouring the legs with a stiff-bristled brush.

“This is not a tea party, Potter,” Snape snapped. “Sit down and begin your lines.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said obediently, drawing parchment and quill out of his bag. He’d been assigned the lines about his relatives first, but it would be easier to finish the ones about the flying incident, since there were only 200 of them. He decided that it would be better to finish at least one part of his punishment as quickly as possible and determined to work on the 200 line assignment.

His stomach gave a rumble and he thought longingly of the frog before focusing his attention on the work before him. Now what was it that Snape had told him to write…? Oh, right – Harry bent to his task.

He jumped in amazement as a glass of milk and plate of sliced apples appeared on the desk in front of him.

Looking up at the professor, he saw Snape glaring at him. “Get to work, you lazy brat!”

“Sir!” Wood protested from the back of the room, and Harry twisted around in surprise. “You shouldn’t call him that!”

“Mind your own business, Mr Wood, or would you care to clean the chairs as well as the desks?” Snape threatened.

Wood ducked back to work, muttering rebelliously, while Harry nibbled an apple slice and wondered what all the fuss was about.

He’d finished most of the apple and all of his milk when Snape dragged up a chair beside him. “How do you expect me to read this chicken scratch?” the professor scolded, glancing over the dozen or so lines Harry had written.

“Sorry, sir,” Harry said meekly.

“Look here. This is the proper way to hold a quill, and – where did you get such a pathetic excuse for a quill, Mr Potter?”

“Erm, they were on sale in Diagon Alley, sir…”

“Obviously priced that way because otherwise no one would be foolish enough to purchase such appallingly poor quality items,” Snape sniffed contemptuously. “Here. This is a self-inking leakproof quill. I will have no more of your whining excuses about your quill being the cause of your atrocious handwriting.”

Harry was going to point out he hadn’t offered any excuses, whiny or otherwise, but he figured that it would be rude to argue when he’d just been given a present. “Thank you, sir!”

Snape scowled horribly. “Stop chattering and try again! No, no – hold it like so.” By the end of fifteen minutes, Harry’s penmanship was markedly improved, and Snape returned to his own desk. “And if you don’t have fifty lines done by the next time I check, Potter, you will find yourself hexed to that chair until curfew!”

“Bloody bat,” came floating from the back of the room.

“Did you say something, Mr Wood?” Snape purred.

“No, sir,” Oliver replied meekly.

“Straighten up and face me when you address me, Mr Wood!”

The whimpers that Oliver emitted as he painfully stood brought a smirk of pure pleasure to Snape’s face. Wood groaned pitifully as his back agonizingly protested the previous two hours.

“Dear, dear, Mr Wood. I suppose I should have let you stretch out a bit before setting you to scrub the undersides of all those desks,” Snape said happily. “Your back muscles must be in knots.”

“Yes, sir,” Oliver winced. He had to admit, sore as he was, that there was some poetic justice to this detention. He sent an apologetic look over to where Harry was sneaking a peek over his shoulder. He really hadn’t meant to overwork the little kid like that, but it was just so exciting to see him dart in and grab the snitch time after time after time.

“There is still an hour and a half until dinner,” Snape mused, enjoying the way the Gryffindor captain paled at the thought of another ninety minutes of such back-breaking labor.

“Please sir,” Wood tried, “the tryouts were only two hours.”

“And you are older, stronger, and – allegedly – wiser than an eleven year old, Mr Wood!”

He sighed. “Yes sir.” Wood started to bend over again, but was halted by the Potion Master’s cold tones.

“You may spend the remainder of the afternoon considering the lesson you have just learned.”

Wood looked uncertainly at Professor Snape. What did that mean? Was he about to be sent to a corner like a four year old? The greasy git was capable of almost anything, so long as it was humiliating, painful, and likely to make grown men weep.

Snape rolled his eyes. Little words – Gryffindors need little words and clear directions, he reminded himself. “I assume you can contemplate your actions without being engaged in manual labor, Mr Wood?”

“Oh! Erm - yes, sir,” Oliver nodded quickly, scenting a reprieve.

“Then you are dismissed. I expect two feet on the responsibilities of leadership on my desk by Monday, along with another twelve inches on the prevention of back injuries.” He smirked. “I imagine you can interview Madame Pomfrey on the latter topic while you are consulting her professionally. If both essays do not meet with my approval, you will provide another two feet on sports injury incidence and prevention. Do we understand one another?”

“Yes, sir,” Wood agreed miserably. Two extra essays! So much for his plans to practice his flying this weekend. And if he knew Snape, he’d probably end up doing the third essay as well. Wood’s shoulders slumped in dejection, and he immediately flinched at the hot, knife-like pain that the movement caused. At least Snape had pretty much just given him permission to see the medi-witch. He had expected to have been prohibited from using any kind of magical pain relief, and it was a pleasant surprise to realize that not even Snape was that evil.

Besides, it could have been much worse. The git might have made good on his threat to turn Potter into a flying snake! He winked at Potter, and the kid grinned back.

Wood felt a little bad leaving the First Year alone, at the mercy of the Evil Bat, but on the other hand, it wasn’t as if his presence had been much help to the kid. Snape had still snapped and snarked at him the whole time, coming down on him for his handwriting, for Merlin’s sake! What business of his was it if the kid’s handwriting was awful? You wouldn’t catch Professor McGonagall sticking her nose in like that. She respected her students and didn’t treat them like a bunch of babies. Wood had heard that Snape even assigned bedtimes to his Slytherin first years – Merlin! What was the point of being away at school if you couldn’t stay up late when you felt like it?

Wood waved at Harry and turned to go. “Thank you, professor,” he called out, figuring it was a lot safer to be polite.

“What part of ‘dismissed’ was unclear to you, Mr Wood?” the professor’s snarky retort floated back to him as he escaped through the door.

Snape kept one eye on the brat and the other eye on the time. Newly equipped with the rudiments of proper penmanship and a functional quill, Harry managed to demonstrate substantial improvement by the end of his 200 lines, which he finished shortly before dinner.

“Here, Pr’fessor!” Harry said happily. “I counted twice to be sure I got them all.” He flourished the parchment with pride.

Normally at this point, Snape incendio’d the parchment to demonstrate to the miscreant just how pointless the punishment had been. All that time and effort spent on something completely without meaning or value even to the man who’d required it. More than once, this casual act of cruelty had reduced students to helpless tears, as they realized just how heartless and mean their Potions Professor really was.

But somehow, looking at the satisfaction with which Harry regarded his 200 lines, the product of an entire afternoon of laborious, tongue-biting effort, Snape couldn’t do it. “Hmf,” he scanned the parchment. “Not quite as atrocious as it might have been,” he said grudgingly.

“So instead of chicken scratch, maybe it’s… monkey scribble?” Harry asked cheekily.

Snape narrowed his eyes. “Your handwriting has not yet reached the evolutionary level of primates, Mr Potter.”

“Turkey scratch? Owl scrapings? Penguin – “ Harry was having too much fun with this line of thought, and Snape brought his hand down on his desk with a resounding crash.

“POTTER. You are being punished!”

“Oh,” Harry said guiltily. He did his best to look repentant. The professor shouldn’t have had to remind him of that. Now the man probably felt like he hadn’t done a very good job of disciplining Harry. Poor Professor Snape! Harry knew what it was like to be made to feel as if you hadn’t done a very good job, despite trying your best. He didn't want to make the professor feel that way.

Despite what Mr Weasley had said, it was clear to Harry that the professor simply didn’t have it in him to be terribly strict. Still, just because Snape really didn’t understand this whole punishment thing didn’t mean Harry should make him feel bad about his shortcomings. “Sorry, sir.” He thought hard. What could he say that would make his professor believe the “punishment” had been effective? “Erm, I’m really very sorry about taking risks with my safety. I’ve learned my lesson, honest.” He watched the professor worriedly. Would that work? He really hadn’t meant to make Professor Snape feel inadequate.

Snape eyed the brat narrowly. That was more like it. He looked anxious now, and he was biting his lip nervously. Obviously Snape’s outburst had frightened the little menace. His relatives probably shouted at him quite a lot.

Snape shifted uncomfortably as an unfamiliar feeling of guilt settled in his chest. Harry was much more fragile than the average horrible Hogwarts student. He had to remember that and not be his usual snarky self, lest the brat be reminded of those unnatural Muggles.

“I’m glad to hear that, Mr Potter,” he said, his voice still stern but more quiet. “Your welfare is too important for you to treat it casually or place yourself at unnecessary risk. I will not relax my position on this, so unless you wish to spend more afternoons copying lines, writing essays, and nursing a sore backside, I suggest you demonstrate more caution in your daily activities.”

It took Harry a few moments to puzzle out all the big words, but once he had, his face lit up with a beaming smile. Professor Snape had just said Harry mattered! He’d said that Harry’s health and safety were important. That Harry couldn’t just do any old silly thing that might get him hurt, because he was important. That was almost like saying Snape cared. Better almost, because lots of times people said they cared, but they didn’t do anything to back it up.

But Snape did more than that. He’d said that if Harry put himself at risk, he, Snape, would stop him. He’d even threatened him with another smacking - not that his light taps actually left Harry with a sore backside, but it was obvious that Professor Snape believed they did. Still, his threat showed how serious he was, because he only used spankings to punish the most serious misbehavior. Wow – that was almost like saying that nothing was more important than Harry.

Harry blinked. This was a thought so revolutionary that he had to test it.

“Sir?”

“What?” Snape frowned. The boy was still looking pinched around the mouth. What was upsetting him so much? The threat of more swats? The scolding? Had Snape’s tone still been too harsh?

“Would you smack me for talking back to you?” Harry asked cautiously. Back talk had always been a major sin in the Dursley household. For Harry, anyway. Dudley was of course permitted to say anything he wanted and to throw tantrums over trivialities.

Snape blinked. What an odd question. What could Potter be up to? He gave the brat his “since you are obviously finding life as a human too challenging, let’s see if you are more useful to society as potion ingredients” glare and growled, “No, Mr Potter, though I will ensure through other methods that you are unlikely to engage in that behavior more than once.”

Harry thought about that. Maybe talking back wasn’t such a big deal here. He’d heard some of the other kids – like Ron – say things to the professors that he would never have said to Uncle Vernon, not unless he wanted his backside to be bruised in all the colors of the rainbow. Maybe he should ask about something else.

“Would you smack me for punching someone? Like Draco, say?” Harry guessed that getting in a fight with a member of Snape’s House would be sure to land Harry with the most severe punishment possible.

Snape eyed the boy narrowly. On the one hand he was encouraged that the boy would contemplate striking someone, rather than always being the passive victim that the Dursleys had trained him to be. On the other hand, he wasn’t pleased at this sign of pre-adolescent male aggression. And why was the little idiot even asking such a question? Was he actually stupid enough to inform Snape of his plans for future mischief, albeit in this roundabout way? “No, Potter, because the resulting loss of House points and numerous detentions you would receive would adequately demonstrate the folly of your actions.”

Harry blinked. Wow. So the professor did think that punching Draco was a lesser sin than putting himself in jeopardy. That was amazing. He knew he should stop, but he felt compelled to push his luck and try one more thing. Surely this would outweigh all other crimes, at least here at a school.

“Wouldn’t you smack me for… cheating?” Harry barely breathed the last word. He figured that to a teacher, cheating had to be the ultimate sin. After all, besides fighting and cheekiness, what else did students do that made teachers furious beyond words?

The little monster! What was he plotting? Snape reached out and, seizing Harry by the shoulder, dragged him close. “Potter,” he said, glaring at the brat, “cheating at Hogwarts is one of the few actions which are dealt with by Professor Dumbledore himself. Do you really want him upset with you?” Harry paled and shook his head violently. “Good.” Snape paused. “But to answer your question, no. I would not smack you for that. I have told you repeatedly that you will only be struck for violating my two most important rules, both of which have to do with preserving your safety.” He scowled menacingly. “Do you need to copy this statement a few hundred times in order for it to sink into your thick skull?”

“No, sir!” Harry said quickly. His fingers were already sore from gripping the quill for the 200 lines, and he still had another 500 to do. But despite Snape’s threat, he couldn’t restrain the blinding happiness surging through him. He was right, incredible though it might seem. Snape was in fact saying that Harry's health and welfare were more important to him than anything else.

Considering how often Harry had burnt himself preparing the Dursley’s food or hurt himself working in their garden, it was downright strange that Snape put so much emphasis on his wellbeing. The Dursleys had always insisted that everything about Harry, including his health, took a distant second place to their slightest whim. They wouldn’t inconvenience themselves even for something of critical importance to Harry, and for most of his life, Harry had just had to accept that Dudley’s most trivial desire outweighed his own deepest need. Until now.

Now Professor Snape was standing the world on its head, and saying that the MOST important thing to him was Harry. Harry’s health. Harry’s safety. And he was willing to back up his words with actions, up to and including a swatting – which he obviously considered a Very Severe Punishment Indeed. The warm feeling inside Harry intensified. Professor Snape very clearly had no idea how to spank a kid. But the fact that he was still willing to give it a try, just to make sure Harry understood how serious Snape was about his staying safe, meant the man was willing to go to a lot of trouble on Harry’s behalf – something no one else had ever done for as long as Harry could remember.

Harry wished there was something he could do for Professor Snape to show him how much he appreciated what the professor was doing for him. “Sir?” he said tentatively.

“What is it now, Potter?” Snape demanded in irritation. Why was the brat just standing there, frowning in thought?

And suddenly the little monster had him in a stranglehold. Snape nearly drew his wand before he realized Harry wasn’t attacking him. It was a hug – completely incomprehensible given the circumstances. The wretch was in detention; he’d just had to copy the same lengthy sentence 200 mind-numbing times; he’d been threatened with additional punishments, up to and including physical chastisement; and it had been made explicitly clear to him that Snape would cut him no slack, show him no favoritism should he get into trouble. He’d quickly destroyed any hopes the brat might have had that his misdemeanors would be overlooked.

He had finally deduced that Harry was bringing up some typical school-based misbehavior in the hopes that his guardian would promise to use his faculty status to let him off with a warning. Instead Snape had made it clear that Harry would be punished most unpleasantly for even minor transgressions. Why on earth had this prompted a grateful hug?

Snape wondered if the boy were even more confused than he had originally thought. It had been obvious from that first detention that Harry had no idea about what constituted appropriate punishments, let alone rewards, but now Severus wondered if he were so befuddled that anything short of a brutal thrashing was seen as incredible leniency.

“Potter, that’s quite enough,” he said, disentangling the whelp from his neck. He glowered at the brat, who was smiling mistily at him, but somehow the hands that were holding Potter at arms’ length were much gentler than they should have been. He had intended to give the boy a good shake, lest he think that such maudlin displays of emotion would be welcome, but instead he found himself patting the skinny shoulders. Really! What was he doing? Just because he’d agreed to look after the boy didn’t mean he had to display such appalling sappiness himself.

Time to change the subject.

“Potter, come with me.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably and rose to his feet. Harry trotted along beside him as Snape led the way to his personal quarters.

Snape argued with himself the whole way, but in the end he decided that it made sense to get it over with here and now, if for no other reason than he didn’t want Albus to pester him about it over dinner. “Go in,” he ordered, opening the door to Harry’s new room.

The brat – disobedient in this as in all things – gave him an uncertain look and peered in warily. “Go in!” Snape repeated. He brought his hand forward smartly, intending to propel the little monster into the room with a firm shove.

The admonitory push didn’t work out quite as Snape had intended, because the next thing he knew, the brat had seized his hand and was clutching it as he ventured forward. The way he was hesitating, you would have thought that a live dragon lay in wait within the dim room.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Potter.” Snape stepped forward, pulling the boy with him. He waved his wand, illuminating their surroundings, and Harry’s jaw dropped.

They stood in the middle of a fair sized room, with magical windows providing a view of the Quidditch pitch. A curtained bed stood blazing with (in Snape’s view) garish Gryffindor colors, while around the room bookcases held both textbooks and pleasure reading, not to mention many of the toys and activities that Albus had insisted upon purchasing. A desk in the corner – much too close to the window, in Snape’s view; the brat’s microscopic attention span would be constantly distracted – had a few basic reference materials, age-appropriate quill set (leakproof, magically refilling, and charmed to recognize misspellings), and a stack of parchments of various lengths.

Snape saw the boy’s eye had been caught by the animated hippogriffs on the bedsheets and once again rolled his eyes at Albus’ fancy. Surely Potter was too old for such babyish nonsense!

“Wicked!” the boy breathed. Well. Apparently not.

Harry’s eyes roamed over the room. It was like a dream bedroom, filled with even more amazing toys than Dudley’s had been. There was an easel with paints in one corner, something that looked like an animated, miniaturized game of Quidditch in another, more books than he had ever seen outside a library… Even something as prosaic as the bed had magical sheets, and he could see through a half-open door that the attached bathroom was large and contained a bathtub as well as a sink and toilet.

Whoever lived here was amazingly lucky! Harry wondered why he would ever leave this marvelous room. If Harry had had a room even a fraction as nice as this, the Dursleys would never have had to lock him away; he would have been all too happy to stay there, out of sight.

Harry looked around, wondering whose room it was. He hadn’t thought that Professor Snape had children, but obviously he’d been wrong. Harry felt a sharp pang of loss and – was that jealousy? – in his chest. Stupid, he told himself fiercely. Just because he’s been kind to you doesn’t mean you're anything special to him. He’s just nice, that’s all.

Harry fought down a feeling of bitter disappointment, which he recognized as being both unhelpful to him and unfair to the professor. He knew all too well what it was like to be second best, and he had briefly hoped that for once he would be the primary focus of an adult’s attention. But obviously that wasn’t to be. And really, Professor Snape would be a lot better than the Dursleys. Hadn’t he already been kinder to Harry than they had ever been? Even if he had his own child whom he’d naturally care more about, he’d probably still be nice to Harry, and besides, Harry also had the Weasleys.

Ohhhhh, now Harry understood his visits to the Weasleys in a new light. Obviously he was to be sent to the Weasleys whenever Professor Snape wanted to spend time with his real son. Well, that was a lot better than being exiled to a cupboard. Harry tried to smile. See? he told himself. Professor Snape is being awfully nice and thinking about me.

That was the thing about being an orphan. You couldn’t really expect anybody else to want you once your parents were dead. Everyone else was busy enough with their own kids, and being stuck with another one was, well, inconvenient. Harry had had that concept drummed into him from a very early age, and he knew he should be grateful for any small kindnesses that came his way.

And he was. Really. It was just that for some stupid, foolish, babyish reason he had imagined that Professor Snape was… his. And it hurt an astonishing amount to realize otherwise.

He forced back his traitorous tears. It would never do for the professor, who had been so nice to him (even giving him a present in the middle of detention!), to guess how presumptuous Harry had been.

“Yes, sir?” he struggled to sound as natural as possible. He looked around the room again. Why were they here? Perhaps Snape wanted him to clean the room? Or was he going to warn him – as the Dursleys had with both of Dudley’s bedrooms – that this room was off-limits to him? As if he’d be stupid enough to touch someone else’s things! Dudley had cured him of that before he was four years old.

Snape frowned at the boy. He hadn’t expected transports of joy – well, actually he had – but for as emotional a little creature as Potter was, this poker faced surveying of the room was infuriating. The little ingrate was apparently too proud even to offer up a token ‘thank you’, and he had gazed around the room with a distinct expression of acute disappointment.

So all of his efforts (not to mention the house elves’) had been wasted, had they? Snape cursed himself for even bothering to try to please the unappreciative whelp. Why had he ever expected a Potter to show gratitude? Naturally the boy felt that any bedroom in a dungeon was inappropriate for the Prince of Gryffindor!

Snape ground his teeth, forcing back the snarls of invective that he could feel rising to his lips. They would reveal too much of his own emotional state. No, better to match the boy’s disinterested, faintly contemptuous attitude. He had never let the father know how much hurt his actions had caused; he wasn’t about to start now with the son.

When Harry turned to him with an expectant look and question, Snape returned the look with his own scowl. “What is it, Potter?” He’d be damned if he were going to prompt the boy for token – and obviously insincere – thanks.

“Erm… why are we here, sir?”

The effrontery of the boy! As if the room was beneath his notice! Irrelevant to him! Fine, two could play at that game.

“I thought you might like to see where you will sleep when you stay with me,” he sneered. “Most civilized people do wish to have some knowledge of their accommodations.”

Oh no. This was a very bad idea. Harry looked around the enchanting, enchanted room with something closely akin to dread. It was one thing not to have much. It was another thing to have your nose rubbed in it. Being surrounded by all these wonderful things that he could never, ever hope to touch, let alone own, would be much, much worse than being stuck in a small, dusty, spider-filled cupboard. At least in the cupboard, Harry could surround himself with wonders from his imagination. They might not be real, but at least they were his.

And what about the owner of the room? He wouldn’t be pleased to have some interloper staying in his bed, possibly playing with his toys. Even if he weren’t like Dudley, who seemed to feel that his things were soiled beyond repair if Harry so much as glanced at them, he was unlikely to want someone else to be living in his room, with his things. And if he were like Dudley… Some of Harry’s worst punishments had come after Dudley had claimed that Harry had broken, touched, or played with his toys. It didn’t matter if Harry had been in another room entirely when it happened, his aunt and uncle had always taken Dudley’s words at face value.

Harry hoped that Professor Snape might be a little more fair if such a thing happened here – at least waiting to hear Harry’s side of the story before automatically punishing him – but it would be much, much better to avoid the problem in the first place.

“Please, sir,” Harry gulped. He didn’t want to seem ungrateful. Ungrateful people were the very worst – and they often didn’t get fed for a long, long time. “Couldn’t I just sleep on the couch like I did last night? It was really comfortable. I don’t need a bed.”

Snape couldn’t believe the brat. Was he really so spiteful that he’d prefer to sleep on a couch than a bed, just to show how utterly disdainful he was of Snape’s efforts to please him?

“And if I don’t wish to have a snoring urchin in my living room?” he snarled, barely managing to restrain his temper. Only the thought of Albus’ reaction if he bodily flung the little wretch from his quarters prevented him from doing so.

Oh. Of course. Harry felt stupid. Like anyone would want an orphan smack in the middle of their quarters. “Er, well, I really don’t need a room like this,” he said, fidgeting. “I mean, if you’ve got a storage room or clos-“ He never got to finish the sentence, because Snape grabbed him by the shoulders and gave him a shake.

“Closet?” the professor demanded furiously. “Were you about to say closet?” At Harry’s wide eyed nod, the professor shook him again. “How dare you suggest that I am like those dreadful relatives of yours, Potter! Do you actually imagine I would lock a child away like some disused cleaning supplies?” Snape couldn’t remember the last time he had been this angry. Even the Weasley twins sabotaging the Slytherin tower’s showers, turning his entire House green, paled by comparison. This little brat was informing him that he preferred those Muggles’ cupboard over Snape’s best attempt at a lavish bedroom? Such outrageous disrespect was… positively Slytherin.

Harry stared at Professor Snape in shock. He was almost as mad as when Harry had gone after the remembrall. But what had Harry done? All he had said – oh. He had suggested that a closet was good enough for him. The professor had made it very clear that the Dursleys were awful people because they hadn’t treated Harry properly. Harry deserved better. And yet here he was, acting like it was okay if he were shoved in a closet. The Dursleys would never have treated Dudley like that, and Professor Snape had said that Harry deserved to be treated at least as well as Dudley. At least.

The professor must think he was awfully dumb. He kept forgetting. He kept acting like what the Dursleys had told him was right, even though Professor Snape must have told him otherwise about a million times. No wonder he was angry.

Of course, this also meant that the professor still cared about him. Oh, obviously not as much as he cared about his real boy, the one to whom this magnificent room belonged, but quite a lot all the same. Harry’s heart leapt a little. He really liked that the professor got so furious whenever Harry acted as if he didn’t matter. It was such a clear indication that Harry did matter. To him. At least a little bit.

“’M sorry,” he mumbled, casting down his eyes to hide the relief in them. “I just didn’t want to get in trouble for touching anything.”

Snape’s ire was checked as the words penetrated. “What? Why would you get in trouble for that?”

Harry kept his eyes down and lifted one shoulder in a shrug, a habit Snape had already learned to detest. “He might not like me touching his things.”

“Who?”

“Your son.”

Snape’s legs nearly gave out from under him. What? Was the brat delusional? Did he have a split personality to speak of himself in the third person? “Potter, what in Merlin’s name are you talking about?”

Harry looked up at him in confusion. “Your son. The boy whose room this is. Or is it your nephew? I just think he probably wouldn’t want me to stay here. I mean, it’s got all his stuff, and he might not like it. I wouldn’t touch anything,” he added swiftly, “but he – he might think I had. Like if I moved something while I was cleaning. And then he might get mad,” he ended, swallowing hard.

Snape stared at the boy. As usual, Harry's emotions were written large upon his features. Longing, envy, lost hope, dread, apprehension… He had obviously been accused of “touching something” in the past – at the Muggles’, clearly – and the outcome had scarred him. Probably literally. Snape ground his teeth again, but now the rage was no longer directed at the boy in front of him, but at those bloody Muggles to whom a visit was long overdue.

For now, though, he had several misconceptions to clear up. “Potter. I do not have a son, nor a nephew, nor a cousin, nor any other type of blood relative. I have a ward. You,” he pointed out. The boy was a Gryffindor, after all.

Harry stared at the man in confusion. So the professor was alone, as Harry had somehow guessed. But then why was this brilliant room here?

“This room,” Snape went on, ignoring the guilt that stabbed at him for his earlier misconceptions, “is yours. I created it – with the help of the house elves,” he added grudgingly, “- for you. It has never belonged to anyone else. It is yours.” He repeated that point, as the boy’s shocked expression suggested he was having trouble with the concept. “The things in this room all belong to you. No one else. You are supposed to touch them.”

But now the boy was shaking his head desperately, and his hands were tightly clenched before him, as if he were frightened that they would betray him in some way. “No, sir. No. They’re not mine. I never even saw them before. You must have made a mistake, sir. Maybe they belong to one of the other boys in the dorm. Please, sir, I never touched them.”

Great. The brat was becoming hysterical. Idiot Gryffindor. Unable to make the slightest deduction and panicking at the thought of Snape having furnished his room with unwittingly stolen goods.

Snape pulled the boy over to the bed with him and sat down, ignoring the magical hippogriffs’ annoyed roars. He positioned the trembling boy between his knees and looked him straight in the eye. “Potter. I will say this slowly, so try to follow,” he snapped, squirming internally at what he was about to reveal. “The things in this room are yours. They – stop shaking your head, you foolish child! – belong to you, because I purchased them for you.”

Harry froze. He couldn’t possibly have heard that correctly.

“Yes,” Snape continued. “I created this room for you and I purchased these things for you. A boy should have his own things. The fact that those unnatural relatives didn’t provide you with the basic necessities of life like food and clothing, let alone things appropriate for a growing boy – such as books and educational toys to stimulate the mind – in no way informs my behavior. You saw the Weasleys’ home. You saw all the things their children have, despite their extremely limited means. Did you imagine that I would treat you as poorly as those Muggles did? You are my ward, Potter. You will be treated as the important, deserving child that you are. Children are to be treasured, Potter. Your treatment here will reflect that.” Oh, Merlin, if Albus ever heard him say such nauseating pap he would never hear the end of it. He’d be Head of Hufflepuff by the end of the day if he kept this up, but the boy needed to hear it. The books all said so.

Indeed, the child was now staring at Snape as if he were some alien creature, mouthing gibberish. Snape growled in frustration, then decided that – so long as no one was around to witness it and since he had already outdone a Hufflepuff for sheer emotional gooeyness – he might as well take a page from Molly Weasley’s book. He lifted the boy onto his lap (HIS LAP! What was he thinking??) and patted him awkwardly. “It is all right, Potter. You deserve these things. You deserve to be treated well. You are a… good boy.” He couldn’t suppress a grimace as he said that last – it was so totally foreign to his nature – but he still forced the words out.

There was a roaring in Harry’s ears as he tried to process the completely impossible statements that had just come out of Snape’s mouth. All this was for him? The professor had gone out and bought them for him? With his own money? But why would the professor do such a thing? He’d already done so much for Harry! Why would he spend so much more time and effort and money on him?

“B-b-but why?” Harry finally managed to stutter.

“Potter! Weren’t you listening?” Snape admonished, tightening his grip around the boy’s thin shoulders. Good – he had a reason to scold. He was much better at that. “I told you. You are now my ward. It is my responsibility to ensure you have the things a young wizard needs.”

“B-but all this?” Harry squeaked, waving an arm at the enormous, wonderful, magical (literally) room. “I d-don’t need all this.”

Snape scowled even more fiercely. “Of course you do, you ridiculous child. Just because you have been treated like an illegitimate house elf for most of your life is no reason for such a state of affairs to continue. Do you imagine I will behave like those horrible Muggles? You deserve and are entitled to the same things that any other wizarding child has, and it is my responsibility to see that you have them.”

Harry’s eyes dropped. “But you already gave me a dad,” he whispered, one hand playing with Snape’s sleeve. “You don’t need to get me anything else.”

It took a moment for Harry’s words to sink in, and when they did, they were immediately followed by a roaring so loud that Snape wondered if someone was using the floo. Only the odd, squeezing feeling in his chest told him that the noise came from within.

Had that impertinent, unfathomable, unpredictable child just said that? Had he really referred to Snape as a father, his father? Snape wondered if the flying pigs that must surely have invaded Hogwarts were interfering with Quidditch practice.

He tried to speak and found it necessary to clear his throat first. “Erm, yes, well.” What was he supposed to say in response to such a ridiculous, inaccurate statement? “Well, erm, yes.” He needed to clear this up once and for all. He couldn’t have the brat running around Hogwarts spreading such ridiculous ideas. It was one thing for him to – reluctantly! – serve as the brat’s temporary guardian until Albus finally came to his senses and replaced him with someone appropriate, and quite another for anyone, particularly the spawn of his nemesis, to imagine him in some kind of paternal role. He could only imagine the howls of incredulity and derision with which such a notion would be greeted. And that would just be the faculty's reaction.

No, better to set the little menace straight once and for all. Make it clear that no self-respecting Snape would ever affiliate himself with an urchin, let alone a Potter. Just because he may have vowed to look after the boy didn’t mean he had to deal with anything beyond his material well-being. Even the Dursleys had done that – more or less. Well, rather less, if truth be told.

He opened his mouth to tell the brat, once and for all, that he was never to use that term again. That he was Snape’s ward by order of the Headmaster. That Snape would look after him because that was the man’s duty, nothing more. But before he could, Harry glanced up from where he had appeared mesmerized by his gentle tracing of Snape’s sleeve, and Lily’s eyes once again pinned his soul.

In the recesses of his mind, he dimly noted that – to his surprise – Harry wasn’t tentative or worried. Rather his eyes held quiet contentment and peace. As if whatever else might happen in the world, he had found his place of safety. He was shy, but not frightened.

Snape cleared his throat again. “You sound like a simpleton, Potter. Being in, er, that sort of position makes it all the more likely that I would provide these items. Now if you don’t like the room or the toys, then – “

“No!” Harry yelped. “No! They’re brilliant! I love them!”

Snape sniffed disapprovingly. “Well, since you have yet to say thank you, naturally I assumed –“

And once again the boy flung himself against the professor, hard enough to drive the breath from the man’s body. “Thank you thank you thank you,” he whispered into Snape’s chest, squeezing as hard as he could.

The exquisite pain in his chest was obviously caused by Potter driving his pointy skull against his breastbone, Snape told himself. “Yes, well, there had better not be any more of those ridiculous tears, Potter. I have no intention of letting yet another of my robes be spoiled by your inability to reliably use a handkerchief.” There was a suspicious snuffling sound from the area of his chest, and Snape muffled a sigh. “You have twenty minutes before dinnertime. I suggest you use it exploring your room, though if you insist, you may instead spend it weeping helplessly upon my shoulder.”

“I don’t weep helplessly!” Harry retorted indignantly, drawing back and looking up at the professor through eyes that were suspiciously shiny.

Snape raised an eyebrow. “Of course not,” he agreed sardonically. He lifted the boy off his lap and deposited him on the bed. “I will summon you when it is time to go to the Great Hall.”

He left the boy to his explorations – hopefully the little idiot would be able to bring himself to touch the things in his room if he were unobserved for a while – and to be fair, he wasn’t sure if he could bear to remain in the room much longer. Dumbledore would doubtless have remained behind, demonstrating every game and toy, but Snape found he was having an unexpectedly difficult time maintaining his cool demeanor. Every time the little brat expressed shock at the most mundane civility, Snape was seized by an almost uncontrollable desire to Apparate to the Dursleys and demonstrate some Death Eater party tricks. He wondered if he could borrow Bellatrix LeStrange from Azkaban for a few hours, and maybe a Dementor or two…

Harry gazed about the room – his room, he swiftly corrected himself – and everywhere he looked, he saw new wonders to explore. He stroked the sheets on which he sat, and the hippogriffs on the sheets squawked and fluttered their wings in welcome. Dudley didn’t have sheets like these. He’d never even seen sheets like these. And his room wasn’t this big, either. Even if you put his two bedrooms together, this room – Harry’s room - was still bigger. And Dudley’s toys didn’t do anything. Harry’s toys (HARRY’S TOYS!!) did all sorts of amazing things. He knew he should probably be walking around and looking at the different toys and stuff, but right then, all he wanted to do was to sit and stare.

He had a room. A real room, that was all his own. And it was filled – practically to the brim! – with toys and books and all sorts of wonderful things. But the very best part, the part that was making Harry so happy that it hurt, in an odd, marvelous sort of way, was that Professor Snape had done it. For him. He had created the room and bought all the stuff Just For Harry.

Harry looked around the room, and his eyes didn’t see objects, they saw Love. Tangible, concrete examples of love and kindness and caring. Harry thought, a bit breathlessly, that his heart might explode if he were any happier. He flung himself down on the bed and stared up at the canopy and wondered if any other boy in the entire history of the world had ever been this happy.

And that’s how Snape found him twenty minutes later, lying flat on his back on the bed, an odd, blissful look on his face. “Potter!” Snape scolded, pulling him off the bed and smacking (not patting) him on the rear. After all the sentimentality earlier, he’d better send a strong message that Harry shouldn’t expect all hearts and flowers and cuddles from him. “Don’t lie on the bed with your shoes on, thoughtless child. Aren’t you ready? Have you washed your face and hands? Didn’t I tell you it was almost time for dinner?” The boy must have stumbled as he got to his feet, because suddenly his arms were around Snape’s waist and he was hanging onto him for support. Snape’s traitorous arms gave him a little squeeze even as he steadied the brat and set him firmly upright.

Harry gave Snape a hug as the man helped him up and was delighted when he got a brief embrace in return. It was nice to have a grown up whose gentle hands lifted you, complete with a playful tap on the bum. Before Hogwarts, Harry had never had an adult lay hands laid upon him other than in anger, and he found that he really, really liked the professor’s affectionate touch. It wasn’t soft like Mrs Weasley’s nor Madame Pomfrey’s, he mused, it was more… manly than that. It wasn’t hard enough to be roughhousing but it wasn’t babyish or girlie either. Harry grinned. It was what a dad was supposed to do. Not too gentle, not too rough – just right.

And now the professor was guiding him towards the bathroom, ordering him to get washed up, making sure that Harry was fresh and neat before he went out. It was so nice to have someone looking after him like that, making sure he didn’t disgrace himself, ensuring that he got to meals on time… Harry sighed happily.

Snape rolled his eyes at the boy’s histrionic noises. Oh, for Merlin’s sake. Such sighs and lamentations all because he had commanded the brat to wash up for dinner. What a melodramatic monster. “Hurry up,” he snapped. The boy was too skinny. He needed to eat his fill at meals, but given the appetites of his Housemates, if the boy didn’t get to the table on time, he’d be lucky if Longbottom and those other bottomless pits left him any scraps. “If you dawdle, you’ll have to take an extra nutritive potion,” he threatened darkly.

Harry dried his face and hands and hurried out. It was so nice of his professor to think of things like nutritive potions, let alone brew them for him. Maybe… maybe if he asked very nicely, after finishing all his punishment lines and essays, the professor would let him help prepare them?

“Come along,” Snape pulled Harry along in his wake as he strode towards the Great Hall. Harry noted several Slytherins watching and whispering as they made their way through the dungeons, and he smiled and waved. After all, he’d need to get along with members of his professor’s House. Oddly, his friendly greeting seemed to prompt even more furious whispers.

Then they were moving through the main corridors, and it was Gryffindors doing the watching and whispering. Harry didn’t mind. He was used to being whispered about – Dudley had always made sure that all the other kids at school thought he was weird and stupid. It was nice to have people whispering about him for good reasons, like having a new guardian. He figured not too many other professors had children at the school, so he’d be the center of attention for a while, but that was okay. Like when the professor scolded him for putting himself in danger – it was okay for a not-so-nice thing to happen (like scolding or whispering) so long as the underlying reason for it was good (like being cared about or sort-of-adopted).

“Go join your House, and remember to eat a balanced meal,” Snape ordered as they entered the Hall.

Harry nodded and hurried to join his Housemates. “Oi, Harry,” Oliver Wood intercepted him. Harry noticed that Oliver was moving a lot more easily than when he had left Snape’s classroom. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he assured the older boy. “Are you? Did Madame Pomfrey get you some potions?”

Wood sighed heavily. “Yeah, and she did help me with the essay too, but first I got a right good ticking off from her too. I’m really sorry about leaving you sore like that, Harry.”

“It wasn’t so bad,” Harry reassured him hurriedly. He didn’t want the team captain to think he was a crybaby!

Oliver gave him a dubious look. “Right. Well, anyway, from now on, we’ll start and end all practices and games with stretches. Be sure your – erm, that is, can you make sure Professor Snape knows that?”

“Sure,” Harry agreed. He sat next to Oliver and several other team members and was quickly immersed in a loud discussion of Qudditch's finer points.

At the staff table, Snape watched the disobedient brat as he completely ignored the vegetables in favor of meat and potatoes. Worse, he filled up on rolls and pumpkin juice while waiting for the main course to appear. He leveled a glare so scorching that the Gryffindors on either side of him felt it and flinched. Katie Bell hastily nudged Potter and whispered in his ear. The little monster started, glanced quickly at the staff table, then blushed violently. A moment later he was scooping vegetables onto his plate, much to Katie and Oliver’s amusement.

“Hmm. I see Harry’s eating habits are undergoing a dramatic change,” McGonagall murmured in his ear. “Would that be your influence, Severus?”

He gave her a lofty stare. “As his Head of House, I would have expected you to exert your influence and explain that chocolate frogs are not an appropriate form of sustenance.”

She sighed. “Oh, Severus, he’s had so few treats in his life. Surely a frog or two –“

He tuned her out. Typical bloody Gryffindor. Just as he told Albus – too focused on the boy’s tragic past to help him build a strong and healthy future. Well, if he had to be the Evil Bat, so be it, but Potter would not grow up to be The Boy Who Lived To Ignore Green Vegetables if he had anything to say about it.

When the pudding came around, Harry virtuously ignored it… after casting a hopeful eye at the staff table. What he read in Snape’s face was sufficient to convince him not to even try sneaking a taste.

Oliver caught the interaction. “He told you no pudding, didn’t he?” he whispered to Harry.

Harry sighed and nodded.

“Want me to try to pass you some under the table?”

“Better not.” Harry shook his head, remembering the professor’s threat to have the house elves spoon feed him. He still wasn’t entirely sure what house elves were, but he figured that having anything spoon feed him in the Great Hall would be mortifying beyond his wildest dreams.

Oliver glanced at the staff table and shivered. “Yeah, probably best not to risk it.” He glanced at the table. “Bet he wouldn’t mind if you had some fruit,” he said, nodding at the fruit bowls that dotted the long tables.

Harry bit his lip. “Really?”

“Yeah, they’re practically like vegetables.”

Harry remembered how the professor had given him an apple for a snack earlier, after confiscating the chocolate frog. He reached out a cautious hand towards the fruit, watching the staff table closely. At his professor’s nod, he relaxed and took a banana and some grapes. “Thanks!” he told Wood.

“No worries, kid,” the older boy grinned. “Gotta keep our Seeker in top form!”

After dinner, Harry returned to the dorm with Neville, Dean, and Seamus – the older students having headed off to study. As they reached the portrait, they were intercepted by McGonagall. “Mr Potter,” she called, “Professor Snape asked me to remind you that you are to report to his office tomorrow morning at 10.” She looked at him closely. “It is not marked down as a detention in my records, Mr Potter, so you need not attend if you don’t wish it… Would you like me to speak with Professor Snape about releasing you from the meeting, or are you all right?”

He smiled at her. “I’m fine, Professor. Hey, Neville – maybe you want to come along too?”

Longbottom choked and paled. “What? Why?”

“You can see my room – it’s brilliant – and I’m going to ask Professor Snape to let me brew with him. Maybe if you come, you’ll get some tips to help you in class.”

McGonagall was staring at him with her mouth agape. “You – what – but – Severus – eh?”

She stared after the boys as they climbed through the portrait, Harry still enthusiastically trying to convince Neville. She had started the conversation feeling quite anxious about how Harry was faring with Severus. But now, witnessing Harry's behavior, she found herself rather more worried about how this new situation was going to affect Snape. Poor Severus! She suspected he had no idea what he was in for…

Breakfast the next morning began as the usual Saturday morning meal, early in the new school term. The Gryffindor table was unusually quiet, thanks to the absence of the Weasley clan, but the excited buzzing at the Slytherin table more than made up for it. As Snape had predicted, the school Owlry had seen a great deal of use over the last few days, as the revelation over Harry Potter’s new guardianship made its way through the Slytherin parents’ grapevine. Dumbledore had been slightly surprised that the news had not yet been blazoned across the Daily Prophet (or even the Quibbler) but Snape had expected no less. Slytherin parents – like their offspring – tended to think long and hard about the effects of their actions, rather than leaping before they looked. Those who (like the Malfoys) had been Voldemort supporters were doubtless wondering if Snape’s actions were part of some elaborate Death Eater plot, carried out under the Headmaster’s nose. Those who had opposed the Dark Lord, openly or otherwise, were equally unlikely to speak up and betray their allegiances until and unless it would be to their advantage.

Snape was under no illusion that if the news had been leaked to Gryffindors, he, Dumbledore, and McGonagall would doubtless have been submerged in Howlers and reporters as an apoplectic Wizarding world demanded to know how a Slytherin, let alone a former Death Eater, could be entrusted with the welfare of The Boy Who Lived. While he was certain that that day would come, until then, Snape was determined to enjoy a peaceful breakfast.

At least that had been his plan.

He was a trifle late that morning, thanks to two sixth year Hufflepuffs who had mistaken the quiet corridor near his quarters (his quarters! Really!) for a good place for an early morning snog. Having decidedly disabused them of that notion, Snape was in an unexpectedly good mood. He wondered idly if he had been likely to cause them long-term… performance... issues, having interrupted them at a particularly awkward moment, but decided anything that acted as a check on rampaging adolescent hormones could only be a good thing.

He noted that the rest of the staff had already taken their seats and were passing around the food platters as he claimed the sole remaining chair. It happened to be by Albus, and he greeted the headmaster with his usual formality. He then turned to his right to wish Minerva a good morning, only to find her staring at him with an expression of utter shock.

“What?” he asked, instantly assuming that one of the little monsters had managed to hit him with an appearance-altering hex, though with the Weasley twins back at the Burrow, he’d be hard pressed to name the next most likely suspect.

“You – you – “ The elderly witch seemed incapable of speech.

Snape looked past her, hoping the other faculty would be more coherent. Pomona Sprout had frozen in the act of spooning scrambled eggs on her plate, and the contents of the serving spoon had ended up in her lap. She had yet to notice, her eyes being fixed on Severus’ countenance.

“Filius –“ Snape began hopefully. Flitwick looked up from his omelet with a smile, lost both his smile and his balance as his eyes met Snape’s, and fell off his elevated chair with a squeak.

Now more unnerved than he cared to admit, Snape turned to his left. Albus continued to eat calmly, but he was twinkling madly at his plate. Beyond him, Hagrid had missed his mouth entirely and stuck a forkful of bacon into his beard. He too stared at Snape in astonishment, as did Madame Hooch beside him. Quirrell for once appeared to be too surprised even to twitch and stammer, while beyond him Trelawney let out a shriek. “It’s a sign! A sign of the apocalypse!”

Naturally, this captured the students’ attention, and they all looked at the staff table to see what had unhinged their loony Divination teacher even more than usual. One by one, conversations around the Hall petered out, as all eyes turned to Snape and widened.

“Albus!” Snape hissed, fighting down an almost overwhelming urge to flee. “What on earth is going on?”

“I have no idea, my dear boy,” the elderly wizard said politely, clearly lying through his teeth. “Would you like some marmalade?”

“Minerva!” Snape was ready to slap the witch if that’s what it took to get the dazed expression off her face. “What in Merlin’s name is the matter with you?”

“Severus,” she tried to speak, failed, swallowed hard, and tried again. “You – you look…”

“What?” he demanded, clenching his hands into fists to prevent himself from trying to feel his own face.

“Your hair –“ Filius gasped, clambering to his feet, “it’s – I mean – it’s –“

“Gorgeous!” blurted Pomona Sprout.

“What?” Of all the adjectives Snape was expecting, that wasn’t one of them.

“What did you do? It’s so… long. And s-silky,” Pomona gasped. Snape stared at her. Were they all under some odd form of Imperius?

“Severus, you look quite… different,” Minerva finally gulped. “Rather – erm – “

“Sexy!” one of the fifth year Ravenclaws squealed to her neighbor. “I never realized he’s so hot!”

Snape paled as this seemed to open the floodgates. To his intense horror, in the ensuing babble, he even overheard some fifth year Gryffindors arguing over whether his “tall, dark, and handsome” look proved that he was actually “intense and brooding” rather than “unfair and malevolent”. Most of the boys in the Hall were looking either bewildered or furious, though Snape did spot more than one (including several he had not expected) eyeing him with frank speculation.

“Severus, have you been under a disillusionment charm all this time?” Filius demanded, still gaping at him.

“All that lovely, lovely hair and height…Why, you look rather like Sirius Black did in his last year here!” Hooch squawked with – unsurprisingly – a complete lack of tact. Even worse, she trailed off dreamily, “Makes a girl just want to climb up your body and run her hands down your...”

Panicked, Snape hissed at the flying instructor (who was his senior by more than three decades), “Sweet Merlin, woman! Get a hold of yourself!”

“Oh, I think I’ll have to,” Hooch replied meaningfully.

Snape blushed – something he would have sworn he had forgotten how to do – and sputtered incoherently. Finally deciding that his youngest faculty member had been tortured enough, the Headmaster cleared his throat. “If a mere change in shampoo can cause such an uproar, I shudder to think what all of you will do if Severus ever decides to augment his wardrobe,” he said reprovingly.

“Just a change in shampoo?” Minerva said wonderingly. She absently raised a hand and would have stroked Severus’ locks if he hadn’t jerked his head away with a wordless growl.

“McGonagall! You’re making a fool of yourself!” he snarled, feeling as hunted as the time the Marauders had trapped him in a fifth floor lavatory. Between the students and his colleagues, Snape was beginning to feel like a Snitch at the Quidditch World Cup.

“You look… amazing,” Sprout choked out.

Filius laughed, his high voice sounding alarmingly like a childish giggle. “Oh dear, Severus, I suspect you’ll need to change your lesson plans for the next few weeks.” At the younger man’s confused expression, he elaborated, “You’d best have no potions that can explode on your syllabus. Between the girls who will be too moonstruck to follow instructions and those who will deliberately seek detentions in the hopes of being alone with you, you stand a good chance of seeing more explosions in the coming days than in the past five years!”

“This is all your fault!” Snape hissed at Albus, though in truth there was – way down deep below all the humiliation – a rather pleasant sensation in his chest. He’d never before been complimented on his appearance, quite the reverse in fact. He’d been a skinny, awkward adolescent with a defensively hunched posture and secondhand clothes, and he had never realized that he’d emerged from the chrysalis of gawky teen into a lean, wiry adult.

He had always assumed his oft-broken nose (courtesy of first his father, then the Marauders, and finally Voldemort) and crooked teeth (ditto) translated to an appalling homeliness. Merlin knew his father had called him a disgusting, ugly little goblin enough times for him to believe it. The greasy hair simply topped off what was, he thought, the long list of his unattractive features. To be considered “hot” had just turned his self-image upside down.

Now that his hair was shiny and framed his face with gentle waves, rather than hanging straight down in greasy locks, his smoldering eyes, strong chin, and high cheekbones could be appreciated for the first time in years. Coupled with his commanding presence, it was no surprise that he had struck the female population of Hogwarts (and some of the males as well) like a thunderbolt.

“Well, my boy, you could always decide to go back to your previous look,” Albus pointed out gently, ignoring the gasps of dismay from the female faculty on either side.

Snape considered that option for about a second and a half before dismissing it with the snort of contempt that it deserved. Make life easy for the students and staff? What would be the fun in that? Much more enjoyable to torment them.

He tossed his head, surprised and delighted by the low moan that the action caused among the female students, and said in the most supercilious tones he could manage, “I cannot imagine why my personal grooming should be the topic of breakfast conversation. Please pass the toast.”

Eventually, the novelty of his appearance wore off, Sprout cleaned the eggs off her lap, Hagrid removed the pork products from his beard, and Trelawny stopped moaning about “Ragnarok”. By that time, however, Snape had discovered a previously undetected strain of vanity in his nature. He had known that he was justifiably proud of his prowess as a Potion Master, but for the first time, he began to understand how that prat Black must have felt, with girls swooning over him all the time. What’s more, Snape found, he liked it. He really, really liked it.

Happily, his talent for Occlumency permitted him to suppress such base emotions. By the time Potter knocked on his door at ten, Snape had recovered himself enough to greet him with a glower. He had rather hoped the brat would be late and he would therefore have no reason to go ahead with his plan, but the little wretch’s promptness prevented him from using that excuse.

“Potter, I had you come here so –“

“Here, sir!” Potter not only had the temerity to interrupt him, but he also shoved a rather well-worn roll of parchment at him.

Fortunately for the boy, Snape was looking for a distraction. “What is it?” he demanded, unrolling the slightly sticky scroll.

“It’s my essay on healing potions,” Harry explained happily. He knew the professor would be pleased with him for using his time well. “R’member? You told me to write 12 inches after I thought that you used dirty socks to –“

“I remember, Potter,” Snape cut the urchin off. He scanned the document and was grudgingly impressed. The boy had not only included the relevant information, but he had also written it out more neatly than any of his previous work. Apparently the lessons of his last detention had sunk in.

“Oh, and here’s more.” Before he could chastise the brat for the mysterious stickiness of the parchment, not to mention its battered appearance, two more scrolls were thrust at him.

“What on earth?” A quick glance confirmed these were in different handwriting than Potter’s.

“Well, I asked Hermione Granger to look over my essay to make sure it was okay, and so then she wanted to write one for extra credit,” Harry explained guilelessly.

“What is ‘extra credit’?” Snape demanded. It sounded suspiciously like ‘extra work’ for him.

“You know,” Harry said, surprised. “It’s when students do extra things that you didn’t assign and it helps their grade.”

“We are not even in the second week of classes, and Miss Granger has already established herself as an insufferable know-it-all. Why in Merlin’s name would she imagine she needed to do extra work?” Snape demanded.

Harry shrugged. “That’s Hermione. Anyway, while she and I were working on our essays, Neville came along, and Hermione bullied – erm, suggested – that he should do one ‘cause then maybe he wouldn’t be so confused and scared in class.”

“Potter, the only extra work in my class is that which I assign as punishment!” Snape snapped. “Do you imagine that I have nothing better to do than to correct additional essays by know-nothing Gryffindors? Do you expect me to read three derivative essays on healing potions?”

Harry grinned. “I knew you’d say that!” Snape blinked, nonplused. “I told Hermione that she couldn’t write an essay on the same topic as me, so she decided to write one on Polyjuice Potion. She’d read about it in one of her books and thought it sounded neat. And then she told Neville to write one about the potion from last week that he blew up, so you’d see that he really did understand it.”

Snape plastered a sneer on his face and started to inform the little fiend that he had no intention of reviewing any unsolicited essays, let alone providing “extra credit” for them, when Harry looked up at him. The trust in those green eyes had an unexpected effect on his vocal cords and he found himself having to clear his throat instead.

“I even got started on my 500 lines,” Harry told him proudly. He had decided that a way to reassure Professor Snape that he was a good disciplinarian was to show him that Harry took his punishments seriously. He had written the first hundred last night in the Gryffindor Common Room and, after the first dozen or so, some of the other students had come over to ask what he was working on. Although at first put off by the information that he was writing lines for Snape, the other Gryffindors had become intrigued by what he had been assigned to write. Quickly his “I will not quote my appalling relatives” had given way to “My relatives are stupid liars”, “My relatives are lard-filled balloons” (his Housemates had really enjoyed learning what Snape had called his uncle), and “I will pay no attention to anything that my fat, stupid relatives ever said”, among other, more inventive, suggestions from his fellow Gryffindors. Harry hoped that the professor wouldn’t mind that the 500 lines weren’t identical, but he figured that if nothing else, the variety would make more interesting reading for Snape.

“Hmf,” Snape grumbled, deciding that (just this once!) he would permit the outlandish, Muggle notion of “extra credit” to be used in his class. He was a bit curious to see what a Muggleborn first year would make of as complicated a Potion as Polyjuice, and frankly anything that made Longbottom less likely to melt his cauldron could only be a good thing.

He would just have to explain to Harry later – in very stern language – that this sort of thing was not to occur again. The nerve of the little brat! Thinking that he could speak on behalf of one of his professors! He should banish the arrogant whelp to his room, but the notion of what the boy would find there decided him against that course of action.

“Potter, come with me,” he snapped, leading the way to the boy’s bedroom.

Harry followed obediently. He was highly pleased with himself. Imagine, he’d been able to teach the professor about extra credit! “Did you see I had oatmeal and fruit for breakfast?” he piped up, trotting behind the tall man. “Hermione said that was very nutritious.”

“I hope you are not dimwitted enough to expect showers of praise and presents every time you do what you are told,” Snape said repressively. Just because the books said to notice and reward good behavior, rather than simply pointing out and punishing bad behavior, didn’t mean he was planning to simper around the little brat, cooing whenever he managed to wipe his own nose. “Get in.” He shoved the bedroom door open and pointed.

Harry couldn’t suppress a smile as he entered his room (his room!), though it faltered a bit as he saw a broom lying on the bed. “S-sir?”

Memories of being dragged from the cupboard under the stairs and presented with a mop and bucket rushed through his head, though – he reminded himself stoutly – it was only fair if the professor expected him to do some chores around the place. “Do you want me to clean your quarters?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound whiny.

He didn’t mind cleaning, not after all the wonderful things Snape had showered upon him, but he had just thought that maybe Snape might not be quite so brutal about it as his aunt and uncle had been. Being handed a mop or broom or bottle of dishwashing detergent had been a regular occurrence at the Dursleys and had served to drive home the fact that the only thing they valued about Harry was his ability to do housework.

Snape stared at the boy and fought down a desire to bang his head against the wall. Of course, one afternoon at Hogwarts was hardly going to overcome years of servitude among Muggles. “Potter,” he said quietly, “you are a wizard, not a Muggle.”

“Y-yes, sir?” Potter agreed nervously. He wasn’t sure what the professor meant. Was he about to get into trouble for doing something that Wizards didn’t like?

Snape took him by the shoulder and steered him over to the bed. “Wizards do not use brooms for cleaning, Potter. They use them for flying.” He left the boy looking down at the Nimbus 2000.

Harry’s face turned a fiery red. He was such an idiot! Not only had he forgotten about flying on brooms, but he had been rude enough to imagine – again! – that Professor Snape would act like his relatives! He kept forgetting, despite the professor reassuring him over and over that he wouldn’t be treated like that any more. Professor Snape must think that Harry was a complete moron. And of course, the professor probably felt like Harry was insulting him each time he expected him to act like Uncle Vernon. A hot lump grew in his throat and nearly choked Harry.

Here Professor Snape had just bought him yet another present, and Harry’s response was to lump him with his horrible relatives. He felt awful. He wished Snape would take back the broom and whack him with it. He was a stupid, ungrateful brat who –

Snape watched Harry’s anguished face with increasing guilt. Of course Muggle cleaning appliances would have brought up dreadful memories for the boy. Harry had already revealed that he suffered from flashbacks, and here he was – ostensibly an informed, responsible adult – triggering them. He reached out an awkward hand and patted the boy on the shoulder, half-expecting Potter to flinch away from him.

Instead, Potter twisted around and buried his face in Snape’s robes. “’M sorry!” he whimpered. “’M sorry!”

“Potter, you need not apologize with every other breath,” he began.

“But I do!” Harry clung tighter to the man. “I forgot! I didn’t mean it! I just forgot!”

“You are new to the Wizarding world,” Snape pointed out. “It is natural that you would revert to the habits of a lifetime.”

“But I should’ve known better,” Harry said miserably, looking up at him. “I mean, you’re so much nicer to me than the Dursleys, and -“

“That’s hardly saying much, Potter,” Snape interrupted drily.

“Are you really mad?” Harry worried, sniffling. “I don’t want you to feel bad. It’s all my fault you know, not yours.”

“Potter, it will take you time to recover from your relatives’ appalling treatment of you, let alone become familiar with the Wizarding world. I am well aware of the enormous adjustment you are making, and I am quite – pleased – with your progress.” There. That was positive reinforcement.

Harry dragged in a deep breath, reassured by the professor’s words. It was true – in the space of a few short weeks he had gone from his lonely existence as the Dursley’s detested servant to this new world, new school, new culture, new friends, new guardian… Maybe he wasn’t such an idiot after all. Snape had said he was making good progress, and he hadn’t sounded hurt or offended.

Harry felt a surge of gratitude for the tall, dark professor. How many other people would be so forgiving and patient with such a whiny freak? He hugged Snape again. It felt like all the bad luck he’d had over the last ten years was finally being balanced out. He was so lucky to have such a brilliant guardian.

“Potter,” Snape interrupted before the emotional little creature could drive himself into hysterics again. “I will be angry with you if you don’t quickly display better manners than an illiterate baboon. You have just received a gift. What are you supposed to do?”

Harry looked up, puzzled, and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Aren’t all baboons illiterate?”

“Potter! Do not be cheeky!” He accio’d a handkerchief and held it out to the brat, glaring.

Harry frowned, oblivious to the handkerchief. “I wasn’t being cheeky,” he protested. “But baboons – at least in the Muggle world – can’t read.” Then, for the first time, he really looked at the broomstick and all thoughts of baboons, Dursleys, and misunderstandings flew out of his head.

“Th – this is a racing broom!” he blurted out. “Ron showed me pictures in his Quidditch magazine!”

Snape rolled his eyes. “Congratulations, Mr Potter. You have now graduated to stating the blindingly obvious.”

“But this is the kind of broom that professional Quidditch players use,” Harry continued, trying to make the professor understand why he was so excited. All the dinnertime conversation with the Quidditch team came back to him. “Oliver has one, and so does a girl in Ravenclaw, but no one else –“ He broke off with an audible gasp. “Is – is this for me?” he whispered, eyes huge as he stared at his professor.

“I realize you are a Gryffindor, Potter, but the fact that it is on your bed, in your room, might lead you to that conclusion,” Snape retorted, highly uncomfortable with the adulation that was fast growing in the boy’s expression. “Surely even you have had time to realize that a Seeker must have an adequate broom in order to perform his assigned task. Did you imagine I would have you use an old school broom during your games?”

“But you mean, you – you bought this for me?”

Snape scowled, hideously embarrassed and furious that the brat was making him state it openly. He briefly considered a highly sarcastic response, but given the little idiot’s near-complete ignorance of the Wizarding world, not to mention his Gryffindorish gullibility, it was too likely that he would believe any statement, no matter how farfetched. “Yes.”

Harry beamed like a supernova and grabbed him. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”

Snape struggled to breathe. If Potter kept doing this, he would have a permanent bruise in his midriff. Perhaps some sort of body armor might be prudent – he would have to ask Charlie Weasley at dinner tonight. Surely those who worked with dragons would have some kind of personal protective equipment to protect themselves from blunt force trauma.

Dear Dragon Handlers Monthly, Careful research has proven that the pointy forehead of an underfed eleven year old human can deliver a blow with the same force as the talon of a full-grown Horntail. What protective gear would you recommend, given that preemptive stunning is frowned upon in the scholastic environment?

“Potter!” he managed to wheeze. “Kindly desist from this undignified squawking at once! A simple expression of gratitude and description of how you will use the gift will more than suffice.”

Harry grinned. Poor Professor Snape! He always got so pink around the ears when Harry thanked him. He had noticed how, even during the detention, the professor hadn’t liked Harry to call attention to the nice things he did, like giving Harry a snack or helping him with his handwriting. Professor Snape was like one of those people that Harry had seen on the telly – well, heard about from the confines of his cupboard, anyway – who preferred to do things quietly rather than getting a lot of attention. They were called something like ‘nonymous benefactors’ and the telly had talked about how one such person had just donated a lot of money to a hospital that needed a new piece of equipment and another had given some computers to a school in a poor section of London. Professor Snape was like that. He couldn’t be completely unknown, of course, but he didn’t like Harry to make a fuss. Especially since he was still trying to get Harry to think that he deserved to be treated so well.

Harry might be slowly coming to terms with the understanding that the Dursleys hadn’t treated him properly, but he wasn’t foolish enough to imagine that Professor Snape’s kindness to him wasn’t equally exceptional. Didn’t his own Housemates exclaim in awe and envy when he’d told them about his room? Harry knew the Professor was one of the nicest, kindest men he’d ever met, and he wasn’t about to forget that. Not again.

“Thank you, sir. I really, really like the broom. It’ll make me the best Seeker ever!” Harry exclaimed, running his hand along the broomstick. It even felt fast!

“Hmf,” Snape sniffed, rather pleased with himself. The boy was obviously thrilled with the present, and if he was foolish enough to link his Quidditch performance to the broomstick, then when Snape confiscated it as punishment for some misdeed, it would be an even more devastating blow. Ha! It was worth every Galleon he’d spent on the broom to know that he at last had a highly effective punishment to use on the little monster. “Well? What are you waiting for?” he demanded. “You have Quidditch practice in less than an hour! Go spend some time on your new broom.”

Harry’s face lit up. “Yessir!”

“And be here by 5:30 this evening so that we can go to the Burrow!” Snape yelled after the boy as he pelted away. Really! Such appalling manners! Snape straightened his robe around his shoulders and headed to his desk to correct three additional essays.

Harry was early that evening, a good thing since it allowed Severus to insist that he change into some of his new clothes. Unfortunately, their timeliness didn’t last, because Severus found that between his new desire to fix his hair, and Harry’s fascination with his sartorially resplendent reflection, it took them rather longer to get ready than he had planned.

“Potter, get in here, or else!” Snape finally shouted, a handful of Floo powder trickling through his fingers.

“I’m right here,” Harry protested, hurrying into the living room. He tugged at his new robes one last time.

“Do you think you can manage the floo on your own this time, or would you like me to carry you again?” Snape smirked.

“I can do it!” Harry replied hastily. Knowing that the Weasley children would all be there eradicated any desire for the professor to carry him.

“Very well. Keep your eyes and mouth shut. Do not inhale, and move briskly away from the fireplace as soon as you arrive, as I will be right behind you.”

“Yessir.” Harry gulped and squeezed his eyes shut as Snape flung the powder into the grate and shouted “The Burrow!” He felt the professor’s firm hand pushing him forward, and then he was through the cool flames and emerging into the Weasley’s living room. Molly caught him as he stumbled and pulled him to the side, brushing off a few stray flakes of soot.

Harry cracked one eyelid open, and seeing he had safely arrived, he opened his eyes and took a deep breath. “Was that your first time flooing on your own, love?” Molly asked incredulously. “You did wonderfully!”

Harry grinned, just in time to see Severus stride majestically out of the fireplace. “Severus, how nice to …” Molly’s voice trailed off as she got her first good look at Snape.

After the morning’s reactions, Snape merely smirked. “Good evening, Molly,” he replied.

After the morning’s reactions, Snape merely smirked. “Good evening, Molly,” he replied.

“Kids! They’re here!” Arthur shouted over his shoulder, as he entered the living room. He came forward, hand extended to Severus. “Hello, Sev-“ A flood of redheads shoved through the doorway, knocking him aside.

“Harry! You’re here!” Ron yelled, leading the pack. “Why didn’t you tell us the news, mate?”

“Yeah, Harry – “ The twins had arrived.

“- what were you – “

“- thinking not to share the plans –“

“- with us? And Professor –“

“- now that you’ll be one of us –“

“ – does this mean we can ask you for help –“

“ – with our potions?”

“I hardly imagine a Hogwarts professor will help you with your unauthorized experiments,” Percy scoffed, pushing into the room.

“Ah, c’mon, Perce,” a huge redhead with a dragon’s tooth around his neck ruffled the Prefect’s hair, much to Percy’s annoyance. “Professor Snape might see supervising the twins as a necessary health and safety measure.”

Yet another tall redheaded man entered the living room, this one with a girl riding piggy back on him. Harry began to feel a little claustrophobic, and he backed up a pace, getting nearer to Snape.

An instant later he felt the professor’s hand upon his shoulder. “If you are trying to drive us back to Hogwarts,” Snape said silkily, “kindly permit us to take some floo powder before you push us into the fireplace.”

“Honestly, such manners! What will Harry and Professor Snape think of us!” Molly exclaimed, shooing everyone back. “They haven’t even had a chance to say hello to your father yet!”

Arthur finally managed to shake Snape’s hand and ruffle Harry’s hair. “How are you, Harry?”

“Fine, sir. Thank you,” Harry said politely, careful to avoid the appearance of an “illiterate baboon”.

“Severus, I know you need no introductions to our sons, but Harry, while you know our four youngest boys, these are our oldest two: Bill –“ the tall redhead grinned at him, and Harry noticed the man’s earring “- and Charlie.”

“Hullo, Harry!” The muscular young man engulfed Harry’s hand with his own large, calloused one, but his grip was gentle. Harry smiled up at him, liking him immediately.

“And I don’t believe either of you have met our daughter, Ginny.” Bill pivoted so that the girl on his back could be seen. She colored under their regard and squeaked out a “H’lo.”

Ron rolled his eyes and whispered to Harry, “I dunno if she’s being shy ‘cause she’s heard so many stories about Snape or ‘cause she’s got a crush on you – well, on The Boy Who Lived,” he amended, as he saw Harry’s eyebrows soar. “Either way, don’t be fooled. Normally Ginny’s like Mum, only louder!"

Harry grinned.

“Mum,” Ron called, “can we take Harry and go play?”

“Of course, dear,” Molly called back. Harry shot a glance at Severus and, receiving an austere nod, hurried off with the others. Ginny squirmed down from Bill’s broad back and joined them, leaving Snape with Bill, Charlie, Molly, and Arthur.

Arthur sighed at the sudden quiet. “I’d forgotten what silence sounds like,” he said nostalgically.

“Mating dragons are quieter than our lot,” Charlie said, with what Snape was disquieted to realize was undisguised pride. What on earth was he thinking, to let polite, quiet Harry carouse with these hellions?

“Have a seat,” Molly urged Severus towards – oh no, not again – the lumpy armchair, and he surrendered to his fate with resignation.

Meanwhile, Harry had been hastily bundled away to the farthest reaches of the wards by the younger Weasleys. “Right,” Ron said, determinedly. “What did he use on you? Crucio? Imperius?”

Harry blinked. “What? Who?”

“Snape!” Ron said impatiently. “What’s he using to get you to agree to this? Or is it that you haven’t been given any choice? Just say the word, mate. We’ll figure out some way to get you away from that greasy git.”

“He’s not greasy!” Ginny chimed in unexpectedly. “You always call him that, but he isn’t.”

“Well, no,” Ron admitted slowly. “He does kinda look different today.”

“Very un-Snapish in fact –“

“- probably part of the plot –“

“- trying to lull the parents into a false sense – “

“- of security.”

“They’re sold on him,” Ron said, shaking his head. “I can’t believe Mum fell for it. I mean, Dad hasn’t heard all the stories, but Mum has!”

“He nearly strangled us –“

“- that time we improved the coloration of his House –“

“- and never thanked us for it! Just made sure Mum –“

“- paid a visit to Hogwarts with her wooden spoon –“

“He practically insisted on watching too –“

“- the greasy git.”

“He’s not greasy!” Ginny argued, only to be ignored.

“You two deserved every smack you got for that prank,” Percy said repressively. “I’m surprised that Professor Snape didn’t have you expelled. How would you like it if some Slytherins had turned all of us red?”

“Wicked!” the twins exclaimed in unison, much to Percy’s disgust.

“Look, Harry,” Ron ignored his siblings. “I’ve heard all my brothers – even Percy – talk about how awful Snape is. He’s mean and nasty and I don’t care what any of the adults say, you shouldn’t have to live with him.”

Harry was touched. What a great best mate he had! Ron and his whole family just wanted to be sure Harry was being treated well. “Thanks, Ron, but honest, Snape isn’t mean at all.” He ignored the snorts of derision from the twins and even Percy’s more restrained mutter of disagreement. “Really, he’s been just brilliant. He gave me my own room, and filled it with stuff – wait ‘til you see it! And he’s been helping me with my handwriting and he didn’t let the Headmaster expel me and –“

Ron’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Didn’t he give you detention? And lines? And didn’t you say he whacked you after the flying lesson with Madame Hooch?”

“Well, yeah,” Harry admitted. “But it’s not like it really hurt or anything. And even in the detention he gave me a new quill to use for my lines and he let me have a snack…”

“So he didn’t actually starve you –“

“- and the beating wasn’t too awful –“

“Harry, this isn’t sounding good –

“- to us.”

“Yes, Harry,” Percy said, a bit pompously. “You need to be aware that there are rules that govern the treatment of minors in Wizarding Society. If Professor Snape has violated these rules, then –“

“Stow it, Percy!” Ron put in, ducking his older brother’s irritated clout. “Mate, I just dunno. I mean, I’m glad you like him an’ all, but there’s gotta be better guardians out there!”

Harry sighed. This was getting annoying. “Really, Ron, he’s brilliant. He doesn’t yell or hurt me or – “ He broke off as he realized what might convince the Quidditch-crazed Weasleys. “He’s not only letting me play as Gryffindor’s Seeker, but he also got me a new broom for it.”

The twins perked up. “A new broom –“

“- for the Gryffindor Seeker –“

“- compliments of the Slytherin Head of House?”

“Must be sabotaged –“

“- or some old splinter-filled antique!”

“It’s a brand new Nimbus 2000,” Harry informed them coolly. “But if you think it’s sabotaged, then you don’t have to borrow it.”

“A Nimbus?” Even Ginny was astounded.

Ron sat there, blinking. “Snape bought you a Nimbus? A Nimbus 2000?”

Harry nodded smugly. “I got to use it at practice today. It’s brilliant!” he said, enthusiasm replacing his pique. “You should see how it handles. Katie showed me this new move – a Wronski something – and it’s a snap with the new broom.” He paused. “Don’t you want to try it out when we get back to school?”

Ron nodded so fast Harry thought his neck might be wrenched. “You bet!”

“Come on, Harry – “

“- you wouldn’t really keep us –“

“- from trying it too, would you?”

“Wow! A Nimbus 2000! I’ve only –“

“- imagined what flying one –“

“- would be like!”

“Can I try? Can I try?” Ginny begged.

Harry took pity on her. “Next time I visit, I’ll ask Professor Snape if I can bring it with me, okay? You have someplace to fly around here, right?”

“Come see our pitch!” Ron invited.

“Remember, we’re not to go flying before dinner,” Percy cautioned, hurrying after the others.

“How about if we –“

“- try out that Muggle toy Dad –“

“- brought us. Maybe Harry will know –“

“- what to do with it?”

After what was not nearly as interminable a period as Snape had feared, Molly indicated that dinner was close to ready. Much to his surprise, Bill Weasley, whom Snape dimly remembered as an atrocious Potions pupil, had grown into a charming, witty raconteur. He told amusing stories of working with goblins, and Charlie chimed in with his own tales of life among the dragons. Between the two of them, Snape didn’t have to do much talking at all, and he found he rather enjoyed the interlude – though he had no intention of admitting that to anyone.

Molly called to the children, and all too quickly the youngest members of the tribe barreled through the house in a sea of red heads surrounding one dark mop. They had some kind of Muggle football that they were playing with and swept through the living room in a noisy blur. “Don’t play with that thing in the house!” Molly shouted at them. “You hear me? Not indoors!”

The furor passed into a more distant part of the house, and Arthur and Severus exchanged a look. “I don’t know how you manage to put up with a school full of children day in and day out,” Arthur said, shaking his head.

“Yeah,” Charlie echoed. “I mean, we’re awful enough and at least Mum and Dad chose to have us around.”

“Don’t you ever feel like taking up some other, quieter job, like chief curse tester or St Mungo’s doorman?” Bill grinned.

“Frequently,” Snape said drily.

“Come sit down,” Molly instructed from the doorway. “I’ll call the children again.”

The men took their seats around the table, as Molly shouted again for the others. The noise level began to rise, and Bill said, “I can hear them coming now.”

“The dead can hear that lot coming,” Charlie pointed out.

Before any of the children put in an appearance, however, the Muggle football did. It entered the room at speed, traversing a graceful arc that ended when it bounced jarringly off Arthur’s head, careened into the wall, ricocheted off a credenza (smashing a garishly colored vase in the process), and landed with a resounding SPLAT in the large tureen of mushy peas.

Dead silence, for once, ensued.

Severus and Bill had managed to cast Protego’s in time, but Charlie and a still-dazed Arthur were now liberally spattered with green mush, as were the tablecloth, surrounding place settings, and two walls.

The younger children clustered, wide eyed, in the doorway, wordlessly surveying the ruin. Molly appeared at the kitchen door and broke the silence with a shriek. Everyone flinched as she spun on the children with a glint in her eye. “Who did this?”

There was a moment more of utter stillness, then: “Me!” Ron exclaimed, just as the twins said, “Us!” and even Percy offered “Erm – me.” A beat later, Ginny insisted, “It was me!”

The five adults exchanged a long glance, even as the lone brunet slowly pushed himself forward. “It was me,” Harry confessed miserably, shoulders slumped.

“No, it wasn’t!” Ron insisted, trying to shove Harry behind the others again. “Mum, it wasn’t!”

Harry managed a weak grin for his friend. “It’s okay, Ron. Thanks.” He dragged his eyes up to meet Snape’s. “It was me.”

Snape touched his pristine napkin to his lips and dropped it on his plate. “If you would be so kind as to excuse us for a few moments,” he said to the others, taking Harry by the shoulder. “Arthur, may I use your study? Thank you.”

He hustled Harry into the small, book-lined room and latched the door behind them. For a moment he toyed with the idea of casting a silencing spell, but in the end decided against it. In addition to being a gross violation of Wizarding etiquette, such a spell was hardly necessary in the Burrow where the ambient noise level precluded successful eavesdropping.

“So.” He folded his arms and looked down upon his ward, wearing his most forbidding glower. “What do you have to say for yourself? Perhaps you didn’t hear Mrs Weasley’s instruction not to play with the ball inside?”

Harry wished he had fallen off his broom at Quidditch practice and broken his arm like Neville had. Then he wouldn’t have come to the Burrow and disgraced himself – and by extension, Professor Snape – in so awful a manner. He had never done something so horrible before. Even at the Dursleys, his most heinous crimes had been for things he now recognized as accidental magic that had been beyond his control. He had never knowingly, deliberately done something like this. He could only imagine what his aunt or uncle would have done to him if he had destroyed one of their dinner parties the way he had just done to Mrs Weasley’s.

She would never let him return to the Burrow now; in fact, she’d probably tell Ron and the others to stay far away from him. It was one thing to be a freak and unintentionally do weird stuff. It was another to disobey and create utter havoc as a consequence.

He couldn’t even bring himself to look at Snape. The man had given him the most brilliant broom just a few hours previous, making him the envy of the entire Quidditch team, and how did Harry repay him? By coming to the Burrow and behaving like some uncivilized lout – the very thing that Snape most loathed. He was pretty sure that Snape wouldn’t drop him like a hot rock, the way he assumed the Weasleys would, but he also figured that Snape was going to make his displeasure very, very clear.

He knew that Snape could, when pressed, hit as hard as Uncle Vernon, and he figured he’d be lucky if he got off with just a single clout to the head like at that first detention. Or was the professor just going to start things off and then let Mr and Mrs Weasley have a chance to give him some licks too? He wouldn’t blame them if they did. After what Harry had done to their dinner table? He was only surprised that Snape had marched him in here for some privacy – at least to start with.

“Well, Potter?” the professor demanded, stepping closer to him, and Harry couldn’t help it, he flinched.

Snape stopped dead. The boy had seemed mesmerized by his own feet, ignoring Snape’s demand for an explanation, so it was only natural that Snape had moved towards him, intent upon shaking some sense into the arrogant brat. But no sooner had he moved then the boy cowered away, as if he were expecting some truly brutal punishment.

“Harry,” Snape said, forcing his voice into slightly less harsh tones. “Are you expecting me to punish you?”

The boy nodded, his eyes tightly shut, hands clenched by his sides.

“By hitting you?”

He nodded again, visibly bracing himself.

Snape glared at him. “Idiot. Didn’t I clearly explain my use of corporal punishment to you?”

The boy’s eyes flew open in surprise. “But th-those are rules for school, sir,” he gulped. “This isn’t Hogwarts. I mean, those rules are for, y’know, everyday stuff. What I did here was really bad. Didn’t you see Mrs Weasley’s table?”

“Foolish child, I was sitting right there!” Snape pointed out testily. Gryffindor dunce. “And just what do you mean by ‘school rules’? Do you honestly imagine I have nothing better to do than to come up with new rules for every eventuality? What do you expect? Rules for the Burrow, rules for Hogwarts, rules for the Leaky Cauldron, rules for Knockturn Alley –“

“What’s –“ Harry began timidly

Snape ignored him. “- Rules for you when you’re eleven, rules for when you’re twelve, rules for when you’re wearing trainers, rules for alternate Tuesdays, rules for months with an ‘r’ in them?” As the professor ranted on, Harry began to relax a little. As snarky as Snape was sounding, Harry hadn’t missed the fact that the professor was explaining that his rules about punishment weren’t just for Hogwarts.

“Y-you mean you’re not going to belt me?” Harry managed to gulp. “Or let the Weasleys? I mean, they’ve got to be really mad.”

Snape just scowled more fiercely. “You are my ward, Potter. I don’t care if you set their bloody house on fire, no one but me is ever to lay a finger on you. Do you understand?”

Harry nodded, eyes wide.

“And as for ‘belting’ you, you already know the answer to that, do you not?”

Harry swallowed and nodded, a shy smile breaking out over his face.

“Then kindly do not attempt to distract me from your appalling behavior by asking foolish questions. You are well aware that you have behaved atrociously, and you will be punished, but you will not be physically harmed, by me or anyone else.” Snape loomed over the brat menacingly. “In fact, what are you to do if someone, such as Mrs Weasley, were to attempt to strike you?”

“D-defend myself?” Harry answered uncertainly, only half-believing that the answer wouldn’t earn him a slap.

“Exactly,” Snape frowned at him for another moment. “Now. As to your uncouth behavior, what do you have to say for yourself, you impossible brat?”

Harry sighed as he felt the last of the terror leave him. He knew Snape was still angry with him, and that was the only thing that prevented him from hugging the man in sheer relief and gratitude. He couldn’t believe how lucky he was. Had this sort of thing happened even two weeks ago, he’d have been thrashed so mercilessly that the resulting welts and bruises would have lasted for weeks. Snape was really, really nice. On the other hand, that made Harry feel even worse about disappointing the man. He forced back a sniffle.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, hanging his head.

“Did you not hear Mrs Weasley?”

“I heard her,” Harry admitted.

“And yet you disobeyed her?”

Harry’s shoulders hunched even more. “It’s just that everyone else was ignoring her, so…” He sniffled again.

“Are you not a guest in this house?” Harry nodded. “Yet you feel no obligation to respect your hostess?” Harry squirmed in shame. “After all the kindness Mrs Weasley has shown you, you cannot do her the courtesy of obeying her in such a simple thing?”

Harry felt the first tear slip down his cheek. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again.

“Oh, you will be, Potter,” Snape promised grimly. “Why do you think Mrs Weasley made the rule about no football in the house?”

“S-so nothing would get broken.”

“And so no one would get hurt. What if the ball had struck Mr Weasley in the face?” Snape forced down an errant snigger at the memory of Arthur’s expression when the ball had smacked into his skull. He frowned more fearsomely at the sniveling brat. “What then?”

“I’m sorry.” Harry wiped away more tears.

“And what if Mrs Weasley had already put out the cake she made for you? The cake, and all of Molly’s hard work, could have been destroyed!”

“Mrs Weasley made a cake? For me?” Harry was so astonished he stopped crying. He stared at Snape incredulously. Someone had actually gone to the trouble of baking a cake in his honor? Dudley always got a fancy cake on his birthday, but today wasn’t even Harry’s birthday, and yet Mrs Weasley had made him a cake?

“Yes, and she went to great effort to do so,” Snape scolded, mentally rolling his eyes at the memory of Molly’s blow-by-blow description. There had been an unfortunate lull between Bill’s stories of breaking an ancient Transylvanian curse and Charlie’s experiences trying to establish a breeding colony of Norwegian dragons, and Molly had filled it by describing, in excruciating detail, the cake she had made “for little Harry”. “How do you think she would have felt if your carelessness had destroyed all her hard work?”

“She made a cake for me?” Harry repeated, happily amazed.

“Potter!” Growling, Snape shook him by the shoulder, making Harry jump. “Pay attention!”

Harry forced down his warm fuzzy feelings and composed his features into a penitent expression. Professor Snape was telling him off, and he didn’t want the poor man to realize he was pants at it. Especially not here at the Burrow, with Mr Weasley so close by. Harry needed to help Professor Snape look good, and grinning like a maniac during a stern dressing-down was not the way to do that. “Sorry,” he repeated remorsefully, hugging to himself the delicious knowledge that not only had Mrs Weasley made a cake for him, but also – even in the midst of a tongue lashing – Professor Snape had made sure he was aware of it.

Snape wondered if he’d done the right thing by shaking the boy. He had only wanted to refocus the little monster when it was clear his attention was wandering, but now the boy looked devastated. Still, Snape told himself, the boy had earned the reprimand with his heedless actions. “Just because the Weasleys behave badly is no excuse for you to do the same,” he continued firmly. “You are not some idiot to follow others blindly. I expect you to teach the Weasley children to behave with more wit and maturity, not to become corrupted yourself by their hooligan-like tendencies. Do you understand?”

“Y’sir,” Harry said meekly. Wow. Professor Snape had high expectations of him. That was nice. Different but nice. Uncle Vernon had always said Harry was bound to end up as a worthless drunk in the gutter. Now Professor Snape was expecting him to teach other kids (older kids) how to behave.

“And even if they did throw or kick the ball to you, why didn’t you have the good sense to catch it and end the game or insist that you would only throw it to someone who goes outside? Or at least kick it in the other direction? Didn’t you realize what would happen if no one caught the ball? You are certainly bright enough to be able to calculate a spheroid’s trajectory, you thoughtless brat. Failure to do so simply demonstrates your complete disregard for the rules of the house. You must use that brain of yours, Potter,” Snape said angrily, giving Harry a little rap on the head with his knuckles. “You should be thinking ahead, not blundering about like some mindless beast. You are the ward of a Slytherin, young man. Gryffindor or no, you will learn to think before you act.”

“Y’sir.” Wow! Professor Snape actually thought he was smart! The professor was mad because he felt Harry was too clever to behave so stupidly – and that was the same as a compliment, wasn’t it?

He did his best not to beam at Professor Snape, recognizing that a sober, contrite mien was expected of him.

Snape considered his next move. The boy was obviously repentant. He’d had him in or near tears on several occasions during the harangue, and Snape was well aware that the brat, for all his mischief, really hadn’t meant any harm. In fact, the professor mused dourly, it was all the fault of those Weasleys! They were the ones who had enticed Harry to disobey though it was of course the brat’s luck that he was the one who actually caused the damage. Still, at least the other children had tried to shield Harry – that boded well for the boy’s long term future, when he would need such loyal allies against Voldemort’s forces.

Snape eyed the boy. What next? He knew the boy had technically earned a swat for disobedience, but considering how fragile Harry had seemed earlier, perhaps it would be better to pretend he hadn’t realized it. It wasn’t as if the boy himself would remind him.

Harry eyed the professor. What next? He knew that he deserved a swat, but he also suspected the professor would be too nice to administer it, and that might make Mr Weasley think the professor was a rotten guardian. “I disobeyed,” Harry pointed out quickly. "You're s'posed to smack me."

Snape hid his surprise behind a thunderous scowl. “Do you think I hadn’t realized that?” Good grief. The boy had no sense of self-preservation. Obviously those bastard Muggles had beaten it out of him. He would have to hope exposure to the Weasleys, especially the twins, improved Harry’s survival instincts. At this rate, upon learning of Voldemort’s plans for him, the boy would march up and challenge the Dark Lord to an arm wrestling match or some other equally idiotic and Gryffindorish duel. He'd probably even take it upon himself to explain to Voldemort what spells and counters he had yet to learn, in the naive assumption the Dark Lord would thereupon avoid using them. Snape could just hear the brat now: "Yoo hoo, Lord Voldemort! I'm over here! Is all the fog from the battle making it hard for you to see me? Aim a little more to your left!" Obviously he had a great deal of re-education to do.

For now, though, the little idiot had brought this upon himself. Snape reached out and turned the boy away from him. He noted that the child had removed his robes to play with that absurd Muggle toy and reminded himself to lighten the smack accordingly.

Harry helpfully bent over and braced himself, wondering if, given the magnitude of the crime, Snape might decide that two (or more) swats were appropriate.

Snape’s hand slapped square across his bum, sounding a lot worse than it felt as the noisy whack reverberated around the small room, but only a mild sting resulted. Harry waited for another smack, face screwed up in anticipation, but the seconds ticked by and nothing happened. “Oh.” He straightened and looked over to where Snape waited, frowning at him. “Erm – ouch!” he said belatedly, trying to sound appropriately chastened. He brought his hands back to give his rear a good rub. “I won’t do that again,” he promised, grimacing as if the residual tingle was acutely painful.

“See that you don’t,” the professor snapped automatically, but he appeared concerned about something.

“You need not hold still or remain silent when you are being punished,” Snape finally reminded him, his brow still creased. Was the boy still so terrified by corporal punishment that he couldn’t bring himself to resist in even such small ways? He had to be careful not to be too rough with Harry; after all, the slap was merely intended to communicate his displeasure, not to inflict significant pain.

“I know,” Harry replied, trying to think of a reason why he hadn’t squirmed or howled. The truth – that the single spank didn’t hurt enough to bother – was obviously unacceptable. “Erm, but since I’m sure you’ll still whack my bum, there doesn’t seem to be much point in trying.”

That appeared to be a good answer. The frown lines faded and Snape smirked at him. “Let it be a challenge to you.”

Harry continued holding his backside for the sake of appearances, but the sting was already gone. Although he could still tell where the slap had landed, no unpleasant warmth lingered - the swat had imparted no lasting discomfort. “Sir,” he asked, reassured that Snape had done his paternal duty and wouldn’t get into any trouble with Mr Weasley or the Headmaster for not addressing Harry’s bad behavior, “what should I do while the rest of you are eating?”

Snape’s awful frown returned. The brat appeared to have the memory of a flobberworm. Hadn’t they been over this the last time they visited the Burrow? “Potter, you will be at the table eating with us. Surely you cannot have forgotten your last meal here so quickly!”

Harry blinked in genuine amazement. “You mean, I’m still allowed to have dinner? Even after what I did?”

“Although you may have started on your 500 lines, it appears that you have not yet come to believe the words you are copying,” Snape reproved him. “Your relatives’ habit of barring you from the table and starving you was inhuman. You are of course going to sit down with the rest of the family. You have been scolded and smacked; your punishment is now over. Do you understand?”

Harry beamed at him. “Y’sir!”

“Having said that, you are not to wait and fill up on cake, even if it was made in your honor. You are also – upon pain of disobeying me!” Snape said warningly. Harry nodded vigorously to show his understanding. “- to eat the rest of the food as well, particularly the vegetables.”

Harry wrinkled his nose but sighed resignedly. “Y’sir.”

Snape paused. “You may, however, skip the mushy peas.”

Harry snorted in amusement, and – just for a moment – Snape’s normal severe expression lightened a bit. “Ready? I still expect you to apologize to our hosts for your appalling conduct,” Snape said sternly, turning towards the door.

Harry nodded, and Snape pulled the door open, causing a tidal wave of redheads to fall into the room from where they’d been leaning against the door, listening.

Harry gaped at the Weasleys, while Snape narrowed his eyes and merely watched, arms folded, as the family tried to disentangle themselves.

“Gerroff! I can’t breathe! Gerroff!” Ginny squeaked breathlessly from the bottom of the pile, while Molly and Arthur blushingly picked themselves off the top of the heap.

“Er – excuse us – we – erm – just checking – not really worried – dinner – go check – excuse me!” Molly babbled incoherently and escaped to the kitchen.

“Yes – uh, what she said,” Arthur echoed, face flaming to match his hair. He fled after his wife.

“Well, sorry about that,” Bill grinned, irrepressible as always. “Just had to make sure you weren’t murdering The Boy Who Lived.” He grabbed a blushing, speechless Percy and headed back to the dining room.

Charlie picked up Ginny and, red faced, mumbled an apology as he made a hasty exit.

“Erm, sorry about that –“

“Professor, we just didn’t –“

“- quite believe that you weren’t –“

“- going to string Harry up by his thumbs –“

“- and as you can see –“

“- we have terrible role models!” On that characteristically cheeky note, the twins departed, leaving Ron as the last representative of the family to face Snape’s wrath.

Before the professor could deliver a blistering reproof – which, to be fair, should probably be directed at the boy’s parents – Ron had demanded of Harry. “Is that it?”

Harry blinked. “What?”

“Is that all the punishment you’re going to get? I mean, nothing else when you get back home?”

Harry glanced at Snape for confirmation, then nodded.

“But he didn’t yell at you or ground you or even hit you that hard!” Ron paused. “Did he?”

Harry was unsure how to answer. He didn’t want to admit the truth and make Snape feel like he hadn’t done a good job, but he didn’t want to lie to his best mate either. “Erm, it wasn’t that bad,” he finally said.

“Right. That’s what I thought.” Ron nodded once, decisively. “Okay, when we get in trouble at school, I want your dad to punish us both.”

Harry darted a worried look at the thunderstruck Snape. “He’s not really my dad,” he started, uncertain as to whether or not Snape would take offense at Ron’s words.

Ron waved a dismissive hand. “Guardian, whatever.”

“But, Ron,” Harry protested, “you’ve got your own family that –“

“Yeah!” Ron said disgustedly. “I’ve got a whole bunch of older brothers who think they can all yell at me and whack me just ‘cause they’re bigger than me, and Percy’s the worst of the lot especially now that he’s a prefect. And my mum… Well, you haven’t heard a Howler yet, Harry, but I’ve watched my mum getting them ready to send to Charlie and the twins, and I don’t want to be on the receiving end of one in the Great Hall. I mean, it’s bad enough when Mum screams at you in person, but to have it happen in front of everyone in the school? No thanks! I’d rather your dad – erm, professor – just took care of it …Is that okay?” he asked, suddenly uncertain. “You don’t mind, do you? I just figured that since we were like brothers now and Professor Snape is a Weasley, it would be okay – like having an uncle yell at you if your dad’s not around. But if you want to keep him to yourself…”

“No, that’s okay!” Harry reassured his friend. He felt rather proud that Ron preferred Harry’s guardian to his whole, real family. Didn’t that just prove how great Professor Snape was? “I don’t mind sharing. You can use him too.”

Snape opened and closed his mouth, but he couldn’t seem to get any words to emerge. How dare these two presumptuous whelps speak of him as if he weren’t present, let alone make plans as if he were some pet they were going to share! While he understood why the youngest Weasley boy would seek to avoid both fraternally-administered wallops and Molly’s ear-splitting harangues, he had no intention of being lumbered with the supervision of two brats instead of one. And then the Weasley spawn had referred to him as a Weasley and an uncle, for Merlin’s sake! He was in no way, shape, or form going to serve as an UNCLE to this redheaded band of maniacs!

Worse, the youngest Weasley male had even said “when” not “if” he and Harry got into trouble, so it was clear that he wasn’t just speaking theoretically. Snape needed to make it indelibly clear to these two hellions, not to mention the rest of the Weasley clan, that he was not going to –

“BOYS! DINNER!” Molly bellowed.

To Snape’s shock and horror, Harry and Ron each grabbed one of his hands and started dragging him towards the table. “C’mon, Pr’fessor!” Harry panted. “It’s rude to keep them waiting!”

This had to be some horrendous nightmare, perhaps brought on by an extended bout of Cruciatus, Snape thought desperately. He must be hallucinating – surely he was nice and safe and being tortured by the Dark Lord, and not sitting down to a meal as the newest member of the Weasley family? But his feeble hopes were dashed when Molly smiled and handed him the bread basket. No matter how long he was Crucio’d, even his most fevered imaginings couldn’t have come up with the hand-embroidered doily, festooned with happy house elves, that covered the rolls.

Albus, Snape vowed to himself, as Ron and Harry happily settled themselves in chairs on either side of him, I will get you back for this if it’s the last thing I do.

Mercifully, the rest of the meal passed without incident. For the first time, Snape had reason to appreciate the self-absorbed nature of children, as the Weasley brood prattled on artlessly about trivialities, thereby relieving him of the need to speak. Incredibly, Arthur and Molly seemed to enjoy the noise and insanity, and by the end of the meal, Harry was laughing and babbling along with the rest. Snape wearily noted that remedial lessons in table manners – particularly about not talking with your mouth full – would be needed after visits to the Burrow.

Then at last he could decently make his excuses. Harry, suddenly shy, came over as he stood by the floo, impatient to leave. Snape looked him over. “You will behave yourself.” It wasn’t a question.

Harry nodded obediently. “Yes, sir.”

“I will see you back at Hogwarts tomorrow evening. Do not forget to finish your homework.” Snape reached for some floo powder, to make his escape, but Harry grabbed him around the middle before he could complete the motion.

Damn! That solid little forehead always knocked the breath out of him. An instant later, Harry had released him and darted away, tossing a “See you tomorrow!” over his shoulder as he pelted off to rejoin the Weasley children.

Snape massaged his abdomen and glared after the brat. Molly and Arthur hid their smiles. “Er – thank you again for coming,” Arthur said. “I hope we can make this a regular occurrence.”

Snape raised an eyebrow. “All of tonight’s events?”

Arthur had the grace to blush. Molly, however, recovered from embarrassment much more quickly. To his outrage, she dragged Severus into an embrace. “Now, now – least said, soonest mended!” She completed her assault on his person with a loud kiss on his cheek which only the rigid self-control learned under Voldemort’s Crucio prevented him from wiping away.

“Indeed,” he said as chillingly as he could manage. “Good night.”

He fled – er, hastened – through the Floo and relaxed with a sigh of relief as he entered his own quarters. To his relief he realized that, although it had felt like an eternity, he had only been at the Weasleys for a few hours. It was still early enough to carry out his plan.

He stuck his head back into the Floo network and called Albus. A moment later, the Headmaster stepped through the hearth and into Snape’s quarters. “Well, well, my boy, and how was your evening?”

Snape glared up at him from where he lay sprawled in one of his chairs. “How do you think, old man? I have been surrounded by Weasleys, subjected to the architectural inadequacies of the Burrow, and forced to eat Molly’s cooking.”

“I’m sure you and Harry had a lovely evening,” Dumbledore said comfortably, blithely ignoring both the content and tone of Snape’s reply.

Snape rolled his eyes. “Your precious Gryffindor prince is safely ensconced among the redheaded menaces. Both Bill and Charlie are there tonight so you need hardly worry about any Death Eater attack overcoming the family – let alone the wards – and I am going to drown myself in Dreamless Sleep in the hopes of forgetting this day ever happened. It will serve you right if, during my absence from my nightly patrolling, the students take over this asylum.”

Albus chuckled and patted the younger man on the shoulder. “There, there. I will have a word with Argus to ensure that the students get up to no more mischief than usual, and I shall even take a few strolls about the castle myself, if that will make you feel better.”

Ha! Success! Snape masked his triumph with a grumble and heaved himself out of the chair. “I’m sure you can see yourself out,” he snapped, heading for his bedroom.

The roar of the floo drowned out Albus’ good night wishes, and Snape grinned wolfishly. He’d wait another ten minutes, just in case Dumbledore remembered something and came back. Any longer than that, and he’d assume Severus was unconscious from the potion and he’d know better than to return.

Then, with Dumbledore distracted and his own alibi neatly secured, Snape would be free to carry out his real plans for the night.

Perhaps the only good thing about being Tobias Snape’s son was that by the time he was eight, Severus was, through his father, well acquainted with the seamier side of life. Whether he was sending his son to place a bet or buy him more liquor, Tobias had no qualms about exposing Severus to society’s rougher elements. Even after he started at Hogwarts, Severus had maintained a few ties to the Muggle underworld. Initially this was so that, during visits home, he could still carry out Tobias' errands, but his connections had also proven useful during his years as a Death Eater, not because Voldemort would ever consider an alliance with Muggles, but because it gave Severus an understanding of Muggle law enforcement that the Dark Lord could exploit.

Tonight Snape was planning to visit an old childhood acquaintance who was now a well-established member of the Muggle criminal elite. He transfigured his clothing into garments that would raise no eyebrows and apparated to the appointed location, a pub close to where he had grown up. Within minutes, he was seated in a dark corner, opposite the man he had come to meet.

“Oi - looks like Life's been kind to you, Severus,” John Marvin noted, lifting his glass in a silent toast. “Your father’d be pleased.”

Snape sneered. “My father would have been most displeased, and you know it. He loathed me, and the feeling was entirely mutual.”

Marvin shrugged. “Yeah, true. So – you’re obviously not here to talk ‘bout old times. What d’you want?”

Snape leaned back. “I have a task for you and your organization. Interested?” In the almost two weeks since he had first learned of the Dursleys’ treatment of Harry, Snape had done a lot of thinking about how best to repay them for their mistreatment of a Wizarding child. Unfortunately, he was somewhat limited in his options by the fact that Albus had assigned him the task and would therefore expect a report.

Since the elderly wizard was surprisingly squeamish about physical violence – though not about deliberately manipulating others, whether for their own alleged benefit or “the greater good" – Snape knew that he would have to avoid Unforgivables or, indeed, anything too Dark. If his treatment of the Dursleys exceeded whatever Dumbledore thought was deserved, the elderly wizard might well send him to Azkaban, deciding that he was too dangerous an influence on Harry. The unspoken subtext in everything dealing with the boy was the fear that Harry would grow up to join, not oppose, Voldemort, and if Dumbledore felt that Snape was somehow encouraging such behavior… Well, Severus already knew the headmaster was willing to sacrifice him if necessary. He’d do it reluctantly and with great sadness, but he would do it. Snape was determined not to give him any reason for such a course of action.

The old man’s inappropriate (in Snape’s opinion) mercy towards undeserving wizards was why so many Death Eaters – including Lucius Malfoy, Bellatrix LeStrange, and of course Snape himself – were still around. Dumbledore insisted that the Order of the Phoenix use nonlethal means whenever possible, and Snape was confident that he would therefore reject anything that seemed too cruel to the “poor Muggles”. Dumbledore obviously held out hope that Harry’s relatives could be made to see the error of their ways. Snape would rather they saw their own entrails.

He sighed. Since that wasn’t going to happen, he could at least come up with the next best thing. He had thought long and hard about this and had rather quickly ruled out using any kind of charm or curse on the Muggles. Dumbledore was sure to object to the ones he wanted to use, as they would inevitably lead to slow, excruciating deaths, and Snape had no desire to let the Dursleys off with the equivalent of a stern lecture.

In the end, he decided on a two pronged approach. On the one hand – the one he would tell Albus about – it seemed appropriate to use Muggle methods to punish Muggles. He was confident that John Marvin would, with proper motivation, be able to destroy both the Dursleys’ quality of life and their peace of mind.

“There is a family in Surrey,” he began, steepling his fingers, “who have offended me. I wish to ensure that they are made to suffer.”

Marvin nodded slowly. “You always were a vindictive little sod. What did you have in mind?”

Snape shrugged. “I’m certain you can be more inventive than I. Surely there are ways to ensure that they are harassed by all the various bureaucratic agencie?”

Marvin grinned. “It’s amazin’ what you can do with computers these days. Phony arrest warrants, canceled drivers’ licenses, and of course once you get on the wrong side of the tax boys, your life’s as good as over.”

Snape waved a negligible hand. “Yes, yes. By all means, make use of your ‘confusers’. The goal is to make each and every day of their lives a misery.”

Marvin was busy scribbling on the back of a paper napkin. “Right, right. This isn’t nearly as unusual a request as you might think. Always happy to oblige a friend…”

“And I would also like you to make use of more… orthodox… methods of intimidation.”

“Put the frighteners on ‘em? Easy enough. You have any ideas?”

“The odd assault as they collect their vehicle at a parking structure. Perhaps have someone break into the house while they’re out and move things around just to unnerve them… It might also be amusing to have them awaken to realize intruders are standing around their bed,” Snape mused. “No permanent damage though – I don’t want the game to end too quickly.”

“Right, right. More a war of nerves than brute force? Again, we get a lot of these requests, though usually it’s just for one or t’other,” Marvin kept writing. “Blimey, what did these people do to you anyway?”

“Does it matter?”

“Nah – just curious.”

“They abused a child in their care, though I don’t wish your employees to speak of it. Much better for them to have no idea why they are being targeted.”

The Muggle whistled. “Well, good to see you haven’t changed much, Sev. Once an evil bastard, always an evil bastard. How many in the family? I might have to charge you extra if there’re too many.”

“Three. Two parents, one child, age eleven.”

“You want the kid left alone?”

Snape stroked his chin. “No-o. I wouldn’t say that. While you need not show him the same level of attention as the adults, like them, he should be made to feel helpless and preyed upon.”

“Hmmm. Any idea where the little bugger goes to school?”

Snape shook his head.

“No matter. It’ll be easy enough to suss out.”

“Why?”

“Every school has its share of bullying toe rags. Easy to slip them a few quid and tell them who to target. They’ll make the kid’s schooldays a real hell.”

“Excellent,” Snape purred. “So glad to see we understand each other. I’ll expect reports twice a month. Separate reports for the bureaucratic harassment and those with the more ‘personal’ touch if you would be so kind. ”

Marvin nodded. “You know the terms – so long as your money turns up in my bank account, you’ll get the results you’re after.”

“Thank you. Here are their particulars,” Snape passed Marvin a slip of paper with the Dursleys’ names and address. “Good evening.”

As he apparated away, he allowed himself a smirk of satisfaction. Albus would be pleased with the bloodless bureaucratic persecution, and if he found Snape’s vengeance too restrained to be believable, then the Headmaster could be allowed to discover the additional intimidation as well. He might lecture Severus about excessiveness, but since it was Muggle on Muggle violence, the Aurors would not be called and Azkaban would not be a potentia outcome.

And speaking of Azkaban…

When Snape had decided not to be satisfied with the minor torments that were all that Albus would allow him to use on the Dursleys, he had spent a great deal of time determining how else to make them pay. The obvious solution was to enlist the help of someone else, someone Albus knew nothing about, and who would have no obvious reason to know about Harry’s relatives, let alone target them. In this way, they could operate with impunity, unnoticed by Dumbledore or the Ministry. That left only one difficulty: whom did he know who was both well able to torture Muggles and likely to welcome the chance? Obviously his own duties at Hogwarts would make it impossible to spend the necessary amount of time overseeing activities at Privet Drive, and to be fair, he had never been particularly sought after during Death Eater revels.

Despite what his students might believe, Snape was not in fact a sadist, and he had never gotten any degree of pleasure from participating in attacks with Voldemort. There were, however, many Death Eaters who found such activities downright entertaining, and it was their skills that he had decided to utilize with the Dursleys. Lucius Malfoy would have been perfect for the role, of course, but since barely escaping Azkaban after the Dark Lord’s defeat, he had devoted himself to reestablishing his family’s political and social influence. Especially now that his heir was getting closer to his majority, Lucius was being careful to keep his nose (and other body parts) squeaky clean.

Bellatrix Black LeStrange brought new meaning to the term "sadist", not to mention "insane". Even the Dark Lord had, on occasion, been taken aback by her enthusiasm. By comparison to Bella, Voldemort was a picture of mental health – after all, he only wanted to rule the world, a not completely unreasonable goal. Bella was just plain barmy.

Still, Bellatrix could always be relied upon to develop ever new and more inventive tortures, and she despised Muggles with a single minded passion, both traits that would assist her in persecuting the Dursleys. As attractive as that made her, though. Snape had regretfully decided that her lunacy made her too unpredictable to work with on this project.

He sighed. He had really hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but who else was left? He needed a Muggle-hating Death Eater with a proven track record of killing, torture, betrayal, and other Dark activities. Like it or not, there was only one obvious candidate left. Leaving the dark pub far behind, he apparated to a foggy, deserted stretch of stretch of sand.

‘S that you?” a hoarse voice demanded.

Snape rolled his eyes. “Of course. Have you made the necessary arrangements?”

The other wizard emerged from the fog. “Yeah – got the potions?”

Snape held up one green, glowing vial. “Here’s one. I’ll Summon the other upon my safe return.”

The other man snorted in amusement and contempt. “Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course I do,” Snape replied silkily. “For you know as well as I do that only my continued good health will prevent certain proofs of your past activities from reaching the Aurors. And naturally you wouldn’t want anything to happen to me, or where would you get your – ahem – ‘enhancement’ potions? Can’t have you disappointing your wife, can we? Isn't that the problem with Veelas, they're never fully satisfied?”

“I satisfy her just fine!” the other man flared, but he reached out to snatch the potion all the same.

Snape smirked. “Of course you do. Shall we go over?”

It really wasn’t that hard to break into Azkaban, Snape mused. Naturally enough, all the efforts were spent on preventing wizards from leaving. So long as you had a well-placed and highly motivated confederate on the inside, getting in unobserved was rather a doddle. And say what you might about the downsides of being a Death Eater, you couldn’t deny that it guaranteed you a well-rounded acquaintance with all the dodgy elements of Wizarding society, not to mention providing a great deal of extortion-appropriate information about them. As a result, identifying an easily-bribable guard had been so easy that Snape nearly felt disappointed. Of course the fact that Voldemort had been gone for nearly a decade and Death Eater activity was now all but nonexistent did tend to lull the Aurors and guards into a state of complacency.

Snape sighed. There were times when he rather missed the excitement of the old days. Matching wits against students – even the Weasley twins – just wasn’t the same as serving as a double agent, caught between the two most powerful wizards of the age.

Snape sighed. There were times when he did rather miss the excitement of the old days. Matching wits against students – even the Weasley twins – just wasn’t the same as serving as a double agent, caught between the two most powerful wizards of the age.

Then again, Snape noted, coming to a halt before a barred iron door. There were some memories of the old days that he could do without. So much for nostalgia. He gestured impatiently and the Azkaban guard reluctantly unlocked the door. “He’s dangerous, this one! Kill you as soon as look at you!” he warned.

“I know that better than you.” Snape shoved past him and entered the dank cell. Behind him, the guard grumbled resentfully but walked away. Damn – it’s actually a bit warmer than my dungeons. I really need to get some new warming spells. He crossed to the low, narrow bunk and gave the recumbent figure a vigorous kick in the side. “Wake up, you bastard.”

“Who the – “ Bleary eyes blinked, fought to focus, and finally widened. “Snivellus?”

Snape sighed. Well, there went one of his long-cherished hopes. The creep wasn’t completely insane yet. On the other hand, it did mean that he might be able to play the role that Snape had in mind.

It had taken him days to figure it out, but in the end it had made an awful kind of sense. Snape wanted to torture the Dursleys, and not merely for a few days or weeks as Lucius or Bellatrix might. Who knew how to make someone’s life a true misery for years on end? Who but the Marauders?

Unfortunately for Snape’s plan, both Potter and Pettigrew were dead and the mangy werewolf had been the most law-abiding of the bunch. On the other hand, Black wasn’t dead, just exiled to Azkaban. He might well be insane after so many years in that environment, but if he weren’t… Who knew better than Sirius Black how to make someone’s existence utterly wretched? And who knew this better than Severus Snape? So Snape had overcome his loathing and come to Azkaban to pick Black’s brain about the best ways to torment the Dursleys.

It was an inspired plan, Snape congratulated himself. No one would ever assume that he of all people would come within twenty miles of Sirius Black, let alone seek his assistance. This was one plot he was confident Dumbledore would never anticipate.

“What the b-bloody hell –“ Black was shivering and close to incoherent. Snape used a sticking hex to fasten him to the bunk – disoriented he might be, but Black was still a powerful wizard even without his wand – and forced chocolate and pepper-up potions down the man’s throat. After a surprisingly short time, he could detect the return of sanity to Black’s eyes.

“Come to gloat, Snivellus?” Black snarled, then yelped as a stinging hex caught him in the chest.

“Mind your manners, Black,” Snape drawled lazily. “You may have noticed a distinct lack of other Marauders to hide behind.”

“Bast – ow!” The second hex hurt even more than the first, and Sirius broke off with a glare.

“My, my, I am surprised,” Snape said mockingly. “Did it only take two hexes to teach you to hold your tongue? Your IQ must have risen sharply in the last ten years. Azkaban really has been good for you.”

“What do you want?” Sirius spat.

Snape twirled his wand idly. “Hmmm. So many choices. To pay you back for all your kind attention during our school days, perhaps?” He smirked as Black paled at his words. “I see you haven’t lost all your memories to the Dementors. Can you think of a few things I might like to do?”

“Fine – get your sick thrills, you bloody Death Eater!”

“Let’s not play the pot and the kettle, Black!” Snape snapped back, then grimaced at his involuntary pun. “You were the one who turned on your best friends and killed a dozen Muggles in the process. You would have made Voldemort very proud if he’d still been around to appreciate it!”

“What?” Sirius shook his head, confusion once again clouding his eyes.

Snape snarled in frustration and shoved more chocolate down the man’s throat. When Black seemed to have recovered, he started over. “Black, if you had a Muggle family to torture, how would you go about it?”

Black stared at him for a moment then spat directly in his face. Snape leaped backwards, bringing up his wand.

“Do it! Kill me! Curse me!” Black shouted, his face distorted with rage. “But don’t expect me to help you harm innocents, you Slytherin bastard!”

Snape scourgify’d the spittle from his face, but the Gryffindor’s odd words prevented the immediate retaliation he longed to launch. “Feeling remorse for all the Muggles you killed?” he taunted. “Isn’t it a bit late to reprise the role of noble hero?”

Black stared at him. “I thought I was the insane one, Snivellus. What are you talking about?”

“Trying to pretend it was all a bad dream, Black? Pettigrew, the Muggles, the Potters – you killed them all. Deny it if you can!”

Sirius shook his head as if trying to clear it. “What? No – Voldemort killed James and Lily.”

Snape tried to hide his flinch at the Dark Lord’s name. “After you betrayed them by revealing their location. And then when that poor idiot Pettigrew tried to capture you, you killed him and blew up a city block full of Muggles in the process!”

“That – that’s not true,” Sirius argued, eyes focused inwards as he tried to dredge up the memories. Prolonged exposure to Dementors had a detrimental effect on rational thought. “Pettigrew – Peter was the traitor. I tried to capture him. He was the one who caused the explosion, killed everyone… And then I woke up here…” He looked up at Snape. “What are you these days, Snivellus? Minister of Magic? Or did Malfoy snag that for himself after Voldemort vanished? Do you gloat every day about your glorious victories?”

Snape frowned. “What victories?”

“The ones that let Voldemort’s supporters seize control even after that bastard was dead,” Sirius snarled. “Proud of yourself, you greasy bastard?” He blinked and looked at Snape again. “Hey – what happened to your hair?”

“Fudge is minister, Dumbledore still heads the Wizengamot, and the Dark Lord’s supporters were rounded up and imprisoned after He fell,” Snape informed Black, ignoring the question about his hair. “Why would you think that Malfoy and the Death Eaters won?”

Sirius’ eyes grew even more confused. “But – but if they didn’t, if Dumbledore is still alive, then what am I doing here?” His countenance grew even more stricken. “Oh Merlin – what happened to Harry? If the Death Eaters didn’t come to power and kill him…”

That did it. Snape had had enough of this doubletalk. On the one hand he suspected that Black was merely delusional, but… he had to be sure. Lifting his wand, he snapped, “Legilimens!” and an instant later he was in Black’s mind.

Emotions, images, and sounds flashed past him in a dizzying blur – he had always known Black was a chaotic, emotional mess, and Azkaban hadn’t helped in that regard – but he definitely wasn’t insane. Yet.

Snape pieced together enough scraps and tatters of memory to become appalled. Even his undiminished hatred for the man couldn’t suppress the feelings of horror and pity as he realized what had happened. He pulled out and stared at the prisoner, aghast.

Black believed it – believed that he was here on Azkaban because the Dark Lord had won, that Pettigrew had betrayed James and Lily, that in the ensuing chaos, Harry and the remaining Order of the Phoenix members had been killed and the war lost.

“Prove it,” Snape fought to keep his voice from trembling. “Prove what you’re thinking is true.”

Sirius squinted up at him, his head racked with pain from Snape’s mental assault. “Get stuffed. I don't take orders from Death Eating bastards.”

Snape ignored Black's words and unstuck him from the bed, though he kept the other man at wandpoint. “Your memories showed you all had Animagus forms. Prove that this is more than the ramblings of a broken mind.”

Sirius got painfully to his feet. “Fine. Whatever makes you happy, you Slytherin shi-“ Before he could finish the word, a large, skeletal black dog stood where the gaunt man had been.

Only Snape’s iron control permitted him to keep his feet. It was true then. Pettigrew had been the Secret Keeper and had betrayed the other Marauders. It was because of him that James and Lily had died and Sirius was framed for a crime he didn’t commit. But why hadn’t Dumbledore… Snape forced himself away from that line of thought. It would not be a question he could answer here and now, and in fact he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer. Either the Headmaster was a great deal more fallible than anyone had dreamed, or he was much more ruthlessly manipulating than anyone had feared. Neither option was particularly welcome, and Snape couldn’t afford to be distracted just then.

Sirius shifted back to his human form. “So? Satisfied yet, Death Eater?” he asked snidely, reseating himself on the bunk. Apparently spending time in animal form was rather restful; he seemed better, more centered, than he had before.

“Eat this,” Snape ordered, passing him more chocolate. “You’ll need it.”

“So why are you here?” Black demanded. “If your side lost, how come you’re not in the next cell over?”

“I was Dumbledore’s spy, you idiot,” Snape snapped. “How do you think he knew the Dark Lord was after Lily and James?” Black blinked. “After the war, Dumbledore spoke on my behalf and took me back to Hogwarts. I’m the Head of Slytherin and the Potions professor.”

“Oh, Merlin,” Black breathed. “Dumbledore turned you loose on poor defenseless children?”

Snape threw him a dirty look. “Shut up, mutt.”

“What about Harry? What happened to him? Without James and Lily and with me locked up here –“

“Dumbledore placed him with Lily’s sister.”

Sirius paled. “Not Petunia! She’s –“

“Yes. And her husband is worse.” Snape glared at him. “And here I had imagined you might actually prove useful for once in your misbegotten life.”

“What are you talking about?”

Snape waved a hand in frustration. “I was hoping you might have some innovative ideas on how to repay the Dursleys for making Harry’s childhood miserable, but that was back when I imagined you were a secret Death Eater. Obviously, though, you’re as useless as ever,” he ended, feeling rather depressed. All he had managed to do was to prove the innocence of his boyhood nemesis and raise some very troubling concerns about his mentor’s behavior. What a rotten night.

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Snivellus,” Black chided. “I may not be a murderer, but I’m still a Marauder. Of course I’ll have good ideas.” Then all of Snape’s words finally registered. “Wait. What do you mean, they made Harry unhappy?”

Snape shrugged, elaborately casual. “Oh, does it matter to you? Well, let’s see. They forced him to live in a cupboard, barely fed him, and used him as a house elf even as they pampered their own little horror. Oh, and they thrashed him on a regular basis. He arrived at Hogwarts too welted to sit down properly.”

The look in Black’s eye made Snape back up a step, raising his wand. It was only when he realized the other man’s rage wasn’t directed at him that he felt his heart rate start to slow.

“They did that to my godson?” Black’s voice was a low growl.

“Indeed.”

“And Albus is making them pay?”

Snape rolled his eyes. And they said Hufflepuffs were the loyal ones. “Albus, the man who has done nothing to extricate you from your unjust incarceration, has left both the Dursleys’ punishment and Harry’s guardianship in my hands.”

Black came off the bed in a leap and Snape only barely managed to get his wand up in time. He flung Black back onto the bunk and stuck him down again. “You bastard. You must be delighted – now you can revenge yourself on all of us by taking it out on Harry. Albus must be bloody insane.”

“Calm yourself, mutt!” Snape spat. “I would remind you that I wasn’t the bully during our schooldays, picking on classmates when I had a four to one advantage. The boy will come to no harm at my hands, though I can hardly say the same thing about his own relatives.”

Black panted, but he had no strength to sustain his rage and the fury that had overtaken him rapidly ebbed. “You won’t harm Harry? You swear it?” he sounded almost plaintive.

“Yes, of course,” Snape said testily, forcing down unexpected pity for the other man. “He’s a horrible, needy little brat, but he’s too scared of his own shadow – thanks to those appalling Muggles – to remind me of either you or James.” Well, not after that first night... he thought uncomfortably.

Black stared at him for another moment, as if to evaluate whether he could believe him, before dropping his gaze to the floor. There was a long silence, then: “I apologize.”

Snape hid his shock and even managed an airy wave. “What’s one more insult from you, Black? I barely even notice anymore.”

“No. I meant that I apologize for what we did to you at school.” Now Snape was truly speechless. Black kept his eyes on the floor, but he continued speaking. “We – James and Remus and I – well, mostly James and I – were prats. And it was me more than James, especially once he started seeing Lily and she insisted we leave you be. We – I – treated you like shite and I’m sorry. These last ten years, I’ve learned what it feels like to be trapped and tortured. We should never have treated you like that. I just assumed that considering how awful we’d been, you would have taken it out on Harry. I apologize for thinking that, too.”

“Wh- what do you want, Black?” Severus managed to find his voice.

Black actually smiled, though it was only a ghost of his old cheeky grin. “Ever the Slytherin, eh? Well, I wouldn’t say no to more of that chocolate, but I wasn’t apologizing only to get on your good side, Snivel- er, Snape. It just seemed the least I could do, considering that you’re taking care of my godson after the rest of us made a bollocks of it. There’s not much else I can do for you from here.”

“No,” Snape agreed sourly, regaining his composure. “What a surprise.”

“Don’t whinge, Snape,” Black chided. “I swear you’re disappointed I wasn't a Death Eater. Just what do you have planned for Harry’s relatives anyway?”

Snape shrugged mentally and shared his plans, emphasizing the difficulty that Black’s uselessness would now create for him. Maybe I still have time to drop in on Bellatrix…

Sirius regarded him with a mixture of exasperation and tentative hope. “Snape, you bloody idiot. I may not have been one of Voldemort's little toadies, but have you forgotten who made your life a living hell all those years? Get me out of here, and I’ll drive the Dursleys insane within the year. I’ll make them pay for harming Harry.”

Severus considered the offer. There was no doubt that Black could be an implacable – and all too inventive – adversary. Once provided with a new wand, he would be able to torture the Dursleys with everything from boils to termite infestations, and while his escape would undoubtedly kick off a massive manhunt, no one would ever assume Snape had anything to do with it. Snape reluctantly acknowledged that, if handled properly, Black’s escape might also help to raise some questions about his imprisonment – such as why he had received no trial, why Veritaserum hadn’t been used, and so on. While the last thing he wanted was Sirius Black back in his life – not to mention the fact that the werewolf would not be far behind once Black was exonerated – in the coming years, Harry would need all the protectors he could get. And if Dumbledore were playing some kind of deep game, then having allies beyond Hogwarts could be more than helpful – they might be desperately needed.

“Oh, all right,” Snape growled at last. “You’re sure no one knows about your being an animagus?”

“I don’t know if Peter told anyone, but I assume Remus didn’t say a word or they would have had anti-tranfiguration wards in here all this time. Being able to spend most of my time as a dog is the only thing that's kept me sane.” Black ignored Snape’s smirk. “I know Dumbledore and McGonagall never knew or they would have insisted we register.”

“Hmf.” Snape gave Black one last threatening look. “Try anything and I’ll turn you into a rug, you flea bitten hound.” He unstuck the man, then conjured a simulacrum on the bed in his place. “It won’t last more than a few days, but I assume you don’t get much company who might spot the difference,” he said snarkily.

“Not to worry. You want me in canine form?”

“So long as you’re housebroken.”

The big black dog sat down and held up one paw politely.

“Don’t even think about it,” Snape told him coldly, then cast an invisibility spell on the animal. “Stay close to me. If you get left behind, I’m not coming back.” He felt the big animal press against his legs and rolled his eyes. He really hoped that his use of the term “flea bitten” would not prove to be literally true.

Once they were safely back on the mainland, Snape handed over the second potion to the helpfully dishonest prison guard and set off for Surrey with a still-invisible Black by his side. They apparated to the Dursley home, and Snape briefed Sirius on the family. He finished speaking, then cast a baleful eye over the now visible dog. “You’re in no shape to embark on a campaign of terror,” he announced disgustedly. “You’re emaciated and your hair is all matted. The neighbors will take one look at you and summon the dog warden. We’d better get you somewhere so you can recover a bit first. Then you might be able to pass yourself off as a family pet.”

Sirius transformed again. “I don’t exactly have a place to stay,” he argued wearily. It was obvious that he was close to collapse; the years at Azkaban had taken their toll. “And within a few hours – days at the most – they’ll figure out I’m gone and then they’ll plaster my face all over the country, Muggle and Wizard locations alike. I can’t just check into a hotel and hope no one notices that they’re rooming next to an escaped murderer.”

“I did think of that, you idiot.”

“Then what’s your brilliant plan? I don’t have the energy to maintain a glamour,” Black snapped back, though it was clear that it hurt his pride to have to admit to such weakness. “I know you’re the Potion Master, but can you really make me enough Polyjuice to maintain a disguise for weeks on end?”

“No.” Snape gloomily regarded the other man. Why him? Why was it always up to him? “Come on.”

“Where are we going?” Predictably, the idiot Gryffindor held back.

Snape pointed his wand threateningly. “You’re going wherever I say, though I’ll be happy to stun and drag you there.”

“I can see your disposition hasn’t improved with age,” Black muttered rebelliously, even as he took Snape’s arm for the apparition.

“Here.” Snape shook off the Gryffindor’s hand as soon as he could. “This is one of my mother’s family homes. It’s unplottable and I’m the Secret Keeper, so unless you irritate me, you should be safe.” Ignoring the other’s mutter of “I’m doomed!”, Snape continued. “There are two house elves who will look after you. Don’t leave the property – there are books to occupy your time and even some old brooms out back. If you fall off and kill yourself, be good enough to do it somewhere your corpse won’t ruin the landscaping. A few rooms are warded. If you go in them, I’ll kill you if the wards don’t.” Snape glared at his very unwelcome house guest. This next was going to be very hard to say, but the only alternative was even worse. “Since I have better things to do than nurse you back to health so that you can keep your end of the bargain about the Dursleys, I can.." he forced himself to say the words, "...go ahead and contact the werewolf if you want.”

Black’s eyes widened. “You’d contact Remus for me?”

“No, I was planning on sending Fenrir Greyback. Of course I’m talking about Lupin, you half-wit! Do you think he’ll believe your story, or will he try to ingratiate himself with the Ministry by turning you in?”

Black bit back his initial angry retort and actually thought for a moment. “I think he’ll want to see me, especially if you tell him that you believe me. You can risk it.”

Snape shrugged. “You’re the one who’s at risk. If they capture you before your name is cleared, you’re sure to be Kissed. Still trust the werewolf?”

Black glared at him. “Yes. Unlike you, I have friends that I trust.”

“Mmm. Like Peter Pettigrew.” Snape was quite surprised when Black didn’t attempt to punch him for that remark. Obviously the man was even weaker than he was letting on.

“Come along.” He introduced Black to the house elves, made sure he was reasonably well settled, and departed for Hogwarts. While he had no doubts as to Black’s ability to wreak vengeance on the Dursleys, he was more than a little annoyed with himself for actually helping the man. First the Potter brat, then Black, and now he was going to contact the werewolf! What was happening to him? Any minute now, he’d be patting Longbottom on the head and helping Hagrid spoon feed orphaned kneazles! This was clearly all that brat’s fault. Even tucked away safely at the Burrow, Potter was still causing him no end of trouble.

Snape returned to his quarters and checked the time. Half past three. He smirked to himself. At least he’d have the pleasure of waking up the werewolf. After confirming that they were indeed two weeks away from the full moon, Snape once again entered the floo.

He had made a point of keeping track of the werewolf’s location ever since Dumbledore had first floated the idea of hiring him for the DADA position, yet further proof of the Headmaster’s increasing dottiness. Having a werewolf prowling around the student body – oh, there was a brilliant idea. Sometimes Snape was amazed that Dumbledore hadn’t yet been strung up by a mob of parents, irate over his faculty appointments. Ignoring Snape's own checkered past, there was the disgraced giant, the incompetent seer, the twitching current DADA instructor… Actually, a werewolf probably would fit right in.

Still, he had so far managed to dissuade Dumbledore whenever the idea of employing Lupin came up, though he wondered how much longer his screaming tantrums and threats to resign would work. The old man could be annoyingly persistent when he chose to be.

It was handy that Lupin had given him his floo password after Snape had grudgingly, after much pressure from Dumbledore, agreed to provide him with his monthly dose of wolfsbane potion. Knowing that the werewolf wouldn’t accidentally bite him wasn’t that much comfort to Snape, and he had repeatedly told Albus so. As usual, the Headmaster merely smiled and nodded. On the other hand, it did make striding into Lupin’s bedroom in the wee hours of the morning rather easy.

“Get up!” Snape snarled, kicking the bed. To his disappointment – though not his surprise – Lupin was alone.

“Huh? Whuzzat? Who’s there?” Lupin thrashed about, tangled in the covers.

“Aguamenti!” Lupin fought free of his duvet just in time for Snape’s jet of cold water to catch him in the face.

As the werewolf coughed and spluttered, Snape smirked. “Oh, dear. Do forgive me, Lupin. I thought you might need some assistance rousing yourself.”

“Severus? What are you doing here?” Remus wiped the water from his eyes and frowned at Snape worriedly. “Did Albus send you? Is something wrong?”

Snape glowered. The werewolf was no fun. Black would have foamed and cursed him, but Remus simply ignored the pranks and insults. “It depends on whether you think incorrectly imprisoning someone on Azkaban for ten years constitutes ‘something wrong’.”

Remus stiffened. “Sirius. You’re talking about Sirius.”

“No, Lupin. I’m talking about Bellatrix LeStrange. Of course I’m talking about Black, you cretin. Why didn’t you tell the authorities he was an animagus?”

Lupin swallowed hard. “How did you find that out?”

Snape just smirked at him.

“Is – is he hurt? Did he try to escape and get recaptured? What happened? Is he…” Lupin’s voice trailed off.

“Dead?” Snape offered helpfully.

Lupin’s amber eyes widened in horror, and for a moment, Snape was certain he saw a yellow glow appear in them. Suddenly, teasing a werewolf didn’t seem like such a good idea.

“No, no, he’s not dead,” he said hastily. “Calm down, wolf! He’s perfectly all right, last time I checked. What difference does it make to you, anyway? Didn’t he kill your best friends?”

Lupin buried his head in his hands, oblivious to the soggy sheets that were still draped around him. “I know, I know. I keep telling myself that, but I can’t stop worrying about him. It’s just so hard to believe…”

“Yet you did.”

Lupin looked up. “What do you mean, Severus? I did what?”

“You did believe the story – that he betrayed the Potters, killed Pettigrew and all those Muggles?”

“Well, the evidence was so overwhelming… “ Again Lupin trailed off.

“What evidence?” Snape asked.

“What?”

“Well, I hardly need evidence to believe the worst of Black, but what did it take to convince you of your best friend’s treachery?”

The werewolf sat up straighter. “Severus, what are you talking about? It was all over the paper – the Ministry and the Aurors explained what had happened. Dumbledore and the rest of the Order didn’t lift a hand to help him. What else was I to believe? And why dredge up ancient history now anyway?”

“Because it appears the mutt didn’t do it,” Snape said irritably.

Lupin stared at him, incredulous hope dawning on his face. “Really? Are you sure? Did Dumbledore find evidence that cleared him?”

Snape gritted his teeth. All of this blind devotion to the Headmaster was getting annoying. “Is Dumbledore here?” he demanded crossly. “No. I’m here. I’m the one who’s helping prove his innocence. Are you interested, or would you rather call the Aurors?”

“If Sirius didn’t do it, then… “ Lupin broke off. “I’m interested. Tell me how I can help.”

Snape eyed him. Did he trust the werewolf? It was true that if they were caught, Black would be Kissed, but Snape would likely end up in Azkaban himself. He too had a lot to lose if the werewolf betrayed them… But it was hard to imagine a werewolf, even one as nauseatingly law-abiding as Lupin, betraying a pack member, whether current or past.

“I’ll take you to him and the two of you can sort things out. He’ll need clothes, a new wand, and probably some assistance to recover from that much time in Azkaban. Once they figure out he’s escaped, they’ll probably come looking for you.”

Remus gave a rueful glance around his small bed-sit. “There’s nothing here I’ll miss. Take me to Sirius – two can survive on the run as easily as one.”

“Not when one is a werewolf who needs a steady supply of wolfsbane,” Snape snarled. Idiot Gryffindor! “I’ll give you three days to come up with a plausible excuse that takes you out of the country. By that time they’ll have figured out Black’s escaped and interviewed you. After that, go ahead with your trip. Go to the Continent and buy an extra wand. Owl me your whereabouts and I’ll meet you there, then take you to Black. Do you have all that, or shall I repeat myself until your under-evolved brain can take it in?”

Remus smiled, as usual ignoring the insults. “Thank you, Severus. You are very kind.”

Snape snorted in disgust and spun on his heel. Stupid werewolf.

Safely back in his quarters with almost an hour before sunrise, Snape glumly reviewed his night as he climbed into bed. He leaned back against his pillow and mentally ticked off each task. Met up with Muggle criminals? Check. Arranged initial retribution for Dursleys? Check. Saw rest of evening descend into madness? Check.

Yes, he had gotten an astonishingly coherent apology from Black of all people – they must be ice skating in Hell tonight – but that didn’t erase the fact that he had not only smuggled that great berk out of the most feared Wizarding prison in the world, but he had also ensconced him in his own family home! What was next? Would he take another page from Molly Weasley’s book and knit Black a jumper for Christmas?

And then to do something nice for Lupin as well? He should have just let the stupid Gryffindor go straight to Black like he had wanted to. Then the two would doubtless have decided they needed to check on Harry, and they would have run right into the arms of the Aurors. Black would have been Kissed, the werewolf would have been beheaded… And even better, if they claimed Snape had helped, no one would have believed them. They’d believe in a Polyjuiced Malfoy rather than a genuine Snape – it would have been such a perfect, Slytherin plan, he mourned. But no, just because Black and Lupin could be strong allies for Harry in the upcoming years, he had to help them.

The things he did for that little monster – and was it likely that the boy’d be grateful? Ha! Once Sirius’ name was cleared and he got to meet Harry, he’d be nothing but an overgrown playmate. Harry would adore him, and Black doubtless prove an utterly useless guardian. Discipline? He couldn’t even spell the word, let alone instill some in the boy. Snape rolled his eyes. Oh, yes, he’d like to see Black trying to get Harry to eat his vegetables. The man wouldn’t know a brussel sprout if he tripped over it.

Well, if that idiot mutt – or his tame werewolf – thought that they were going to waltz in and take custody of Harry, they’d learn a thing or two! He had spent too much time and effort on that appalling brat just to let those two swoop in and take all the credit. He huffed to himself. Typical Gryffindors – rushing around without a thought in their heads and expecting someone else to pick up the pieces! Well, he would instill some Slytherin traits in Harry if it killed him. Snape wasn’t about to let the Dark Lord rise again and enslave the world just because Black wouldn’t think to make sure the boy was sufficiently rested for his DADA lesson!

No, indeed. Snape would not permit the Savior of the Wizarding World to be looked after by an idiot who, even in their Seventh Year, routinely forgot to tie his shoes. Black might have been a heartthrob, but he was also an unthinking git whose sense of responsibility probably went no farther that remembering not to drop baby Harry on his head. What were Lily and James thinking of to entrust their defenseless infant son to such an immature numbskull? Just look what he had done when they were killed. Did he immediately take custody of their orphaned child? No, he left the baby to Hagrid (!!) and Dumbledore and ran off to look for Pettigrew - without, mind you, bothering to tell anyone else that Pettigrew was the Secret Keeper and a rat animagus. Really, it made it hard to feel sympathy for his incarceration. Maybe idiocy should be a criminal offense.

Anyway, regardless of the elder Potters’ wishes ten years ago, Snape had absolutely no intention of relinquishing Harry to a reckless nitwit whose minimally adequate brain had been further addled by years in Azkaban. He grumbled to himself. It was just like a Gryffindor to assume that raising a child was all fun and games. A fragile child like Harry, with a history of abuse, would last about thirty seconds under Black’s boisterous supervision.

Snape grumbled again and rolled over on his side. That rotten brat. Demanding ever more of his time and attention. As if he didn’t have better things to do. As if he wanted to look after such an annoying little fiend. As if he might actually care for the creature. As if it mattered to him if he were happy, or had enough to eat, or liked his new room… Snape drifted off to sleep, his last thought the memory of Harry’s expression as he lovingly touched his new broom.

Harry hurried down the steps to the Great Hall. He had had no idea that doing magic could work up such an appetite, but after spending the past two hours with Professor Flitwick, working on his Accio, Harry was ravenous.

When Harry had returned from his overnight visit with the Weasleys four days ago, Professor Snape had greeted him with a revised schedule. In addition to his regular classes (and, of course, Quidditch), Harry now had individual study sessions with Professors Flitwick, McGonagall, and of course Snape. He had blinked as Professor Snape had brandished the new schedule beneath his nose. “But how come I have to do extra?” he had asked, curious.

“Foolish child!” Snape scolded. “You have to work to overcome the inadequacies of your upbringing. Those disgusting creatures you lived with have ill-prepared you for a life in Wizarding society. Just as you must take nutritive potions to overcome their physical neglect, you must similarly engage in remedial classes to overcome their inattention to the development of your magical abilities.” Snape saw no reason to share with the brat that he had made it very clear to the other professors that, far from maintaining a focus on remedial material, they were in fact expected to advance Harry’s knowledge as quickly as possible.

Snape’s visit to Azkaban, hearing Bellatrix’s maniacal screaming and the howls and threats of some of his other former comrades, had brought home the reality of Harry’s situation like a punch in the gut. The boy was practically a Muggle for all intents and purposes, and yet some of the most evil and twisted witches and wizards in Britain wanted him dead. If the Dark Lord ever returned – or Lucius Malfoy’s never-ending efforts to solidify his political power were successful – Harry would need to be well-prepared to defend himself. Having him sit around in class, surrounded by a bunch of little dunderheads trying to float a feather, was a ridiculous waste of his time. He should be advanced through the material as rapidly as his mind and magic would allow, not forced to wait patiently while idiots like Longbottom struggled to catch up.

If he had thought Albus would let him get away with it, Snape would have pulled Harry out of school altogether, in preference for individualized tutoring at an Unplottable location. Realizing that Dumbledore’s rampaging sentimentality would never permit Harry to skip the alleged joys of youthful schooldays (not that Snape had ever found much to enjoy about his time as a student at Hogwarts, other than the indisputable fact that it took him away from home) and that McGonagall would never give up a talented Seeker on her House team, Snape had decided it was better not to engage in a battle he knew he would lose. Instead, he ensured that Harry would begin to receive advanced training from those professors whom Snape trusted… as much as he trusted anyone, that is.

Snape was more than ready to deal with the little monster if he wanted to whinge about his loss of free time and his inability to sit around doing nothing with the other empty-headed idiots. Perhaps a few hours spent staring into a corner or copying pages from his Potions textbook would convince the brat that extra lessons were a lot more entertaining than the alternatives.

“I will not tolerate any complaints about your lack of unscheduled leisure time, Potter,” Snape continued, his voice rising. “You are here at school to learn, regardless of what your cretinous peers might think, and if you –“

Harry frowned up at him in confusion. “I wasn’t complaining, Pr’fessor,” he protested. “I just don’t know…Erm – that is, I can’t…” He looked down in embarrassment. This was mortifying!

Harry knew perfectly well that he needed extra lessons; his visit to the Burrow, where magic was used in such a casual, unthinking way to carry out everyday household chores, had taught him just what a new world he had entered. As much as he had enjoyed his time with the Weasleys - after that rather unfortunate beginning - it had made him realize just how much he didn't know about Wizarding society.

Hogwarts was where students learned to use their magic, so naturally there was magic around. But since most of the students were still relatively unskilled with their magic, it wasn’t yet fully integrated into student life. Harry and his peers still did many of their daily tasks in ways that weren't all that different to Muggle life, but at the Burrow, Harry had seen for the first time what it was like to live in a Wizarding home, among powerful, mature wizards and witches.

Molly, Arthur, Bill, and Charlie used magic as easily as breathing. They accio’d objects rather than walking to the next room to retrieve them. Housecleaning was done with magic, not elbow grease. The books, magazines, and games in the house were (despite Arthur’s fascination with all things Muggle) completely foreign to Harry.

So when he had floo’d back to Hogwarts and Professor Snape had informed him that he had – with typical thoughtfulness! – arranged extra tutoring, Harry’s first reaction was unmitigated relief. But then he had remembered how special lessons at Muggle school – whether extra prep for maths or training in a musical instrument or participation in a sports team – cost money. Although Harry was still getting accustomed to the Wizarding world, he could think of no reason why Wizard instructors would differ from their Muggle counterparts and eschew payment for extra time and effort.

Harry knew he had a lot to learn about the economics of his new world – beyond the basics of how many knuts in a galleon – but Hogwarts tuition must cost a lot and while he hadn’t had the chance to really look around his vault when Hagrid took him to Gringotts’, he knew that whatever money was there needed to last him until he was old enough to have a job of his own. He was certain that in addition to school fees and uniforms and potion ingredients and textbooks and the odd chocolate frog, there would be other expenses as he grew up – did wizards go to uni, and if so, how much did that cost? – and so he was leery of spending any money he didn’t absolutely have to spend.

Maybe, instead of tutoring, he could just do extra reading? Granger would probably be thrilled to bits if he asked her for advice, and maybe Professor Snape could suggest some books. He hadn’t actually spent much time in the Hogwarts library yet, but surely they had to have some books to help Muggle-borns and –raiseds learn about the Wizarding world?

“Can’t do what, you insolent brat?” Snape demanded. Make time? Be bothered? Obviously the boy’s paternal heritage was making itself felt.

Harry stared at his feet, crimson. Now he knew how Ron felt when everyone else was buying sweets on the Hogwarts Express. “Erm… ‘S just that my relatives won’t, y’know, help me out with money ‘n’ I’m just not sure how much money’s left in my parents’ vault ‘n’ I want to be sure that I have enough for all seven years at Hogwarts…”

“And?” Snape demanded. What was the child babbling about? What difference did it make how much money was in the Potter account?

“Well,” Harry mumbled, “I know that I need tutoring but you ‘n’ the other professors must have really high fees since you’re all so smart an’ busy an’ all, and I’m just not sure I c’n pay for it.”

Snape’s world reeled around him. The boy actually thought – “Potter!” the snap in his voice brought the boy’s head up, eyes wide with alarm. “Did your oaf of a cousin have to pay his own school fees?”

“No, sir,” Harry replied, thinking the professor must be really unfamiliar with the Muggle world to imagine such a thing. “My aunt and uncle pay for everything Dudley needs for school – or anything else,” he added a bit resentfully. “That’s how it works with Muggles. Parents pay for their kids’ stuff. But my relatives never would pay for anything for me, not back at my Muggle school and definitely not here. I mean, when Dudley wanted to –“

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose as the little nitwit rabbited on about how his dreadful relatives spoiled their fat son, completely missing the point of his question. “Potter. Your aunt and uncle paid for your cousin, correct?”

“Y’sir.”

“Because he is their responsibility.”

“Y’sir.” Harry thought he understood what Professor Snape meant. “But sir, they don’t really think of me as their responsibility, where they owe me certain things. It’s more like I’m a –“

Snape cut him off before Harry could say something that would prove intensely depressing to hear. “Yes, your relatives have made their opinion quite plain.” Which is why Black will have such a fun time with them. “However, you have forgotten something.”

Harry frowned in thought. “Ummmm, like what, sir?”

Snape glared at him. Insolent, arrogant, thoughtless brat! “You are now my responsibility. As such, I will be financially responsible for you while you are a minor.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. It was one thing for the professor to buy him some gifts – positively brilliant gifts, mind you! – but quite another for him to assume full financial responsibility for Harry. It had never crossed Harry’s mind that Professor Snape was willing to do more than let Harry have a room in his quarters and provide paternal supervision and discipline. Surely that was enough of an encumbrance on the man!

To say that in addition to all that, he was also willing to spend his own money on Harry, as if he really were his own flesh and blood… Even Harry’s real flesh and blood had balked at that. The Dursleys had always explained their niggardly treatment of Harry with loud complaints of how much it cost to house and feed an unwanted orphan. And now Professor Snape was assuming such a burden without even commenting upon it?

“B-but kids are expensive, Pr’fessor!” Harry blurted out before he could get too used to the idea. Obviously the professor had no idea what he was offering to do. “I mean, I won’t eat all that much when Hogwarts isn’t in session, but just letting me live with you is going to cost you plenty. I figured you’d take the money from my vault and –“

“Do I look like an innkeeper, Potter?” Snape snapped, feeling a sharp pain in his chest at the child’s deep conviction that no one could ever want him as a member of their family but would only be willing to tolerate his presence in exchange for financial compensation. As usual, empathy made him grumpy. “I neither want nor need reimbursement for your care. I am now in a similar position to you as your uncle is to your cousin. I doubt that your cousin is presented with a weekly bill to cover his room and board.”

Harry snorted. “If he were, it’s be about four zillion pages long!” But then he sobered. “But, sir, why would you do all this?”

Snape raised an eyebrow. “Did you not ask me to become your guardian?”

Harry’s jaw dropped again. Had Snape actually thought he'd expected him to take on such an enormous burden? And had Snape actually been willing to do it? Just because Harry had asked him to? “Y-yes,” he gulped, “but I never meant that you’d have to pay for all my stuff or –“

Snape glared at him. “Foolish brat. You should never request things if you don’t know what you’re asking for, particularly in the magical world. It’s a good thing I at least am fully aware of the responsibilities of a legal guardian.”

“But – but you shouldn’t have to pay –“

Again Snape overrode him. “Are you presuming to tell me how to live up to my obligations, Potter? Or – worse – to imply that I have accepted a responsibility that I am unwilling to fulfill?”

Harry might be in shock, but he wasn’t stupid. “No, sir!”

“Then kindly keep your inane and ill-informed blathering to yourself, you impudent wretch. You are eleven years old. You are not to concern yourself with the details of your fiscal support. That is my responsibility, not yours. You are responsible for obeying me. If I determine that additional tutoring is necessary, you will not concern yourself with the financial details of that tutoring, but simply attend the sessions as required and perform to the best of your abilities. I will not tolerate laziness, Mr Potter! If you fail to attend your classes – any of your classes – you can expect a very unpleasant outcome.”

And it happened again. Despite his best, most menacing glower, the contrary brat was beaming up at him with a soppy smile on his face! Snape nearly cursed in frustration. How was he supposed to instill fear in the little fiend if his threats went unnoticed?

“I’ll study harder than anyone – even Hermione!” Harry promised, his heart singing. Merlin, it was so nice to have someone looking after him! Now he wouldn’t have to feel so dumb when the other kids started talking about different spells or Wizard bands or any of the thousand other things that were second nature to those raised in the Wizarding world.

Hmf. Well, at least the brat said the right things. Snape glared once more, just to be on the safe side, and dismissed him back to his dormitory.

The first few lessons had gone very well, Harry reflected happily. Learning more than just what was on the class syllabus had given him a better grasp of the material by broadening the context. Now that he more clearly understood what you would use transfiguration or charms for, it was a lot easier to be interested in class exercises and to see the importance of floating a feather or changing a needle into a toothpick. And the fact that he was taught new stuff in these extra lessons, so that he felt like he even knew a little more than his classmates, well, that was just the best part. Already some of the other kids were beginning to notice and ask him for help, which was quite a change from his Muggle schooldays when he had always been considered stupid, thanks to the Dursleys.

The only problem with the extra classes was that they tended to be so interesting that Harry stayed late – and that meant he was late to dinner. Since Professor Snape tended to get cranky if Harry was tardy, especially to meals, Harry tried hard to be punctual. He thought it was kind of strange that Professor Snape was so worried about his eating habits – what he ate, how much, when, whether he ate quickly or slowly, and so on – but he figured everyone had some little quirks, and if the professor’s was to fuss over Harry’s eating enough vegetables, well, that was okay.

But it meant that Harry needed to hurry if he was going to be at the Gryffindor table by the time the food was served. He'd had to run up to his dormitory to drop off his books after Professor Flitwick had finally shooed him out of his office, and despite running most of the way, it was still clear that he'd be among the last to arrive at the dining table. He could tell from the deserted corridors that most of the school was already in the Great Hall.

“Hey! Look who’s there!” The shout from behind him didn’t really register at first, but then the sound of running footsteps caught his attention.

Harry turned just in time to see four large boys – probably sixth or seventh years – sprinting towards him. They were all in Ravensclaw robes, and Harry didn’t think he knew any of them.

“Hi,” he offered, a bit uncertain. He didn’t really like the way they had moved to ring him, and he retreated until he had the wall at his back.

“Hi,” the tallest boy replied, smiling. Harry wasn’t sure why, but there was something about the smile that made him feel uncomfortable. “You’re Harry Potter, aren’t you?”

Harry nodded. He really hoped they wouldn’t ask to see The Scar.

The boy turned to the others. “See? I told you it was him. The Boy Who Lived. The Boy Who Doesn’t Go Anywhere Alone.”

Harry frowned. He had heard of the first title, but not the second.

Another Ravenclaw grinned and stepped closer. Harry edged away. This was beginning to remind him of Harry-hunting. “Yeah, you were right, Jeffreys, though you can’t blame the rest of us for doubting you. Potter here always has an entourage with him. Who would have expected him to be here, all by himself?”

“I don’t have an entourage,” Harry objected. “I just have friends.”

“Of course you have friends,” the first purred, draping a friendly arm around the younger boy’s shoulders. “But it made it hard for us to talk with you, in private.”

Harry looked at the other boys. They were all tall and athletic, and they now ranged about him in a semi-circle, effectively trapping him. “What do you want to talk about?” he asked, his nervousness increasing. What could a bunch of upper years from a different House want with him?

Harry looked at the other boys. They were all tall and athletic, and they now ranged about him in a semi-circle, effectively trapping him. “What do you want to talk about?” he asked, his nervousness increasing. What could a bunch of upper years from a different House want with him?

Jeffreys smiled wider and gave his shoulders a little squeeze. “What do you know about your father, Potter?”

“My dad?” Harry echoed blankly, wondering if they were talking about James Potter or Professor Snape. “Why?”

“Because I’m curious as to whether you know what an utter wanker he was!” Jeffreys snarled, dropping the friendly mask and shoving Harry hard enough to knock him into one of the other boys.

“He was not!” Harry protested automatically, even as he fought to pull free of the older student. The Ravenclaw held him easily, his hands tightening painfully around Harry’s biceps. “Leggo!”

“Not just yet, Potter,” Jeffreys smirked. “You got him, Smythe?”

“He’s not going anywhere,” the boy holding Harry assured him.

“Leggo!” Harry said again, his voice getting louder. "Gerroff me!"

“Silencio!” One of the other two boys waved his wand at Harry and though Harry tried his hardest, no sound came from his throat.

“Thanks, O’Leary. We can’t have someone overhearing and crashing our party,” Jeffreys said, pretending to pat Harry’s head, then giving his hair a nasty yank.

Harry’s yelp was – of course – silenced, as was the imprecation he snarled at the other boy.

Jeffers was apparently skilled enough to read lips – at least for that word – and he slapped Harry across the face, hard enough to send his glasses flying.

“Hey, now wait!” the last Ravenclaw burst out, sounding alarmed. “I didn’t think you were going to really hurt him!”

“Shut up, Peterson,” Jeffreys snapped. “This little toerag’s old man sent my father to Azkaban, and I intend to make him pay. Besides, we have him personally to thank for the Dark Lord’s defeat, and without that, your uncle and Smythe’s parents wouldn’t have been chased out of the country by Aurors or killed like O’Leary’s mum.”

Harry wasn’t quite sure what Jeffreys was talking about. He was slowly learning about Voldemort and Death Eaters and what exactly had happened a decade ago when his parents were killed. He understood that Jeffreys held him responsible for something his father had done, and that the other boys’ relatives appeared to have been Voldemort supporters who regretted the way the war had turned out. Why exactly that translated into a desire to beat the snot out of him, he didn’t understand, but at this point he was past caring about their motivation.

Professor Snape’s words about defending himself came back to him, and he grabbed his wand. He couldn’t do much with it yet, and Smythe still held him by the arms, but he felt better with it in his hand. “Get OFF!” he yelled again – silently – and threw himself to the side, hoping to wrench himself free.

He got one arm – his wand arm - free and began to flail and kick. Jeffreys cursed and reached for him, getting an elbow in the nose for his pains. Smythe hung onto his one arm like grim death, and O’Leary stepped forward, raising his wand again.

“Accio wand!” shouted Harry, unsure whether he had learned the new spell well enough for it to work, let alone whether it would be effective when he was under a Silencing spell, but to his intense gratification O’Leary’s wand jerked uncontrollably and the hex he had been aiming at Harry hit Peterson instead. Peterson went down with a yelp of surprise, both legs locked together, and banged his chin on the floor.

Harry spun around and kicked Smythe hard in the shins, hoping to force him to turn loose, but the older boy punched him in the stomach, and Harry dropped to his knees, gasping for air. He barely managed to keep hold of his wand.

“Good work,” Jeffreys panted, wiping the blood off his face and staring at Harry with a murderous expression. “Let’s get him up and move someplace nice and quiet.”

“Wait,” Peterson bleated from the floor where O’Leary was trying to reverse his hex. “What’s the point of dragging him away? What do you think will happen to us when he gets back and tells one of the professors what we did to him?”

“He’s not going to get back,” Jeffreys retorted with such chilling certainty in his tone that Harry knew exactly what he meant, and despite the pain in his stomach, he fought like a wild thing when Jeffreys grabbed his collar.

“Stop that!” A new voice rang out in the corridor, and for an instant, everyone froze. “Fighting in the corridors is prohibited! Hogwarts: A History clearly says so!”

For the first time ever, Harry was delighted to see Hermione Granger, officious know-it-all though she might be. He struggled and waved his arms frantically even as he yelled - inaudibly - at her to run for help.

“Harry? Is that you? What are you doing? You’re going to lose us House points if a professor sees you fighting.”

Jeffreys stared at the bushy haired girl with disgust. “Get rid of her,” he snapped at Smythe, tightening his grip on Harry.

“My pleasure,” the other replied with a roll of his eyes. “Move it, ugly,” he ordered, looming over the first year.

Hermione stiffened, and she couldn’t completely hide the hurt in her tone as she replied stoutly, “I’m not going anywhere without Harry. What are you doing to him? Leave him alone!”

Smythe snarled an extremely rude word and, placing his hand over Hermione’s face, shoved with all his strength. She tumbled backwards and yelped as her backside connected painfully with the stone floor. Smythe stood over her and let out an amused chuckle at the tears in her eyes. “Not such a bossy little cow now, are you?” he taunted. Seeing the girl hurt made Harry fight even more strongly, mouthing curses at their attackers. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of blond hair, but the small form – was that Malfoy? – wasted no time in quitting the vicinity.

Harry more than half-expected Hermione to flee before the older boy followed up his initial assault, but Hermione was made of sterner stuff than that. She rolled over onto her side, as if she were about to scramble away, but instead she abruptly shot out her foot and kicked Smythe squarely on the side of his kneecap. The large boy let out a howl of agony as his leg flew out from under him – the joint forced in a highly unnatural direction – and he collapsed to the ground. Unfortunately, he fell directly on top of Hermione, who was knocked flat with a squeak of distress.

Jeffreys grabbed Harry by the front of his robes and all but threw him into the wall. The back of Harry’s skull cracked against the stone, and the world disappeared for a moment in a blaze of white hot agony. By the time he struggled back to awareness, O’Leary had gotten Peterson back on his feet, and Jeffreys was struggling to pick Harry up bodily. “Get his legs!” he ordered Peterson. “Let’s get out of here!”

Peterson obeyed, snatching Harry’s ankles and lifting so that the boy was suspended between the two Ravenclaws. “Hex him!” Jeffreys ordered O’Leary. “Something good and nasty so he quits fighting!”

Harry had lost his wand, but he was far from helpless. He squirmed madly, putting his Harry-hunting experience to good use. He got one foot free and kicked Peterson in the jaw, throwing him backwards into O’Leary and causing both of them to fall.

“Hey!” Ron had come out of the Great Hall to find Harry and caught sight of the melee. He took one look and darted into the Hall, yelling for his brothers, then tore back to the fray to help his Housemates.

As he arrived, Ron saw that Harry had nearly fought free of Jeffrey’s grip. Smythe, however, had managed to shake off the pain from his knee long enough to grab Hermione by the hair as she tried to wiggle out from underneath him. The girl let out a shriek of pain as the older student brutally yanked her back, then threw up her hands defensively as he raised his fist to punch her. Ron hurled himself on top of the larger boy, forcing him to release his grip on Hermione but also - once again - squashing the poor girl beneath the boys' struggling forms. Ron grabbed Smythe’s wrist, preventing him from striking Hermione, while Hermione managed to drive her elbow into Smythe's solar plexus as she struggled to get away.

Jeffreys swore as he saw his allies fall. “You little bastard!” He grabbed Harry by the throat and pinned him against the wall. Harry choked, clawing at the older boy’s grip. He dimly saw Jeffreys draw back his fist and knew that he had no hope of blocking the punch to his face.

“Let the Firstie go,” a new voice ground out, very deep and very menacing. The pressure on Harry’s throat abruptly eased, and as he desperately dragged in a much-needed lungful of air, he saw that the tip of a wand was digging into Jeffreys’ neck, just below his ear. Attached to the other end of the wand was a very large and angry-looking Marcus Flint. Harry recognized him as a Slytherin prefect and Quidditch team member, because Oliver Wood had once pointed him out when the Gryffindors were turning the pitch over to the Slytherins. Wood’s exact words had been “He’s a right mean bugger, so keep an eye out for him!” and looking at Flint’s malevolent expression, Harry had no reason to doubt Wood’s assessment.

Meanwhile, Ron’s timely intervention had prevented Smythe from further harming Hermione, but the burly seventh-year had managed to shrug off the smaller children’s blows. He grabbed Ron by his shirtfront while his other hand snatched out his wand. Ron’s blood ran cold as Smythe leveled the wand between his eyes and snarled, “Cruc—“

Before Smythe could finish the spell, another body cannoned into him, knocking his wand from his grasp and aborting the Unforgiveable. Things deteriorated into a free-for-all at that point, and everything became a blur. Ron had no idea who had saved him, but he assumed it was one of his brothers – a suspicion which grew stronger when he heard Smythe grunt in satisfaction and a new, masculine voice wail in pain. Ron promptly sank his teeth into the wrist that he still held and had the pleasure of hearing Smythe yelp while the other person’s pained cry cut off. A trousers-clad pair of legs squirmed past his vision, narrowly avoiding kicking him in the head and confirming that there was at least one other boy assisting him in the fight. Then Hermione managed to grab two handfuls of Smythe’s hair and slammed the older boy’s head against the floor. He groaned and went limp, and Ron seized the opportunity to pin both his wrists together and lie on top of them. Only then did he lift his head and look around.

Hermione was kneeling by Smythe’s head, rumpled and breathing hard, with a grim light of battle in her eyes. Smythe was groaning but not putting up much of a fight – yet – and Ron looked around to see which of his brothers had come to his aid.

His jaw dropped. There, sitting with both knees firmly planted in Smythe’s midriff was Draco Malfoy. For once the Slytherin’s immaculate coiffure was disheveled, and he had a split lip. “Malfoy!” Ron yelped incredulously. “Was that you?"

The instant the words were out of his mouth, he wished he could snatch them back. Of all the stupid things to say! But amazingly, for once Malfoy didn’t sneer. “You didn’t think we’d let you defend a Slytherin Firstie without help, did you?” he asked, glaring at Smythe. “Hey, Granger, how about slamming his head into the floor again? I think he might be waking up.”

Ron was too dazed to follow up Malfoy’s inexplicable statement, so he turned to see what else had happened while he'd been distracted. He saw that a big Slytherin prefect held the one who’d been manhandling Harry at wandpoint, while Fred and George had a third in a headlock which Ron knew from painful experience was extremely effective. The last of Harry’s assailants was cowering away from a tall dark-skinned girl with a Slytherin prefect’s badge on her robe.

Even as it became clear that the scuffle was over, more students came hurrying up, drawn from the Great Hall by the commotion. Ron saw Percy, Oliver Wood and the rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, and even timid Neville Longbottom approaching at a dead run. Making matters even more interesting, a sizable number of Slytherins had already arrived and, with wands drawn, were reinforcing their prefects.

Ron noticed that as the others drew up, Flint and the girl (Jones? Jonas?) snapped out orders that had the Slytherins forming an efficient defensive perimeter. The Gryffindors were less organized, tending to mill about and demand answers rather than cede authority to any single individual. Since Percy was the only Gryffindor prefect present, Ron couldn't really blame the other Gryffindors for being unwilling to take orders from him. Oliver Wood, however, quickly appreciated the utility of the Slytherins’ approach, and he immediately had the Quidditch team emulate the other House’s maneuvers. The rest of the Gryffindors followed suit, and soon there was not only a mixed group standing guard against further attacks, but each of the attackers was now covered by at least two people.

“You ****** little Mudblood ****,” Smythe growled at Hermione as his head cleared and he realized that, thanks to her interference, their plan to attack Harry had failed.

Hermione’s lips tightened as she slowly stood up. “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names can never hurt me,” she retorted, though her voice trembled a bit. Then she took two steps to her left and brought her heel down sharply. Smythe’s wand snapped in two beneath her foot, and the older boy let out a howl of anguish. “Oh, dear,” Hermione said sweetly. “How clumsy of me. I suppose that as a Mudblood, I keep forgetting how fragile wands are.”

The other students stared at Hermione with mingled awe and dread. Snapping someone’s wand was the schoolyard equivalent of a nuclear strike. Smythe’s whimpers of disbelief were the only sound for several seconds, then: “Good going, Firstie,” Jones, the Slytherin prefect, said admiringly.

That broke the silence. “Let go of me,” Jeffreys demanded, a not inconsiderable feat of bravado considering that Flint’s wand was still digging painfully into his neck. “This has nothing to do with you or your snakes, Flint.”

Flint snorted. “You went after one of our Firsties. That bloody well is our business.”

“That Malfoy brat had no business interfering with Smythe,” Jeffreys argued. “He deserved the pasting he got.”

Flint glanced over at Draco and grinned. “Looks like it was Smythe who got the pasting,” he shot back. “And I was talking about Potter.”

Jeffreys and the other Ravenclaws stared at Flint, as did the Gryffindors. “What? Potter’s a lion, not a snake.”

Flint shrugged. “He belongs to our Head, that makes him a snake. Touch him and die.”

“What the ***** are you on about?” Jeffreys bellowed furiously. “He’s the sodding Boy Who Lived, you ***** moron! You Slytherins should be lining up to kill him!”

Harry trembled at the depth of hatred in the other boy’s eyes, and Flint gave him a quick, assessing look. “Wood, come get your Seeker away from this mad bugger, would you?"

Oliver hurried over and pulled Harry away. He patted Harry’s back reassuringly, and Katie Bell, another Quidditch teammate, came up on Harry’s other side, enfolding him in a half-hug and handing him back his miraculously unbroken glasses. “It’s okay, Harry,” she whispered in his ear. “Everything’s under control.”

“You ********!” Jeffreys continued to rant, and finally Jones had had enough.

Jones snapped her finger and gestured commandingly at Percy. “Here, you! Percy – stop standing around looking useless and keep this waste of space covered,” she ordered, gesturing at Peterson.

“Erm – well, yes. Yes, of course!” Percy hastily obeyed, nonplused by both the peremptory order and the fact that the beautiful seventh year knew his name.

“Firstie – yes, you. Come over here,” Jones beckoned Hermione to her side and stepped closer to where Jeffreys was still raving at Flint. “Right – this is a good spell to learn. Ready? Watch my wand.” She raised her wand and pointed it at Jeffreys. “Castrato ex-“

“NO!” Every upper level male in the vicinity yelled and hunched over, and Jeffreys paled to the same shade as the stone wall.

Jones sighed. “Oh, all right. I’ll teach you later,” she promised Hermione. “As for you, you cowardly shite, pipe down, or I’ll hex it right off you! Snip-snip!”

No one had to ask what she meant by ‘it’, and Jeffreys subsided, eyes wide and hands clutching himself protectively.

Flint rolled his eyes at Wood. “Witches!” But he said it quietly.

Snape glowered at the Gryffindor table, where a certain messy-haired child was most decidedly not sitting. Food would be served any moment now, and Potter, the disobedient little brat, was nowhere to be seen. Flitwick had taken his seat at the staff table several minutes ago, so the little monster was definitely finished with his tutoring session, and that meant he was deliberately ignoring Snape's explicit instructions to be on time for meals so that he wasn't stuck with the others' leavings.

Potter had several years of poor nutrition to make up for, but being sandwiched between Ron Weasley and Neville Longbottom at the Gryffindor table was hardly going to help his caloric intake. By the time those two were finished serving themselves, the house elves were lucky to get the platters back. If Harry wasn't there when the food was first served, there would never be anything left for him.

Yet despite Snape's explaining this concept in clear, simple, Gryffindor-friendly words of less than three syllables, Potter's backside was not planted firmly in his seat in the Great Hall. No, the little fiend was obviously wandering the corridors, munching chocolate frogs, and wondering what new mischief he could dream up. Snape gritted his teeth. He would show that boy what it meant to ignore his instructions! He drummed his fingers on the tablecloth, wondering where he should position the brat so that the largest number of students would see him being spoon fed by the house elves. Maybe if he set up a special table just in front of the staff table...

He was distracted from composing appropriately punitive menus - plenty of liver and onions, broccoli by the crate - by the sight of one of his own First Years belatedly sliding into the Hall. Snape leveled a glare at Draco Malfoy. His snakes knew better than to be tardy. Apparently the Owlry detention hadn't taught young Mr Malfoy to follow his Head of House's instructions. Perhaps having two First Years spoon fed by house elves would bring the message home...

But wait - Malfoy wasn't taking his seat; rather he was whispering urgently to Flint. Snape watched, bemused, as Flint signaled to another senior Prefect, Davidella Jones, and the two of them hurried from the Hall, followed by Malfoy.

Well. How interesting. That particular pairing of prefects promised a healthy dose of pain for some poor miscreant. Snape half-heartedly considered going after them, but decided it was better to let his prefects handle the matter. Flint was big and not averse to clouting an impudent lower year, but Jones was the one that most of his snakes really feared. She was a lot like a saner version of Bellatrix - capable of incredible viciousness, but more discriminating in her choice of victims. Even Flint knew better than to get on her bad side.

Between the two of them, Snape was confident that they could handle any mischief-maker, not to mention administer an indelible lesson on why misbehavior was unwise. His intervention would merely hinder their ability to mete out summary judgment, and really, he had enough to do without supervising additional detentions. But the rest of his Slytherins were restive now, glancing over their shoulders after the prefects and Malfoy, and several had already followed them.

Then the youngest Weasley, who had - surprise, surprise - been one of the first seated at the table, got up and left the room. Probably in search of Potter, Snape mused in grudging respect for Weasley loyalty. The redheaded clan had obviously embraced Potter as one of their own, and that might even mean that Ron wouldn't hog all of the food. Maybe.

Now what?! Weasley had just dashed back to the Gryffindor table, and the rest of his siblings, closely followed by the entire Quidditch team and a respectable sampling of the rest of the table, were now following him out the door. That broke the dam on his remaining Slytherins, and they too bolted for the exit.

Snape glanced over at Minerva, only to find her looking at him with a similar expression of alarm. What calamity could drag such large numbers of ravenous teens away from the dinner table?

"Should we go see what's going on?" Minerva asked him, her voice deliberately low.

"Doing so would indicate a lack of confidence in our prefects," he replied, but he couldn't wholly suppress the unease in his tone.

Now even the Ravenclaws were looking around nervously, finally noticing something was amiss. Typical, snarled Snape to himself. They might be able to recite every known permutation of the 18th century Ignatio Compelare spell, but they needed their house elves to tell them their robes were on fire.

A contingent of Ravenclaws made for the door and finally even the placid Hufflepuffs began to look curious. As the last table in the Great Hall emptied, Snape and Minerva exchanged another look and simultaneously stood.

"I'll go," Minerva said, gesturing him to reseat himself.

"No, I will," Snape retorted. "You know perfectly well that the little dunderheads will scatter at the mere sight of me."

"Yes, but you won't bother learning who's responsible - you'll simply exonerate your House and arbitrarily deduct points from all others," she shot back.

Snape's eyes narrowed, but before he could reply, Dumbledore stood. "Perhaps we should all go, as it appears all of the students are now involved in whatever is happening - whether as spectators or participants."

"A capital idea!" Flitwick squeaked happily. Pomona Sprout sighed - it had been a long day in the greenhouses - but obligingly followed the others.

Albus led the way through the Hall, while Snape sulked and dragged his feet. Whatever might have happened, with the Headmaster investigating, it was all but certain that his House would bear the blame while McGonagall's delinquents would be praised to the skies.

Minerva fretted as she walked beside Snape. "What on earth could have attracted the simultaneous attention of Slytherins, Weasleys, and the Gryffindor Quidditch team?" she wondered aloud.

The breath caught in Snape's throat. Weasleys, Quidditch, his House... Harry! He abruptly shouldered past Flitwick and Sprout, making for the door at speed. Minerva gasped as she figured it out a second later, and then she was right beside him, hurrying to see what was going on. It took all of Snape's control not to shove the Headmaster aside as they reached the back of the milling crowd.

Even as the Headmaster's twinkling presence opened a path through the students, Snape's height allowed him to see over the heads of most. He caught sight of the touseled dark hair, being half-cuddled by one of the older Gryffindor girls, and his scowl intensified. He'd been right. Whatever it was that was going on, Potter had been in the thick of it, though at least he appeared relatively unharmed. He forced himself to take a deep breath and remain politely quiet, letting Dumbledore do the talking, though he itched to snatch Potter away from the other Gryffindor and check him over himself.

**--**--**--

Harry managed to grin as Flint and Wood rolled their eyes at whatever spell the other Slytherin prefect had been about to cast. For the first time since he'd heard the footsteps behind him, he felt safe. With the older kids from two Houses looking out for him, not to mention Ron and his brothers and even Hermione (!), he realized he wouldn't be the favorite target of bullies at this school, as Dudley had ensured had been the case in the past.

And Harry owed it all to Professor Snape. Hadn't Prefect Flint said as much? Harry belonged to Snape, so he was a snake. And the Hat had made him a lion. And Auntie Molly and Uncle Arthur (as they now insisted he call them) had made him a Weasley... Harry grinned to himself. Suddenly from having no one who cared about him, he had whole crowds of people lining up to help him.

“Oi! What are you doing?” A wave of Ravenclaws emerged from the Great Hall, trailed by some curious Hufflepuffs who were reluctant to miss out on the excitement. Seeing several of their Housemates sprawled on the floor or held against the wall, the Ravenclaws surged forward, only to halt in dismay as a phalanx of Gryffindor and Slytherin wands instantly targeted them. For a moment, it looked as if new hostilities might break out, but the famous Ravenclaw intellect allowed the new arrivals to rapidly calculate the odds and determine that an outright attack would be unlikely to end in their favor.

“Goodness gracious.” Before anything else could happen, the Headmaster's mild tones made everyone freeze.

Ron sighed in relief. At last the faculty had realized something was amiss and quitted the staff table. The Headmaster, clad in bright purple and yellow robes, led the way through the throng of students, the Heads of Houses close behind him. “What seems to be the trouble this …?” Dumbledore’s voice trailed off in shock as he realized that, contrary to his initial assumption that a full-fledged war had finally broken out between the Slytherins and Gryffindors, the two Houses were, for once, actually united as they faced off against a gaggle of disconcerted Ravenclaws.

“Erm...” He blinked several times but recovered quickly. “As I was saying, what is going on here?”

“Well, sir,” Flint began, only to have Dumbledore raise a gentle hand.

“Perhaps, Mr Flint, we could have all wands lowered before we proceed any further?”

“Better not, Headmaster,” Malfoy spoke up. “No telling what they might try if you did that. That one there,” he pointed, a malicious glint in his eye, “tried to Crucio Ron Weasley.”

There was an audible gasp. In the heat of the battle, few had actually heard Smythe’s curse, and even Flint was stunned.

What happened next was even more shocking.

“YOU BASTARD!” A bolt of ruby energy blasted past the others and struck Smythe full in the face. He howled in pain as his skin was instantly covered in angry, festering boils. “DON’T YOU EVER GO NEAR MY LITTLE BROTHER AGAIN, YOU FUCKING COWARDLY SACK OF –“

“Whoa, whoa there, Big Man,” Jones said soothingly, placing a restraining hand on Percy’s outstretched arm before he could fire off yet another hex. “Pas devant les domestiques, you know. Or les professeurs, in this case. Settle down, handsome. He’s learned his lesson. For now.”

Breathing hard and still glaring daggers at the now-weeping Smythe, Percy obeyed. Ron gaped at his older brother in astonishment, while the twins regarded Percy with newfound respect. Who would ever have imagined that their priggish, law-abiding prat of a brother could snap like that? His protectiveness rivaled Molly’s.

“Hmmm,” Dumbledore said thoughtfully. He flicked his wand, and abruptly the four boys who had been held under guard by the others were bound with ropes. “All right? Then perhaps the rest of you can put away your wands and tell me what happened.”

Professor Sprout had already shooed her Hufflepuffs and most of the Ravenclaws back towards the Great Hall, while Flitwick, Snape, and McGonagall stood behind the headmaster, glaring sternly at their students.

“Well, Professor, we – that is, Jones and I – came into it on the late side. I’m not exactly sure what happened to start it…” Flint looked over at Draco, who looked at Ron, who looked at Hermione, who looked at Harry.

Harry waved his arms in frustration and shouted, but he was still under the silencing spell.

“I do beg your pardon, Harry. How remiss of me.” Another wave of the Headmaster's wand, and suddenly Harry’s voice returned.

“ – take off this BLOODY spell – oh. Sorry,” Harry blushed, avoiding Snape's eye.

“Harry, can you please tell us what happened?”

So Harry explained how the bigger boys had waylaid him, and how Hermione had interceded on his behalf, only to be knocked down. “—and then she kicked his kneecap out and he went down like a ton of bricks, right on his arse!” Harry said enthusiastically, then realized who his audience was. “Erm, sorry. I mean, he fell, and then they were fighting and then –“

“I came by and saw what was happening,” Draco interrupted, “so I went into the Hall and summoned our Prefects. By the time I got back –“

“- I had come looking for Harry and saw them fighting, so I yelled for Percy and the twins and jumped on the one who was about to pull Hermione’s hair out by the roots,” Ron chimed in.

“Yes, and by the time I got there, he was about to Crucio you, so I tackled them all, and it was just a bit of a blur for a while, until,” Draco sighed, but fair was fair, “Granger pounded Smythe's head into the floor and knocked him out.” Now most people were eyeing Hermione with amazement, and she blushed under their scrutiny.

“As soon as Malfoy came and told Jones and me that some Ravenclaws were giving a kicking to one of our Firsties, we came running.” Flint had obviously decided that the First Years had had the spotlight for long enough. “So Jones and I came out here and got Jeffreys and Peterson under control. Then I – “

“One moment, Mr Flint,” Professor McGonagall interrupted. “I’m a bit confused. You said that one of the Slytherin First Years was being attacked? But I thought it was only Mr Potter who was targeted.”

Flint just looked at her. “Yes, Professor.”

McGonagall glanced from Snape to Dumbledore. “When last I checked, Mr Flint, the Sorting Hat had placed Mr Potter in my House.”

“Our Head of House has placed Potter under Slytherin protection, Professor,” Jones cut in coldly. “That makes him ours too.”

McGonagall opened and shut her mouth, but no sound emerged. Snape smirked. “Well put, Miss Jones, Mr Flint,” he commended smoothly.

The headmaster beamed. “I agree. It is wonderful to see such a fine example of inter-House cooperation, as well as so obvious a display of respect for your Head of House. Fifty points to both Houses for working together and another ten to Slytherin for rendering prompt assistance to a first year. Now then, Mr Flint, I believe you were up to the point where you and Miss Jones came to the aid of Mr Potter?”

“Yes, sir. Those two,” he jerked his head at the twins, “had already tackled O’Leary, and it didn’t look like they needed any help, and Smythe was practically buried under those three, so the fight was pretty much over, until the rest of the Ravens decided they wanted to get involved.” Flint paused, then decided to be kind. “To be fair, sir, I don’t think they knew what these four’d been up to. They just thought their Housemates were in trouble.”

Professor Flitwick had been looking progressively more distressed as the enormity of the crimes of four of his students came to light. “Goodness gracious, Mr Potter, are you all right? I’m shocked and appalled that any of my Ravenclaws could have planned such a thing!”

Harry smiled at the diminutive professor. “I’m okay, sir.”

“Another untruth, Mr Potter?” Snape demanded sternly, barely restraining himself from grabbing the boy and carrying him bodily to the Infirmary. “According to your own account, as well as the others', you were punched, choked, thrown against a wall, and –“

“Pr’fessor!” Harry exclaimed, scandalized. The last thing he wanted was for his professor to treat him like a baby in front of everyone. “I’m okay. Really.”

“Perhaps, Severus, you would be so kind as to take all four of our battling first years to see Madame Pomfrey? It sounds like all of them may be a bit the worse for wear.”

“Albus, I must point out that my students, Mr Smythe in particular, may also require medical attention,” Filius said. He might be appalled by their behavior, but he would still carry out his duty and attend to his students’ welfare.

“Of course. Perhaps you would ask Madame Pomfrey to join us in my office as soon as she has taken care of these four?” Dumbledore turned to Snape expectantly.

“Oh, please, Professor, can’t we eat first? I’m starving,” Harry protested, looking at Snape beseechingly.

"Yeah!" Ron echoed. "Erm, I mean, me too, sir," he added quickly at Snape's glare.

Snape scowled and would have scolded the boys for their cheek, but Dumbledore chuckled and nodded before he had the chance. “Very well, Harry. That will let Madame Pomfrey see to these young men first, but as soon as the meal is over, Professor Snape will take all of you to the Infirmary, and I expect there to be no arguments.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry promised.

Flitwick, Dumbledore and the four Ravenclaw students went up to the Headmaster’s office, while McGonagall and Snape ushered the rest of the school back into the Great Hall. For the first time in student memory, seating by House went out the window, as those who had been involved in The Great Battle plunked themselves down at one table, and the rest of the students scrambled for nearby seats so they could listen in and hear what had happened.

“Cor, you’re a real little squirmer,” Flint commented, giving Harry a friendly nudge. “When I was running up I saw you giving those wankers a right good fight.”

Harry blushed.

“Wait’ll you see his moves on a broomstick!” Wood put in from across the table. “He’s practically not human the way he torques around!”

On the other end of the table, Ron and Draco had ended up sitting next to each other. Both studiously avoided the other’s eye for a while, but Ron broke first. “So, um, Malfoy – er, Draco – thanks. I mean, for before,” Ron mumbled. “Y’know, with that Ravenclaw.”

“You’re welcome, Weasley.” Draco hesitated, then added, “I suppose we’re even – you made him let go before he broke my arm.” He smirked. "Didn't know your family had been driven to cannibalism!"

"Huh?" Ron's eyes narrowed. He suspected there was an insult in there, but he wasn't sure.

Draco rolled his eyes. "The way you were chewing on his wrist? Cannibalism? Get it?"

“Oh." Ron colored. "Well, I wanted to make him let you go. It sounded like he was really hurting you."

Now it was Draco's turn to grow red. "Well, yeah..."

There was an awkward pause.

“Your brother knows some nasty spells,” Draco eventually commented. “Has he taught them to you?”

“Some,” Ron admitted. “You want me to show you?”

Draco shrugged, elaborately casual. “Yeah, maybe. I mean, it might be amusing.”

Ron grinned. “There’s one my oldest brother learned from the goblins. Blimey – it’s brilliant.”

“Yeah?” Draco dropped the façade of disinterest. “What does it do?”

While the two boys talked animatedly, and Harry, Oliver, Katie, and Marcus discussed Quidditch, Jones turned to Hermione.

“They had to levitate that big gorilla up to the Headmaster’s office, Firstie – he couldn’t even walk. What spell did you use?”

Hermione colored. “It wasn’t a spell. I just kicked him. My father made sure I know some self-defense moves.”

One of the other Slytherins, who hadn’t participated in the fight, scoffed, “Your father taught you? A Muggle? What kind of self-defense does a Muggle know? And what good would it do anyway?”

Hermione flushed angrily. “Are you insulting my father?”

Before the other Slytherin could reply, Jones said softly, “She broke Smythe’s wand, Singh. I’d watch my tongue if I were you.”

There was a distinct pause, then Singh said, in tones that were a great deal more respectful, “No offense, Granger. Don’t go all Gryffindor on me. I just meant that Muggles… well, what can they know about fighting?”

That did it. Hermione knew perfectly well that her inability to keep her mouth shut in class caused her to be damned by her peers as an annoying know-it-all. She knew that her intimate knowledge of all the rules often made her act like a goody-goody tattle-tale. She also knew that she had no one but herself to blame for all of this. But for all her rule-abiding, question-answering, homework-obsessed behavior, Hermione Granger was no coward. She had her pride and, whatever Wizarding society might think, she was fiercely loyal to her parents and the Muggle society in which she had been raised. She decided that if the children at this new school were going to despise her as much as the students at her old school had, then she might as well give them a reason to do so. To hell with being the good girl. For once, Hermione was going to fight fire with fire.

She glanced at Davidella Jones, whose kick-arse attitude combined with her Prefect's badge had won Hermione's admiration. Here was someone who obviously was a respected student and Good Girl, yet whom even imposing boys like Flint didn't cross. Hermione had found a role model.

Jones raised her eyebrows in silent encouragement, and heartened, Hermione glared around at Singh and the other purebloods. “Fighting? You think Wizards are the only ones who can fight? You people don’t have the slightest idea what fighting is really like. Hexing is for sissies. Muggles fight with their bare hands. And Muggles are a lot tougher than Wizards, too,” she went on, scowling around the table. “Here in the magical world, if you're injured in a fight, you’re fixed up in no time by Madame Pomfrey or some other healer. When Muggles fight and are hurt, we stay injured. You can’t hope to fight if you can’t stand pain, and Muggles know more about pain and suffering than any Wizard.”

“Hold on, Granger!” Malfoy called out. “Weasley here nearly got Crucio’d. That’s plenty of pain and suffering!”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “No one is putting down Ron’s bravery in saving me, Draco.” Ron blushed to the tips of his ears. “Or yours in saving him.” Now it was Draco’s turn to look awkward. Saving a Gryffindor? What had he been thinking? And what would his father say? “But Muggles know real, lasting pain, and that’s what makes us good fighters.”

“So you know pain, Granger?” This time it was a member of the Gryffindor Quidditch team who spoke, the skepticism clear in his tone. “Try getting hit with a Bludger.”

Hermione leaned forward. “My parents are dentists, Bradley. Do you know what that means?” Most of the purebloods shook their heads. “Muggles get holes in their teeth, and dentists fix them. Do you know how they fix them? First, they take a big, loooong needle,” she held up her hand to show how long the needle was, “and they stick it into your gum,” she demonstrated, “and they slooooooowly inject this medicine that stings like crazy. And then, they get out a machine that has a pointy bit that spins really really fast and makes a whiny noise like this –“ Her impression was good enough that she had most of the table holding their ears in pain. “And then they use that to drill holes in your teeth.” Now all of the purebloods were green. Even Jones was breathing shallowly and clinging to Percy’s arm. The other Muggleborns were enjoying this immensely, and the Half-Bloods were, depending on their background, either amused or revolted.

“And this can go on for hours,” Hermione continued chillingly. “And then they pack metal into the holes, and –“

“Oh, come now!” Percy broke out, a light sheen of perspiration over his face. “You’re making this up!”

“No, she isn’t!” A Muggleborn Gryffindor fourth year was all too happy to support Hermione’s story. “Look – my folks didn’t know I was a wizard until I was almost ten, and I’d gotten cavities fixed the Muggle way by then. See? ‘Ere’s one.” He opened his mouth wide and pointed so that the fascinated and nauseated Purebloods could see his fillings.

“That’s disgusting!” Flint said faintly.

Hermione’s smirk nearly outdid Snape’s. “And I’m not even talking about how Muggles straighten crooked teeth – they put metal bands in your mouth and make them tighter and tighter so that your teeth are dragged into position, and it takes years and years.” Now several of the purebloods had shoved away their plates and were holding their napkins to their lips.

“And both my parents do this for a living. Day after day, month after month, year after year. And they come home and tell me all about it. So don’t try anything with me, Singh. Inflicting pain is in my blood.”

“Minerva,” Severus frowned, studying the students. “Does it appear to you that many of the students are regarding your Miss Granger with a sort of fascinated terror?”

McGonagall looked where he was. “Good gracious. I don’t normally see expressions like that unless NEWTS or OWLS are being handed out. What on earth is going on over there?”

Before the meal was over, Hermione’s reputation in the Wizarding world was made. Oh, she was still known as a good student, if a bit of a know-it-all, but word spread like wildfire around the school: Do Not Mess With Granger. Between having parents who were skilled torturers and her own demonstrated proclivity to break the wands of people who offended her, Granger was obviously not someone to irritate.

Harry looked around the Hall and beamed. There were so many people who cared about him. For the first time in his life, he had friends – and not just Ron, though he would always have a special place as Harry’s first friend. But Slytherins had come to his rescue as well as Gryffindors, which was sure to make Professor Snape happy, and even Draco and Ron seemed to be getting along for a change.

He sneaked a glance up to the staff table. Both Snape and McGonagall were looked bemused, but Harry figured that was probably due to the unusual amount of chatter that was going on tonight. He rubbed the back of his head. Yeah, there was a lump there, and he was sure Professor Snape would make a big fuss – to be fair, Harry would be a little hurt if he didn’t make a fuss – but it was worth every bruise to see how much people at his new school liked him. He remembered Uncle Vernon’s parting words to him, about how none of the people at Hogwarts would like him any better than the Dursleys had, and he snorted. Professor Snape was right. Uncle Vernon was just a fat, stupid walrus. He didn’t know anything.

Harry had found friends and a new home and even – though he had to be careful not to say this too loudly lest he embarrass Professor Snape – a new dad who worried about him and made sure he ate all his vegetables and saw the medi-witch when he was hurt. Harry sighed happily. He had to be the luckiest boy in the whole world.

Even after Madame Pomfrey had healed the bumps and bruises that the four first years had suffered in the fight, Snape was unconvinced that Harry was all right. Obviously Weasley was fine – he was used to brawling with his brothers – and the fight had actually created an unprecedented closeness between himself and Percy. Similarly, Malfoy was reveling in his new popularity as the pet of Slytherin House.

The boy’s arrogant swaggering from his first moments at Hogwarts had been disastrously received by the upperclassmen – it was one thing to promote Slytherin superiority among the other Houses; it was quite another to promote Malfoy superiority within Slytherin – and they had taken extreme pleasure in remorselessly cutting the younger boy down to size at every opportunity. By the time Draco realized how his behavior had alienated his entire House, it had been too late to make amends, and whinging about his treatment had only escalated the abuse. Snape knew all too well how expertly a Houseful of Slytherins could torment one of their own, and although Draco at least had the mindless allegiance of Crabbe and Goyle – something Snape himself had never enjoyed – it had been clear that the boy was finding life as a Slytherin lonely and unpleasant.

But his behavior today had been the epitome of Slytherin values – protecting a Housemate, getting back-up rather than rushing in alone (like a Gryffindor would do), displaying physical courage when needed, and maliciously revealing a downed foe’s previously undiscovered misdeeds, thereby further negating his future potential for harm – and all this had been sufficient to wipe the slate clean for his Housemates. Draco was basking in Flint and Jones’ obvious approval – though the prefects had quietly made it clear to him that if there were any return to his conceited maunderings, he could once again find his backside conscripted to serve as the target for any Housemates who felt like practicing their stinging hexes.

His eighth night at Hogwarts, Draco had made the mistake of assuming that his Malfoy heritage entitled him to push ahead of a third year in the line to the showers. Flint had witnessed the event and, rather than permitting the furious third year to shove Draco’s head into a toilet, had instead bent Draco over the back of the common room sofa, Stuck him in place, and called for a session of “House Target Practice”. The following twenty minutes had convincingly demonstrated to Draco that (a) a towel around his waist (which he was only allowed to retain after much panicked begging) was wholly inadequate protection against stinging hexes, (b) tact and humility were critical survival skills, and (c) future smart-arse remarks about Malfoy superiority would inevitably lead to his possessing an extremely sore and stinging arse. He was also left with absolutely no desire to repeat such an experience again. As a result, Draco was now extremely appreciative of his newfound standing in the House and was unlikely to do anything to jeopardize it.

Hermione too was finding the reputation of a “stone cold kick arse” much more enjoyable than that of a “goody goody know-it-all”, and having Jones’ approval only made things sweeter. Obviously then, Snape decided, the other children had suffered no lasting harm from the encounter – quite the opposite, actually.

Harry, by contrast, had once again had the illusory security of Hogwarts shattered. The boy had just begun to feel himself safe from the abuse of his piggish cousin when he was set upon in what had to feel like another round of that despicable “Harry hunting”. Snape ground his teeth in fury. Those four Ravenclaws had doubtless caused enormous psychological harm to the fragile Potter brat, and it would once again be up to Snape to pick up the pieces.

After escorting the other students back to their respective common rooms, Snape had marched Harry back to his own quarters. The boy had expressed surprise that he was not to return to his dormitory with Ron and Hermione, but Snape wasn’t about to have the impending meltdown occur when the boy was alone, except for his idiotic peers. Like Longbottom or Weasely would know how to react to a post-traumatic flashback! Snape snorted in derision at the very idea.

Harry glanced over his shoulder at his guardian. Just as he had expected, Snape had hovered over Madame Pomfrey the whole time she was examining Harry in the Infirmary. The medi-witch had even come close to hexing him when he insisted that she cast her diagnostic spells twice, in case she had inadvertently missed something. In the end, she had Stuck the professor to a chair at Harry’s bedside and threatened him with a silencing spell if he kept trying to tell her how to do her job.

Harry had glared at the witch – how dare she speak to his professor like he was a little kid! – but she had mistaken his anger for pain and given him an extra analgesic potion. Harry sighed; he needed to work harder on his scowl if he hoped to ever be as intimidating with it as his guardian was.

Snape glanced down at the small boy beside him and frowned. Why was the little brat sighing and looking so glum? Was he fretting over his popularity as a target? Worrying about who would be the next to ambush him?

Harry sneaked another look at Snape. Oooh, the professor looked grim. Was he still mad at the medi-witch, or was he going to scold Harry for his cheekiness in asking to eat dinner before going to the Infirmary? Harry bit his lip. He hadn’t meant to argue with his guardian in public like that, but he just hadn’t wanted to look like a crybaby in front of the others and he had been awfully hungry… He had just blurted it out without thinking and then before he could take it back and apologize, Ron had sounded off and then Professor Dumbledore had overruled Professor Snape right there in front of everybody.

Harry squirmed. He hadn’t exactly been disobedient, but he certainly hadn’t been well-behaved, either. If he’d ever talked back to the Dursleys like that (in public, no less!), he’d have been given at least a week of double chores, as well as getting his uncle’s belt across his bum. He was confident that Professor Snape wouldn’t treat him like that, but it wasn’t the threat of punishment that made him feel so awful; it was knowing that he had let the professor down and made him look bad in front of the other teachers.

Snape’s frown intensified as the brat’s countenance grew ever more miserable. He’d been right – the boy was near a breakdown. No sooner had the door to their quarters closed behind them than Harry turned to Snape with a choked cry. “I’m sorry!” he blurted out, tears already starting down his cheeks. “Please don’t be very mad!”

Snape blinked, taken aback. “What on earth are you apologizing for, you foolish child?” he demanded, dragging Harry into the boy’s bedroom and pulling out his pyjamas.

Harry sniffled and hung his head. “I’m sorry I was bad.”

Snape gnashed his teeth and seated himself on the bed, pulling the sniveling boy to stand in front of him. Did the boy honestly think that he had brought the attack upon himself? Or that he had been wrong to fight back? At this rate, he’d never be able to withstand Voldemort. The Dark Lord would only have to fake a yelp in their first encounter and Harry would rush over, awash in alarm and remorse. I’m so sorry! Did that hurt? I knew I shouldn’t have used such a mean spell! It’s all my fault! “You were not bad. It was those four Ravenclaws whose actions were reprehensible.”

Now it was Harry’s turn to blink in confusion. “What?”

“What?” Snape demanded. How could Harry have misunderstood that statement? Oh, maybe “reprehensible” was too big a word to use with a Gryffindor. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You were not bad,” he repeated slowly, hoping that four one-syllable words would be clear enough. If not, what else could he do? Draw pictures?

“Yes, I was,” Harry argued, frowning.

“No, you weren’t!” Typical abused child – always thinking he deserved the treatment he received.

“Yes, I was!” Harry was getting a little tired of the professor always overlooking his behavior, especially when it reflected badly on him. Professor Snape needed to stop being so nice to everyone! He let the Headmaster and medi-witch and yes, even Harry, get away with treating him with too little respect. He needed to stand up for himself more.

“Potter,” Snape ground out, “it was not your fault that those boys attacked you.”

“Oh, I know that!” Harry rolled his eyes. Then he brightened. “Did you see how I fought them? Just like you said, right? Even Marcus said I did really well! And I used that new spell and everything!”

“Er, yes.” Snape was now very confused. Were trauma survivors supposed to experience such dramatic mood swings?

Heartened by his guardian’s obvious approval, Harry climbed onto the man’s lap. “You should’ve seen me!” he said enthusiastically, preparing to relive the battle for his professor’s benefit. “Jeffreys went like this, an’ I went like pow! An’ you should’ve seen his nose bleed! An’ then I went all ‘Accio!’ an’ the other boy’s wand was, like, wiggling everywhere, an’ then the other one went thump an’ then when they tried to grab me, I was like this – “ And Harry began to squirm so much that Snape worried he was having a seizure. He grabbed the boy before he vibrated himself off his lap and onto the floor. “- an’ they couldn’t hold me! An’ then I went like hiya!” Harry gave a very good impression of a karate yell and kick, driving himself against his guardian’s chest. “An’ then –“

“Yes, yes, Mr Potter. I quite understand,” Snape interrupted hastily. “You obviously did as you were told. …Well done.” He managed to choke out the unaccustomed praise, and Harry glowed with pride.

“But then what are you apologizing for, you foolish child?” he demanded.

“Oh.” Harry’s expression clouded. “For when I was rude.”

Snape frowned, trying to deduce what the child was bleating about.

Harry gulped at the scowl that came over his professor’s countenance. He was right; the man was annoyed. “I didn’t mean to be cheeky,” he pleaded. “I was just hungry, and I didn’t think…”

“A common failing of yours, Potter. You must think before you act,” Snape snapped automatically, even as he tried to figure out to what the boy was referring.

“Y’s’r,” Harry mumbled woefully, peering up at the man through his fringe. “I won’t argue with you in public ever again. I didn’t mean to make you look bad. Please don’t be too angry.”

Snape blinked. The boy was ambushed by upper years at four to one odds, several hundred kilos of weight advantage, and many years more magical experience. He escaped serious injury, if not death, by the skin of his teeth, and only because of a completely unexpected alliance between rival Houses. He suffered enough lumps and bruises to make the average eleven year old take to his bed in tears, and the only thing that troubled him was that he was a bit cheeky to his guardian in the post-fight adrenaline high?

Snape frowned. Obviously the boy was in denial, repressing his true emotions, and transferring them to this nonsensical worry that he had made Snape look bad. As if a Potter would ever care about such a thing!

“Please, Pr’fessor!” Harry’s anxiety rose as he saw the professor’s frown. Had he convinced the man to get rid of him? Harry could understand why the professor might not want such a disrespectful ward. “I’m sorry! I’ll apologize in front of everyone tomorrow if you want or –“

“Hush, Potter,” Snape scolded. Yes, the boy was obviously sublimating his feelings. Better to bundle him into bed and let him rest. He tugged off Harry’s robe, grimacing at how dusty it had become in the fight.

“Do you want to whack me?” Harry offered, surprised but not unwilling. If the Professor was taking off his robes to swat him, maybe that meant he’d still keep him.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Potter!” Snape glared, furious at this further evidence that the boy thought that he deserved to be assaulted and beaten. “You know my rules about corporal punishment perfectly well. You have done nothing to earn yourself a smacking.”

“But – but – I said –“ Harry’s words were muffled as Snape tugged off his jumper. “Ouch!” he yipped as the collar tugged over a sore spot on his scalp.

“Hmf.” Snape felt – with surprisingly gentle fingers – the residual lump on the back of Harry’s head. “I’ll have to get you another potion for that. Mr Potter, you obviously suffered a head injury in the fight. As a result, you can hardly be held accountable for being a trifle impulsive in your speech afterwards.”

Harry blinked. “Really?”

“Yes. Now stop standing there like you’ve just seen a basilisk and get into your pyjamas.”

“But it’s too early for bed!” Harry complained automatically. “I’m not tired!”

“Of course you are,” Snape informed him authoritatively, loosening the boy’s tie. “You have just been through An Ordeal.”

Harry scratched his nose and thought about that while Professor Snape continued to change him into his pyjamas as if he were a toddler. An Ordeal? Really? It hadn’t seemed all that unusual to Harry. He was long accustomed to being jumped at any moment – one of the side effects of having Dudley as a cousin. The only thing that was different about today was that not only had he been permitted to fight back, but he had also been aided in doing so by a whole host of allies.

But maybe Professor Snape was worried that a lot of emotion – even good emotion – was draining. If that were true, then yes, Harry was going to be pretty tired, since he had never felt so safe and protected in his whole life as he did here at Hogwarts. And it was all because Professor Snape had figured out what the Dursleys were like and took him away from them.

Snape gave a little snort of satisfaction as he dragged the pyjama top over that unruly black mop of hair. Getting recalcitrant children into their nightclothes wasn’t nearly as hard as the books said. Obviously you merely needed to take a firm approach with the little monsters.

He reached for Harry’s belt, and the boy squawked and jumped back, clutching his waistband. “Pr’fessor! I can do it myself!” he protested indignantly.

Snape stood. “Then do so immediately. I will return in a moment with the potion for your head, and if you are not fully changed, there will be…” he paused dramatically, “Repercussions.” He swept out of the room, robes billowing.

Harry stared after him, impressed. Repercussions? Wow. He’d never been threatened with those before. He wasn’t even sure what they were, but they sounded ominous enough that he scrambled into his pyjama bottoms.

Snape returned to the room to find a pyjama-clad little boy surrounded by crumpled clothing. “I got changed!” Harry pointed out proudly, pleased that he had beaten the professor’s return by a good 30 seconds.

“Congratulations,” the Potions Master said dourly. “Drink this.”

Harry grumbled, knowing it would taste awful, but he was still a bit nervous about those Repercussions, so he did as he was told. “Uggggggh! How come no one else had to take extra potions?” he whined, giving Snape a rather calculating sidelong glance.

As he’d hoped, the professor fell for it. “Because, brat, no one else is my ward, under my care and protection,” Snape snapped at him. Harry felt a glow of happiness at the words. He loved it when the professor got all protective and showed how much he cared. “Now march into your bathroom and get washed up.” He turned Harry by the shoulders and gave him a little push. “Hurry up – how do you expect to get rid of the taste of the potion if you don’t clean your teeth, foolish boy?”

Harry cheerfully headed into the bathroom. That was just like his professor – giving him a potion just before his teeth cleaning, so that the minty toothpaste would erase the nasty taste. Madam Pomfrey wasn’t that thoughtful. She’d just given them all healing potions for their cuts and bruises without so much as a glass of water afterwards. Yes, she’d been very busy, but Professor Snape would never forget such a thing.

Snape looked around the bedroom and grimaced in annoyance. The child had been in residence mere days and already it looked like a herd of hippogriffs had thundered through the place. He stooped to pick up the boy’s clothing and put it away properly. What was it with adolescent boys and tossing clothing hither and yon? Someone should do a paper on the topic: The subconscious production of magical chaos fields by teenaged males.

As he turned away from the closet, having arranged Harry’s shoes neatly on the floor, the brat himself emerged from the bathroom, scrubbed pink and smiling. He lost that smile as he looked at the bed. “I don’t want to go to sleep!” he whined. “It’s too early!”

“Get. Into. Bed.”

Harry glared at the floor, but slowly shuffled to the bed and – again with insulting slowness – climbed in. “I won’t go to sleep!” he declared defiantly. “I’ll just sit here and stare at the ceiling an’ be bored. You can’t make me go to sleep.”

Snape lifted an eyebrow at that, and Harry abruptly wondered if he’d gone too far. Just because he didn’t want to go to sleep didn’t meant that he should be so cheeky. Hadn’t he just apologized for the same thing? And while this time it wasn’t in public, maybe Professor Snape wouldn’t be quite so lenient – head injury or no.

Harry belatedly remembered that the last time he had been in the professor’s quarters and complained about being bored – rather hoping the professor would take the hint and offer to play a game of Exploding Snape or Mini-Quidditch with him – he had instead found himself escorted to a table, presented with quill and parchment, and had a copy of Ye Potion Master’s Master Compendium of Potion Ingredients: Ye 1500 Magical Ingredients Thou Canst Not Live Without placed in front of him. Spending the next 45 minutes copying out pages of the compendium had taught him that whining about boredom to a Potion Master was not the brightest thing in the world. On the other hand, he had subsequently convinced the man to let him use his new knowledge by helping Snape prepare ingredients. That had led to nearly three hours spent together in the Potions lab, much to Harry’s contentment.

But since he doubted that the professor would let him into his Potions lab tonight, Harry really didn’t want to have to sit and copy pages and pages of information about ingredients. If that were his choice, he’d rather lie in his comfortable bed and relive the Great Battle in his mind. He looked nervously at the professor. Had he blown it? Was the man going to make him fetch the compendium?

Snape narrowed his eyes at the boy’s intransigence. Hardly surprising that the little fiend was buzzing like a Cornish pixie on stimulants – he surely had plenty of adrenaline still running through his system, and his rapid mood swings – from tearful apologies to grumpy defiance – were further proof of his overtired, overstressed, and emotionally confused state of mind. He could dose him with a calming draught, but the boy was already awash in medicinal potions. Better to deal with this the Muggle way – with a strong hand.

“Roll onto your stomach,” he ordered, seating himself on the bed.

Harry’s eyes widened. Okay, technically he had been disobedient – or at least he’d threatened to be – but he hadn’t really expected the professor to be so upset. Obviously though, the man had decided that he’d had enough of Harry’s cheek. Stupid, Harry! So stupid! Is this how you repay him for taking care of you? By arguing some more?

Harry gulped and did as he was told, grabbing onto his pillow and burying his face in it. He felt Professor Snape’s hands drawing the covers down, and he braced himself for the coming swat. He knew it wouldn’t hurt his bum much, but it made his chest ache to think that he had, once again, upset and disappointed the man.

Oddly though, the professor didn’t uncover his backside, leaving the covers bunched just above it. Is he making sure the swat doesn’t hurt by having the blankets there as padding? Just as Harry was wondering what was going on, the professor’s firm hand descended and started rubbing his back.

“Relax your muscles, you impossible brat,” Snape ordered brusquely. He might be patting the little monster but that didn’t mean he was getting all gooey and sentimental. “Clear your mind. Relax.”

Harry let out a muffled squeak of surprise as, instead of delivering a stinging rebuke, his professor’s hand instead began kneading his back muscles, soothing away all the tensions of the day. Once again Harry marveled at how completely pants the man was at discipline, and he worried that the other students must surely take advantage of him. But then all coherent thought was quickly banished as the man’s velvety voice and strong fingers eased away knots and stress.

“Mmrglph,” Harry mumbled in utter bliss as the professor reached up and gently massaged his scalp. He felt like he was floating on a cloud as his muscles unkinked and the stress oozed out of him.

“Clear your mind. Imagine you are surrounded by velvety darkness. You are surrounded by it, floating in the void. Nothing can harm you. Nothing can trouble you. Nothing can touch you. You are safe and protected,” the professor’s low voice purred hypnotically, and Harry relaxed even further, practically melting into his mattress as both mind and body let go of the day’s excitements.

“You are floating in the deep black void –“

“Flying,” Harry muttered, the last spark of his consciousness making itself felt.

“What?”

“N’t floatin. Flyin’,” Harry slurred. “I like flyin’.”

Snape rolled his eyes. “Fine. Flying. You are flying in the void. Your mind is calm, your body is relaxed. Nothing can touch you. Nothing can see you.” Beneath his fingers, he felt the boy’s muscles unwind, his breathing slow and deepen. Ha! So much for Mister ‘I Won’t Go to Sleep and You Can’t Make Me’, he thought smugly. That should show the brat who was in charge. He kept up the slow, gentle massage and the compelling murmuring until he was certain the boy was deeply asleep.

Well. That had been disgustingly easy. And here he had been worried about teaching the boy occlumency. Obviously such a skill was imperative for The Boy Who Lived, lest any Dark Legilimens try to tear his mind apart, but Snape had worried that with the boy’s background it would be impossible for him to develop enough trust in another person to follow their instructions as to how to clear the mind. Clearly he needn’t have worried. If this were any indication, Harry was almost too trusting, following Snape’s instructions without demur.

Snape decided that they would have to make this a regular routine – getting the boy in the habit of clearing his mind before sleep. It would teach him the basics of occlumencyand simultaneously ease him into a deep, restful sleep. And avoid further juvenile posturing about “not being tired”. The fact that it would mean that he would have to engage in a regular bedtime ritual with the little monster was irritating, of course. He had many more important things he could be doing rather than sitting at the little brat’s bedside, soothing him and lulling him to sleep with his words. Why, an uninformed observer might even think he was cuddling the brat!

Snape glowered. He was not being affectionate or caring; the relaxing massage was merely an aide to the occlumency training. That was all.

He looked down to where his hand was, inexplicably, brushing the hair back from the little horror’s face. Sleeping like that, it was almost possible to forget what an impossible brat he was – always getting into difficulties and creating havoc wherever he went. Snape scowled, thinking of the evening’s events. How dare those Ravenclaws imagine they could attack Potter? If Granger and the boys hadn’t happened upon them… Snape shuddered, his hand becoming even more gentle as it absently stroked Harry’s head. Obviously he had started the boy’s tutelage none too soon.

He heard the roar of the floo, then the Headmaster’s voice called to him. He rose hastily from the bed – it would not do to be found sitting here, petting the brat. Albus would be sure to misunderstand things and imagine that Snape was becoming sentimental, rather than merely applying necessary techniques for the instruction of occlumency.

Snape shut the bedroom door behind him and went to meet the Headmaster. “I’m here, Albus,” he called.

“Ah, there you are, my boy. Is Harry all right?” Dumbledore tried to peer over his shoulder but was defeated by the closed door.

“He’s sleeping.”

“Hmm. This was an interesting turn of events, wasn’t it?”

“If you consider the ambushing and assault of a first year by four upper level students to be ‘interesting’.”

Dumbledore’s twinkle faded a bit. “Yes, I confess I had somewhat underestimated the risk to Harry from his classmates. I did not anticipate that some parents would have so corrupted their children’s minds with hate...”

Snape raised an eyebrow. “No?” But in fact, Snape wasn’t at all surprised. Dumbledore’s greatest failing, in Snape’s eyes at least, was his boundless capacity to believe the best of everyone. Giving people the benefit of the doubt, extending second (and third and fourth…) chances, all these were Dumbledore’s stock in trade. Deep at heart, the Headmaster was a romantic, endlessly believing that everyone would eventually do the right thing, if only they were given enough opportunities. By contrast, Snape’s suspicious nature meant that he distrusted everyone on sight and, unfortunately, he had all too often been proven right. On the other hand, it meant that he was rarely surprised.

“Regardless of your astonishment, Headmaster, I trust that you now appreciate the threat to my ward and will support his accelerated learning of defensive spells?” Dumbledore’s expression was sad, but he nodded his acquiescence.

“And of course, you have expelled the four Ravenclaws,” Snape continued, though he held little hope that Dumbledore had taken such an action. The Headmaster loathed expelling anyone and would go to almost any length to avoid such an ultimate punishment, as Snape knew all too well. On the other hand, the Potion Master was almost looking forward to being able to exact his own revenge on the four boys – not to mention imagining what his House and the lions of Gryffindor would do to them when no faculty were around. Knowing they’d have Snape’s tacit approval, his students would be sure to make it indelibly clear to the rest of the school that picking on a Slytherin was an extremely bad idea.

Snape’s pleasant fantasies were rudely shattered when Albus sighed. “Yes, I had little choice in the matter.”

Snape’s jaw dropped. “What? You mean it? You expelled them? All four of them?”

Albus regained a little of his twinkle at the Potion Master’s gobsmacked expression. “Well, Severus, I knew perfectly well that you would never permit me to do otherwise. Even if the boys’ assault hadn’t been so clearly murderous in intent, you have made it clear that you take Harry’s safety extremely seriously. I knew you would not permit him to stay at Hogwarts if his attackers remained at large, and given that circumstance, it was of course only fair that his attackers be the ones to leave.” Albus gave him a sharp look. “Not that the boys argued with my decision. They were all too apprehensive of what might have happened to them if they stayed on campus. I believe they felt their own safety might be… in jeopardy.”

“Dear, dear,” Severus raised an eyebrow. “Why would they think that?”

Albus didn’t deign to reply. Instead, he continued, “As a result of this belief, the four were all too willing to make a complete confession. I had no choice – the Aurors were summoned and took the boys away. I suspect that Messrs Peterson and O’Leary will be released to their parents after questioning, but Jeffreys and Smythe are likely to face imprisonment.”

“Good,” Snape snapped, unsympathetic.

Dumbledore sighed wearily. “No, Severus. It is not good. It is very sad to see such youth and potential squandered on bitterness and old grudges.”

“They made their choices, Headmaster, and they are now being held accountable for their actions. Is that not what you should be instilling in these children?”

Albus gave a slight twitch of his shoulders. “I suppose so…”

“And what message would you have sent to the other students, not to mention Har – er, the Potter brat – if you had not removed them from school?”

Dumbledore patted his shoulder. “Thank you for trying to cheer me up, my boy.” Snape scowled; that had not been his intention at all! “But I must admit I did not come here solely for your comfort. I have some bad news.”

Snape stiffened. “What?”

“When the Aurors arrived to collect the boys, they informed me that Sirius Black has escaped from Azkaban.” Dumbledore paused, watching the younger man with deep concern.

Snape kept his features a frozen mask. “Do they know how Black managed such a feat?” he asked, his voice devoid of all emotion.

“The Ministry has been trying to keep the matter a secret, which is why we had not been previously informed, but one of the Aurors told me that they discovered a simulacrum in Black’s cell a few days ago. They have been unable to discover how Black gained access to a wand – the best they can tell is that someone slipped him one, under the guise of visiting another prisoner. They have already interviewed all visitors to the prison for the past few months but have not made any arrests.”

“Surely the answer is obvious,” Snape sneered, glad Albus’ ethical code prevented him for using his Legilimens skills. “The werewolf must have been involved.”

Albus sighed. “Oh, my boy, if only you could look past old insults. The Aurors have already interviewed Remus twice – under Veritaserum the second time – and he knew nothing about Black’s current location, nor had he been to Azkaban, nor had he been involved in the escape.” Snape managed to avoid gasping in relief. He hadn’t expected them to use Veritaserum, though given Remus’ condition, he shouldn’t have been surprised. It was easy to get permission to use Veritaserum on werewolves.

He squelched a reluctant feeling of admiration for Lupin. Obviously his status as a Marauder had been well-earned if he were able to mislead the Aurors even under the truth serum – not that he had ever had to lie, but Remus had obviously answered very carefully. Good thing Snape hadn’t told the wolf anything more about the escape nor where he had stashed Black.

“What is more, Remus has taken a job on the Continent – Italy is more tolerant of lycanthropy – and he was able to show that his discussions with his new employer commenced before Sirius escaped. There is no way that he was involved, though I imagine you will be pleased to learn that he will soon be living overseas.” Snape smirked. “I fear the Ministry is completely at a loss to find Sirius, and the news of his escape is beginning to leak out – that’s why the Auror felt he could tell me. I am sure this information is upsetting to you, Severus, but I cannot believe that Sirius would be so foolish as to come after Harry – or you.”

“Unlike you, Albus, I am convinced that Black’s idiocy is limitless. I will make appropriate arrangements to ensure no harm comes to either the brat or myself.”

Dumbledore nodded and turned to go. At the floo, he paused and turned back. “The Auror mentioned something odd, Severus.” At the Potion Master’s raised eyebrow, Dumbledore continued, “Under Veritaserum, Remus stated that he was certain Sirius was innocent. Amelia Bones, who was present, was very interested as to why anyone would harbor doubts about what has so long been considered an open and shut case, and – conscientious witch that she is – she is reopening the initial investigation into Peter’s death and the deaths of the Muggles.” Albus looked awkward. “I’m afraid that there may be some resurrecting of old and painful memories, my boy. I will do my best to prevent them from doing so, of course, but-“

“No.” Snape glared at Albus. “You will not do anything to hinder Bones’ investigation, Headmaster.” Great – I go to all the trouble of breaking the mutt out of Azkaban, and Albus promptly impedes all my work.

The old wizard stared at him in surprise. “But I thought that remembering those dreadful days – the murders of Lily and James – would be acutely painful for you and Harry.”

Snape gritted his teeth. “It is better for the boy to come to terms now with Black’s perfidy and his parents’ deaths than to remain coddled in some fiction such as the notion that his parents were drunks who died in a car accident,” he sneered, glaring at the Headmaster.

Dumbledore reddened at this reminder of the Dursleys’ unfitness. “I see your point, Severus. Perhaps it is better for Harry to know the truth, painful though it may be.” He looked more closely at Snape. “And you, my boy? How will you be, having to hear once again about how Lily was betrayed?”

Snape forced a sneer. “Hearing about Black’s despicable, cowardly actions is hardly painful to me, Albus. It is Minerva whom you should be worrying about.”

Dumbledore sighed at this further proof of Snape’s persistent bitterness. “Yes, I suppose you are right. Well, I shall leave you to look after Harry, then.” He turned back one last time. “You had reason to be very proud of your House today, my boy – as did the rest of the school.”

Snape tried not to look too smug. “Yes, they were quite impressive, weren’t they?”

Dumbledore twinkled at him. “Quite.”

Snape only relaxed after the Headmaster had floo’d away. Well. He had done it – or appeared to have done so. There would be the inevitable uproar when the news of Black’s escape broke, but it would be quickly supplanted by the latest celebrity scandal or Quidditch victory. He expected Lupin to contact him any day now, and he would bring the werewolf to Black and let him continue nursing the idiot back to health. Another week or two, and the hunt for Black should have died down and soon after that, Black could get started on his work with the Muggles. Snape fought down a grin – he had managed to get two Marauders for the price of one. The Dursleys were going to be very unhappy indeed.

Harry woke up the next day feeling surprisingly well for someone who’d been ambushed a mere twelve hours previous. The potions, not to mention Professor Snape’s back rub, had done their work well, and he practically bounced down the hall as he accompanied his professor to breakfast. Of course, waking up in his brilliant room, with the professor gently patting his shoulder, was enough to put him in a good mood, accustomed as he was to the Dursleys shouting angrily at him through the cupboard door.

Snape regarded the cheerful urchin at his side with disfavor. He hated morning people. Not that he was particularly fond of anyone else, either, but he felt that people who woke up with a smile on their face and a song in their heart should be drowned in their morning porridge. And what did the little monster have to be so happy about? He’d practically shaken the snot out of the brat to wake him, and he’d only avoided using Aguamenti because he didn’t want to have to spend time on the inevitable drying spells afterwards. “Potter,” he ground out between clenched teeth as Harry took a running jump at one of the hanging tapestries to see if he could touch its lower border. “If you do not comport yourself with appropriate dignity, I will lead you through the halls by the ear.”

Harry gave him a long, considering look, and for a horrible moment, Snape feared the brat would call his bluff, but in the end the boy grinned and shrugged. “’kay, Pr’fessor,” he said agreeably. “C’n I have pancakes for breakfast?” he asked a moment later.

Snape eyed him assessingly. That timing was almost Slytherin. “Pleeeease?” Harry said, doing his best “puppy dog eyes”.

“Only after you have had some fruit and a small bowl of oatmeal,” Snape said sternly. “I will not have you load up on sugar and syrup and then buzz around the castle for the rest of the day.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t!”

“Hmf,” Snape gave him a skeptical look, but said no more on the subject.

“Pr’fessor?” Harry ventured a moment later.

“Yes?” he replied forbiddingly.

“Are you going to be brewing tonight?” Harry asked over-casually.

Snape sternly suppressed the twitching in his lips. So that’s what the brat was after. “Perhaps,” he said noncommittally.

Harry trailed one finger against the wall as they walked. “So maybe you’ll need some help getting ingredients ready?” he offered, in the same noncommittal tone.

Snape rolled his eyes at the boy’s transparency. And worse yet, the brat actually felt that preparing potion ingredients was fun! He liked spending time in the dungeons, and he had gotten into the appalling habit of bringing various Gryffindors down with him. What was Snape supposed to use as punishment if the new first years all wanted to spend time squishing bubotubers and pickling newt eyes? He had been appalled the first time Harry had squealed in delighted horror and awarded the previously onerous task the ultimate pre-teen accolade of “GROSS!”

Now he and Weasley, and even the previously petrified Longbottom, had taken to “dropping by” his lab in the hopes of being able to gut, skin, squish, or mince something. Snape knew gloomily that it was only a question of time before the little know-it-all got wind of it, and once she started insisting on coming, the Ravenclaws would be close behind. Then his snakes would start complaining that he was leaving them out, and the Hufflepuffs would look sad and mope around at their exclusion and then what was he supposed to do to make his detentions the most hated and feared punishment at Hogwarts? He would lose his Evil Bat of the Dungeon reputation, and it was all this brat’s fault.

He glared at the little monster. “I’m not sure yet,” he snapped.

“Oh.” Harry looked disappointed, but he wasn’t squelched for long. “Well, maybe we’ll come by just to check.”

“I will not write you excuses if you miss curfew,” Snape threatened, “and if Filch catches you, you’ll be scrubbing toilets with a toothbrush.”

Harry shrugged dismissively. “Like I haven’t done that before. At my relatives, Dudley used to try to make me use the toothbrush afterwards,” he remembered, shuddering, and Snape silently vowed that when Harry did get a detention with Filch, he would give the squib very clear instructions on exactly how Harry was to be treated and what he was not to be expected to do.

“You may come by this evening, after you have completed all your homework. I expect you to show me your essays if you appear, so do not waste my time by turning up without them.”

Harry sighed. Professor Snape had made good on his threat to tutor him, and he insisted on reviewing Harry's homework at least three days a week. Harry had to admit that the professor had been invaluable in helping him learn how to structure and research an essay, not to mention present his ideas clearly, but he wasn’t all that happy having to rewrite his homework several times when Ron and the other kids seemed able to turn in any old thing. He glanced at the professor, wondering if he could risk lodging a protest, but a glance at the stern visage vetoed that idea.

He understood that the extra work now would pay off in the long run, and he had been delighted to learn that the professor considered him clever and had high expectations of him, but he was practically spending as much time with his nose in his books as Granger! Only his classmates’ knowledge that Snape was double-checking all his assignments ensured that he had their sympathy, rather than being scorned as a bookworm. Harry had made one muted protest when Snape had insisted he rewrite a Transfiguration essay for the third time, and his professor had given him such an evil look that Harry half-expected to have earned 500 lines of “I will not try to be a dunderhead” – which he’d overheard Snape assigning to one of his Slytherins whose Potions essay had apparently shown signs of insufficient effort. Instead, Snape had done something much, much worse.

He had gotten up, opened the door, and gestured that Harry should leave. “Out, Potter,” he had snapped when the boy had merely sat and stared. “If you have the ingratitude to resent the investment of my time, then you are more than welcome to be responsible for your own scholastic endeavors. But Merlin help you if you do not achieve the grades I expect from my ward.”

“But – but – “ Harry had protested incoherently. A wave of panic surged over him. How could the professor think about kicking him out like this?

Snape’s face had softened somewhat at Harry’s obvious terror. “I am not evicting you from these quarters, you foolish brat, but I have better ways of spending my time than trying to pound first year concepts into a stubborn skull. If you are uninterested in my help, you may leave my sight. Go study by yourself or with your little friends.”

Harry had started to sniffle. “But you said you’d help me,” he argued, ignoring the fact that he had, bare moments ago, been longing to escape Snape’s study.

Snape had hidden his smirk. Gryffindors – easier to play than a tambourine. “And did you not just indicate you no longer desired my help?” he demanded.

“I didn’ mean it,” Harry mumbled. “I want to stay.”

Snape exhaled gustily. “And here I was looking forward to working on my research.” Harry peered up at him pleadingly. “Oh, all right then. Get to work on that essay,” Snape grudgingly consented, finding it hard not to snicker as Harry’s doleful face was instantly transformed into a beaming smile.

After Harry had finally finished the essay (again), Professor Snape had reluctantly approved it, and then he’d spent nearly an hour showing Harry a totally cool protection spell, “since you have demonstrated that you do – after all – have the necessary maturity to concentrate on such studies.” Harry might be a Gryffindor, but even he could identify a reward when one was handed to him, and he had relaxed, knowing that his professor wasn’t angry with him any longer. He also had to admit that the thrice-revised essay had gotten an excellent grade and won Harry a rare compliment from Professor McGonagall.

Harry frowned as he thought of that encounter. It hadn’t turned out nearly the way he’d expected, but that was how a lot of things went with his Professor. Something he thought was going to be awful turned out to be good for him. He sighed – the professor was probably even right about stuff like vegetables and sweets, as annoying as that might be. “Pr’fessor?” he asked, a thought striking him.

“Mm?” Snape was distracted from thoughts of the day’s lesson plan. “What?”

“Are those boys – Jeffreys and the others – going to be at breakfast?”

“No. They have been expelled from the school for their actions and were collected by Aurors last night. Aurors are wizard policemen,” he explained, at Harry’s blank look.

Harry’s eyes grew big. “What? Why?” he asked incredulously. After having each and every school year blighted by the attacks of his cousin and his goons, Harry had never imagined that the four Ravenclaws would be held accountable for their actions.

“They were all too eager to leave, rather than face my wrath,” Snape replied dryly. “And I had already made it clear to the Headmaster that I will not tolerate any threats to your safety. If he had not expelled those boys, I would have transferred you to another school, rather than give your attackers another chance at you.”

Harry stared at him. He’d never in his life had anyone stand up for him like that. His aunt and uncle naturally assumed that Harry had been the instigator in any conflict with Dudley, and even the teachers quickly came around to their point of view, since Dudley always loudly and tearfully protested his innocence while Harry knew better than to say a word in his own defense. Harry had been rather surprised that the older boys had been whisked away by the Headmaster, but in the post-Battle excitement, he hadn’t paid that much attention. But he had never, ever assumed that they would be expelled – and on his account!

“You mean it? You would have transferred me?”

Snape stopped and looked down at him. “Mr Potter, what are my two most important rules? I will give you a hint; their violation results in a sore backside for you.”

“N-not putting myself in danger and not disobeying,” Harry gulped.

“Exactly. Keeping you safe and healthy and –“ Snape grimaced, but he said it “- happy is my responsibility as your guardian. I will not tolerate any threats to your wellbeing, whether they are your own doing or those of someone else. Do you understand, you silly child?”

Wide eyed, Harry nodded. Wow. Snape really took this seriously. He must like Harry, at least a little, to want to keep him safe. Though right now he looked like he had bitten into a lemon. Harry knew that Snape didn’t like having to come out and admit to all the mushy stuff, but that was okay with Harry, because Snape showed how he felt all the time, whether it was by making sure he got good grades or giving him a back rub when he was too excited to go to sleep or making the Headmaster get rid of the boys who attacked him.

“Pr’fessor?” Harry asked in a very small voice.

“What is it now, Potter?” the man demanded grumpily.

“I l– “ Harry broke off. He couldn’t say it. He’d feel like such a wally and the professor would be just as mortified. “Um, thanks.”

Snape fidgeted awkwardly. “You’re welcome,” he said gruffly, dropping one hand onto the boy’s shoulder and giving him a little squeeze. There. More positive reinforcement for the little fiend.

By then they were at the Great Hall, and Harry headed for the student tables while Severus made his way to the staff table.

“How is Harry this morning?” McGonagall asked anxiously before he had even had the chance to seat himself.

“As annoying as ever,” he replied, ignoring her scowl.

“Really, Severus!” she huffed. “He has just been through a terrifying experience. I should think even you could summon up some compassion!”

Snape merely looked over to where Harry was now amusing himself and his table mates by using slices of melon to give himself a mustache. McGonagall followed his gaze and blinked. “Yes, he's quite the fragile flower,” he commented acidly. He wasn’t about to spread rumors that his ward was a delicate, emotionally unstable child. Of course he was, but having such weakness made public would hardly be in the boy’s best interests. Why did McGonagall think he had insisted the boy return to his quarters last night? He shook his head – old or young, Gryffindors had the subtlety of a brick.

Oh, great Merlin. Now Malfoy was following the lead of the youngest Weasley and seeing how many grapes he could stuff in his mouth at one time. Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. He had known that permitting the old House by House seating arrangements to lapse last night had been a dangerous precedent, and sure enough now the entire school was mingling, with appalling results.

Dear Lord Voldemort, Snape wrote in his mind, When you branded the Weasleys as blood traitors, was it due to their opposition to your rule or their truly appalling table manners? Further, can you please advise why – if pureblood heritage is by far the superior - children of said background appear infinitely easier to corrupt than half-bloods or Muggleborns?

Having speedily abandoned eleven years of rigid etiquette training, Malfoy – aped as always by Crabbe and Goyle – was now demonstrating how toast soldiers could be used as vampire fangs while Weasley tried to stick one in each nostril for some incoherent reason. Now Granger was scolding all of them for playing with their food and the boys were taking it much more respectfully than Snape would have anticipated. Perhaps Jones’ nearby proximity had been noted? And of course, his prefect was seated next to Percy Weasley, who appeared alternately delighted beyond measure and terrified beyond words. Even as Snape watched, Jones scooted a little closer and whispered something in his ear that made the boy blush to the tips of his ears.

The rest of his Snakes were scattered around the Great Hall, and he overheard Teddy Nott and Millicent Bulstrode – both scions of proud pureblood families – begging a Hufflepuff Half Blood to show them some Muggle artifact called a “gameboy”. Apparently the Hufflepuff’s older cousin, an Unspeakable, had managed to charm the object into working at Hogwarts, and his snakes were agog to play it. Of course, the Hufflepuff was agreeing to it, so now he would doubtless have Badgers wandering through his Tower’s common rooms.

Marvelous. Oh, and now Malfoy, Potter, and Weasley were in a shouting match with Granger and Longbottom about the high social value of Quidditch. Of course, the know-it-all was carrying most of the argument, but Longbottom was showing an unexpected tenacity in suggesting that maybe, just maybe, coursework was slightly more important than Quidditch standings. The other three boys were hooting him down, showing alarming amounts of half-masticated food in the process, while Crabbe and Goyle stolidly ate everything that remained in their vicinity - regardless of whose plate it was on.

Snape’s mood plummeted at the realization that he was going to have to side with the know-it-all and Longbottom when – as seemed inevitable – he had to intervene in the rapidly escalating argument. Now some of the upper years were beginning to pay attention as well.

“Hmmmm. I’m afraid Miss Granger isn’t learning to fit in well,” Minerva commented disapprovingly.

Snape scowled at her. “Because she hasn’t become a Quidditch-obsessed lunatic like her Head of House?” he asked nastily.

McGonagall scowled right back. “Quidditch is the most noble of sports! Its unique heritage is –“

“ - Irrelevant at an institution of higher learning!” Snape snapped. “Why you and the Headmaster insist upon permitting such a distraction –“

McGonagall smirked. “You’re simply jealous because you were never a very good player.”

While Snape choked in fury, Pomfrey sailed into battle. “Severus’ point is well taken, and you know it! The number of injuries that your stupid game causes every year –“

“Stupid game!?!” Hooch screeched. “I’ll –“

“Now, now,” the Headmaster tried, belatedly, to intervene.

The students’ arguments halted and all eyes turned to the staff table to see if the brewing riot there would come to pass. As a result, it was several moments before anyone realized that the doors to the Great Hall had been thrown open.

The students’ arguments halted and all eyes turned to the staff table to see if the brewing riot there would come to pass. As a result, it was several moments before anyone realized that the doors to the Great Hall had been thrown open.

“Enough!” Dumbledore at last pronounced in tones of finality, his magic reinforcing the order. Hooch sulkily put down the bowl of porridge she had been about to throw at Pomfrey, while the rest of the faculty rather guiltily composed themselves. Snape and McGonagall exchanged a final glare, but then a shout from the end of the Hall made all Quidditch-related hostility evaporate.

“Headmaster! Is this the kind of behavior our children are expected to emulate?” Harry, along with the other students, craned his neck to see who had spoken. A tall, aristocratic man with white-blond hair strode down the aisle, a silver headed cane gripped in one hand. At Harry’s side, Draco gasped and hastily straightened his robes.

“Hey, he looks like you,” Harry whispered. “Is that –“

“My father,” Draco agreed tersely. He swallowed hard and watched apprehensively as Lucius marched up to the staff table.

“Good morning, Lucius,” Albus said pleasantly, twinkling at the elder Malfoy. “I find that a brisk debate is an excellent way to start the morning. Would you care to join us for breakfast?”

“Headmaster!” A second man, this one in a funny little bowler hat, angrily waddled in Lucius’ wake. “I demand to know what is going on here!”

“The public demand to know,” a skinny, bespectacled woman interjected smoothly, keeping pace at the small man's shoulder. “Do you have a comment, Headmaster?”

Dumbledore twinkled at them all. “Perhaps if you were to explain what brings you here at such an early hour, Cornelius, I would be able to answer your questions and provide Ms Skeeter's comments.”

Lucius wrestled back control of the group. “We are here, Headmaster,” he announced, “because of yesterday’s alarming events at the school!”

“Could you be more specific, please?” Albus twinkled some more. “Are you referring to the house elves’ running out of pudding, the alarming rise in missing socks, or –“

“Imagine my shock and alarm,” Malfoy continued, ignoring the Headmaster, “when I returned from a business trip abroad this morning and stopped by Minister Fudge’s office to brief him on it, only to learn that Aurors had been summoned to the school last night. Several senior boys were expelled and arrested! Why was I not informed of these events, both as a member of the Board of Governors and a concerned parent?”

“Perhaps because you were on a business trip abroad?” Dumbledore suggested gently.

“There I was,” Lucius proclaimed, speaking directly to the woman who was, Harry could now see, watching a busily scribbling quill, “peacefully seated in the Minister’s office, when an Auror came by and dropped off a report that made my blood run cold! Unforgivables had been used at Hogwarts! My own son was a target! How could such violence have been permitted within these hallowed halls?”

“You poor man,” the reporter cooed. “What did you do next, as a concerned parent and a member of the Board of Governors?”

“Naturally I suggested that we travel to Hogwarts immediately to obtain a full report from the Headmaster. I demanded that the Minister initiate a full inquiry into –“

“And I naturally agreed that we needed to learn exactly what had happened.” The little man in the ridiculous hat had finally had enough of being ignored. He took the reporter by the elbow and turned her to face him. “As Minister of Magic, naturally my first priority is the youth of our great nation. Learning that they had faced such a threat at what should be one of the safest sites in Britain was of course alarming, and so I set off at once, stopping only long enough to collect a Ministry employee whose children were also reported to have been involved.” He waved one hand back to the doorway.

“Dad?” Ron, on Harry’s other side, squeaked in surprise as the last member of the Minister’s party moved forward.

Harry looked on interestedly as Ron and his brothers jumped up and ran to the red headed man who appeared ill at ease.

“How did you feel upon hearing the news of Unforgivables being used at the school, Mr Weasley?” the woman pounced.

“I’m still waiting to have that rumor confirmed, Miss Skeeter,” Ron’s dad said firmly, looking up at the head table. “Good morning, Professor Dumbledore. I hope you will forgive our intrusion.”

“We have nothing to apologize for,” Malfoy snapped dismissively. “We are here as concerned parents – though perhaps given your children’s reputations…”

“Oi!” One of the twins yelped indignantly, coming up behind their father. “We didn’t –“

“- do anything! And it’s not –“

“ – true that there were Unforgivables –“

“- flying around either! It was just Harry –“

The reporter, Miss Skeeter, swooped upon the last twin. “Harry? Harry Potter? The Boy Who Lived? Was he involved in this? Did he use an Unforgivable?”

Snape stiffened and shot a sharp look at Dumbledore. This needed to be controlled. Now.

“Don’t you say that about Harry!” Ron yelled furiously, hurrying up. “He was just –“

“ENOUGH!” Once again the Headmaster’s magic surged through the air, and all conversation halted as a silencing spell rippled through the Hall. McGonagall settled back, looking smug, and Snape gave her a grudging nod of respect.

“Thank you, Minerva,” Dumbledore smiled at the elderly witch. “Now, as it appears that most of the students are through with breakfast, I suggest that you all head to classes.” He ignored the inaudible groans and disappointed glances as the children stood up to leave. “I would, however, like those directly involved in last night’s occurrence to remain behind.”

In short order, shepherded by the rest of the staff, the student body had reluctantly departed the Great Hall, leaving behind Professors Dumbledore, Snape, and McGonagall, along with Harry, Draco, Hermione, Jones, Flint, Wood, Bell, and all of the Weasleys.

“Thank you,” Dumbledore smiled, ignoring both the rapidly purpling Minister of Magic and Lucius Malfoy’s pale-lipped fury. “Now, Minerva, before you cancel your silencing spell, perhaps you would be so kind as to remind Ms Skeeter and our guests of the school’s policy of media relations.”

While McGonagall sternly lectured the others, Dumbledore walked over to Arthur Weasley. “Hello, Arthur,” he greeted the younger man cheerfully. “How are you?” An encouraging nod indicated that the silencing spell had been lifted – at least in this corner of the room.

“I’m fine, thank you, Albus,” Arthur replied, looked over his sons worriedly. “Are any of you hurt? Harry? Are you all right?”

Harry felt a warm glow at having Mr Weasley include him like that. “I’m okay,” he promised, joining in the chorus of the other boys.

“You have reason to be proud of your sons,” Dumbledore smiled. “They were quick to assist Harry, as were several other students.”

Arthur blinked in surprise, his gaze falling on the twins. “That’s… good to hear, Headmaster.”

The twins squirmed, knowing that their father was much more accustomed to having to come to the school to hear about their misdeeds. It was a lot nicer to have the Headmaster praising their actions rather than presenting a bill for damages and explaining their latest detention.

“I’m afraid I did have to admonish one of the boys, who got a little, ah, carried away by the excitement and used both inappropriate language and a particularly nasty hex in plain view of several faculty members,” Dumbledore said apologetically, though his eyes were twinkling like mad.

Arthur sighed. “Ronald,” he began, knowing his youngest son’s temper.

“Er, no.” Dumbledore shook his head.

“Fred? George?” Arthur turned to them. It was extremely unusual for only one of the twins to get into trouble, but it was, he supposed, possible.

“No.”

Arthur stared at the Headmaster. “Not –“

“Erm, yes, it was me,” Percy admitted awkwardly.

Arthur’s jaw dropped. “Percy? Percy was the one who swore and hexed someone? In front of teachers?”

“I’m afraid so,” Dumbledore said. “I was forced to speak very sternly to him and explain that such behavior cannot be tolerated in a prefect. If it happens again, I shall have no choice but to ask that he relinquish his badge.”

Now his brothers were staring at Percy as well. They hadn’t realized that he’d been threatened with the loss of his treasured prefect standing.

“You’d do that for me?” Ron gulped. “But being a prefect – that’s like something you’ve wanted for your whole life.”

Percy colored and shrugged, mumbling something incoherent.

Dumbledore twinkled at Arthur. “As I say, Percy was quite strongly provoked – the boy he attacked had just tried to Crucio young Ronald.” Now Arthur paled. Reaching out an arm, he pulled Ron close, while Dumbledore smiled and withdrew.

“Are you all right?” he asked again, running his eyes over his youngest son.

It was Ron’s turn to blush. “I’m fine, Dad.” He pulled on his ear, looking awkward. “Erm, it was Draco Malfoy who saved me. I mean, he was there before Perce and the twins arrived. He was the one who stopped the curse.”

Arthur turned and looked at where Draco Malfoy now stood by his father. “A Malfoy saved you? Did he know who you are?”

Ron grinned. “Yeah. But see, I was helping Hermione, who was helping Harry, and since Harry’s Snape’s kid, that makes him a snake, so since I was helping a snake, Malfoy helped me.” Arthur blinked, trying to process all that. He looked over to Harry. “So you were hurt too?”

Harry squirmed awkwardly. He still wasn't used to people caring about his wellbeing. “Not much. I mean, yeah, they tried to grab me, but you should’ve seen it, Mr Weasley – erm, I mean Uncle Arthur. Everyone came running and jumped on those guys, and then when it was over, and Draco told on Smythe, Percy went all mental and protective and it was only when that Slytherin prefect grabbed him that he stopped.”

“That pretty –“

“- and shapely –“

“ – Slytherin prefect,” the twins put in slyly.

Arthur stared at Percy again. “Wh-which prefect might that be, son?” he asked, a bit unsteadily.

“Davidellajones,” Percy admitted, very low and fast, staring at his shoes. “ShesstandingovertherewithHermione.”

Arthur glanced over to where the small Gryffindor was standing next to a tall, willowy black girl. Arthur’s eyes widened.

“She’s great!” Harry enthused. “She was even scarier than Flint, Uncle Arthur! And she nearly – erm – well, did something really mean to the one who had hurt me.”

“Really?” Arthur’s eyebrows were at his hairline. Well, now we know that Molly will like her. He eyed Percy thoughtfully, noting the half-embarrassed, half-proud expression. “Boys, let me speak with your brother for a moment.”

Percy’s eyes flew to meet his father’s, then dropped. He hunched his shoulders as if expecting a blow and shuffled a few yards over to the side. Harry and the other boys watched him anxiously.

“Uncle Arthur, you won’t be very cross with him, will you?” Harry asked nervously, remembering the man’s words about swats that sometimes lasted longer than a few seconds.

“Yeah, Dad,” Ron chimed in, looking worried. “He was only protecting me. Please don’t really punish him.”

“C’mon, Dad –“ the twins chimed in.

“- it’s not like it –“

“ – was one of our pranks.”

“Perce the Prat was actually –

“- protecting ickle Ronniekins.”

“You can’t be mad at him –“

“- for that.”

Arthur gently extricated himself and stepped over to Percy. Before he could speak, the prefect blurted, “I’m sorry! I know I shouldn’t have, but when I heard what he had tried to do to Ronnie, I just lost it. I know the Headmaster is furious and Professor McGonagall told me that if she heard me use language like that again, she’d use a mouth soaping spell, but I –“

“Son, calm down. Take a breath.”

Percy obeyed, then gave his father a sheepish look. “Sorry. It’s been so long since I’ve been in big trouble, I kind of panicked.”

Arthur grinned. “I know – thanks to the twins, I’ve gotten out of the habit of scolding one child at a time. Now then, are your professors very upset with you?”

Percy gave him a sidelong look. “Well… the Headmaster did threaten to take my prefect badge if it happens again. But he was twinkling the whole time and he must have given me about a dozen lemon drops, so it didn’t seem like he was very upset. And, erm, Professor McGonagall only yelled about the language, not about the boils or anything, so I didn’t think she was all that angry either. I mean, you know how she is, when she’s really upset, she doesn’t bother to yell, she just assigns punishments, so the fact that she just scolded me for a few moments…”

“… Suggests she’s not very angry,” Arthur finished. “Yes, well, you know that your mother and I are very proud of your record here at Hogwarts and your being a prefect means a lot to us.” Percy winced. Here it came. “But family is more important, and I’m delighted to see that you have your priorities straight.” Percy’s jaw dropped. “Now. Tell me about this Miss Jones.” While his son goggled at him, Arthur dug in his pocket. “Here, you must need a few galleons so you can take her to Hogsmeade.”

While Arthur was speaking with Percy, Snape caught Harry’s eye and gestured commandingly. So long as rabid journalists were around, he wasn’t taking any chances of the boy’s artless prattle being unsupervised.

Harry obediently trotted over. “Stand by me unless I tell you otherwise,” his guardian ordered sternly. Having Harry safely corralled, Snape looked over at the other students. The Weasleys were with their father. The older students – Wood, Bell, Flint, and Jones – stood in a knot, and Jones had taken the Gryffindor know-it-all under her wing. That left Draco.

Draco stood near his father, waiting for him to break away from the Deputy Headmistress. Only the boy’s pallor revealed his anxiety, but Snape knew Lucius Malfoy’s explosive temper all too well. It was too much to hope that the boy hadn’t experienced it firsthand, and judging from his expression, Draco had indeed learned to fear his father’s displeasure. “Come along,” he snapped at Harry. Potter wasn’t the only child with brutal relatives.

He stepped over to where Draco stood at attention and placed one hand on the boy’s shoulder. Draco flinched, then visibly relaxed when he saw it was his head of House. Harry grinned and – as oblivious as always – nudged the other boy. Draco managed a weak smile before turning back to await his father.

Finally McGonagall turned away from the visitors with a satisfied, catlike smirk, and all three exploded into sound.

“How dare you treat me like an unruly child!” the Minister fumed.

“Hogwarts Gags Guests – Silencing Spell Mutes Minister,” Skeeter muttered to her quill, ignoring Fudge’s gasp of dismay.

“Now, wait! You don’t want to write it like that!” he argued, tugging her to one side.

“Draco,” Lucius began silkily, the knuckles white on his cane. His son swallowed convulsively and Snape could feel him tremble.

“Lucius,” Snape interrupted.

Malfoy’s eyes snapped up from his son, then narrowed as he saw who had addressed him. “Severus,” he acknowledged.

“Hi!” Harry, feeling happily secure in his proximity to his guardian, stuck his hand out. “I’m Harry Potter, Mr Malfoy. I’m one of your son’s friends.”

Lucius blinked. “You… are?” He shook Harry’s hand rather absently.

Draco bit his lip, suddenly hopeful. His father had given him orders to befriend Potter and Lucius had been irate when Draco had confessed their unpromising encounter on the Hogwarts Express. Maybe this turnabout would please his father?

“Excuse me.” A new voice from behind them made them all turn, and Draco saw how his father’s expression darkened when he saw who it was.

“What do you want, Weasley?” As always, he pronounced the name with contempt.

“I wanted to thank your son, Malfoy. He saved my youngest boy from a Cruciatus.” Arthur stepped forward and held out his hand to Draco. “I’m Ron’s father, Draco, and what you did was very brave and honorable. My family and I thank you for helping Ron.”

Draco glanced nervously at his father, but purebred manners won out. “You’re very welcome, sir,” he said, hoping his father wouldn’t erupt over his shaking hands with a blood traitor.

Arthur smiled at him. “Maybe you’d like to come visit us at the Burrow over the hols? Ron tells me you like Quidditch – we usually have enough players to field two teams.”

“Erm, thank you, sir.”

Arthur turned back to Lucius. “Your son is a credit to your family, Malfoy.” He held his hand out. “You must be very proud of him.”

Lucius stared at the outstretched hand then glanced around the room. Virtually every eye was upon him. He swallowed hard. Weasley was a low level Ministry employee, a blood traitor who opposed the Dark Lord, and someone of absolutely no social ranking. But he was also a pureblood of impeccable – if impoverished – lineage and someone who was both well liked and well respected within the Wizarding world. Publicly insulting him would do Lucius little good and might alienate other, more powerful, wizards. “Er, thank you,” he said, choking the words out as he gingerly accepted the man’s hand.

A bright flash nearly made him groan aloud. Of course that bloody reporter would take a picture of this. “Two ancient families reconciled thanks to the heroism of the Malfoy scion!” Skeeter hissed at her quill, then focused on the dark haired child in front of her. “Harry Potter – do you think Hogwarts is too dangerous for you? Do you go in fear of your life? Is The Boy Who Lived living in fear?”

Harry blinked. “Huh?”

“The child is happy to be here. His only fear is for his upcoming exams,” Snape put in coolly, draping one hand over the boy’s shoulder and pulling him backwards to stand against him.

Skeeter’s eyes widened, and the magical camera flashed. “Why is The Boy Who Lived being protected by Slytherin’s Head of House and students?” she demanded.

“I’m sort-“ Harry’s explanation that he was sort of an honorary Slytherin broke off as Snape’s hand tightened on his shoulder.

“He was sorted into Gryffindor but has ties to Slytherin as well,” Snape said shortly, though he doubted that the witch would let it go at that.

Skeeter frowned. “What ties? No Potter has been sorted into Slytherin for six generations, and even his godfather was Gryffindor, no matter what the rest of the Blacks were.”

“Godfather?” Harry’s ears perked up.

“Are you terrified at the thought of your godfather coming after you?” Skeeter asked, swiftly stooping to Harry’s eye level. “What are your thoughts about his escape? His betrayal? Do you think he’s coming here to – eeek!” Her interrogation of the child ended abruptly as Snape grabbed her by the elbow and bodily dragged her to the side of the room.

“You will not mention the boy’s godfather to him, or I will terminate this interview and floo to the Quibbler’s office with Potter. Do you understand?” Snape hissed, nose to nose with the reporter.

Her eyes blinked rapidly behind her spectacles. “Does that mean that if I don’t mention the Azkaban break I can interview him?” she pressed.

“Very well.” He released her arm and stepped back. Skeeter gulped down a breath and straightened her robes.

“What business is it of yours anyway?” she demanded shrilly, regaining her composure rapidly once Snape was no longer looming menacingly over her.

“He’s my guardian!” Harry piped up helpfully.

Skeeter, Malfoy, and Fudge all froze, staring at Snape, who sneered back, hoping the sudden hammering of his heart wasn’t audible.

“What?” Fudge exploded. “On whose authority?”

“Death Eater Given Custody of Boy-Who-Lived!” Skeeter sounded positively orgiastic at the proposed headline.

Malfoy started for his son, blood in his eye, and Draco threw up his hands in supplication. “I owled you, Father! I told you all about it!”

Lucius halted; his son’s sincerity was too patent to doubt. “Obviously your dear mother didn’t see fit to pass the message on,” he ground out from between clenched teeth. He shot a calculating glance at Snape. “You have been busy, Severus.”

“I demand to know who is responsible for this!” Fudge ranted. “That boy is supposed to be with Muggle relatives! Who decided –“

“I did,” Dumbledore said quietly, but the power in the calm words halted all other conversations.

“But – but – but I’m the Minister,” Fudge said, almost plaintively.

“Yes, and you are much too busy and important to be involved in such minutiae as individual child placements,” Dumbledore agreed pleasantly, speaking slowly and distinctly for the reporter’s frantically scribbling quill. “Furthermore, as the person who was responsible for the boy’s placement a decade ago, it was only logical that I took charge when new arrangements were needed.”

“Headmaster! Why were new arrangements needed?” Skeeter called out. “Are you confirming that the boy was with Muggles this whole time? Were they unfit?”

Dumbledore exchanged a look with Snape. “Ms Skeeter, I can confirm that for several years Harry lived with relatives who happen to be Muggles. However, circumstances change, and it recently became clear that Harry was not going to be able to stay with them any longer. New arrangements had to be made, and it was with great pleasure that I learned that Professor Snape was willing to take up Harry’s guardianship.”

“A Death Eater entrusted with The Boy Who Lived?”

Dumbledore lost his twinkle. “Professor Snape was a spy among the Death Eaters, Ms Skeeter. His wartime service record is distinguished and has been confirmed by several others besides myself.” His gaze was like blue steel. “I am certain you are not suggesting that either Minister Fudge or myself would permit known Death Eaters to teach at Hogwarts?”

“Of course not! Perish the thought! How can you even suggest such a thing?” Fudge squawked, outraged.

Snape felt Lucius’ sardonic eyes on him but refused to glance his way. “Pr’fessor, what - ” Harry’s confused voice reached him, and he stooped to speak softly into the boy’s ear.

“We will discuss this later. No questions now.”

Harry bit his lip, then nodded obediently.

Skeeter quickly changed her strategy. “My apologies for jumping to conclusions,” she offered nonchalantly. “But why Professor Snape? He is a bachelor, isn’t he? What qualifies him to be Harry Potter’s guardian?”

Snape hoisted one eyebrow and gazed at the Headmaster challengingly. Good question.

Dumbledore smiled. “Severus Snape was a contemporary of Harry’s parents. They were all classmates here at Hogwarts together, and Professor Snape was a childhood friend of Harry’s mother. Who better than an old friend to raise her orphaned child?”

Harry and both Malfoys were now looking at Snape in surprise, and he was ready to strangle the Headmaster with the man’s own beard. How dare he share such private information with the entire Wizarding world?

Lucius’ eyes narrowed. “I don’t exactly remember James Potter and Severus Snape being close friends, Headmaster, and I too was at Hogwarts for part of their schooling.”

Dumbledore waved a negligent hand. “Severus and Lily were always closer than Severus and James, Lucius. But you know how schoolboy rivalries flare up and die down.” Snape barely managed to control his snort of rage. His persecution by the Marauders, casually dismissed as a “schoolboy rivalry”? “But when times were grim towards the end of the war, that is when people’s true natures were revealed. No one did more than Severus Snape to try to safeguard the Potters while they were in hiding, and I am sure they are deeply grateful to Severus for the care and affection he is showing their son.”

Now Lucius was regarding him with naked suspicion, and Snape was practically incandescent with rage at the Headmaster’s blatant manipulation of the truth. Yes, he had done his best to safeguard the Potters – after realizing whom he had betrayed to Voldemort by sharing that bloody prophecy. Yes, he had, technically, been a member of the Order along with the Potters – but they had never seen each other, since his true allegiances couldn’t be known by anyone but Dumbledore. But worst of all, how could Albus just blurt out that he was showing “care and affection” to the brat as if he actually liked the wretch? No wonder the little monster’s eyes were shining like stars! And it was all because of the Headmaster’s creative massaging of the facts. What was he supposed to do with the boy when the actual truth came to light?

“So I take it that Professor Snape has your full confidence, Headmaster?” Skeeter asked, her quill writing busily. At Dumbledore’s nod, she turned to the Minister. “And you, Minister? How do you feel about this?”

Fudge swallowed, feeling trapped. Of course he didn’t want some hook-nosed, unphotogenic nobody to have control – er, custody – of The Boy Who Lived, let alone someone whose wartime record was, at best, open to interpretation. On the other hand, it appeared to be a fait accompli, and to overturn it would mean taking on Albus Dumbledore. He rubbed his hands together nervously. Better to chuck the whole thing onto the old coot’s shoulders – that way, if there were a problem, he had plausible deniability.

His decision made, he moved smoothly into press mode. “Well, Rita,” he said, smiling widely, “as you have heard, as Minister of Magic, I am unable to give personal attention to every child custody case in Wizarding society, even for such a child as The Boy Who Lived. I place my trust in our agencies to ensure that our children’s welfare is carefully supervised, and of course, with Headmaster Albus Dumbledore taking personal charge of this case, I will accept his word that he has found an appropriate guardian for little Harry.”

Skeeter stooped to where Harry was frowning in indignation over that “little Harry” crack. “And you, Harry? What do you think of your guardian? Did the Headmaster choose wisely?”

Harry glared up at the reporter. “It wasn’t the Headmaster’s choice,” he snapped, sounding remarkably like the Potion Master. “It was mine. I asked Professor Snape to be my guardian.”

Skeeter blinked. “You did? Well. Er, Professor, this is unexpected, but it appears you have the support of the Minister of Magic as well as the head of the Wizengamot and The Boy Who Lived.”

“He also has the support of our family,” Arthur Weasley put in. “We were friends with Harry’s parents and have long had an interest in the boy’s welfare. We have missed him these ten years and have been delighted to renew our acquaintance with him since he began at Hogwarts. And we have seen him with his guardian and consider Professor Snape an excellent choice for the role.”

“Another testimonial,” Skeeter said, though the speculation in her eye failed to match her bright, cheerful tones. “My, my, Professor – you must be a truly remarkable man to receive such accolades.”

“He is!” Harry answered, not liking the witch’s sickly sweet comments. “He’s brilliant. An’ he’s got everyone in Slytherin and Gryffindor looking out for me. And when those four boys tried to jump me, everyone helped out. Hermione stopped them when there was no one else around, and then Draco and Ron went and got help, and then Draco saved Ron from the Crunchy thing – “

“Not 'crunchy', 'crucio'!” Draco hissed.

“Erm, right, crucio thing while everyone else stopped the others. And Professor Snape’s got me a room and clothes and a broom and –“ Harry finally stopped as Snape’s grip on his shoulder tightened painfully.

“That’s enough,” Snape said quietly, though internally he was fuming. Little monster! After all Albus did to try and gloss over his Muggle relatives’ neglect, the little idiot starts spouting off about being given clothing and a room, revealing how much he appreciates such basic necessities.

Happily, Skeeter appeared to be sidetracked. “A Malfoy and a Weasley working together. My, my – what is your reaction to all this, Mr Malfoy? Haven’t you known Professor Snape very well for many years?”

Lucius regarded Snape steadily. “Have I known Professor Snape? That’s an excellent question, Ms Skeeter. It is certainly true that we were both at Hogwarts for a few years.”

Harry beamed. “And they were friends then, and now Draco an’ me are friends now!” He slung an arm around Draco’s neck, and Skeeter instantly took a picture. “C’mon,” Harry urged, pulling Draco towards the other students. “Come meet the others who helped in the fight.”

Skeeter, scenting a front page story, followed. “So these are the brave students who helped foil your attackers, hmmm?” Fudge trotted after the reporter, unwilling to have her attention move away from him.

Dumbledore followed to provide introductions, leaving Snape and Malfoy alone, staring at each other.

“Well, well, Severus. So you really were a traitor,” Lucius said, his voice quiet but full of deadly malice. “I should have known better than to trust a dirty little half-blood like you.”

“And if you were such a loyal servant, Lucius, shouldn’t you be rotting away in Azkaban as a martyr to the cause of pureblood superiority rather than pleading Imperius and disavowing your Lord?”

Lucius’ glare should have incinerated him on the spot. “What kind of game are you playing, Severus? How much longer do you expect to be able to cower behind that old fool Dumbledore? When the Dark Lord returns, His wrath will –“

Severus yawned. “Oh, Lucius, you sound like a teenager. I had expected more from you.”

Malfoy blinked in confusion. “What?” How could Snape be so immune to his most threatening manner? Didn't he fear Voldemort's vengeance?

“Look at the Headmaster, Lucius. He is, as you say, a very old wizard. Powerful, yes, but Time is more powerful than anything else, and how many more years do you imagine he has left?”

“But then what are you doing? When the Dark Lord returns –“

“Lucius, the Dark Lord is hardly in his first blush of youth. Yes, he’s younger than Dumbledore, but so is most of the Wizarding world. I’m disappointed in you. We were both little more than children during the first war, but now – I had hoped you’d grown up.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Lucius demanded.

“As children, of course we must follow another. But times change. People grow up and come into their own power.”

Lucius snorted in derision. “You really imagine you’re powerful enough to stand against either Dumbledore or the Dark Lord?”

Snape sighed. “You have so little vision, Lucius. Does Narcissa have to explain the Daily Prophet to you every morning?” Ignoring the other man’s rising fury, Snape continued, “Dumbledore’s power is waning as the years march on. The Dark Lord was already defeated once by a mere baby. What do you think will happen as that child ages?”

Malfoy shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

“Lucius, the Dark Lord has already been defeated once. When he returns, don’t you think he stands a good chance of being defeated again?”

“But that was just a fluke. A random chance.”

“Think like a Slytherin, Lucius," Snape said, his voice dripping with contempt. "Do you truly believe that a Dark Lord at the height of his powers can be defeated by ‘a fluke’? And if he can, was he ever really as powerful as you believed him to be?”

“So you prefer to ally yourself with the old man? Why?”

“The old man is here – the Dark Lord is not. And the old man will not be here forever. When he dies, there will be a power vacuum regardless of where the Dark Lord may be. Who do you think will take Albus’ place as the Defender of the Light?”

Lucius followed his eyes to the messy haired child eagerly assisting the Headmaster with introductions. “You can’t believe –“

“Don’t be naïve, Lucius. Would you ever have been able to drag a reporter of Skeeter’s stature out here if ‘The Boy Who Lived’ hadn’t been involved in last night’s fracas? The Wizarding world has already accepted him as Dumbledore’s de facto successor. The Dark Lord will have no choice but to defeat or suborn him upon His return. That child will be at the nexus of Dark and Light Powers for the foreseeable future.”

Lucius sneered. “And by being a good little lapdog to that old coot, you hope for –“

“Haven’t you realized by now that I’m not a particularly good little lapdog for anyone?” Snape demanded silkily.

“You mean you’re grooming the Potter brat in order to present him to the Dark Lord?” Lucius struggled to understand.

“Lucius! Be a man! You are a wizard in your own right, not a teenager who has to join an older child's gang. Dumbledore’s power is on the wane. The Dark Lord is missing and will have to rebuild his forces after He returns. Why would I ally with either group?”

“You’re setting the boy up as a third power?” Malfoy breathed, his eyes widening. “Merlin, but you have a pair on you!”

Snape allowed the trace of a smile to flicker on his lips. “Let us just say that when the Dark Lord returns, He may find that His biggest challenge is neither Dumbledore nor the Ministry.”

“And the boy?”

He shrugged dismissively. “Is a boy. He requires guidance and a firm hand. I provide that.”

“And the Headmaster?”

“He tries to provide his own guidance. As I expect the Dark Lord to do when He makes His reappearance. We shall see who will win control.” Snape looked sharply at Malfoy. “And you, Lucius? What is it you wish for? Will you remain linked to a losing team or ally with the side that has already won once before?”

Malfoy gave a superior little smirk. “Well, now that I understand that you’re not speaking of that twinkling idiot, let's just say that I am newly intrigued. You are playing a very dangerous game, Severus. If Dumbledore knew you were setting yourself up against him…”

“What makes you think he doesn’t?” Snape purred. “He is old, not senile. Tired, not weak. He has his views of how to prepare the boy. I have mine. If I do not prevail in this, then I do not deserve to prevail in the battle either, do I?”

“What do you want from me?”

Snape shrugged. “Tomorrow’s paper will demonstrate that your heir is within Potter’s inner circle. When the Dark Lord returns, that may be good, or it may be bad, depending on His mood. The instant I refuse to hand over the boy, I will be targeted, but your position is not likely to be so clear cut so quickly. It would be… interesting… to learn about the Dark Lord’s plans.”

“You want me to turn spy?”

“No, Lucius, I want you to continue doing what is best for the House of Malfoy. Would you not agree that keeping all your options and potential alliances open is in the best interests of your House… and your heir?”

Both men turned to gaze over to where the students had been assembled for a group picture – one that would grace the front cover of the next day’s Daily Prophet. Harry, Ron, and Draco stood at the front, laughing, with their arms slung around each other’s necks. Hermione was next to them, a little apart, until a smiling Harry reached out and grabbed her hand. Then she beamed, moving closer. Directly behind the first years stood the three stern faced prefects, arms crossed, while the grinning Weasley twins flanked them on one side and Oliver and Katie mugged for the camera on the other. Hermione glanced backwards once, and Jones reached out a reassuring hand to pat her shoulder, then nudged Percy and gave him a slow wink. Percy’s brilliant blush was immortalized forever by the camera.

“I never imagined you to have this kind of ambition, Severus,” Lucius said slowly, turning to regard him closely. “That in itself is impressive. Consider me… cautiously interested for now.”

Snape inclined his head in acknowledgement, his eyes still on the children, laughing and grinning for the reporter’s camera. It’s not ambition, you pureblooded simpleton, he thought to himself. It’s desperation and protectiveness. Wait until some psychotic puts a target on your child’s head and we’ll see what lengths you’ll go to in order for him to grow up safe and well. I’ll make a pact with Merlin himself or a demon from Hell if that’s what it takes to protect that brat. By comparison, cobbling you, Dumbledore, Black, and Fudge into an unwitting alliance and getting Skeeter to print the tale that I want is child’s play.

After the visitors left, the Headmaster genially shooed everyone off to their respective classes, much to Snape’s irritation. He knew the brat would have questions about the comments that had been thrown about in the Great Hall, and he wanted to be the one to set the record straight… Or at least to get his version in first.

Accordingly, Snape made sure to waylay the little monster en route to lunch, and he dragged him off to their quarters where, over a meal provided by the house elves, he explained a few things.

“I am certain you have some questions from the Minister’s little tantrum this morning, Potter, so you may ask them.”

Harry chewed his sandwich thoughtfully for a moment before speaking. “So is that who the weird man in the stupid hat was? A minister?”

“Not a minister, Potter. The Minister. The Minister of Magic, to be precise – akin to the Muggle Prime Minister.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “You mean people actually voted for him?”

Snape sighed. “I confess to a similar astonishment.”

“So why was he here?”

“Mr Malfoy has a great deal of influence over the Minister. In addition, he and the Headmaster are often at odds as to the direction Hogwarts should take. When he learned of the difficulty you had last night, Mr Malfoy hoped to use the event to embarrass the Headmaster. To that end, he coerced the Minister, and the Press as embodied by Ms Skeeter, to come to Hogwarts.” Let’s see what your Gryffindor brain will make of that, Snape thought, deliberately not providing much commentary or interpretation to the brat.

Harry frowned. “So they were trying to make the Headmaster look bad?” he asked slowly. “D’you think they did?”

Snape fought back a smile of pure pride. That’s right. We’ll make a Slytherin out of you yet. “I suspect that Ms Skeeter will find it more politic to write a heartwarming story about you than a sensational piece maligning the Headmaster.”

Harry grinned in relief. “That’s all right then. I don’t want anyone to get into trouble.”

“Do you have other questions?” Snape forced himself to ask, dreading the answer.

“Yeah – she said I had a godfather. Do I?”

“Yes.”

Harry waited, but no further information was forthcoming. “Where is he? Why don’t I know him? Who is he? When –“

“Potter! You will hyperventilate if you go on like this. Ask a different question if you can’t speak in a coherent question!”

Harry sulked but his curiosity wouldn’t let him stay quiet. “What’s a Death Eater?”

Snape wished he’d had a chance to down a Calming Draught before intercepting the brat. “You are aware of how your parents died – the real story, not the nonsense those disgusting Muggles pretended?”

Harry nodded soberly. “There was an evil wizard named Volauvent, who –“

“Don’t say that –“ Snape broke off, an odd look on his face. “What did you say?”

Harry obligingly started over. “There was an evil wizard named Volauvent –“

Snape resisted the almost overpowering urge to throw himself to the ground, laughing hysterically. “No, Potter,” he said, only the slightest tremble in his voice revealing the effort it was costing him to maintain his normal, severe visage. “A ‘vol-au-vent’ is a light pastry shell containing a savory filling. The Dark Lord’s name is –“ He conjured quill and parchment and wrote “VOLDEMORT” in large letters.

“Oh.” Harry looked over the word, even as Snape happily fantasized about Voldemort’s reaction if he were ever addressed as Lord Vol-au-Vent. Maybe Snape could come up with a hex that forced everyone to pronounce “Voldemort” that way? “I guess that makes more sense. Aunt Petunia used to have me make vol-au-vents for her club meetings. I wondered why the evil wizard would call himself that. Voldemort sounds a little scarier.”

“Don’t say that name aloud in front of me,” Snape snapped, one hand flying to his forearm even as he registered with well-disguised glee Harry’s disdainful tone. Obviously “Voldemort” was, to an 11 year old, an undistinguished choice. “You are to refer to him as ‘You Know Who’.”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “That’s stupid,” he argued. “I mean it sounds like something a girl would say. If we can’t say his name, can’t we at least use a cool code name?”

Snape blinked. The power of eleven year old boys to focus on the most ridiculous issues at the expense of truly important ones never ceased to amaze him. Did Harry truly imagine Voldemort chose his name hoping to instill awe and wonder in preadolescents? Boys and Girls! Fortscue’s Ice Cream Parlor presents a “Name the Dark Lord” contest. Try to come up with the best Evil and Scary title! First prize is a seat by the Dark Lord’s Throne! Second prize is a free troll-sized sundae! Only one entry per person; cheaters will be crucio’d.

“I mean, ‘Darth Vader’ is a really good name for a bad guy. Or even ‘Skeletor’ or –“

“Enough, Potter. I doubt the Dark Lord would be troubled by your disapproval of his choice.”

“Well, I mean, is that his real name, or is he just trying to sound all wicked and tough?” Harry pressed. “There was this girl in my school an’ her real name was Janice, but when she was nine she decided she wanted to be called ‘Angelique’ an’ she refused to answer if you used her real name. Is that what he did? You know, the bad wizard? Just came up with a new name?”

Snape couldn’t believe that, with all of the revelations that had swirled about the boy’s head that morning, the brat was focusing on the Dark Lord’s choice of title. “No. He was born ‘Tom Marvolo Riddle’. He assumed the title –“ he tapped the parchment “ – in an effort to distance himself from his less than ideal parentage.”

“Did he have a rotten childhood then?” Harry asked. “In school they were saying that a lot of criminals had rotten childhoods – or they’re actually crazy but they aren’t getting the medication they need. Is that his problem?”

Again, Snape was forced to fight back unmanly giggles at the innocent question. The idea that the Dark Lord’s activity could be attributed to a lack of – what did the Muggles call them? – ‘mood altering medication’ was quite appealing. Perhaps if they had laced Voldemort’s pumpkin juice with a few potions, he would have been happy to work in the Ministry alongside Arthur Weasley? “No,” he managed to say, quite firmly. “The Dark Lord was not the innocent victim of mental illness nor can any childhood, no matter how appalling, excuse his actions. He was an evil person who wished to rule the world by destroying all dissent and terrorizing the populace into following his dictates. He embraced a hateful and inaccurate philosophy that implied that certain people were better than others due to their bloodlines. He despised Muggles and anyone with ties to them.”

“If he was such a bad guy, why would anybody join him?”

Snape nearly flinched. The questions were beginning to get uncomfortably close to home. “He was an extremely powerful wizard. That in itself is attractive to many – the idea of being associated with someone whose magical strength is so great… Many find power intoxicating, particularly those who have traditionally been in positions of weakness.” Harry frowned, but nodded. “Others, while not attracted to his strength, nevertheless feared to oppose him because of it. Some embraced his philosophy as it enabled them to feel superior to others, even or perhaps especially when they were significantly less impressive and accomplished than those whom they damned as lesser creatures. And many – perhaps most – wizards and witches were content to ignore the whole thing and let others fight the battle for them.”

“Like my mum and dad fought him?” Harry asked quietly.

Snape felt a heaviness settle in his chest. “Yes.”

“They were fighting him, an’ he tried to kill them because some witch said something about a baby an’ he thought it was me?”

“Yes. It was prophesied that a child would be born who could defeat him. The Dark Lord sought to find and destroy the baby. You were identified as a potential candidate and your parents took you into hiding. They were eventually betrayed and the Dark Lord found you.”

Harry’s eyes were bright with tears. “An’ he killed them and tried to kill me an’ I killed him an’ got this scar,” he finished. “Hermione showed me a book about it.”

Snape hated what he had to say next, but he knew in the long run it was better to make the boy aware of what he would have to face. “It is not clear that you killed the Dark Lord, Potter,” he said as dispassionately as he could. “You clearly vanquished him, but it is possible that he is merely… missing.”

Harry’s eyes were wide. “You mean he could come back?”

“It is possible. Some of his followers still believe that he will, and they remain loyal to him.”

“But the book said the war was over!”

“Books say many things which are inaccurate.”

“Don’t tell that to Hermione!” Harry exclaimed. Then a shadow passed over his face. “So there are people out there who still support him? They probably don’t like me.”

“That is correct. It is also why it is important for you to study hard to be able to protect yourself – and others whom you care about,” he added swiftly, having already learned that Harry’s sense of self-preservation was underdeveloped.

“So that’s why those boys went after me?”

Snape nodded. “They held you responsible for their families’ misfortunes, ignoring the fact that their families brought the events upon themselves through their actions.”

“Are there other kids here at school who won’t like me ‘cause of what happened with Volauvent?” Harry was so concerned with his question, he didn’t realize he was still using the wrong name.

Snape decided to ignore it as well. If Harry made that mistake in public, it would likely be mistaken for Gryffindor bravado, and that might not be a bad thing. If the Dark Lord did come back, finding out He was being called a flaky pastry might so infuriate Him that He would miss with His first few Unforgivables. “There are those at Hogwarts and the rest of the wizarding world who will despise you for those events, just as there are many more who will unjustifiably laud you for the same.” At Harry’s blank look, he rephrased things. “Some people will like you for it, and some will hate you for it.”

“But that’s just stupid! I don’t even remember it, not really! I’m just Harry – why can’t people just see me and not this scar?” Harry pushed back his fringe angrily.

“Many people are foolish sheep who cannot be troubled to think for themselves.”

“But you do! You don’t just see the scar! You see me,” Harry said. “Why can’t others?”

Snape colored. It hadn’t been the scar that had blinded him to the boy at first; it had been Harry’s resemblance to James. Was he in fact any better than those who either fawned all over the brat or wished him dead, all on the basis of that lightning-shaped scar?

“As I say, Mr Potter, the majority of people are too stupid or lazy to draw their own conclusions. This is what makes people like Ms Skeeter so powerful and allows idiots like Cornelius Fudge to be elected Minister. You need to be aware of this and be careful not to begin believing your own press.”

Harry played absently with his crisps for a few minutes. Finally he looked up and asked, “Pr’fessor, why’d that lady reporter call you a Death Eater?”

Snape swallowed hard, forcing his expression to remain unchanged. “A Death Eater,” he began, “is a follower of the Dark Lord.”

Harry’s head came up fast, eyes huge. “Of Voldethingie! But you’re not –“

“I was.”

To his surprise, Harry neither recoiled nor ran screaming from the room. Instead, the boy stared intensely at him, as if trying to read his soul. “But the Headmaster said you were a spy,” he said finally. “I heard him.”

“I was.” Snape took a sip of water. “I joined the Dark Lord when I was very young and very foolish. When I came to realize the enormity of my mistake, I went to the Headmaster and asked him for help. With his assistance, I became a spy in the hopes of helping to hasten the Dark Lord’s downfall.”

“So you don’t still support Voldevent?” Harry pressed cautiously.

“No, though many still believe I do, as you observed from Ms Skeeter’s questions.”

Harry huffed. “Well, that’s just stupid.”

Snape coolly raised an eyebrow, though the boy’s declaration had caused a warm feeling to blossom in his chest.

“Well, it is,” Harry insisted. “It’s as dumb as all those people who think they know me ‘cause of my scar. They just think they know you because of what that reporter says.”

“Mm.” Snape wasn’t sure he trusted himself to say anything else; the brat’s unqualified trust both delighted and terrified him.

Harry thought of another question: “Erm, why did that lady ask about my godfather? She made it sound like I should be scared of him.”

Snape internally gnashed his teeth. That idiot Skeeter woman had a lot to answer for. “Your godfather was one of your father’s closest friends. During his Hogwarts days, your father had three best friends. Unfortunately, they turned out to be an idiot, a werewolf, and a coward.” Snape smirked as Harry’s eyes widened. “Your father made his best friend your godfather. It is widely believed he also trusted this man, Sirius Black, with the Secret of your location when your family went into hiding. When the Dark Lord found you, it was assumed that this man betrayed you to Him. There was subsequently a battle between your godfather and another of their little gang, resulting in several deaths and the disappearance of the other wizard. Your godfather was captured and imprisoned in Azkaban, a dreadful place.”

Harry was trying to keep up. “Why would my dad pick such awful friends?” he demanded, then he gasped. “These were the ones who picked on you!”

Snape merely inclined his head. At Harry’s horrified countenance, though, he softened. “Your father did – eventually – develop a more mature outlook, Potter. He demonstrated a latent intelligence when he fell in love with your mother and successfully courted her. He displayed great courage when the prophecy was made known and died bravely, defending you and your mother. Perhaps his friends did not grow up as he did, and that caused the rift which led to their betrayal; I don’t know. While they were all in school however, they delighted in swaggering around campus, picking on those whom they could get away with tormenting. I was, unluckily, their favorite target, perhaps because I was often able to defend myself.”

“So my godfather helped kill my parents an’ now he’s locked up,” Harry said bleakly.

“Not exactly,” Snape admitted. “First of all, your godfather has recently escaped, and there is speculation that he will seek to harm you for your role in defeating the Dark Lord. That is why the reporter asked if you were frightened of him.”

Harry gulped. “You won’t let him hurt me,” he said, a little shakily.

Again, warmth blossomed. “I will not let anyone hurt you, especially Sirius Black,” he spat, imbuing Black’s name with all the vitriol of twenty years of hatred.

Harry relaxed. “Then that’s okay. How would he get here, anyway?”

“Precisely,” Snape agreed. “However, there is another misperception I should correct. As I said, your godfather was imprisoned in Azkaban. There was never a trial, and it appears some in the Ministry now seek to re-open the case.”

Harry gaped at him, scandalized. “How could he not have a trial? People can’t just be sent to jail without a trial – can they?” he asked, realizing anew that he was no longer living in the Muggle world.

Snape shifted in his chair. “Not usually, but at the time, everyone was certain of his guilt, and it appears that certain… formalities… were overlooked.”

“But that’s wrong! So he’s just been locked up this whole time? What if he didn’t do it?”

“That is distinctly a minority opinion, Mr Potter,” Snape sniffed. It wouldn’t do to have the brat appear too convinced of Black’s innocence when the rest of the world expected him to be terrified.

“Yeah, but –“

“And it now appears that there will be an investigation and presumably a trial, so the matter is moot,” Snape continued in tones that brooked no argument.

“It just isn’t fair,” Harry muttered. Then he looked up again, his brow creased. “If you were a spy an’ people thought you were a Death Eater, then how come when Voldevent –“ Snape had given up trying to correct the brat “- disappeared, you didn’t get sent to Izkibibble?”

“Azkaban. And I was spared imprisonment because the Headmaster spoke up on my behalf and revealed my role as a spy. The facts were not well publicized, but the truth was made known to the Ministry, and they accepted the Headmaster’s word.”

Harry’s frown deepened. “So how come the Headmaster didn’t speak up for my godfather or make the Ministry give him a trial?”

Two points for thinking like a snake and not a lion, Snape thought, smirking. “Well reasoned, Mr Potter,” he replied. “Such perspicacity has earned a chocolate frog.” He accio’d the treat from the stash he had hidden in his quarters, knowing that those blasted books insisted that he have some way of rewarding the little brat.

Harry stated in astonishment as the frog landed in front of him, but his paralysis was quickly overcome by his greed for chocolate. “Thanks!” he said, munching away at the frog. “Erm, but what’s perssicacity?”

Snape rolled his eyes. He would have to get the brat a “Wizarding Word of the Day” calendar. “Perspicacity is another word for cleverness. It indicates that you are able to perceive subtleties and make fine distinctions. In this case, you correctly identified similarities between two unrelated cases and inquired about them. That was clever and shows that you possess the ability to think critically.”

Harry beamed.

“To answer your question, you will have to consult the Headmaster, as only he can share his motives with you.” Snape had no intention of opening that Pandora’s box. Oh, he had his suspicions, but he wasn’t going to share them with the brat. Even if Dumbledore had believed in Black’s guilt, he still should have pressed for a trial… unless he had another reason for wanting the entire matter to vanish quickly and quietly. A reason like his extremely unorthodox handling of Harry’s placement with the Dursleys, for example. Sirius Black’s trial would certainly have involved plenty of questions about The Boy Who Lived, and considering how closed-mouthed Dumbledore was being at the time about everything related to Harry, Snape could well imagine that he would not welcome anything that kept the spotlight on the Potters and their orphaned child.

He didn’t want to contemplate whether Dumbledore truly believed Black was guilty and the trial a mere formality that could, if held, have placed Harry at risk from the remaining Death Eaters. If he didn’t, and Dumbledore had cold-bloodedly allowed Black to languish in Azkaban in order to have Harry grow up in the environment he had chosen… No, that thought was almost too horrible to contemplate.

Still, even if Dumbledore wasn’t that chillingly manipulative, he had at the very least not intervened when he bloody well knew he should have, and Snape had a horrible feeling that as a result an innocent man – well, Black anyway – had endured years of undeserved torment. That alone was enough to convince Snape not to place his own or Harry’s life in the man’s hands. Dumbledore was, at best, fallible, and that meant that he wasn’t going to be trusted with Harry’s safety. Not any more.

“So… do you think he did it? My godfather, I mean,” Harry asked tentatively.

“The vast majority of the wizarding world is convinced he did, Potter, assisted by inane articles by Rita Skeeter and others. The alternative – that the Ministry could allow a miscarriage of justice this enormous – is simply too much for most to tolerate.” He tossed his head back. “I, however, have no faith in the Ministry, so while I have every reason to know how spiteful and reckless your godfather is, I am unwilling to condemn him on the sole evidence that ‘everyone knows it’s true’,” he sneered.

Harry looked mournful. “I wish life worked out an’ was fair an’ –“

“Do not prattle on like a naïve nitwit, Potter. If that were the case, you would not have spent ten years of your life in those Muggles’ cupboard, treated like a house elf and thrashed mercilessly.”

Harry squirmed. “It wasn’t that bad,” he argued unconvincingly. “I mean, mostly it was just a slap or two.”

Snape glared at him. “Do you need another set of lines?”

“No, sir!” Harry assured him quickly.

Snape eyed him thoughtfully. “If I were to treat your friend Mr Weasley as the Dursleys treated you, giving him ‘just a slap or two’, would you say I was justified in my behavior?”

“You wouldn’t do that!” Harry protested.

Snape shrugged. “Why not, if it’s not ‘that bad’?” he taunted. “After all, Weasley can be extremely annoying.”

“All right!” Harry snapped, feeling embarrassed and angry though he was unsure why. “All right, I understand!” His professor didn’t have to be so snarky about it. It was just that Harry didn’t like to think that he’d been treated so badly. It made his head hurt. Better to pretend it hadn’t been so awful, except that Professor Snape wouldn’t let him get away with doing so.

“Good,” Snape replied sternly. “Do not let me hear you exonerating those disgusting creatures for their actions, or mitigating their crimes in any way. You did not deserve that treatment. You are a very special child whose self-esteem is sorely lacking.” Snape glared at the brat awfully as he said that; he didn’t want the little fiend to think he was getting soft.

Harry squirmed, his irritation slowly being replaced by a tingling of pleasure at his professor’s words. Very special child. He really liked it when his professor said stuff like that, especially since he didn’t use a drippy, squishy sweet voice that would have horribly embarrassed Harry. When Auntie Molly called him “love” or “dear”, it was okay, because that was what mums were supposed to say. But if his professor had gotten all mushy on him, Harry would have wanted to sink through the floor. This way, it wasn’t that Harry was a babyish idiot who desperately longed for a mummy and daddy, it was that he had a guardian who was strong and strict and forced him to accept his affection. That was much better for Harry’s ego.

“All right, Potter, now that you have finished your meal and I have satisfied your insatiable curiosity, you may rejoin your class,” Snape ordered.

“Okay,” Harry said agreeably, standing and gathering his things. “An’ I can still help with potion ingredients tonight, right?”

“If your homework has been done to my satisfaction,” Snape warned.

Harry rolled his eyes. “ ‘Kay. Oh, an’ Hermione’s going to come too,” he called out as he slipped through the door, oblivious to his professor’s horrified expression.

It was now nearly two months since Harry’s life had changed completely, and he was finally beginning to feel like he belonged at Hogwarts. It had been weird to realize that an entire magical world existed alongside everything he’d always known, but that was an easy adjustment compared to getting used to having people care about him. It still felt strange to have people smile at him and greet him pleasantly as he went about his day, and it was downright peculiar to think that his professor worried about how he was feeling and whether he was eating properly. He was so used to being a “burden”, a “curse”, and a “useless ne’er-do-well” who was only grudgingly tolerated that it was really odd to think about someone liking him and voluntarily taking care of him. Of course, Professor Snape didn’t go around saying soppy stuff about how much he loved Harry or gooey mush like that. But the way he was super-protective of Harry and went spare if the boy used terms like “freak” to describe himself told Harry everything he needed to know.

He was still taking the nutritive potions, so he’d thought it wouldn’t make that much of a difference if he missed a meal or snuck some chocolate frogs, but Professor Snape had threatened him with a three foot essay on obedience the one time he had been so late he’d nearly missed dinner. Harry didn’t want his professor to get all upset, especially since it was obvious that not only did Snape actually care if Harry ate (and what he ate) but he was also actually paying attention to where Harry was and what he was doing. Harry had never before had anyone bother to keep track of him. The Dursleys only noticed if he got in their way or wasn’t around to do his chores.

So when Halloween approached, and all the teachers and students were burbling about the great feast, Harry knew it would be both ungrateful and rude to tell his professor he didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to spoil the night for Professor Snape and the rest of the Slytherins, nor for his friends in Gryffindor, so he decided the best thing to do was to keep his problems to himself.

Of course, that was easier said than done when you have not one but two best friends. Ever since the Great Battle, Harry had considered Hermione Granger a close friend. At first, Ron had been a little uncertain about her; after all, she was both a girl and a bookworm. But after the revelations about her family, he was too scared to tell her to shove off, and within a week her willingness to help with homework as well as her clever ideas for pranking back the twins had cemented her place in Ron’s heart as well as Harry’s.

“What’s the matter, Harry?” she asked over lunch. “You seem distracted.”

“Yeah, mate,” Ron echoed, pausing from where he was shoveling in more food. “Aren’t you looking forward to the feast tonight?”

“No,” Harry admitted. “I don’t really want to go.”

Ron stared at him as if he had grown another head. “What! Why not?”

Harry looked away. “I just don’t.”

“Have you told Professor Snape or McGonagall?” Hermione asked practically. “Maybe you could be excused.”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “I don’t want to have to explain everything. I mean, what difference does it make if I’m not there?”

“Just more for the rest of us!” Ron agreed happily, then sobered at Hermione’s expression. “I mean, if you don’t want to go, mate, I don’t see why it’d be such a bad thing. It’s not like you’re skipping class or something.”

“Exactly!” Harry agreed. “So you think I can just skive off?”

Hermione frowned. “I think you should ask permission. What’s so hard about that?”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Blimey, Hermione. I think you’d get permission if you went to the lav and decided you needed to – OW!”

“Don’t you be vulgar, Ronald Weasley!” Hermione said fiercely. “And just because I don’t try to get into trouble is no reason to make fun of me.”

“Okay, okay,” Ron said hurriedly. “Calm down.”

“I think I’ll just go to the library instead of the feast,” Harry told them. “No one else will be there, and it’s easy to hide in the stacks so Madame Pince doesn’t see you.”

“I’ll go with you, Harry,” Hermione offered. “I wasn’t really looking forward to the feast either, to tell you the truth. After all, it will all be sweets and lollies and my folks would kill me if they knew I was eating all that sugar.”

Ron paled. Like the other purebloods, he now was terrified by the thought of dentists in general and Hermione’s parents in particular. “Don’t get them mad at you!” he urged, panicked. “Go to the library like Harry wants.” He paused. “Erm, I guess I could come too,” he added unhappily, poking at his food.

Harry exchanged a hidden grin with Hermione. They both knew how much their friend, the “bottomless pit”, had been looking forward to the feast. “Gee, mate, I was kind of counting on you to go to the feast and cover for us,” Harry said in disappointed tones. “I mean, I know it’s not really fair of us to expect you to go by yourself –“

“No, no!” Ron said hastily. “It’s okay. I’ll go. You’re right. It would look suspicious if we were all missing, but this way, I can make it look like we’re all there.”

And so, that evening, Harry and Hermione were ensconced in a hidden corner of the library, working on their homework – and making extra notes for Ron – while their friend merrily stuffed himself with their fellow Gryffindors.

Snape frowned as he looked around the packed Hall. It was even more insane than usual, with many of the children in fancy dress and everyone continuing to sit willy nilly around the Hall rather than in neat tables by House. He was trying to ensure that his first year snakes didn’t eat themselves into food comas – which usually ended with midnight stomach aches and tearful visits to the infirmary – and that the Potter brat didn’t take advantage of the holiday to ingest an entire colony of chocolate frogs.

Where was the little bugger? Surely that messy mop of hair should be easy to spot in any crowd? Where – ah, well, at least there was a Weasley, and the right one, no less. Snape swooped down upon Ron and regarded the sticky faced brat with disapproval.

“Have you lost your napkin, Mr Weasley?” he demanded.

“Sorry, Professor,” Ron swallowed hastily and scrubbed at his face, removing most of the smeared icing.

“We will have to address your atrocious table manners soon,” Snape promised awfully, then glanced around the table. “Where is Mr Potter?”

“Erm, I think he just went to the loo,” Ron said helpfully. “That’s his plate right there,” he said, pointing to a plate with half a sticky bun and several lollies on it.

Snape sighed and fought back a desire to confiscate the sweets. “Tell him that he can have the remainder of what is on the plate, but nothing more! Do you understand?”

“Yessir. Finish the plate. Nothing more.”

“Thank you,” he forced himself to be civil to the urchin, and swept away. The children would all be bouncing off the wall like pixies before the evening was through, and Albus – the big idiot – was the worst of the lot. “Do you like ice mice, Severus?” the Headmaster offered a plate as Snape resumed his seat.

Snape gazed down his nose at the proffered dainties and said in as chilling a voice as he could manage. “No, thank you.”

“It’s a pity his disposition didn’t improve with his looks,” Hooch muttered from two seats down.

Snape politely picked up the plate in front of him. “Care for a caramel apple?” he invited.

“Ooooh! My favorite!”

“In’t that what nearly pulled out all yer teeth las’ year?” Hagrid asked around a mouthful of sticky toffee pudding.

“MMMMfffffMMMM!” she wailed, her teeth firmly embedded in the apple.

“Dear, dear,” Snape mourned. “How could I have forgotten?”

Hooch gave him a furious glare but was too intent upon extricating herself from the apple to do much else. She whimpered, turning to Pomfrey and McGonagall for aid.

“That was not very nice, my boy,” Dumbledore said reprovingly, making Severus feel like a naughty eleven year old.

“She wasn’t nice either,” he muttered rebelliously, thereby sealing his likeness to one of his first years. The Headmaster twinkled at him, and he just knew that the ancient wizard was going to say something nauseatingly wholesome.

“TROLL! TROLL IN THE DUNGEON!” Quirrell’s panicked screams happily prevented Dumbledore’s little homily, and in the ensuing chaos, the caramel apple issue was quickly forgotten.

Dumbledore quickly ordered the Heads of House to escort their students to their respective Towers, where the wards would keep out a troll or other dangerous creature. Then the staff would regroup and search the castle until the troll was captured. “I am going to escort Madame Pomfrey back to the Infirmary,” Dumbledore told Snape, "then I will meet you and the other Heads back here.” He paused. “If the troll is in the dungeons, perhaps your Slytherins should take refuge elsewhere?”

“I’ll take Hagrid with me. Between us and my prefects, I believe we’ll be able to make it to the entrance safely, but if not, we’ll detour and I’ll board my students with Filius’. What about the – item? Surely this is a distraction to permit someone to make an attempt at it.”

“I’ll go check,” Minerva said quietly, coming up behind the men. “If the troll is in the dungeons, my students are unlikely to encounter it.”

Albus nodded then went to take the medi-witch to her well-guarded quarters. Snape gave Hagrid and his prefects orders to gather the snakes in concentric rings by year, with the firsties in the well-protected center, before hurrying off to check on Harry.

He couldn’t find either Harry or Ron, but did catch Percy by the sleeve. “Have you seen Potter?”

“No, sir, but the first group of students have already headed up to the Tower with half the Quidditch team. Once I get the rest up there, I’ll do a head count and make sure he and Ron are safe.”

Snape nodded once and hurried back to his students. He knew better than to challenge Percy’s protective streak. He would make certain his youngest charges were accounted for.

With Hagrid, Flint, and Jones protecting the rear of the group, and himself in the lead, Snape led the way to the Slytherin dormitory. They encountered nothing, not even a ghost, en route, but Snape didn’t relax until Flint was climbing through the portrait. “All present and accounted for, sir,” the prefect reported. “We counted noses before we left and no one left formation.”

“Good. You and Jones go around and reassure everyone, especially the lower years. Encourage them to continue the feast. I’ll return as soon as the troll is captured and the castle is secure.” The portrait closed behind Flint, and Snape added an extra layer of security to the wards.

“Come,” he told the half-giant. “I want to check on Harry, and then we’ll rejoin the other staff members.”

He hurried to the Gryffindor tower, only to find that the Fat Lady was rattling in her frame. “No!” she was shouting furiously. “I’m not to open until there’s an all clear!”

“Open up, you bloody stupid portrait! Let me out!” came the muffled tones from inside the dormitory. “I swear I will hex the paint right off you if you don’t OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR!”

“Well!” she exclaimed, affronted. Then, catching sight of Snape, she gave a very unpleasant grin and opened.

Percy Weasley tumbled out, falling directly into Snape’s arms. The Potion Master set the boy back on his feet with a thump. “I thought your Head of House spoke with you about your language, Mr Weasley,” Snape began forbiddingly.

“They’re gone, Professor!” Percy interrupted, frantic. “Ron and Harry and Hermione. They’re all missing. They’re not in the tower, and no one knows where they are!”

Snape let loose with a blistering series of oaths that made the Fat Lady cower, covering her ears, while Hagrid and Percy stared in astonished admiration. “Get back in your tower, Mr Weasely. I will find those little idiots and Merlin help them when I do.”

Percy nodded and turned to reenter the portrait. “Oh, and Mr Weasley. Five points from Gryffindor for your atrocious language.”

Percy choked. “But, Professor, you said –“

“Five points or a floo call to your mother, Mr Weasley. Your choice.”

The prefect swallowed. “Five points sounds very reasonable, sir.” He fled into the portrait before his honorary uncle could change his mind.

Snape glared at the closed portrait, cast an extra layer of warding, and then muttered, “And ten points to Gryffindor for excellence in looking after your House.” Then he collected a grinning Hagrid with a look and rushed back to the Great Hall and the other professors.

When Quirrell raised the alarm, Ron had nearly panicked. A troll, loose in the castle? But how? He checked the time and saw that it was close to when Harry and Hermione had said they’d head back to the Tower so as to already be there when people started drifting up from the Feast. If they started back and encountered the troll… For all practical purposes, both were Muggleborns, knowing nothing about such creatures. He had to warn them!

Ron pelted through the halls and skidded into the library, surprising Harry and Hermione as they approached the door. “TROLL!” he yelled. For once, he would have been delighted to have Madame Pince loom up and start berating him, but no one so much as tutted.

“What are you screaming about?” Hermione asked in surprise. “We’re all alone here, but that doesn’t mean you should just –“

“There’s a troll loose in the castle!” Ron exclaimed, panting for air. “Quirrell saw it and came to the feast to warn everyone!”

“What’s a troll?” Harry asked.

“You mean something that lives under a bridge and argues with goats?” Hermione asked blankly.

“No!” Ron rolled his eyes. Muggleborns! He went over to the Magical Creatures atlas that was by the librarian’s desk and flipped to the correct page. “Look,” he ordered, letting them see the entry. A moment later:

“Oh.” Harry gulped.

“Oh my.” Hermione looked pale.

“We’ve got to get back to the dormitory,” Ron said. “That’s where the Headmaster said everyone should go ‘cause they’re the safest, most warded parts of the castle.”

“And if we don’t get there soon, they’ll figure out we weren’t at the feast!” Harry added, biting his lip nervously.

“Oh, no!” Hermione moaned. “We might get detention! This could go on our permanent records!”

“Quick!” Grabbing their book bags, the trio ran for the stairs. They were more than halfway to the tower, when Hermione sniffed. “Do you smell something awful?”

An instant later, Peeves came rocketing around the corner just ahead. “RUN!” he bawled. “TROLL COMING!”

They screamed and fled back the way they came, only to be stopped by his cackling laughter. “Ha hahahahaha! Stupid ickle firsties! Made you wet your knickers!”

They slowed to a halt, furious. “Peeves, you sodding old arse!” Ron yelled, shaking a fist in fury.

“Nyah, nyah!” Peeves danced above their heads.

“I’m telling Professor McGonagall on you!” Hermione shouted.

“Peeves, do you know where the troll really is?” Harry tried a more conciliatory approach.

Peeves stopped laughing. “Be-behind you!”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right. Ha ha, Peeves. You're such a git.”

Just then, Nearly Headless Nick floated up through the floor. “There you are, you young fools! What are you doing, wandering the castle when there’s a troll about and you’re supposed to be in your Tower? In my day, you’d have all been thrashed good and proper for such shenanigans!”

“Nick, do you know where the troll is?” Harry asked, hoping to calm the furious specter down. “We’re trying to get to the Tower, we really are.”

“Yes, please, Nick,” Hermione pleaded. “We’re going as fast as we can, and then Peeves tricked us and now we’re – “ she broke off. “Doesn’t anyone else smell that?”

Peeves was now down at the children’s level and trying to tug on Ron’s arm. “Troll! Troll! Behind you! Troll!”

“Yeah, ha ha, Peeves,” Ron ignored the icy fingers clutching at him and hurried up to the other ghost. “Nick, can you tell Peeves to stop yelling about the troll being behind us and –“

At Ron’s approach, the other ghost stopped scolding Harry and Hermione and raised his eyes to the redhead. As much as a ghost could pale, Nick did. “Children! Run! Run fast!”

“Nick, that’s not funny,” Harry said uncertainly, but Hermione had already whipped her head around.

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!” she screamed as she caught sight of the troll at the end of the corridor. The sound catapulted all three children forward, and they fled as fast as they could, while Nick and Peeves flew at the troll, bellowing and (in Peeves’ case) spitting ectoplasm.

The troll was unimpressed by the ghosts’ efforts to frighten it, but very intrigued at the tasty odor of human flesh coming from the noisy creatures running away from it. “Food!” it exclaimed, and hurried after the children.

The Gryffindors dashed around the corner and kept running, but it was clear from the heavy pounding of footsteps behind them that the troll was catching up. “Wait a second!” Harry gasped as they skidded around another corner. “Help me with this!”

He dragged at a pikestaff that was attached to a nearby suit of armor. “Quick!”

With the others’ help, he soon had the long, heavy pikestaff loose. “Harry, what are you thinking? We can barely hold this up, let alone fight with it,” Ron panted.

“No, put it down – right here.” Harry laid the weapon down in the middle of the corridor. “Wingardium leviosa!” The pikestaff didn’t even twitch. “Wingardium leviosa!”

“What are you doing?” Hermione gasped.

“If I can levitate it, it might trip him,” Harry explained. “Wingardium leviosa!” This time it wiggled a bit, then lifted an inch.

“Wingardium leviosa!” Hermione added her spell to Harry’s, and in another moment so did Ron.

“No, no, Ron,” Hermione corrected. “Latin isn’t accented on the first syllable; it’s win-gar-dee-um –“

“Not now, Hermione!” Harry yelled in frustration.

The three shouted the spell together, and the pikestaff slowly rose into the air and hovered at roughly the height of the troll’s shins.

“Great,” Harry gasped. “Now RUN!”

They pelted down the hall and were about thirty feet away when the troll lumbered around the corner after them. It collided with the floating pikestaff and fell sprawling with a hoarse howl of distress. Unfortunately, what Harry hadn’t factored into his plan was the troll’s considerable forward momentum combined with the slick, slippery stone floors. The troll fell flat, but continued moving forward, this time in the horizontal plane. He plowed into the three children, knocking them up and over onto his back.

Harry managed to squirm upright first, then pulled Ron and Hermione into a seated position on the troll’s back. The troll felt their presence and shouted in frustration but was unable to reach them. The children continued riding the troll as if he were a toboggan on snowy roads.

“Phew – he stinks!” Ron held onto the troll’s ragged mane with one hand and his nose with the other.

“What do we do now?” Hermione wondered as the hallway walls flashed past them.

Harry, sitting up front, gaped in horror at what lay ahead. “Hang on,” he shouted over his shoulder. “We’re at the stairs!” And then they were down them.

Their troll toboggan barreled down the staircase, with the children screaming as loudly as the troll. At the bottom, the troll cannoned into the opposite wall, the impact knocking the smaller humans flying.

“Oh, ow, ugh,” Harry groaned, clambering to his feet. He’d landed hard on the stone floor, but nothing seemed to be broken, only bruised.

“Owwwww,” Ron complained, holding his bum. “That hurt!” He reached beneath his robe and fumbled in his back pocket, only to emit an even higher pitched howl of anguish. “MY WAND!” He held up his battered wand, now snapped in half. “It was in my back pocket,” he wept, “and when I fell on my arse, it broke.”

“Oh, no.” Hermione’s eyes filled with sympathetic tears, though the way she was cradling her wrist suggested she had additional reason to weep. “Maybe it can be fixed?”

“No, it’s ruined,” Ron looked devastated. “And we can’t afford a new one.”

Harry darted a nervous glance at the troll who was beginning to groan and move around. “Um, Ron, I’m really sorry about your wand, but I think we need to run again.”

“But Harry, it’s my – oh bloody hell!” As the troll rose behind Harry, Ron threw the remains of his wand down, grabbed Hermione with one hand, Harry with the other, and sprinted down the hall, dragging the shorter two with him. Portraits on both sides of the hallway shouted encouragement and advice as the children fled. “He’s gaining! He’s gaining! Run faster!”

At the next corner, Harry pulled free. “Go! I’ll try to slow him down.”

“Are you crazy?” Hermione screamed. “Don’t stop!”

“You’re hurt and Ron’s got no wand! Run for help! At least I’ve had some extra training in Defense!” The troll turned the corner, and the time for argument was past.

Hermione snatched out her wand. “Run, Ronald! You go for help!”

“I’m not leaving the two of you!” Ron declared indignantly. He dashed to the nearest suit of armor and grabbed a shield. “I can help!”

The troll’s eyes lit up. “Urrrrr! Food!” It stumbled forward, lifting its club.

“GREAT MERLIN!” Behind the students, McGonagall and Sprout appeared, wands drawn and robes flying. The portraits shouted in acclaim as the Deputy Headmistress shouted a spell and a bright blue light shot out and enveloped the troll. An instant later, an enormous purple and white panda stood in the hallway where the troll had been.

“Urrr?” The panda looked confused and slowly sank onto its bottom, where it looked around in a puzzled fashion.

Sprout, not to be outdone by the Gryffindor Head of House, cast a spell of her own and a thick ring of bamboo shot from the floor to encircle the panda. The bear’s eyes lit up and it reached out a lazy paw for one of the bamboo shoots. It stuck the end into its mouth and lay back, blissfully chewing.

“Good spellwork, that!”

“Well done, that witch!”

“Living plants from stone – y’don’t see that every day, y’know.”

“She was one of my students, I’ll have you know.” The portraits were loud in their praise for the two witches, who stared first at the troll then at each other, before heaving twin sighs of relief and turning to the children.

“What were you thinking?” Minerva began angrily, only to have two children burst into tears and cling to her robes. She sputtered to a halt, nonplused, as Hermione sobbed that her wrist hurt, and Ron wailed about his broken wand. Harry stood to the side, feeling sick and shaky, until Sprout put an arm around his shoulder. Then he gave into the shock and began to cry as well.

“There, there,” Sprout soothed. “It’s all right now. The big mean troll is just a silly old panda bear now.”

That was the point at which Hagrid and Snape charged up, closely followed by Dumbledore and Flitwick. Like Minerva and Pomona, they had been summoned by a combination of hysterical portraits and frantic ghosts.

“Harry!” Snape’s heart nearly stopped as he saw the sobbing boy. Hurt! Injured! Maybe dying!

The instant he heard his professor’s voice, Harry pulled away from Sprout and threw himself at the tall man. Snape snatched him up and held him close, even as he tried to work his wand free to see where the boy was hurt.

“Professor, my wand got snapped!” Ron wailed, turning to Sprout while McGonagall fussed over Hermione’s arm.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” the gentle Hufflepuff patted his shoulder gently even as she accio’d the remains. “I’m afraid it’s too badly damaged to be repaired,” she admitted sadly, then hugged the boy as he began to bawl. “There, there, love.”

“Ooooh, ye’re a fine lookin’ beastie,” Hagrid said admiringly, peering through the thicket at the purple panda, who gazed uninterestedly back while chewing on his bamboo.

Meanwhile Dumbledore was quietly moving among the children, casting diagnostic spells. “There now, it’s all over,” he said soothingly.

“Albus! Why are you just standing there?” Snape demanded furiously, as a sniffling Harry hiccupped into his neck. “Summon Poppy immediately! There are injured children here!”

“Now, my boy, amazingly as it appears, none of the children are seriously injured; they are just badly frightened. Miss Granger has a sprained wrist and Mr Weasley sustained a cut on his – erm – hip when his wand was broken, but that’s all, apart from a few bumps and bruises.”

“But Harry is –“

“Uninjured, my boy.”

“WHAT?” Snape shouted – snatching the boy out to arms’ length. “Are you unhurt?”

Harry sniffled and nodded. “It was just really scary.”

“For the love of Merlin,” Snape gritted his teeth. “You nearly scared the life out of me, you miserable little wretch. I thought the troll had broken you into pieces!”

Harry smiled through his tears. Professor Snape always said the nicest things. The Dursleys would never have been worried that the troll had hurt him. “He would’ve,” he assured the professor, “if Professors McGonagall and Sprout hadn’t arrived just when they did an’ turned him into a panda.”

“A panda?” Snape raised an eyebrow at Minerva.

“I needed a quick transfiguration, Severus. Animate to animate is easiest, especially with noncombatants in the line of fire, and the biggest, calmest creature I could think of on the spur of the moment was a panda bear!” she retorted with some asperity.

“And the color?” he pressed.

She looked a little awkward. “Perhaps I have been spending too much time with the Headmaster.” Dumbledore twinkled at her.

“Now, children,” Albus said kindly, “perhaps you could explain how you came to be in such danger?”

“Put another way,” Snape said, fixing Harry with a gimlet eye, “why exactly were you not where you were supposed to be?”

“Erm…” Harry looked very guilty. Oh, Professor Snape was going to be furious with him!

“I’m waiting,” Snape told him dangerously.

“What ho, Headmaster! You’ve found our sledging party!” Nick floated around the corner and up to the Headmaster. “These three rode that troll down the stairs as if he were a sledge down a mountainside! Sheer brilliance, my children! True Gryffindors, the lot of you!”

Harry noticed that the ghost’s praise didn’t make Professor Snape seem any happier, even if it did distract the Headmaster and their Head of House. “What do you mean?” Albus asked blankly.

So they had to explain and show the adults where everything had happened, and put the shield and pikestaff back where they belonged and explain how Ron had come running to warn them just as Harry and Hermione were about to leave the library. “An’ we were trying to get to the Tower, Professor,” Harry blurted. “We were going as fast as we could, until we met Peeves and he tricked us –“

“But then he did try to help Nick distract the troll so we could get away,” Hermione reminded him, her wrist now immobilized in a conjured splint.

“Well, it seems that, as usual, the castle’s portraits and ghosts have proved their devotion to the school and its students,” Albus smiled.

“And Gryffindors have proven their brainless inability to follow the simplest commands,” Snape said nastily. “Why were you in the library when you were supposed to be at the Feast?”

Hermione glanced at Harry, who was staring at the floor. “Erm, well, Professor, I didn’t really want to go to the Feast. There’s so many sugary treats, and my parents are dentists…” She hoped that the “D-word” might make Snape back off, but he was unfazed.

“Indeed. And did you ask permission to be absent from the feast?”

“N-no, sir.”

“And why, precisely, did Mr Weasley inform me that Mr Potter was in the loo when I inquired as to your whereabouts?”

Ron gulped and unconsciously covered his already-sore bum. “Erm…”

“I told him to pretend we were around,” Harry confessed unhappily.

“And why did you do that if you were merely studying quietly – if illicitly – in the library?” Snape asked suspiciously.

“We were, Professor!” Hermione protested, correctly interpreting Snape’s expression of extreme skepticism. “I swear. We were just working on homework and things.”

Snape stepped away from the children for a moment and asked Minerva quietly, “Any signs that someone was on the third floor?”

“No,” she shook her head. “Fluffy was fast asleep and the trap door was undisturbed. If they meant it as a distraction, it failed.”

He gave her a look of poorly hidden concern. “And you were not harmed by that beast?”

McGonagall hid her smirk. Severus was such a mother hen! “I only had to glance in, Severus. What kind of clumsy oaf would be injured doing so simple a task? Besides, why – Merlin! You don’t think the children were trying…?”

“I am learning not to underestimate the idiocy of Gryffindors,” he retorted snarkily. “Particularly first years.” He ignored her glare and returned to the children.

“If I find out that you were anywhere but the library, Mr Potter,” Snape said very quietly and silkily, “you will be a very sorry Potter. Do you understand me?”

“I wasn’t!” Harry protested. “I swear. We just didn’t want to go to the Feast, and I didn’t want to bother anybody, but we weren’t doing anything bad. Honest!”

“If you are lying, your punishment will be doubled,” Snape warned chillingly.

“You can triple it,” Harry offered. “Or use the belt. I promise I’m not lying.”

Snape scowled at him. “There is no reason to bring up ridiculous punishments that you are well aware I have no intention of using. It is as absurd to offer to allow me to turn you into a flobberworm or use your digits for potion ingredients as it is to offer to allow me to use a belt on you. You are well aware that I would never do any such thing, so therefore such statements are meaningless,” he scolded, “and do nothing but waste everyone’s time.”

Harry couldn’t hide his smile. The professor was so hopeless at making stern threats. Here he had just promised not to do anything really awful to Harry, no matter what.

Snape glowered as the brat merely grinned cheekily at him. All right. It was time to use one of the Big Punishments. “Mr Potter, you will march yourself down to our quarters, where we will continue this talk. I am very disappointed in you.”

Harry lost his smile and nearly his lunch. Snape’s words had hit like a slap in the face. “Very disappointed”? No! That’s what he had wanted to avoid. Harry’s face crumpled, and he prepared to make his way down to the dungeons. “I don’t know why you’re so mad at me,” he mumbled unhappily as he brushed by his professor.

Snape caught him by the shoulder. “Do not mutter to yourself in that disrespectful fashion,” he reprimanded. “If you have something to say, say it.”

“I don’t know why you’re so mad at me,” Harry repeated loudly, his eyes shiny with tears. “It’s not my fault a troll got into the castle. You should be mad at the Headmaster.”

The adults’ faces showed their shock. “Me, Harry?” Dumbledore repeated incredulously.

“Yeah,” Harry stuck by his guns, though he did inch closer to Snape. He hadn’t forgotten who had sent him to the Dursleys in the first place. “Isn’t it your job to make sure the school is a safe place? How’d the troll even get into Hogwarts?”

“Where do trolls come from?” Hermione asked suddenly. “I mean, is there a troll colony somewhere nearby, or did one wander in looking for food?”

“She’s right,” Ron chimed in. “I thought that it was really rare for trolls to approach large buildings or gatherings of humans. Didn’t the book say they mostly try to pick off single travelers who stumble into their territory?”

“An’ besides,” Harry continued, “if Professor Quirrell saw the troll and warned you all about him, then why didn’t he fight it? Isn’t he supposed to be good at fighting trolls and werewolves and stuff like that?”

The professors exchanged guarded looks. “That is none of your concern, young man,” Snape finally scolded. “We are not here to discuss the Headmaster’s shortcomings, nor Professor Quirrell’s, nor even why a troll was able to get inside the castle – though you may rest assured that I plan to address all of these topics eventually,” he added with a pointed look at Dumbledore. “However, here and now the issue is your misbehavior, including why you were not where you were supposed to be, why you saw fit to lie about your whereabouts, and why when you were informed that a troll was wandering the halls, you did not stay in the library and wait to be rescued!” Of course, if the troll were not intended as a distraction to allow someone to try to access the Stone, then could it have been sent after Harry? If that were the case, and the troll were tracking the boy, then hiding in the library wouldn’t have done any good… Snape was more determined than ever to have a confrontation with Quirrell in the very near term, no matter what Albus might say.

“We just thought we should get to the Tower like the Headmaster said everyone should do,” Harry protested. “Why are you mad that we did what we were told?”

Snape folded his arms. “Very well, Mr Potter, if you are telling me that you and your friends actually had a plan and did not merely race down troll-infested corridors, heading to the Gryffindor dormitory like a bunch of mindless ninnies, then I will waive your punishment.”

There was a moment of silence, then Harry sighed and, with drooping shoulders, headed for the dungeon. “I thought not,” Snape said with satisfaction and started after his ward, only to be yanked back by a fist tightly gripping his robes.

“Me too,” Ron argued, looking from his Head of House to Professor Snape and back again. “I’m ‘sposed to get punished by Professor Snape.”

Snape opened his mouth to set the little fiend straight, but Professor McGonagall beat him to it. “Oh, yes, Mr Weasley, I got the note from your mother. Very well, then, off you go with your uncle,” she smiled sweetly at Severus, “and we’ll see you back at the tower tomorrow.”

Ron grinned and ran to catch up with Harry. Flitwick was trying to hide his snickers behind a large handkerchief while Sprout politely pretended to have gone deaf, but Dumbledore had no such compunctions. He twinkled madly at Snape. “You didn’t tell me you were an honorary uncle, my boy.”

Snape was fully prepared to say something most unflattering to Minerva, but he caught a glint in her eye and recalled the mouth soaping spell she had used on him in the second year. Instead: “I’m appalled to see you find the near obliteration of three of your students so amusing,” he said tartly. “Perhaps the duties of Deputy Headmistress are too onerous to combine with those of Head of House?”

Minerva went white with outrage, and he smirked at her, “I’m speaking as a concerned parent, of course.” Ha! Being in charge of a Gryffindor might be rather amusing after all. He turned in a swirl of robes and stalked away before McGonagall could come up with an effective riposte.

“Erm, would you like me to take Miss Granger to the Infirmary?” Dumbledore asked meekly, as Minerva stared furiously after Snape’s departing form.

“Are you suggesting I cannot fulfill my duties as Gryffindor Head of House?” She spun on him like one of the furies.

“No, no, no!” he said hastily, raising both hands in surrender. “Merely wondering if you would care to assist in the relocation of the panda. If so, I would be happy to take Miss Granger to see Poppy.” The girl was watching all this with wide eyes, but she had proved her intelligence by remaining silent through it all.

“I will leave that to you and the rest of the staff,” Minerva replied sharply. “I have an injured child to look after!” She turned with a snap of her robes and ushering Hermione in front of her, she marched off, her back radiating stiff disapproval.

Albus sighed. He hadn’t reached his advanced age by not recognizing the danger signals, and he wondered how much effort it was going to take to bring two of his Heads back from the brink of open war. The next day’s Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch match would only add more fuel to the fire.

As the three walked down to the dungeons, Harry glanced over at Ron, who was limping a bit, one hand to his bum. “I’m sorry about your wand,” he offered softly.

Ron gave a big sigh. “Yeah, I dunno what my mum and dad are gonna do when they find out. I mean, we really don’t have any extra money for me to get a new one.”

“Where’d you get your old one?”

“It belonged to my great-great uncle Hieronymus, and Charlie used it when he was here at Hogwarts,” Ron explained. “In a lot of old families, wands are handed down to the next generation, yeah? So when it’s time for each of us kids to get a wand, we always go to the family collection first. This one was the only one that even fizzed a little for me,” he sighed.

“But I thought Mr Ollivander said that the wand chooses the wizard,” Harry offered.

“Yeah, well, he’s trying to sell you a new wand, isn’t he? I mean, you can use pretty much any wand, so long as it’s not cursed or protected or anything, but if you don’t have a good connection to it, you’re not going to get good results.” Ron sighed. “I guess I’ll just have to do the best I can with Great-grandma Millie’s wand. I thought it might have got warm when I touched it.”

“I’m really sorry,” Harry repeated guiltily.

“Hey, mate – it wasn’t your fault. It was that stupid troll, all right?”

Harry glanced back to Professor Snape. “It was partly my fault,” he admitted. “It was a really stupid idea not to tell anyone and I’m sorry I asked you to lie.”

Ron shrugged. “Won’t be the first time I’m in trouble, and I’d still rather catch it from your professor than Percy or McGonagall.” He leaned close and whispered, “Think he’ll still whack me, even though I’ve already got a sore arse?”

Harry bit his lip. “I don’t think so. I mean, he’s always saying that he’s not hitting to really hurt, and if he whacks you on your cut, it would really hurt, right?”

“Yeah!” Ron said feelingly. “A lot. Not that Perce would care… Well, I guess he’d care, but I think he’d still whack me.”

Harry grinned. “Yeah, you can’t say that Percy doesn’t care about you anymore. Not since the Battle.”

Ron grinned back. “Yeah, though the twins say that maybe it was all a show to impress Jones.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “They say that?”

“Yeah, but not really loud. They’re pretty scared of Jones.”

“Everyone is scared of Jones,” Harry pointed out.

“Even Percy!” The boys dissolved in sniggers.

“I am glad to see you are taking your disgrace so lightly,” the cold tones of Professor Snape halted the merriment. “Now that we are here,” he went on, opening the portrait to his quarters, “I expect you to wash and change into nightclothes. Mr Weasley, as the guest, you may shower first.”

“Yes, sir,” Ron scooted straight into the bathroom.

Snape glared down at Harry, who hung his head and played with the hem of his sleeve. “Did you have dinner?”

“Erm… Ron was going to bring me a sandwich. With salad in it!” he added quickly.

“Hmf.” Snape huffed. “Get into the kitchen. I will call for something.”

“Y’s’r.” Harry hurried to do what he was told. His heart was full of happiness. Even when Snape was completely disappointed in him, he still cared enough to worry if Harry had eaten. Harry knew he was going to get smacked – the second he’d seen Snape’s panicked face in the corridor, he’d known he was in for it – but he didn’t really care. He figured the scolding was going to hurt a lot worse than the smacks, and he suspected that Professor Snape wouldn't be satisfied with writing lines as punishment this time, but it was all okay, because he knew that his professor still cared about him.

Harry turned from washing up at the sink to find the professor sinking into a chair, a plate already on the table with some shepherd’s pie and broccoli, along with a big glass of pumpkin juice. “Sit down and eat,” Snape snapped.

That horrible little brat. Snape was quite certain he’d burst several vital blood vessels during his terror-filled sprint through the castle. How on earth was he supposed to survive Potter’s adolescence? The brat had already tried to obliterate himself on a broomstick and had taken on a full-grown troll. At this rate, he’d be challenging Voldemort by Christmas! He wondered if he could take a Calming Draught without the little horror noticing. Never let them see your fear – wasn’t that one of the key rules of parenting? Or was that for rabid dogs, not children? Was there a difference?

Dear Wizarding Parents Monthly, I find myself the guardian for an abused and neglected child who also happens to be prophesied to battle the most powerful Dark wizard of our time. When I find said child engaging in potentially life-threatening activities should I (a) give him a smack on the bottom and tell him not to do it again, (b) give him a smack on the bottom and tell him not to do it again until he’s standing in front of the abovementioned Dark wizard, or (c) tell him to live it up because he’s doomed anyway?

Snape sighed. No withholding food. No painful corporal punishment. No cleaning chores. No confinement to his room. What on earth was he supposed to do to punish the Potter brat for such an insane act of folly? And Weasley? Why in Merlin’s name was he having to punish the youngest Weasley boy? He’d never agreed to that, no matter what Minerva and Molly might think. He gloomily decided he was lucky Granger had hurt her wrist and needed to be taken to the Infirmary, or he might have been landed with her as well, and he was not going to start swatting female students. Oh no – therein lay madness, or at least angry fathers and Ministerial investigations.

He became aware of a presence at his elbow. The Potter brat was standing there, solemnly watching him. “What?” he demanded grumpily.

“I’m really sorry I scared you before.” Harry said quietly.

Snape huffed silently. Trying to ingratiate yourself before a punishment? You should have been sorted into Slytherin. “You’re an impossible, insufferable brat, clearly placed on this earth to torment me,” he retorted stonily. “Now eat your food before it gets cold.”

Harry nodded obediently and then – ignoring the perfectly good chairs ringing the table – had the effrontery to climb onto the man’s lap to eat his dinner.

Snape gaped in astonishment and fury. How dare the little monster expect to sit in his lap like that? As if nothing was wrong! As if Snape wasn’t going to discipline the little brat in just a few minutes! As if everything was fine!

He growled and went to move the fiend to another chair, when Harry glanced back over his shoulder and smiled shyly at him. As always, the look in those green eyes pinned his soul, and Snape found his hand gently patting the boy’s back instead of roughly dumping him in a different seat.

Harry let out a sigh of contentment – or was it relief? – and settled down to eat his food. He was nearly done by the time a well-scrubbed Ron appeared in the doorway, wearing a set of Harry’s pyjamas. Luckily, the sizing spell worked so that they fit the larger boy without a problem.

Ron grinned at the professor. He had Harry on his lap, and he was absently patting the boy’s shoulder while Harry finished up the last of his shepherd’s pie. “Shower’s all yours, Harry,” Ron said.

Harry started to hop up, only to find the hand on his shoulder holding him down. “Finish your broccoli, young man,” Snape said sternly.

Harry rolled his eyes but stuffed the last few florets into his mouth and then, cheeks bulging like a chipmunk, hurried into the bathroom.

Snape rose to his feet and glared down at the redheaded menace. “Go into the living room and wait for me, Mr Weasley.”

Ron gulped but obeyed. A moment later, Snape reappeared. “Drop your pyjama bottoms and bend over the couch.”

Ron's eyes widened to the size of soup plates. “But, Professor,” he wailed in dismay, “I thought you didn’t whack on the bare!”

Snape stopped and scowled at the brat. “I’m not about to ‘whack’ you, you ridiculous child. I’m going to put some salve on your cut so that I can heal it.”

Ron’s mouth formed a perfect “O” of surprise. “R-really?”

Snape’s glare intensified. “I suppose I shouldn’t, so that you can carry a reminder of how foolish it is to place your wand in your back pocket like that, but your wife might someday accost me and demand to know why I allowed your youthful stupidity to leave a permanent scar on your behind, and since I have no desire to get into an argument with the future Mrs Weasley, yes, I am going to heal your backside. Now bend over!”

Ron was over the arm of the couch before the last echo of Snape’s shout had finished vibrating around the room. He felt the professor’s cool fingers carefully smear some salve over his cut, then heard Snape quietly chant a healing spell. A moment later, and the pain was gone.

Snape spun away, taking the jar of salve back to his supply closet and leaving Ron in privacy to hike up his pyjama bottoms. Ron rubbed his bum, delighted to find it completely back to normal.

“Now, Mr Weasley,” Snape said sternly, reentering the room. “I understand that today’s foolishness resulted in the utter destruction of your wand. Is that correct?”

Ron nodded, shamefaced.

“And this situation will either place a financial strain on your parents or cause you to have to use a relative’s wand for which you have little affinity?”

Ron nodded again.

“Obviously neither of these is a satisfactory solution, Mr Weasley. Nor does either one force you to take responsibility for your actions.”

Ron frowned. “Sir? I don’t understand.”

“Expecting your parents to fix everything is fine for a younger child, Mr Weasley, but you are rapidly approaching the age where you should at least attempt to rectify your own mistakes.” Ron blinked uncomprehendingly. Snape sighed and translated, “Fix what you broke.”

“But sir, the wand is too badly damaged to be fixed.”

Snape sighed again. Why did I get stuck with Gryffindors? “I am speaking metaphorically, Mr Weasley. You must come up with a solution to obtain a new wand.”

“Erm… well, I have a couple of galleons in my bank account,” Ron offered uncertainly.

Snape nodded. “That is a start. I am certain your parents will give you an advance on your Christmas or perhaps birthday gifts, since I assume you would rather have a proper wand than anything else?”

Ron looked wistful. “I was kinda hoping for a new broom,” he admitted, but at the scowl on Snape’s face, he hastily added, “I probably wouldn’t have gotten one anyway. They’re awfully expensive and my old one still works. Besides, without a wand, I can’t do anything.”

“Precisely. And I trust you have been at Hogwarts long enough to see how important it is to learn to use your magic in an efficient way – particularly if you are going to be in close proximity to Mr Potter.” Snape sighed. “He seems to attract trouble.”

Ron grinned. “It’s really not his fault, you know.”

Snape gave him an old fashioned look. “It never is, is it? But as I was saying, Mr Weasley, it is necessary for you to obtain an adequate wand as quickly as possible. Towards that end, I will take you to Ollivander’s tomorrow and we will obtain an appropriate wand for you.” He ignored Ron’s dawning look of incredulous joy. “You will of course pay me back in full, Mr Weasley, and I will expect you to spend one night each week in my laboratory, preparing potion ingredients, until the debt is repaid. Furthermore, for the first two months, your partners in crime will make their own amends by joining you in my laboratory and therefore in helping to pay off your debt.”

“You mean it, Professor?” Ron said, his voice shaking. “I can have a new wand? From Ollivanders? Honest?”

“No, Mr Weasley, I am in the habit of making extravagant promises to random students then neglecting to honor them. Are you trying to be offensive?”

Then once again a student had him in a stranglehold. Snape was quite pleased with himself for not going for his wand this time. Instead, he merely patted the sobbing boy on the back a few times. “Yes, yes. All right, Weasley. Honestly, such a fuss over a little wand. Enough of that now. Enough, I say.”

Ron sniffled and dragged his sleeve across his eyes. Snape grabbed his arm before he could repeat the process with his nose. “There are handkerchiefs in Potter’s top drawer, you ill-bred child. Go make use of one, and I suggest you keep it handy, as we have not yet come to your punishment for this evening’s activities.”

Ron gulped and nodded, scurrying off to Harry’s bedroom.

Hmf, irritating children – always leaking something disgusting all over my robes, Snape scowled. And I still don’t know what I’m going to do to the little wretches as punishment!

Ron hurried into Harry’s bedroom and found the handkerchiefs. He honked his nose in one and stuffed it by his pillow, then stashed another one on Harry’s bed. He wasn’t sure how hard Snape smacked, but he figured the rough edge of the man’s tongue alone would be enough to start them both bawling. He’d seen the Potion Master in action enough times in class to know that, when he wanted to, Professor Snape could make you long for a Bludger to the head rather than another minute of him haranguing you. And of course, the legends his older brothers had brought home from their Potions classes (not to mention their detentions) were enough to make him green with apprehension about the next few minutes.

Harry came out of the shower and gave him a sharp look. “What’s the matter? You been crying?”

Ron blushed. “Sorta.”

Harry looked alarmed. “What did he do?”

“Well, first he healed my bum, and that was pretty embarrassing,” Ron admitted, “but then he said that he’s going to get me a new wand. One that’s all my own – from Ollivander’s even! I’ll pay him back but he’ll let me get it tomorrow even though I won’t be able to give him back all the money for months and months and months! Oh,” Ron abruptly looked guilty. “And, erm, well, I have to help to pay off my debt by going down once a week to help him prepare potion ingredients and, um, you and Hermione have to help for the first two months on account of you were involved in my getting it broken.” He looked apologetic. “It wasn’t my idea, honest.”

Harry grinned and punched him in the shoulder. “Don’t be daft! Of course Hermione and I will help. I just think it’s great that he’s letting you get a new wand.”

Ron bounced on the spare bed. “I know! Just wait til you see what I’ll be able to do once I’ve got a wand that’s chosen me.”

“What’s this?” Harry picked up the hankie from his pillow.

“Oh, erm, your dad – uh, professor – said we’d better have them handy when he comes in to punish us.”

“Oh,” Harry said in a small voice.

“Erm, he’s not going to use a hairbrush or anything, is he?” Ron asked nervously. “Not that we don’t deserve it, and he’s still brilliant for bringing me to get a wand tomorrow an’ all, but, erm, I was just wondering.”

Harry shook his head reassuringly. “Just his hand. And you keep your clothes on. Well, for this anyway,” he grinned.

“Ha, ha,” Ron sniped back.

Then they heard the professor’s footstep at the door, and suddenly nothing seemed very funny. Both boys huddled on their respective beds and waited for the storm to break over them.

“So.” Snape entered the room and surveyed the two trembling miscreants. Oh yes, now you’re all puppy dog eyes and apologies – rotten little brats. “You not only determined to break the rules, but you colluded on the best way to avoid detection and punishment, thereby placing yourselves in extreme danger.”

“But we didn’t know there’d be a troll,” Harry pointed out half-heartedly.

“But there could have been some other kind of emergency, young man! And that is why your whereabouts are to be known at all times. Rules are there for a reason – to protect your sorry skin,” Snape retorted furiously. “You placed yourself and Miss Granger in jeopardy for no good reason, you foolish, foolish child.”

Harry squirmed.

“And you, Mr Weasley. Having the temerity to lie to my face! What would your parents have to say about that?”

Ron paled. “I’m sorry, sir!”

“Oh, I’m certain you’re both very sorry now that you’ve been caught!” Snape said scornfully. “Your behavior has been atrocious! Sneaking around, lying, breaking any rule you see fit – is this the sort of character you wish to develop? Untrustworthy? Deceitful? Do you have any idea how hard it is to regain someone’s trust once you have lost it?” Now both boys were leaking tears. “I trusted you, and each of you deliberately lied to me.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry sniveled. “I wasn’t trying to make you not trust me.”

“I’m sorry too,” Ron choked.

“I cannot express strongly enough my deep disappointment in both of you,” Snape continued harshly. “You have demonstrated to your Head of House and the Headmaster, as well as to me, that you cannot be trusted to follow the rules. You have proven yourselves unworthy of the high regard we held you in.” Now both were overtly sobbing.

“It will be a long and hard road back to where you started,” he lectured. “You will, I am sure, never again forget how tenuous and fragile trust can be.” He paused and regarded the tear-sodden bundles of misery. “I am extremely tempted to have you spend the next two weeks escorted to and from all classes and meals by a prefect, since you have demonstrated that you cannot be trusted to appear on your own.”

Ron gasped in dread. Oh, Percy would be intolerable! And the twins would never let him hear the end of it.

Harry hunched his shoulders in woe. It was all his fault. Ron and he would be humiliated in front of the whole school, and he had got his best mate into this mess.

“And as for your appalling, Gryffindorish tendencies to risk your necks, do you have any idea how lucky you were tonight? Three first years up against an adult mountain troll?” Snape heard his voice becoming shrill with alarm and forced it back down. “You obviously had Merlin’s own luck tonight, but it is extremely unlikely you will ever again be so fortunate, and I intend to demonstrate how foolish it was to have taken your lives in your hands like this!” He scowled fiercely at Harry. “What have I told you about thinking before acting, Mr Potter?”

“Th-that it’s really important,” Harry sniffled unhappily, then honked into his handkerchief.

“And did you do so tonight?”

“No, sir,” he admitted, hanging his head even lower.

“Do you imagine I say these things for my own edification or amusement, you reckless, thoughtless child? You will learn to listen to me!”

“Yes, sir.”

“And as for you, Mr Weasley, just because you come from a large family does not imply that you are interchangeable in your parents’ eyes. If something were to happen to you they would be devastated!” Snape caught sight of Harry’s expression of naked longing.

“And they would be just as distraught if something happened to you, Mr Potter,” he added, hoping to erase that look of pain from the child’s face. Curiously, Potter didn’t seem all that heartened by the comment, and the brat continued looking at Snape, half-frightened, half-expectant.

Oh no. No no no. How did he get himself into these situations? Snape gritted his teeth and said what he knew he had to say. “And I of course would be extremely… displeased… as well,” he finally managed to choke out.

Harry beamed.

“Now, for your dunderheaded impulsiveness, not to mention blatant disobedience, mendacity, and disregard of instructions, you will be punished,” he announced awfully. Harry lost his smile and Ron’s freckles stood out on his ashen face. “Since it is obvious that you cannot be trusted in an unsupervised setting, you will be on restriction for the next week. That means that when you are not in class, at meals, or otherwise supervised by a staff member, you will remain in your dormitory or common room. If you are found outside of these areas, I will not only enlist the prefects as your escorts, but you will also be turned over to the Headmaster for discipline,” Snape threatened, his tones dire. The boys looked like they would faint, and Snape hoped they never found out that discipline Dumbledore-style meant cozy chats and plenty of lemon drops.

“Furthermore, you will use this time to write a three foot essay on what you should have done when you found yourself isolated in the library with a troll loose in the castle. I expect careful attention to all the mistakes you made as well as better choices at every decision point. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” the boys chorused.

“To ensure that you find your time on restriction acutely unpleasant, you, Mr Potter, will be prohibited from all flying during that time, while you, Mr Weasley, are to abstain from all sugary treats and desserts.” Now both boys were staring at him, eyes wide with anguish.

“A week?” Ron squeaked, his tone making it clear that he considered this appallingly cruel treatment. “But my mum never keeps me from pudding for more than a night!”

Snape smirked evilly at him. “Then perhaps next time you will apply to your mother for punishment.”

“N-no flying at all?” Harry gulped.

“None. You will surrender your broomstick to me in the morning.” Snape forced his voice to remain stern, even as the boy’s downcast expression caused an odd ache in his chest. “If I cannot trust you to go where you are told with two feet on the ground, how can you expect to be entrusted with a broom?”

Harry sniffled some more. “’M sorry,” he said, voice thick with remorse.

“Hmf,” Snape huffed. “And as I am sure you are well aware, you have earned a spanking. Lie down and roll onto your stomachs.”

Harry and Ron exchanged unhappy looks and obeyed. Snape went first to the redhead, who was clutching his pillow for dear life. He placed one hand on the boy’s back, feeling the little wretch quiver in trepidation. “You do not disobey and lie to your professors,” he intoned sternly, then brought his other hand down in a crisp smack across the upturned bottom.

Ron squeaked and clutched his pillow tighter. “You do not place yourself in jeopardy.” A second swat landed, and Ron gulped out a shaky, “Yessir.”

“Get under your covers and go to sleep,” Snape ordered brusquely. Ron hurried to obey, and Snape roughly tucked the covers around the boy.

“Good night,” he snapped.

“G-g’night, sir,” Ron ventured back timidly, and Snape’s hand – traitorous appendage! – gave him a rather awkward pat on the head. Snape ignored the boy’s sigh of relief and turned menacingly to Harry.

Bright green eyes had watched like a hawk his every move with the Weasley boy, but Harry dropped his gaze as Snape approached his bed. “I’m sorry,” he said so softly that the Potion Master nearly missed it. “I didn’t mean to worry you or disappoint you or lose your trust. I just – “ he sniffled “ – I just messed everything up.”

Snape huffed in annoyance and seated himself on the bed next to the distraught brat. “You made a mistake,” he said quietly, his tone firm but not condemnatory. “You will make many more during your childhood, though I sincerely hope no others will contain a troll. However, your duty is not to avoid all errors, but rather to learn from those you make. In particular, I expect you to remember to think before you act from now on.”

Harry nodded, but those green eyes were still dark with pain. “Will you ever be able to trust me again?” he whispered. “I don’t want you to hate me.”

Melodramatic brat! “Idiot. I don’t hate you. You are an impossible, naughty, unthinking child, but as children go I find you to be less offensive than most.” Harry blinked, processing what was said, then his whole face lit up as he worked it out.

“Really? You like me? Still?”

“Did I not just say so?” Snape demanded crossly. “Foolish child. You will learn to listen to me. Now stop talking.”

Harry ducked his head into his pillow to hide his smile. He felt his professor rise and place one hand firmly on his back then – thwack! – the first swat stung his backside. Harry jerked his head up and stared at his professor in surprise. That had hurt!

Oh, it was nothing like the whacks his relatives used to dole out, but it was a respectable swat - significantly harder than the perfunctory tap he'd received at the Weasleys - and created a definite sting and burn in his bottom. “Do not risk your neck again!” Snape whispered fiercely and administered another smack, even harder than the first.

Harry winced and wiggled. “Ouch!” he complained, and this time there was no artifice in his tone. He pouted at Snape as he snaked one hand back and rubbed at the stinging spot.

“If you do not wish to suffer the penalty, then do not violate the rule,” Snape retorted unsympathetically. “Get to bed.” He helped Harry under the covers, then gave him a good night pat on the behind.

Harry grumbled to himself as he settled beneath the quilt. Why'd Professor Snape have to pat him there? His rear still burned from the swats, and even the light tap served to reinforce the punishment - which was, he guessed, precisely his professor's intention. He sighed. He knew he deserved his punishment - including the spanking - and he had been incredibly relieved to learn that Professor Snape didn't hate him. He just wished his professor hadn't chosen this night to overcome his aversion to giving anything more than token swats. He didn't want Ron to decide that his guardian wasn't very nice after all.

Snape smirked at the boy's grumpy expression. “Remember what I said,” he admonished, and swept out of the room, nox’ing the lights as he did.

There was a minute or two of silence in the room, then: “You okay, Harry?” Ron whispered.

“Yeah. My bum still stings, though.”

“Mine too. Blimey, he takes safety stuff seriously, doesn’t he?”

Harry sighed. “Yeah. He doesn’t smack nearly so hard for other stuff.”

Ron gave his backside a tentative rub, then winced. “Well, it’s not that bad. I mean, a wooden spoon hurts worse.”

Harry sighed. “Or a hairbrush.”

Ron choked. “I thought you said he didn’t use a hairbrush on you!”

“He doesn’t,” Harry said swiftly, not wanting Ron to get the wrong idea about his professor. “But my relatives did. A lot. And the belt.”

There was a moment of silence. “Is that why you’re with Snape now? ‘Cause your relatives hit you?”

Harry sighed. “Yeah. I don’t really want anyone to know – I mean, ‘cept for you and Hermione – but they were pretty awful. I didn’t think it was so bad, but when I got here and Professor Snape found out, he went kind of mental. He said that they were terrible and I shouldn’t have been treated like that.”

“Is that why he had you write all those lines about how stupid they were and how you weren’t to listen to them?”

Harry couldn’t help smiling as he thought of those 500 lines. Even Professor Snape’s lips had quirked upwards when Harry had handed in the parchment and he’d skimmed the contents. “Yeah. I still make that mistake sometimes, and then he gets all protective.” He paused. “He’s really pretty great,” he admitted, even as he rubbed his still-smarting backside.

“I guess that’s why he gets so mad when you do something stupid and put yourself in danger. It’s like when you do that, you’re still listening to your relatives.”

Harry nodded thoughtfully. He hadn’t considered it like that before. “Yeah, I guess. No wonder he gets so mad, then. He must’ve told me not to listen to my relatives about a million times already.”

A few minutes of quiet ensued, broken by: “Still hurting?” Ron asked.

“Not really,” Harry confessed. “You?”

“Nah. I’m glad we don’t have to go sit in class right now though.”

“Me too.”

“Still... it was a really big troll, you know?”

Harry grinned. “And going down the stairs on its back? That was actually pretty cool – I mean, since we weren’t killed or anything.”

“Yeah! And that idea with the pikestaff? That was brill–“

“Go. To. Sleep.” The stern voice from the doorway halted all further chatter, as with identical gulps, both boys ducked under their covers.

Within a very short time, Ron was snoring in the far bed, but Harry couldn’t sleep. He hated having lied to his guardian, but worse than that, he knew he had let the man down. The professor had done everything he’d promised, being an even better guardian than Harry could have hoped, but Harry kept screwing up. It wasn’t like his professor had placed enormous burdens on him; all he had to do was behave himself and not do stupid stuff, but he couldn’t seem to help it. Maybe the Dursleys were right to call him a worthless fre- Harry caught himself and looked nervously at the doorway.

His guardian had never yet made good on his threat to wash his mouth out with soap, but Harry figured that this was not a good time to tempt the man. The last of the stingy warmth had long since left his bum, but the strength of the two swats had made it clear that his professor had really been frightened. Harry didn’t want to give the man anything else to be cross about tonight, not if he could help it.

Harry sighed. His professor didn’t deserve to have such a troublesome ward. Harry should be trying to make things better for the man, not doing things to upset the faculty and scare his professor witless. The Dursleys had said he was useless; what if they were right?

Thinking about the Dursleys made Harry feel even worse. He owed his professor so much, much more than the man could possibly realize. No one had ever worried about Harry before or insisted that his life was worth anything. No one else had ever thought he could be a good person, let alone want him to do well. Uncle Vernon had often declared, “A good bottom warming will teach you not to be so freaky, boy!” before making sure that Harry’s backside was not just warmed, but scorched. Lying on his stomach on his thin mattress under the stairs, stifling his sobs while he gingerly rubbed his throbbing rump, Harry had often wondered just how many more times he would have to endure such treatment before the freakiness had been erased. Since he never really knew how he was performing the freaky acts that led to his worst wallopings, Harry could do nothing more than try to soothe his punished skin and hope that finally, the smacking had banished the freakiness.

Oh, the professor threatened and scolded like mad, and he would even carry through with a punishment when absolutely necessary – like tonight – but he never had that look of satisfaction that the Dursleys always wore after they had stung Harry’s bum with a hairbrush or banished him to his cupboard. It wasn’t so much that they enjoyed hurting Harry (well, except for Dudley), but more that they felt virtuous about having taught him a painful and/or unpleasant lesson. Jackknifed over his aunt or uncle’s knee, staring at the carpet and yelping as the awful sting blossomed across his backside, he had often prayed for someone who wouldn’t punish him to prove how rotten he was, but to help remind him that he was actually a better person than his current behavior suggested.

Vernon and Petunia always punished him with a gloomy assurance that all efforts on their part were futile; Harry was destined to come to a sticky end, and while they might be able to delay the inevitable with sound spankings, the final result would still be the same. It lent a sort of dreadful conviction to their scoldings, and a grim satisfaction to their forceful swats. They were doing their duty, but Harry was Doomed.

By contrast, Professor Snape expected Great Things from Harry, including (but not limited to) good grades, excellent conduct reports, and ever-increasing magical knowledge. When he scolded Harry or – reluctantly – punished him, he made it clear he was doing it because he felt Harry was not living up to his potential. Harry had never before been told that he had any potential beyond growing up to be a drunken wastrel, and he was determined to prove Snape right and his relatives wrong. He also desperately wanted to be a good ward and not give Snape any reason to regret accepting his role as guardian.

And yet, despite his good intentions, once again he had stuffed it up.

Harry sniffled. He hated that he had upset his professor, on this night of all nights. He had only been trying not to spoil Professor Snape’s Halloween, and yet what had he done? He’d ruined the Feast for all the faculty, risked his best friends’ lives, gotten Ron smacked for lying, nearly been bludgeoned to death by a troll… Harry tried to muffle his sobs. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to stay out of trouble, and for it to happen when he was trying so, so hard not to be a burden just made it ten times worse.

#-#-

After punishing the boys, Snape exited Harry’s bedroom and made a beeline for his stockroom. After downing two Calming Draughts in rapid succession, he finally felt like his normal self. That atrocious brat! Was he trying to get himself killed? And then, having practically caused Snape to have a heart attack, he had recovered in the blink of an eye – to the point where he and that redheaded menace, who had attached himself to Snape, were sniggering instead of being pale with dread at their upcoming punishment!

And then he had to heal Weasley’s backside and – since of course no one else would do it – make arrangements for the little snot to get a functional wand… Would the indignities never cease? It wasn’t as if he would allow Harry’s best friend to wander around unarmed, not after he had overheard Hermione telling Minerva that Harry had encouraged the other two to flee while he held off the troll in a desperate rearguard action.

A troll. At 11 years old, the brat was willing to take on a full grown TROLL in order to protect his friends. Could anyone possibly wonder why he wouldn’t permit Weasley to go without a wand? When Harry’s overdeveloped sense of protectiveness was already so hyperactive?

Why was Snape even saddled with the youngest Weasley? McGonagall should never have entrusted not one but two of her precious lions to the Evil Bat of the Dungeons, unless she – like the little whelps themselves – had decided that there was nothing to worry about. He'd known this would happen. His reputation was in tatters and all too soon his classroom would be too, as there was no longer anything to hold back the cretinous students’ dangerous misbehavior.

He smirked as he recalled the look on the Weasley brat’s face when he had heard that he was forbidden all sweets for a week. Hmmm. Perhaps that would be enough to ensure the redhead still thought of him as a “greasy git”, after all.

Oddly, he hadn’t found withholding Harry’s beloved broom to be as satisfying as he had expected. Indeed, he’d felt the oddest pang when the brat’s face had fallen. It was probably just a consequence of his earlier panicked flight through the castle – a delayed settling of his heart rate or some such. It wasn’t as if the brat didn’t deserve it, just as he’d deserved those smacks.

Snape squirmed uncomfortably when he thought of the smacks. Yes, the boy had earned the spanking - Harry knew full well that he had broken the rules and the books were unanimous on the need for consistent consequences - but Snape hadn’t meant to swat the brat so hard. It was just that he’d been so frightened by the danger to which the little monster’s heedlessness had exposed him… Severus wondered if he should sneak into the boy’s bedroom and apply some bruise balm to his rump while he slept. Weasley was doubtless fine but Harry was so scrawny… And being struck so harshly had surely further eroded his sense of security. Hadn’t he promised the boy that he wouldn’t strike him hard enough to hurt? And then had promptly turned around and broken his word.

He shook his head. Albus was insane. There was no way he could do this. Dumbledore was just going to have to find a new guardian. Someone who could control their temper and wouldn’t keep traumatizing the boy.

Severus rose to his feet, determined to check on the brat. If the boy were asleep – having doubtless cried himself to sleep – he would floo Albus at once. If Potter were still awake, he’d force him to take a mixture of healing potion and Dreamless Sleep, then contact the Headmaster.

No sooner had he entered the room than his worst fears were realized. Weasley lay on one bed, snoring loudly, while in the other Harry wept near-silent tears into his pillow. Feeling a crushing weight of guilt settle upon his shoulders, Snape walked over to the boy and tapped him on the back.

Harry startled violently, and Snape swore at what he interpreted as a terrified cringe. “Come with me, Potter,” he whispered. “You’ll wake Weasley.”

Harry sniffled and clambered reluctantly out of bed. How could he face Professor Snape after everything he’d done? His professor was so good to him, even checking on him to make sure he could sleep! Harry felt deeply ashamed for the lies he had told.

“Sit there, Potter,” Snape ordered once they emerged back into the sitting room. “I’m going to fetch a potion for you.”

Harry looked up at him in surprise. “I don’t need a potion,” he argued, rubbing his sleeve across his eyes.

Snape huffed. “Use a handkerchief, you ill-mannered child!” He accio’d one and handed it over.

Harry honked and mopped. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “But I don’t need a potion.”

“If you cannot sleep because you are frightened or in pain, then you most certainly do require a potion, foolish brat!” Snape retorted, hiding his guilt behind an angry tone.

Harry was confused. Why would his professor think he would be frightened or in pain? “But I’m not.”

“Oh, no? Then why exactly were you sobbing into your pillow?” Snape demanded.

Harry colored. “I wasn’t sobbing,” he defended himself.

“Obviously you are still overwrought from tonight’s events,” Snape declared. “If you are too sore to sit, lie down on your stomach on the sofa while I –“

“Too sore?” Harry echoed blankly. “Why would I – oh. No, I’m okay. Honest. You didn’t smack that hard. I mean, yeah, my bum stung for a little. But it's fine now.”

“You are not fine, and I do not appreciate being lied to. You are obviously very upset about something,” Snape scowled. “What is it?”

Harry dropped his gaze, and his eyes filled with tears again. The professor was so nice to him! He didn’t deserve it.

“Potter!” Despite the Potion Master’s furious tone, the fingers that lifted Harry’s chin were gentle. “You will tell me this instant, or you will deeply regret your intransigence.”

Harry sniffled and smiled all at the same time. It felt so good to have someone worry about him, and all the professor’s fuming and fussing didn’t hide his obvious concern. “I’m sorry.”

“About what in particular? There are so many things to which you could be referring, you’ll need to be more specific,” Snape drawled, but his brow was still creased with worry.

Harry felt the tears gathering. “I messed it all up,” he choked out. “I just didn’t want to ruin the day for you, and I tried an’ tried to be sure that I wouldn’t but in the end I just ruined it all anyway!”

Snape sighed noisily. Why were children such emotional little creatures? He pulled Harry over to the couch and sat down, keeping one hand around the boy’s shoulders – just to ensure that the monster couldn’t bolt, he assured himself. “What are you talking about?” he demanded crossly. “Just because you agreed to accompany Miss Granger to the library when she didn’t want to attend the Feast, doesn’t mean –“

“It wasn’t like that!” Harry blurted. “She came with me. It was all my idea. She didn’t want me to be all by myself, an’ since she didn’t really want to go to the Feast, it wasn’t hard for her.”

Snape’s glare was fearsome indeed. “You lied?”

Harry wilted. “Uh huh,” he whispered. “I mean, I didn’t exactly lie, I just didn’t say anything when Hermione, erm, gave you the wrong impression.”

“Do you imagine that is a distinction I will accept?” Snape demanded.

“No, sir.” Harry stared at his bare toes.

Snape followed his gaze and let out a wordless huff of exasperation, then accio’d Harry’s new sheepskin slippers. “Foolish child! Are you hoping to catch your death of cold? You must wear your slippers in these dungeons!”

Harry hid his smile. Yup, that was his professor. Even when Harry had just been caught in a big whopping lie, Professor Snape was still more worried about his health than angry with his behavior. “Sorry.”

“You will be, Potter,” his professor snapped. “I will not tolerate falsehoods. In this case, Miss Granger is perhaps more at fault and will therefore receive the more severe punishment, but you –“

Harry interrupted with a gasp of pure horror. “No! Don’t! Please, Pr’fessor! It wasn’t her fault – she was just trying to help me. Please don’t punish her! It was all my fault, honest!”

Snape eyed the distraught youngster, his mind working busily. “Hmmmm. Very well, Mr Potter. I will make a bargain with you. I will not punish Miss Granger for this transgression at this time.” Harry sagged in relief. “However, if I ever again find you have lied to me – about anything – I will not only punish you for the falsehood, but I will also punish Miss Granger, and I promise you that the severity of her punishment will be unequalled in the history of Hogwarts.” See? It’s not only the little brats who can be melodramatic.

Harry’s eyes widened, but he nodded in relief. “Yes, sir. Thank you.” He hesitated. “Does – does this mean I have to tell you everything?”

Snape debated with himself for a moment, but in the end decided to be reasonable. “No. You may politely decline to answer my questions, but you cannot lie. Do you understand?”

“Y’sir.”

“Then we will consider this matter closed – for now.”

Harry’s head came up sharply. What about his punishment? His professor had promised not to discipline Hermione for her lie, but what about his lie? Harry chewed his lip for a moment, wondering if he should point out the man’s omission, but finally decided to keep schtum. It wasn’t just that he wanted to escape a well-deserved punishment, but he knew his professor hated assigning them. Maybe it was better for both of them if he ignored the omission?

Snape exhaled silently. The brat’s face was disgustingly easy to read, but it appeared that he was at last developing a sense of self-preservation and wasn’t going to bring up the still-owed punishment. Pleased at this evidence of a Slytherin trait, he absently tightened his grip on the boy’s shoulders.

Harry leaned gratefully into the hug. He was so lucky. How many other kids got a guardian who was so lenient?

“All right, Mr Potter,” Snape said finally. “Just why did you want to avoid the Feast? We have now established that it was you who chose to absent yourself. I want to know why – the truth, mind!”

Harry burrowed closer to the man. “I just didn’t want to go to a big party. Not tonight.”

Snape looked at him, curious. “Why not? You can’t expect me to believe that Miss Granger has convinced you to give up lollies and chocolate, delightful though that notion might be.”

Harry made a face at him. “No! But, well…”

“Truth, Potter,” Snape cautioned.

“Hermione gave me a book about Vold- Him. And it said that my parents had died on Halloween. So I – I just didn’t think it was right to go to a party tonight.” Harry risked a look at his professor, misinterpreted the man’s frozen expression, and promptly panicked. “I didn’t want to ruin it for anyone else though! I know that everyone loves the Feast an’ you have to watch over the Slytherins and so I didn’t say anything, ‘cause I didn’t want to get anyone upset or make a fuss.” Harry drooped. “But that’s just what happened ‘cause I can’t do anything right. I’m sorry.”

“Do not be so foolish!” Snape scolded automatically, but internally he was reeling in shock. He had just smacked and lectured and punished a child for wanting to respect the date of his parents’ deaths. Because he was too inattentive a guardian to connect the day with the anniversary of the Potters' murders, he had put this tortured little child into the impossible position of having to lie and sneak away rather than be forced to attend a celebration. Severus had even planned to engage in his annual ritual of lighting a candle in Lily’s memory before going to bed tonight, yet it had never occurred to him to speak of the day with Lily’s child.

“I’m sorry,” Harry repeated, tears once again spilling over. “I should’ve just gone to the Feast. It’s not like I even remember my parents, an’ you’ve been brilliant. But I just thought that this year I could think about what – what it might have been like…” he broke off, sobbing. Now Professor Snape would really hate him for being an ungrateful little freak but he had just felt so safe here at Hogwarts, and being in wizarding society and learning about how his parents had been students here and having his mum’s sweater… For the first time they had felt real to him, and he had thought it would be nice to spend some time thinking about them. But instead he had lied and gotten everyone into trouble and nearly been killed and now his professor would assume that because Harry missed his parents, he didn’t like Snape as his guardian.

Snape roused himself from his mental self-flagellation. As usual, he had to ignore his own needs and focus on someone else’s – in this case, a hysterical child. “All right, Potter. Hush. Hush now.” He awkwardly patted the boy’s skinny shoulders, causing even more tears and snot to pour forth.

It took several minutes before Harry could be persuaded that Snape wasn’t furious with him, didn’t hate him, wasn’t sad, didn’t want to revoke the guardianship, and understood Harry’s reluctance to attend the Feast. Only then could Harry be calmed down enough to be reasonably coherent.

Snape banished the soggy handkerchief and accio’d a fresh one. “What did you envision as a way of honoring your parents?” he inquired quietly.

Harry sniffled into the new cloth. “I wasn’t sure. I don’t really know much about them, and Hermione’s book didn’t say a lot either.”

“Hm.” Snape would hate to be considered thoughtful, but he was far from heartless. He untangled himself from Harry – how exactly did the brat come to be sitting on me? – and went to the floo. “Minerva, come through immediately, please,” he commanded as soon as the elderly witch blinked sleepily at him.

An instant later, the witch was standing on his hearth, tightening the sash on her tartan robe and examining the wizards with tightly pressed lips. “What is the meaning of this, Severus? Do you have any idea what time it is?”

Harry watched with dread. Why had his professor summoned his Head of House? Was he going to throw Harry out? Insist she take him off to the Tower immediately, explaining that ungrateful wards didn’t get to sleep in his quarters?

Snape took her to one side, while Harry waited anxiously and strained to hear. “We are idiots,” he said, scowling.

Minerva’s eyebrows soared. “I beg your pardon!”

“What is today, Minerva? The date?”

“Why, it’s Halloween, of course. October 31st. What are you –“

“And what happened on this date in Godric’s Hollow?”

Minerva gasped as she understood. “Oh, my stars!”

“That’s why he didn’t want to attend the Feast, but he didn’t want to tell anyone for fear he’d spoil our enjoyment of the festivities,” Snape’s voice was sneering, but Minerva saw the misery hidden behind the angry tone.

“Oh, dear.” She put a hand on his arm. “Are you all right?”

“Me!” Severus stared at her. “Have you lost your wits? It’s not me you should be worried about, it’s your precious little lion over there. He’s the one who’s been traumatized tonight – first by the troll, and then by me.”

Minerva glanced over at the couch. Harry was watching them nervously, but she didn’t miss the fact that he was comfortably sprawled on the cushions, wrapped snugly in a new bathrobe and slippers, and appeared significantly more worried about his guardian than anything else. “He doesn’t look very traumatized,” she commented.

He glared at her. Idiot Gryffindor! “Just because he has finished – for the moment – weeping and wailing and hiding beneath the furniture, does not mean he is fine,” he snapped. “I was extremely sharp with him earlier.”

Minerva shrugged lightly. “Severus, however understandable his motivation, the child did lie and deliberately absent himself without permission. He was also very foolish when he learned that a troll was loose in the castle and nearly got himself killed. Harry knows perfectly well that he deserved punishment for his actions.”

Snape ground his teeth at the witch’s insensitivity. “Minerva! I smacked him! I took away his broom for a week!”

“Good!” she said briskly. “That should make him think twice before behaving so badly in the future. I trust you came up with a similar punishment for Mr Weasley?”

Snape stared at her, too flabbergasted to do anything but nod. “No dessert for a week.”

McGonagall raised her eyebrow. “You are evil, Severus. I’m quite sure Mr Weasley will long remember this punishment. I shall have to get your suggestions for Miss Granger before I leave. But for now, why am I here? Simply to allow you to confess your imagined misdeeds?”

The tart question helped to restore Snape’s equilibrium. He glared. “I asked you here to tell Har- Potter stories about his parents. Those walrus-like relatives of his told him nothing but lies, and I am hardly the best person to regale the boy – er, brat – with Gryffindorish memories. However, such an activity seems an appropriate way to observe their memorial.”

Minerva ruthlessly suppressed her own smirk. Who ever would have imagined that Severus Snape was so sentimental? “Very well. Mr Potter,” she said, turning to the boy with a smile, “your guardian tells me you would like to commemorate your parents’ deaths by hearing some stories of their time here at Hogwarts.”

Harry’s eyes flew to Snape with an expression of astonishment that quickly gave way to adoration. Snape coughed and flushed and looked everywhere but at the smirking McGonagall. Harry abruptly realized he hadn’t answered his Head of House and quickly turned to her. “Yes, ma’am. Please?”

“Very well. As you may know, both your parents were in my House. I would be happy to share some memories with you, and of course your guardian can also. You know he knew your mother even before they came to Hogwarts?”

Harry glanced again at Severus and smiled. “Yes’m. I r’member the Headmaster saying that to the reporter lady a couple of weeks ago.” He paused as a thought obviously struck him. “Please, though, no bad stories tonight?” he begged, his voice trembling.

Minerva frowned, not understanding.

Snape calmly seated himself next to the boy and explained, his voice even. “Potter is referring to the fact that, this evening, he would prefer not to hear examples of his father’s more immature behavior, such as his tendency to bully others. Don’t worry, Mr Potter, I’m sure Professor McGonagall will have no difficulty finding enjoyable stories to share with you.”

Professor McGonagall was, at that moment, finding it difficult not to swoon from sheer incredulity. Was this truly Severus Snape, the man who could win a TriWizards Tournament hands-down if one of the events was in Grudge Holding? Minerva had long since resigned herself to knowing that Severus would never be able to hold a civil conversation about James Potter; the fury and hatred over how the Marauders had treated him during his schooldays was too raw within him. And yet suddenly, here he was discussing it in the calmest of tones, with nothing to indicate that for decades now he had positively foamed at the mouth whenever James’ name was mentioned.

She stared at Harry, who was snuggling up against Snape with a look of hero worship on his face. The Potion Master was grumbling and scowling at the boy, even as his hands were gently pulling Harry against his side and adjusting his robe. Minerva blinked, trying hard to believe what she was seeing. She had known that Snape’s rigid sense of honor would – once the scales had fallen from his eyes – ensure that he protect the boy and treat him with punctilious care. She had been confident that Harry's physical needs would be well looked after, though she assumed Severus’ cold and distant manner would create an insurmountable barrier between them. But she had never for a moment contemplated that Severus might benefit from the relationship.

Yet the proof was before her: Severus was actually managing to display genuine affection for the boy, and even the fact that he had invited her into his private quarters was an enormous breakthrough for the intensely private man. She had never thought she would see Severus so… tranquil. All the rage and bitterness seemed to have been muted. Oh, he was still snappish and prickly, but that razor edge, which tended to cut him as often as anyone else, was gone. The fact that he could acknowledge the Marauders’ treatment without a hissing, spitting explosion of rage was clear proof of that.

Minerva seated herself on the other side of the couch from Harry. “Perhaps you’d like to hear about the time that your mother decided to bring the house elves a treat from the Muggle world. Are you familiar with a Muggle candy known as ‘pixy stix’?”

Several hours later, Harry was draped across his professor’s lap, bonelessly limp and deeply asleep. The professors had told him story after story, painting a richly nuanced picture of two young people, happy and clever and fun-loving. He had finally fallen asleep with a smile on his face, feeling safe and loved as he lay against his guardian and listened to the man’s deep voice reverberate through his chest.

“Great heavens,” McGonagall sighed. “I thought he’d never drop off. Couldn’t you have slipped him some Dreamless Sleep?”

Snape glared at her. “I do not drug my ward for the sake of convenience,” he said, affronted.

McGonagall laughed softly. “Oh my, Severus. You are easy to tease.”

He huffed in outrage. Stupid Gryffindors. Who can hope to understand their humor?

“All right, Severus – before I leave, tell me what punishments you awarded my two lions so that I can be sure they adhere to them.”

“They are on restriction for a week and must each write a three foot essay on the mistakes they made in deciding to leave the library. In addition, as you know, they each have had a favorite activity withheld for that period.”

McGonagall nodded. “Excellent.”

“What penance did you assign Miss Granger?”

“None.” At Snape’s shocked expression, McGonagall explained. “I took her to Poppy so that her wrist could be treated, and she dosed Miss Granger with a half-measure of Dreamless Sleep. There was no point in scolding the child when she was too groggy to listen. I told Miss Granger that I would discuss her punishment with her in the morning – I find that giving them several hours to worry about their punishment is a most effective form of torture.”

Snape eyed her with admiration. He hadn’t realized McGonagall could be so evil. “Impressive.”

She gave him a catlike smirk. “Thank you. I shall assign her the same restriction and essay as the boys, but I’m not sure what activity to withhold. After all, her favorite pastimes are hardly activities I wish to discourage. Should I bar her from the library? Prevent her from attending classes?”

Harry murmured in his sleep and grabbed onto Snape’s robe. McGonagall’s eyes gleamed as she saw Severus reach down and soothe the boy, but she managed to prevent herself from commenting. “Any suggestions?”

Snape thought for a moment, then recalled a conversation from a few weeks previous. “What about instead of withholding an activity, you force her to participate in one?” At Minerva’s uncomprehending look, he amplified, “Doesn’t Miss Granger consider Quidditch a useless waste of time, much to her friends’ annoyance? Assign her a four foot essay on the game, complete with mandatory attendance at all games and practices for the next week.”

Minerva burst into laughter. “Oh, Severus, you are a wicked man! Miss Granger will hate every second of it, especially when she will be forced to ask Mr Weasley for his assistance.” Snape preened at the praise. “And once she understands the game, she will be better able to participate in House activities, conversations with other students… This is a brilliant idea! Now, as for tomorrow’s game,” she glanced at Harry, “I assume he will not be allowed to participate?”

“Correct,” Snape said guardedly, expecting a huge fight from Gryffindor’s Head of House.

To his surprise, Minerva merely sighed and nodded. “It would have placed him in an awkward position anyway. Perhaps it’s just as well, and he’ll still be able to play against Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw,” she said, consoling herself. “Would you then permit Harry to attend the game so as to explain it to Miss Granger? If she doesn’t have one of the boys with her, her mere attendance at the game won’t accomplish much, and Ron was given special permission to spend the game on the Gryffindor bench with his brothers.”

Snape frowned down at the small boy, wondering when his hand had started to stroke the tousled hair. “He is being punished, Minerva,” he began sternly.

“Which is why he’s not able to play in the match,” she agreed. “But surely he could attend the game by special dispensation? All the faculty will be there so it’s an official school function with supervision.”

Snape huffed, but the memory of Harry’s dejection when he had learned he was banned from flying for a week nagged at him. “Oh, all right,” he said grudgingly. “But only because he will be assisting with Granger’s punishment.”

“Excellent!” Minerva got to her feet and headed to the floo. “Oh, and Severus – do you have any idea what a ‘permanent record’ is, or why mention of it should so terrify Miss Granger?”

Not unreasonably, Harry slept late the next morning. When Ron rolled out of bed and presented himself, yawning, to the living room, Snape gave him a cool greeting, still annoyed that he had been saddled with the care of a Weasley.

Insensible to the man’s frosty tone, Ron gave his usual cheerful greeting. “G’morning, Professor!”

Merlin – another one! Snape gritted his teeth and wondered if being an annoying morning person was a prerequisite for admission to Gryffindor House. “Good morning, Mr Weasley. I assume you would prefer to eat breakfast with your peers in the Great Hall?”

Ron stretched lazily. “Yeah, okay. Erm – I mean, yes, sir,” he amended, catching sight of Snape’s narrowing eyes.

“Then I would appreciate your notifying Mr Wood that he will need to employ his backup Seeker in today’s match, as well as alerting your Head of House that you and I will be making a brief visit to Ollivander’s this morning.”

Ron’s face, which had briefly fallen at the mention of Harry’s grounding, lit up anew. “Yes, sir!”

“You will then return back here so that I need not waste time looking for you when it is time for us to go. While you wait, you may begin on your punishment essay.”

“Yes, sir,” Ron said obediently, too excited at the wand shopping trip to object to anything that Professor Snape might say. He hurried out, eager to share his big news with his siblings.

By the time he returned, having eaten his fill, made his brothers intensely envious, and delivered the professor’s messages, Harry was awake and eating breakfast in the professor’s small kitchen.

“Hey, Ron!” he exclaimed happily around a mouthful of omelet.

“Hey, Harry!” Ron slid into the seat next to him. “Hi, Professor!” he added politely, turning to the man who was sipping his coffee and glancing over a potions journal.

“Hello again, Mr Weasley,” Snape said, gloomily anticipating all too many of these breakfast scenes in coming years.

“Blimey, was everyone excited to hear about the troll!” Ron said to Harry. “I had to tell the story like twelve times! Hermione’s still in the infirmary an’ with you down here, no one had heard much of what had happened.”

“Is she okay?” Harry asked anxiously.

“Yeah, I talked to Professor McGonagall, and she’s going to fetch her after breakfast. She just figured we all could use a bit of a lie-in this morning.” Ron grinned. “You should have seen Percy!”

“Why?” Harry asked, mopping up the last of his eggs with a bit of toast.

“Well, when he saw me, he was all set to haul off and whack me, but then I reminded him that Professor Snape had punished me an’ pointed out that if he were to punish me too, it would be like saying he didn’t think that Professor Snape had done a good job.”

The quietly eavesdropping Snape was impressed despite himself. Who would have thought that the mind of such a devious tactician lurked behind that freckled exterior?

Harry chortled. “I bet that made him stop!”

“Yeah, but –“ Ron sneaked a look at the apparently-oblivious Snape and lowered his voice, “- then he was all worried that Snape had really been awful to us. I had to spend like ten minutes calming him down! Sheesh – he’s as big of a worry wart as Mum. Who’d’ve thought it?”

“Perhaps that’s why he is so mindful of the rules, Mr Weasley,” Snape rumbled, startling them. “Because he fears the kind of outcomes that could so easily have happened last night.”

Ron considered that. “Yeah, maybe… But I think he also just likes bein’ a prat!”

Harry snickered as Snape rolled his eyes.

“Mr Potter, if you are finished, you may hand over your broom to me, then return to your common room while I take Mr Weasley to get a new wand.”

Harry wiped his mouth on his napkin. “I’ll have to give you the broom this afternoon, Pr’fessor,” he said cheerfully. “We’ve got a Quidditch match today, ‘member?”

Ron’s jaw dropped and his eyes darted from Snape to Harry and back again. He hunkered down in his seat, anticipating an impressive display of fireworks.

Snape laid down his journal very deliberately and turned his full attention to the still-smiling Harry. No wonder the brat was so chipper this morning. “No, Mr Potter. You will relinquish your broom to me now. You wi-“

Harry interrupted, his voice beginning to betray agitation. “But, Pr’fessor, I need my broom for the match. Those old school brooms just aren’t anywhere near as good as the one you got for me.”

Even as a small part of him registered Harry’s comments with a pleased glow, Snape kept his expression and voice calm but firm. “No, Mr Potter. You will not be playing in the match. Your punishment was no flying for a week. That includes today’s Quidditch match.”

“What!” Now Harry was standing up, beside the table, and both the pitch and volume of his voice were rising rapidly. “You can’t do that! I have to play in the match! Everyone’s counting on me!”

Harry stared at his professor in horrified disbelief. Yes, he’d been bad. Yes, he deserved to be punished. But Snape couldn’t possibly mean to ban him from the match! Not after he’d worked so hard! Not after he was the youngest Seeker in a century! Not when he was planning to make the man so proud!

Harry was pants at so many things in this new world, but flying was something everyone admitted he did brilliantly. Now he had the perfect chance to go out and show his professor that he didn’t have to be ashamed of his ward, that there actually were some things that Harry did well, even if he was a needy, weepy, stupid little mess a lot of the time. Yes, he was going to show Snape that he could be proud of him, and nothing was going to stand in the way of that, not even Snape himself.

“You can’t!” he repeated, his voice cracking. “I’ve got to play. You can take away my broom for two weeks, starting tomorrow!”

Somehow he had to make the man understand. Oliver and the others were counting on Harry to win the game. The older boy had practically said as much during their practices, and now if Harry weren’t there, they’d lose and it would be all his fault. He would let the entire House down. And – even more importantly – he wanted to show his professor how much he loved his new broom. When he caught the snitch on his Nimbus, it would show everyone at Hogwarts how great his guardian was to him. He just had to play – he HAD to.

“No, Mr Potter,” Snape repeated again, his voice beginning to harden. “You will not be playing in today’s match.”

“Harry, you don’t want to be grounded for two weeks, or you’ll just miss a different match,” Ron chimed in, trying hard to stop his best mate from self-destructing. He knew from his own parents that trying to renegotiate a punishment rarely worked – and often led to additional penalties.

Harry ignored both of them. “I don’t care what you say,” he shouted at Snape defiantly. “I am going to play today! You can’t stop me!”

“Mr Potter,” Snape leaned forward and lowered his voice dangerously, “if you are laboring under the misapprehension that I would hesitate to halt the game, remove you from your broom, and smack you for disobedience before the entire stadium, let me correct you here and now. You are being punished for an insane act of folly and all the screaming in the world will not change that.”

A very small part of Harry’s brain was jumping up and down and begging for him to shut up, but the rest of it had apparently been taken over by Dudley Dursley. All of the frustration and anger within the boy exploded in a completely unprecedented tantrum. “I HATE YOU!” he screamed at Snape, ignoring Ron’s slack jawed presence. “YOU’RE AWFUL AND MEAN AND I HATE YOU! I WISH YOU WERE DEAD! I DON’T WANT YOU AS MY GUARDIAN ANY MORE! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!”

He fled from the table and his guardian’s cold, frozen expression, hurtling back to the sanctuary of his room. A loud slamming of the door echoed through the quarters.

Interesting. He didn’t try to leave and seek refuge among his fellow Gryffindors, Snape mused. Perhaps we ARE making progress. All of the books had mentioned that emotional outbursts were part of the “healing process”, and to be honest, Snape found rage a much more comfortable emotion to deal with than misery. A furious Harry was much less disturbing to him than a tearful one, perhaps because Snape himself could empathize more easily with anger. He had long ago abandoned shed his last tears, but – as any of his students could attest – he regularly had irate outbursts of his own.

Ron gulped. He’d been too scared to say much during Harry’s eruption, and he was still rather amazed that Snape hadn’t interrupted it with a sound slap. His own folks probably wouldn’t have been half so tolerant if he’d pitched a similar fit at the Burrow’s breakfast table. “Erm, c’n I – I mean, may I go and see if he’s okay?” he eventually squeaked.

“Hm?” It took Snape a moment to focus on him. “Yes. Go ahead,” he nodded in an abstracted fashion, obviously deep in thought.

Ron didn’t wait to be told twice. He eeled out of his chair and hurried down the hallway. As he’d expected, Harry was sprawled, face down, on his bed, sobbing himself sick.

Ron bit his lip, trying to remember what Charlie or even Percy used to do to comfort him when he was the one bawling his eyes out after a tantrum. He settled gingerly on the side of the bed and patted Harry’s shoulder cautiously, rather as if dealing with a potentially dangerous crup. “C’mon, mate,” he urged. “ ‘S’not that bad. Don’t take on so.”

Harry just sobbed louder. “I hate him! He’s ruined everything!” he shouted, his voice half-muffled by the pillow.

“Yeah, well, he is pretty strict,” Ron agreed soothingly, “but y’know, Harry, it’s not like he’s being that unreasonable. I mean, we screwed up pretty bad last night, an’ I think you scared him something awful.”

“I don’t care. I still hate him.”

Ron sighed and kept patting his shoulder. Had he ever been this obstinate? “Well, I don’t think you’d really like it if he ignored it, like he didn’t care if you lived or died,” he pointed out. Harry hiccupped and shuddered, but didn’t actually disagreed with that statement, and heartened, Ron pressed on. “And c’mon, Harry – you’re kinda being a little selfish, mate,” he said teasingly. “You’re already getting to play Quidditch a whole year ahead of the rest of us. Missing a single game isn’t going to kill you.”

‘It’s not that!” Harry argued, propping himself up on his elbow. “But Oliver said they were counting on me!” His face was flushed and blotchy with tears and snot, and his breath came in shuddery gasps. “I’m not trying to be a prat, Ron, honest! But I hate letting people down.”

Ron frowned, beginning to understand his friend’s agitation. “Harry, do you think you’re the first player to miss a game?” At Harry’s suddenly uncertain expression, Ron couldn’t suppress a laugh. “Blimey, mate, this is a school! Players are always getting detention and having to miss a game. In Charlie’s sixth year, he missed two games because he got caught trying to smuggle his Care of Magical Creatures term project into the dorms. He was lucky McGonagall didn’t yank him from the team. And another year, the captain of the Slytherin team was grounded for half the season though I dunno what exactly she did. And with injuries an’ all, the captains are always expecting to have to make some substitutions. It’s not that big a deal, Harry. I promise. Oliver wasn’t even that surprised when I told him this morning. He just said to tell you your spot’s waiting for you when you can fly again.”

Harry hiccupped and sniffled. “R-really?”

Ron grinned in relief. “Yeah, you prat. Sheesh – thinking you’re the most important person on the whole team before you’ve even played a single match! Somebody got a bit of an ego trip going or what?” he teased.

Harry squirmed and wiped at his face. “ ‘S’not like that. I just haven’t ever been on a team before or had friends I do like here. I didn’t want people to stop liking me ‘cause I don’t keep my promises.”

His friend snorted. “Yeah, like that’s gonna happen. Harry, it was a TROLL last night. We’re lucky not to be grounded ‘til graduation! Everyone understands that.”

Harry managed a watery smile. “Yeah, I guess we did get off pretty lightly…” His voice trailed off as a look of utter horror crossed his face, and Ron spun around so fast he nearly fell off the bed.

There was nothing behind him to account for Harry’s expression, and he turned back inquiringly. “Mate, what is it?”

“Oh, no,” Harry breathed, his face chalky white. “Oh, no.”

“What? What is it? Harry!” Ron was getting more and more worried as his friend stared off into space, getting increasingly agitated. “HARRY!”

“Ron, I ruined everything,” Harry breathed, his expression one of utter devastation. “I can’t believe I said all those things.”

“What? You mean before? To Snape?” Ron rolled his eyes. “Yeah, mate, you threw a pretty major tanty there. You’re lucky he didn’t haul off and wallop you; it’s not like my folks would’ve let me get away with something like that,” he said with poorly concealed envy.

Harry drew his knees up to his chest and started to rock. “I just ruined it all. He’ll never want to keep me now. He’ll send me back – I know he will.”

“What? Snape? Send you back?” Ron scoffed. “Don’t be daft. He’s not going to take it seriously. I mean, he’ll probably punish you for screaming at him like that, but it’s not like he’ll stop being your guardian.”

“Oh, yes it does,” Harry said with dreadful certainty. “He became my guardian ‘cause I asked him to, an’ now I told him I don’t want him any more, so he’ll stop.” He started banging his forehead against his knees. “Oh, Harry, you are so stupid, stupid, STUPID.”

Now getting thoroughly alarmed at how distraught his friend was growing, Ron hurried back out to the kitchen to find Snape.

Dear Wizarding Youth Services, Snape mentally penned, precisely how illegal is it to administer an aging potion – assuming one could develop one, of course – to a child, thereby avoiding adolescence in its entirety? Even if it is illegal, is it less illegal than casting a Silencio on said child for six years? Of course, he mused, he didn’t need to cast a Silencio on the brat, he could always simply put a bubblehead charm on himself and go about his day in a blissful state of silence.

On the one hand, it had been gratifying to see how upset Potter had been at the confiscation of his broom – Snape’s master plan had certainly worked out brilliantly in that respect – but on the other, he hadn’t expected it to hurt when the brat repudiated him. Why should he care if the wretch screamed at him that he was a detestable, horrible person? He was, after all, and proud of it. He had reveled in his status as the most hated and feared professor at Hogwarts for years now, so why should it make his chest ache when he saw the fury and loathing in the Potter brat’s eyes? Isn’t that what he wanted?

“Erm, sir…?” He became aware of the Weasley brat, fidgeting by his elbow.

“What is it, Weasley?” he said, surprised to note how weary his voice sounded. Surely it should have come out more sharply than that.

“It’s - it’s Harry, sir. He’s pretty upset.”

Snape looked away. “His punishment stands, Mr Weasley. Potter will simply have to come to terms with the fact that all the spoiled shrieking in the world won’t change that.”

“No, sir, it’s not that. It’s about you, sir.”

Snape stood, suddenly desperate to get away before his features revealed any of the turmoil he felt. “I am well aware of his feelings towards me, Mr Weasley. He made them abundantly plain.” Just because the books said it was normal and even encouraging for Harry to spew vitriol didn’t mean he had to stand around and listen to it.

The brat actually grabbed him by the robe again, halting his exit. “No, sir! He thinks you’re going to get rid of him. He’s really making himself sick about it, sir. He says he’s ruined everything. He – he doesn’t understand that kids are allowed to say stuff like that and grownups know we don’t really mean it,” he faltered, looking up at Snape beseechingly.

They don’t really mean it? For the first time in his life, Snape wished he could talk to Molly Weasley. Merlin knew, he had meant it when he had hissed his hatred of his father. Didn’t most children?

“Did you ever say… such things… to your parents?” he asked the Weasley urchin, his tone overly casual.

“Sure!” The boy looked surprised.  “Lots of times.”

“But your parents are widely regarded as excellent parents,” Snape argued, frowning.

Ron squirmed, embarrassed. “Well, they are. But you know, sometimes you get mad and then you say stuff to make them mad. And I almost kinda mean that stuff when I say it… but not really. Not once the tantrum’s over.” Now he was staring at his shoes, his face flaming. “I made my mum cry once,” he half-whispered. “I told her I didn’t love her ‘cause she was too busy with Ginny an’ the twins and didn’t even care about me. I told her I wanted to go live with my Auntie Ann ‘cause she’d actually notice me.”

Snape’s eyes widened. “And your mother cried?”

Ron nodded, shamefaced. “I didn’t really mean it – I mean, Auntie Ann is nice to visit, but she loves cabbage an’ her whole house smells of it. An’ she gives those wet kisses and has this annoying toad that she lets eat at the dinner table and… well, I wouldn’t really want to leave the Burrow, but I was angry at my mum and wanted to make her sad, so I said something I knew would make her really upset.”

“That –“ Snape blinked. Who knew that such dreadful things occurred even in normal families like the Weasleys? “- that was quite a horrid thing to do, Mr Weasley.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said miserably. “My mum forgave me an’ hugged me and all, but I still feel really bad about it. And it was when I was really little – like six or something, but I still remember it.” He looked up at Snape. “An’ I think that’s how Harry’s feeling now. That kind of sick horrible feeling, like you broke something you can’t fix. And after last night and knowing that we lost your trust too…” he trailed off. “I think he’s really upset.”

Snape sighed. Merlin save him from emotionally fragile children. Couldn’t they just pick an emotion and stick with it for a few hours? “Very well. I will go speak with him. You may get started on your essay and… thank you, Mr Weasley. Your concern for Mr Potter is much appreciated.”

Ron grinned. “He’s my best mate, Professor. That’s what best mates do, right?”

As if I would know? Happily, the boy didn’t wait for a response, and Snape headed down the hall to Harry’s room. As Weasley had foretold, the boy was curled up in the same defensive ball that he had assumed in the infirmary that first week.

Snape sighed again and pinched the bridge of his nose before sitting down next to the brat. “Mr Potter –“

“I’ll leave, sir.” Harry whispered, though he didn’t look up. “I won’t take anything with me so you can return it all.”

“Potter –“

“I’m really sorry I bothered you. I’ll tell all the Slytherins not to treat me like one of them any more.”

“POTTER!”

But even his classroom bellow didn’t seem to break through the boy’s emotionless monotone. “If you want, I can see if the Headmaster will let me drop Potions, so you don’t have to see me in class.”

“Harry,” Snape sighed, surrendering to the inevitable. Wide green eyes, impossibly startled, flew to meet his.

“You are an impossible, unruly, and impudent child,” Snape said, fixing those green eyes with a compelling stare. “This morning’s outburst demonstrated just how much you need to develop emotional control. That tantrum was worthy of a child half your age. Furthermore, while you are learning that you need no longer accept unjust punishments, I do expect you to show a great deal more grace in submitting to well-deserved discipline. Do not imagine that your little outburst will dissuade me from punishing you when you have earned chastisement; such behavior in future will only result in your close acquaintance with the Aguamenti spell.”

Harry stared at him. “ ‘In future’? But you’re not going to be my guardian any more.”

Snape scowled. “Do you imagine that I pay any attention to the nonsense you spout when you are clearly beside yourself?” He rapped Harry on the head with his knuckles. “Use your brain, Mr Potter. Do you imagine you are the first child to rage at their parent or guardian in such a fashion? Did your whale of a cousin never shriek at his parents?”

The corner of Harry’s mouth twitched. “Practically every time they said ‘no’ to him. Not that they said it very often.” At least he hadn’t thrown anything or bitten anyone the way Dudley used to do. He peeked up at Snape through his fringe. He couldn’t believe his professor was being so calm and matter of fact about the whole thing. Harry had been sure that channeling Dudley in full-on, screaming tantrum mode would have been enough to make anyone – even his professor – have second thoughts.

“And did your aunt and uncle cart him off to an orphanage when he did so?”

Wonderingly, Harry shook his head. “But they l-love him.”

Snape scowled even more fiercely and wished he had warded the door. It would be just like Albus to burst in right now with a camera. “Yes? And your point, Mr Potter?”

“You mean, you…?”

Snape swore he would be crucio’d before he’d say anything so sentimental, but the boy was staring up at him with such hope in those green eyes… “Well, what do you think?” he grumbled impatiently. “Do you imagine I would go to all this trouble for no reason? Foolish child! Didn’t I tell you to use your brain?”

And then that pointy forehead impacted his breastbone again, and Harry was clutching his robes and crying hysterically and saying how sorry he was over and over and over.

“Yes, yes, all right, Mr Potter.” He put an arm around those thin, shaking shoulders, and tried to pat them reassuringly. What does ‘reassuring’ feel like? He recalled how that Gryffindor girl had been cuddling Harry after the fight and he tried to emulate her posture. Marvelous, now I’m imitating Gryffindors. What’s next? Asking Hufflepuffs for advice? he wondered sourly

It must have worked though, because Harry’s sobs began to lessen, and his frantic grasp relaxed into more of a tired leaning or – oh, Merlin – a snuggle. After what felt like an eternity – of emotional agony for Snape and incredible bliss for Harry – Harry finally roused himself enough to ask, not without a feeling of trepidation, “Wh-what are you going to do to me?”

Snape noticed he hadn’t felt confident enough to emerge from where he was currently burrowed into Snape’s robes, with the man’s arm spread over his hunched back. “I am going to keep you as my ward, you foolish brat. Didn’t I say so?”

“No, I mean, what else are you going to do?” Harry persisted.

“Beyond endeavoring to drive some concepts of civilized behavior and erudition into your skull?”

Harry actually giggled a bit. “Yeah. B’sides that. I mean for punishment.” There. He’d come out and said it.

“Mr Potter, though I realize your inhuman relatives did not grant you the right of free speech, I am not such an ogre as to prohibit you from expressing your opinions. You may, in the privacy of our quarters, say what you wish to me, though you will find that screaming will do little to convince me of the merits of your argument.”

Harry sat up straight and stared at him. “You mean you’re not going to punish me? But I said really horrible things to you!”

Snape looked bored. “After teaching at Hogwarts for all these years, do you really imagine I have not been subjected to numerous childish outbursts of rage? You did not swear at me, Mr Potter, nor did you make rude remarks about my parentage or leisure activities. You said nothing anatomically impossible nor particularly rude. You expressed your own emotions and used several adjectives that, while descriptive, are nevertheless easily located in an abridged dictionary. I see no reason to punish you for your statements, though neither am I going to rescind or delay the punishment which caused your explosion in the first place.”

“Yeah, well, I figured that,” Harry admitted ruefully.

“Are you now sufficiently composed that you can wash and dress and return to the Gryffindor tower? I must take Mr Weasley to obtain a new wand, and you will recall that you are to be in your dormitory or common room when you are not supervised by a professor.”

Harry blushed. “Y’sir. I’m okay now. Sorry for – for all that.”

Snape rose. “Such emotional lability is not unexpected for someone in your situation, Mr Potter. You are recovering from an extended period of mistreatment and acclimating to appropriate discipline and care will be… challenging at times.”

He paused, recalling what he had promised Minerva. Oh fine, now the brat will think I’m doing this to be -  he shuddered – nice. “Potter, while you are not to participate in this afternoon’s match, you will attend it.”

Harry blinked incredulously. “I will?”

“Yes. You are to escort Miss Granger – she or Professor McGonagall will explain further – but when the match is over, you are to return immediately to your Tower. Do you understand?”

And just as he had predicted, the little monster was smiling mistily at him. “Y’sir. Thank you, sir!”

Snape huffed. “Enough of that. Get washed and dressed!”

And that annoying little body shot out and wrapped itself around him. “I love you too, sir,” Harry whispered into the folds of his professor’s robes, then fled to the bathroom before the man could react.

Oh, no. No no no. This was not supposed to happen. The brat was NOT supposed to get attached like this. All of these emotions were supposed to be lavished on the Weasleys, not him. What was he supposed to do or say after a revelation like that?  He was a spy, a Death Eater, a Potions Master, an Evil Bat, a greasy git! Not someone to love.

But wait! What had the Weasley boy said? That children often said things they didn’t really mean. That must be it. Yes, of course. That was all. The boy was so emotionally confused that he didn’t know if he were coming or going. It was impossible to take anything he said seriously, and he probably didn’t even remember it. Yes. He was hysterical and everyone knew that hysterical people babbled. That was it. Yes. Just some hysterical babbling. Nothing to take seriously. Nothing to worry about. Nothing to respond to. Nothing at all.

By the time he had come out of the bathroom, Harry had been overcome by mortification. Why had he been foolish enough to say that? Surely it wasn’t the sort of thing any self-respecting male over the age of three said out loud. The fact that his professor hadn’t exclaimed in disgust or shoved him away – as the Dursleys would have – was sufficient indication of how his professor felt, along with the man’s earlier, tacit confession. Harry really needed to learn not to blurt things out. He was so embarrassed that he only mumbled a quick goodbye to both Snape and Ron before fleeing the chambers.

Well. That was that. Snape looked after the little brat with an odd mixture of relief and hurt. Obviously he had been right. The child had been confused and had simply blurted words out without any concept of what he was saying. No meaning should be attached to them, as witnessed by the boy’s speedy exit at the prospect of being able to rejoin his classmates. Clearly the brat was all too happy to escape his presence and felt neither desire nor obligation to linger.

Good. That was very good. The last thing Snape needed was another complication. The boy would naturally reserve his softer feelings for Molly – and that mutt of a godfather, once the two met. Snape was the Evil Bat, the disciplinarian, the horrible bastard who had just barred the boy from his first-ever Quidditch match. Snape snorted. How could he have ever imagined the boy to have been sincere? He was probably just relieved that Snape hadn’t given him a worse punishment for his tantrum, the way those despicable Muggles would have done. The words were motivated by sheer relief, nothing more.

Snape nodded firmly, oblivious to Ron’s odd look. He was pleased. Yes. That was what he felt. Pleasure and relief. That was it. There was no disappointment, let alone pain. After all, he knew himself to be unlovable. How absurd it would be to feel upset when a just-punished brat’s outburst was proven to be hysterical babble. He didn’t get upset when the boy was shouting abuse; why get angry when the child – in a very Slytherin fashion – tried the opposite tack?

He shook himself. No more introspection. He was Pleased and Relieved. He would pretend the boy had never spoken. Nothing had changed, and it never would. “Come along, Weasley,” he snapped, as if the redhead hadn’t been waiting patiently for ten minutes while the professor was lost in thought. “Do not dawdle.”

On his way up to the Tower, Harry’s embarrassment dwindled in inverse proportion to his distance from his professor. By the time he had reached the Fat Lady, he had a rather goofy smile on his face. His professor loved him. Not just tolerated. Not just accepted. Not even just liked. His professor loved him. He’d practically admitted it, and when Harry had said the words, he had hugged him back.

Right. This meant Harry really had to try to behave himself. Not so much out of worry that Professor Snape would send him back, but more because Harry didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize that love.

Although, Harry realized, if getting chased by a troll, keeping the man up all night telling stories about one person he liked and several he didn’t (for several of the tales about James involved his friends, even if they weren’t engaged in any Severus-related activities), and then having a huge tantrum at the breakfast table didn’t make the man’s affection wane, it was hard to imagine that merely blowing a test or being cheeky would.

And besides, Professor Snape didn’t really seem like the kind of person who changed his mind all that easily. Harry’s lips twitched. Like with his punishment. He really could see the man striding out onto the Quidditch pitch and spelling him off his broom right there in front of everybody.

Harry sighed. He suspected that once the initial incredulous joy of having someone who really, really cared about him wore off, he’d begin to understand why the other kids always seemed to be complaining about their parents, but that was okay. Harry wasn’t stupid enough to think that he didn’t need any help – in learning about this new world, let alone dealing with all the Death Eater and Lord Volauvent stuff – and Professor Snape seemed to take his duties towards Harry very seriously. Harry was willing to put up with some rules and even some punishments if it meant that, for the first time, he had someone looking out for him.

“Well, dear, you’re looking very happy for someone who was so naughty last night,” the portrait said reprovingly. “We were all very worried when we couldn’t find you!”

“Yes’m. I’m sorry,” Harry said penitently, recalling how the various portraits had done their best to help. “I got in awful trouble for it,” he offered, hoping to mollify the normally good tempered witch.

“And you deserved it,” she sniffed. But a moment later, she bent forward, a look of concern crossing her features. “Was Professor Snape very hard on you?”

Harry hadn’t seen Dudley manipulate his aunt without learning a few things. He put a woebegone look on his face and sighed, letting his lower lip protrude.

“Oh, dear!” the portrait bought it instantly. “He was, wasn’t he?”

Harry sniffled and rubbed his backside. Just because it didn’t hurt now – and hadn’t within about five minutes of the smacks – didn’t negate the fact that he’d been swatted and could therefore take full advantage of any sympathy he could milk from it. That was a clear Kid Rule, just like the one that said that unless a note was sent home, no mischief at school – or its consequences – needed to be reported at home or the one that said that the first three parental warnings could be disregarded, and no attention paid until actual counting began.

“Oh, you poor little thing!” Now the portrait’s previous dudgeon was forgotten, and she gazed at him in alarm.

Harry sighed. “An’ I’m on r’striction for a week, an’ I’m not to play in today’s match or fly for a whole week,” he said sadly.

“My, my,” she shook her head in commiseration. “Well, the time will go quickly – you’ll see. And after all –“

Harry nodded, knowing what was coming. “ -- I did deserve it,” he chimed in, suspecting he’d be saying that to most of the faculty, portraits, and ghosts before he was fully forgiven for worrying them so much.

The witch blinked. “Yes. Well. The important thing is that it’s all over and you’re safe. And really, you’ll be off restriction before you know it,” she offered encouragingly, opening the doorway without even bothering to wait for the password.

“Thank you,” Harry said politely as he climbed through. It really was rather nice to have people on his side for a change – even if some were only painted people.

“Harry!” He had barely entered the common room before he was practically mobbed by his Housemates. “Are you okay?” “What were you thinking?” “What did Snape do to you?” “Were you hurt?” “Tell us the story!”

Then a new voice was heard: “HARRY!” and the crowd parted respectfully. Hermione barreled through and grabbed Harry in a fierce hug – rather like the one Snape had given him when he had first encountered him with the troll/panda.

“Hi, Hermione,” Harry said softly, rather stunned by all the concern everyone was showing.

“Are you all right?” she asked, releasing him but eyeing him worriedly. “Professor McGonagall said you and Ron were okay, but…”

“C’mon, Harry – sit down and tell us about it! Ron gave his version over breakfast, but Hermione wouldn’t say anything until you arrived. Are you okay?” Oliver Wood managed to shoo everyone over to the couches.

Hermione and Harry obligingly took center stage – er, sofa – and prepared to tell the story. “I’m okay,” Harry said, looking gratefully around the circle of concerned faces. He faltered when he caught sight of the Quidditch team. “I – I’m really sorry,” he said haltingly, raising troubled eyes to Wood. “You know I’m not allowed to fly for a week, including today’s match, right? I’m sorry I’ve let you down.”

Oliver shrugged. “’S all right, kid. It would have been nice to have you, but once I heard who was missing last night, I kind of assumed we’d have to get a replacement.” He grinned. “I’m just glad it’s only for one game!”

“Yeah, Harry!” Katie Bell chimed in. “If that troll had got you, it would have been for a lot longer than that!”

Harry nodded sheepishly, exchanging a look with Hermione. He had a feeling they’d be hearing about this for a while.

“Besides, kid,” Oliver whispered, getting close, “I figured that once Snape got his hands on you, you wouldn’t be able to sit on a broom today – ban or no ban.” He gave Harry a wink and grinned at the boy’s blush. “I thought so,” he said smugly.

“I’m okay,” Harry protested, pink. “But yeah, he was pretty angry.”

“Start at the beginning,” Neville pleaded, and Harry and Hermione obliged.

It took nearly an hour for the story to be told and retold and exclaimed over, but finally the rest of the House drifted off, and Harry and Hermione were left alone.

“Are you really okay?” he asked anxiously, eyeing her wrist.

She nodded, bending the joint to prove it. “It’s strange to think that a sprained wrist can be fixed so quickly here,” Hermione said wonderingly. “I mean, I know we practice magic every day, but then something like this happens and you really see what a difference it makes.” Then her eyes sharpened. “And you? Are you okay?”

Harry grinned. “Yeah. Pr’fessor Snape went spare and really ticked us off, but he first made sure I had dinner an’ he fixed Ron’s cut an’ he’s off getting him a brand new wand now.”

“Did you ever tell him why you didn’t want to go to the Feast? It was because of your parents, wasn’t it?” Hermione asked, her eyes worried.

“Yeah,” Harry admitted, coloring anew at the realization that Hermione had known all along. “An’ he was brilliant. He had Professor McGonagall come to the quarters, after Ron had fallen asleep, an’ the two of them told me stories about my parents practically all night long.”

Hermione smiled, her brown eyes warm. “He really cares about you. You know that, right?”

Harry dropped his eyes, embarrassed and delighted at the same time. “Yeah,” he confessed quietly. “He – he sorta said so.”

Hermione blinked. “Really? He – ah – doesn’t seem like the type of person who’d go around saying things like that.”

“He isn’t, really, but I kinda, erm, got upset when I realized I wasn’t allowed to play today. And, well, after I said a whole bunch of things that I didn’t mean, an’ he was just brilliant about it all and, well, it kinda slipped out.”

“Oh, Harry!” Hermione threw her arms around him again. “I’m so happy for you!”

“ ‘Mione!” Harry hissed, scandalized. “People are watching!”

She released him but kept beaming, her eyes suspiciously moist. “It’s just so nice that – that you’ve got each other now.”

Harry grinned. “Yeah, it really is.”

They smiled idiotically at each other for another moment, but then Hermione’s eyes got wide. “Oh! Harry! Did they tell you about today? How you have to help with my detention?”

Harry frowned. “Huh?”

Hermione looked alternately embarrassed and annoyed. “I have to write an essay!” she announced.

Harry shrugged. “So do me’n’Ron. Three feet on what we did wrong about the troll. An’ we’re r’stricted. An’ I’m not allowed to fly for a week and Ron can’t have pudding for a week.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped. “No sweets for a whole week? Can Ron do that?”

Harry grinned. “Since the alternative is to have Percy lead him to and from every class, an’ have the house elves spoon feed him, I think he’ll manage.”

“Oooooh!” Hermione shivered. “Professor Snape really is strict!”

“So are you on restriction too?” Harry asked.

Hermione nodded. “Everything is the same for me, except that instead of having something suspended for a week, I have to write another essay as well…” her voice trailed off awkwardly.

That made some sense. It wasn’t as if Hermione did many things that grown ups found objectionable. She ate fewer sweets than probably anyone else in their whole year, and she was always studying or reading… What could they take away? Harry looked at her in concern. She was obviously feeling deeply humiliated about something. What could it be?

“Hermione? What is it? What’ve you got to write about?”

Hermione blushed brightly. “You’ll laugh. You and Ron both.”

“No, we won’t,” he coaxed. “C’mon, Hermione.”

“Professor McGonagall is making me write a whole essay about Quidditch!” she blurted. “And I have to go to games and practices this whole week!”

Harry tried.

He really did. But he was only eleven after all, and he started laughing helplessly. “R-Ron’s going to go mental when he hears this,” he spluttered.

“Harry James Potter! There is nothing funny about this!” Hermione was now pink with outrage. “You know how much Professor McGonagall loves the game; if I get anything wrong in the essay, she’ll probably extend my punishment for another whole week! That’s why you have to go to the game with me and explain everything!”

In the end, Harry managed to stifle his snickers and began to explain the game to her. It was disconcerting when Hermione got out her quill and parchment and started taking notes with the same level of attention she showed the professors, and all too quickly Harry’s basic knowledge of the game was exhausted. He retrieved some of Ron’s Quidditch books and magazines from the dorm, knowing the redhead would be willing to share them with the girl, and by the time of the game, Hermione had absorbed enough to have a general idea of what to expect.

About half an hour before the match was to start, an ebullient Ron dashed in, yelling, “Willow and unicorn hair!” as he brandished his new wand.

“That’s great, Ron!” Harry exclaimed.

“It’s lovely. I’m sure that now you’ll be able to do ever so many spells on your first try,” Hermione added.

“Thanks!” Ron beamed proudly. “And here, these are for you.” He handed a small package to each of them.

“What is it?” Harry asked curiously, as Hermione examined the wrapping.

“Well, your da- erm, professor, said that –“ Ron deepened his voice into a reasonably good imitation of Snape “ – ‘Since dunderheaded children will insist upon placing wands in their back pockets, you obviously cannot be trusted to decide upon where to keep your own wands.’ So he got us each a wrist holster. Innit great?” He flicked his wrist and his wand dropped into his hand.

“Brilliant!” Harry exclaimed, eyes wide.

“Oooh!” Hermione’s face lit up. “This will make it much easier to incorporate the wand into the proper motions for a spell.”

“Yeah, an’ it’ll make it easy to draw it quick in a fight!” Harry grinned.

“It was really nice of your professor to get one for each of us,” Hermione commented, giving Harry a sidelong look.

“Yeah,” Ron agreed. “But he also said that if he ever found that we weren’t using them, he’d give us detention. Ooops – the match! I gotta go!” Ron rushed off to the Quidditch pitch, where he was serving as the team’s gofer for the day. One first year student was selected to serve in this capacity for each game, and it was a highly sought after prize. Ron had been delighted when he had won the spot in the special lottery, and he’d practically burst into tears of relief when Professor Snape had confirmed that he’d still be permitted to carry out the role.

After attaching the holsters to their forearms and practicing a bit with drawing and replacing their wands, Harry and Hermione headed to the pitch at a more sedate pace. Hermione was still looking over her notes and muttering to herself. “Bludger… Beaters… Snitch… Seeker…”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Hermione, relax. It’s a game. You’re not going to be quizzed on it today, okay?”

Still, when they reached the pitch, even Harry was a little startled to see how enormous the stands were, filled with cheering, shouting students. Hermione looked over at the Gryffindor section, but it was obvious that with all the screaming that was going on, there was no way she would be able to hear his explanations of the play. Scanning the stadium, Harry’s eye fell upon some of the highest seats.

“There!” he pointed and pulled her up to the very top level of the stands. Only a few other students were scattered around this railing, and none were close. From this high up, they had a panoramic view of the pitch, and although the cheers were audible, they were sufficiently muted that the two could talk. The commentator could also be heard, but Harry would be easily able to speak over him.

“C’mon,” Harry said, swinging one leg over the railing and perching upon it like the other students were doing.

“Oh, Harry, I’m not sure it’s allowed. What if you fall?” Hermione frowned.

Harry sighed. There were times when having a girl as a best friend could be tiresome. “Everyone else is sitting this way! Look – we’re practically right above the field. It’s brilliant. You’ll be able to see all the action.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. Boys! There were perfectly good, comfortable seats right there, but no, they had to perch themselves of railings and sit backwards on chairs and otherwise behave like complete loons. “Oh, all right,” she grumbled, not wanting to annoy Harry when she needed to pick his brain throughout the upcoming game.

#-#-

The game progressed, and even Hermione began to get excited as the score was quite close. Harry in particular was leaning as far out on the railings as he could, trying to spot the snitch and signal his teammates.

Then, in the midst of a particularly tense part of the game, Harry felt a sharp push. He grabbed at the railing on which they sat and opened his mouth to remonstrate with Hermione, but was startled to see that she was sitting well out of arms’ reach, her attention wholly focused on the game.

“Hermione?” he began uncertainly but before he could speak further, Harry was abruptly unseated by an enormous yank, almost as if the earth itself had reached up and pulled him forward.

With a startled cry, he plummeted towards the ground far below.

“Wingardium leviosa!” Harry dimly heard Hermione scream behind him, and then his forward momentum slowed. For a heart-stopping moment, he hovered, then miraculously he started to rise back towards the railing.

He had recovered only a few feet, however, when that same force seized hold of him again and snapped the pull of Hermione’s spell. He cried out anew as he dropped precipitously, only to be jolted to a halt once again. He managed to twist around and saw Hermione’s drawn, white face as she stared at him, wand extended and every ounce of will focused on her spell.

He jerked up a few feet, then down a few. He felt like two invisible giants were having a tug of war with him, as if he were some rag doll being dragged between them. If it hadn’t been for the look of sheer terror on Hermione’s face, he might have thought this some prank of the twins – after all, how was he to know whether such midair to-and-fro’ing was normal in the Wizarding World?

Incredibly enough, below him the Quidditch match continued. The rest of the school hadn’t even noticed the drama unfolding high in the stands, captivated as they were by the hard-fought match playing out before them.

Harry could feel the effort that his friend was putting into her magic – his body would start to rise, as if gravity had suddenly ceased to affect him, but after a few seconds, something would block Hermione’s spell, gravity would return with a vengeance and his suddenly heavy body would be helped on its downward path by a savage tug… only to be again converted to a weightless state as Hermione re-cast the charm. After a half-dozen such exchanges, Harry was a good hundred feet closer to the ground and beginning to feel nauseous from the multiple abrupt transitions between floating and falling. He began to worry about what would happen if he sicked up in his current position. He couldn’t imagine that either team would react favorably to being showered with vomit from above.

Harry closed his eyes, willing his stomach to settle down while the opposing powers battled over him, but rapidly reopened them when the lack of sensory information merely made the nausea worse. He craned his neck around to see how Hermione was doing, and he was horrified and alarmed by what he saw.

His friend looked awful; her face was gray and drawn with strain, as if she were the one being manhandled, not him. Hermione’s nose had started to bleed but her focus remained intent on Harry. She whispered her spell over and over and over, trying to pry him loose from whatever malign force was trying to pull him to his death.

But it wasn’t enough.

From the sensations which dragged his body back and forth, Harry could tell that Hermione’s grip on him was weakening. Each pull to the ground was stronger than the previous one, and he knew that the next yank – or maybe the one after that – would tear him loose from her flagging hold, and then there was nothing to stop him from dropping like a rock and dashing his brains out on the ground far below.

Just then, a flash of gold darted past and the Slytherin Seeker, scanning the field, saw it. Then he saw Harry.

He jerked to a halt on his broom, eyes huge, and the Gryffindor Seeker, hungrily searching for the snitch, followed his gaze. “HARRY!” she shrieked in shock, and that made the rest of the players turn and look.

Harry could hear Flint’s curse from where he was still being jerked about in mid air, and then the Weasley twins, Flint, and both Seekers were heading towards him with desperate speed, the rest of the teams following close behind.

But even as he saw them coming, he felt the force snap Hermione’s hold on him one final time, and he was flung at the ground with vicious force. He knew the Quidditch players would never reach him in time.

“WINGARDIUM LEVIOSA!” Hermione’s last weak cry sounded in his ears as he threw up his arms in a futile attempt to fend off the ground that was rushing up to meet him.

#--#--

Snape exchanged another glare with Minerva as their two teams battled for supremacy. “It would be nice if your team could someday learn to play without fouling their opponents at every opportunity,” she commented snarkily.

“It would be nice if your team could someday learn to play,” he retorted, smirking as her eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Oh, no,” Minerva trailed off into muttered Gaelic imprecations as she caught sight of the Slytherin Seeker’s expression. “He’s spotted it.”

Snape glowered. That idiot – he knew better than to let his expression reveal anything to the other team! What was he thinking of, to gawp like that, thereby revealing that he had spotted the elusive gold ball? You’d think he had never seen a snitch befo—What the hell was that?

“Harry!” Minerva gasped, even as Snape’s disbelieving eyes finally sorted out what he was seeing.

Potter was somehow levitating over the field, at an impossibly high altitude, and being flung back and forth between two invisible forces. Snape’s keen gaze quickly caught sight of the bushy haired girl and her wand, but who was controlling the other force? Who was trying to send Harry crashing to his death below?

Even as the screams and shouts erupted around him, as the rest of the audience finally saw why the Quidditch players had all abandoned their game and were streaking towards the stands with all the velocity they could muster, Snape was busy scanning the crowd. Where – where – there! That turbaned idiot! Quirrell was staring fixedly at Harry, and while Snape couldn’t hear any spells being cast, he was under no illusion as to who was responsible. Snape felt a surge of homicidal fury wash over him, only strengthened by the fact that the stuttering wreck had the audacity to be trying to kill Potter while sitting right there, in the faculty section! He took two steps to his right and shot his arm straight out.

He connected squarely with Quirrell’s right shoulder blade, and the DADA instructor was jolted off his seat. With a startled cry, he tumbled down the steep incline, his turbaned head and robe-covered arse alternating in painful collisions with the stands until he sprawled, unconscious, at the base of the stairs.

#-#-

Even as she frantically recast her spell, Hermione knew it was no use. The other wizard – whoever he or she was – was too powerful. She had surprised them with her spell, and that shock had allowed her to pull Harry back for a few seconds, but now they had regrouped, and that last jolt had nearly knocked her down, as well as causing Harry to plunge several stories. She could feel her own magic draining away with the effort. Very little was left, but she gritted her teeth and cast again. She’d keep fighting as long as there was a single spark of magic left within her.

Astonishingly, miraculously, when she grabbed Harry this time, there was no opposition. She could sense his falling form, but for the first time, there was no malevolent force actively wrenching him from her. She was too tired to hope to pull him all the way back up to where she was, but she could at least make his fall to the ground a controlled one.

#-#-

The instant Quirrell was neutralized, Snape threw out a line of magic to Harry, feeling Minerva, Dumbledore, and several of the other staff do the same. Others – including many of the students – were casting cushioning charms over the field, and amongst them all, Harry was lowered to the ground rather more quickly than Snape would have liked, but slowly enough that he suffered no injuries.

Harry touched down and instantly fell to his knees, exhausted both physically and emotionally by the near-deadly tug of war. Flint, Wood, and the others dropped alongside him seconds later.

Snape was one of the first onto the field, though he was never thereafter sure how he made it down from the faculty section so quickly. Technically, the school’s anti-apparition wards were in place, but it seemed that he reached Harry mere seconds after the boy was safe.

He shoved past the Quidditch teams, all now off their brooms and gathered worriedly about Harry.

“Pr’fessor!” Harry caught sight of him and managed to stand up.

“Potter!” Snape caught him by the arms. Being wrenched between two magical forces could easily have ripped the boy apart. Could there be internal damage? Unseen injuries? “How are you?”

“Erm – “ Harry looked acutely uncomfortable, and Snape’s spine chilled. He knew it – the boy needed to be transported to St Mungo’s immediately!

“What is it?”

“I – uh – have a little problem,” Harry admitted awkwardly.

Snape paused from where he was counting the boy’s limbs. “Well? Speak up, you foolish child! What is it?” he demanded, terror making his voice even harsher than normal.

“Erm…” Harry held out one hand, his fist tightly clenched. Snape stared at it – muscle spasms? Paralysis?

As he watched, the boy slowly unfolded his fingers and there, sitting quietly on his palm, sat the Golden Snitch.

“I – ah – noticed it on my way down and sort of, er, grabbed it,” Harry confessed.

“Ha! We win! Our Seeker caught the snitch!” Oliver Wood yelled in triumph, snatching the snitch from Harry’s hand and holding it aloft.

“Not likely!” Flint snarled, grabbing Wood by the front of his robes. “You can’t fly two Seekers at one time!”

“Potter wasn’t on a broom,” Wood pointed out smugly. “So he wasn’t flying.”

“So he wasn’t playing for you!”

“He’s our Seeker!”

“Not in this game!”

“He caught it, didn’t he?”

“While our Head of House was controlling his descent. So he would obviously be operating as a Slytherin, not a Gryffindor.”

“What! That’s nonsense! He’s not your Seeker!”

“Today he’s as much ours as he is yours! You didn’t have him on your roster!”

Madame Hooch pushed between the two yelling captains and soon all three were screaming at each other.

“Er… Sorry?” Harry offered uncertainly, eyeing Snape worriedly.

Snape massaged his forehead and fervently wished for a Calming Draught. “What are you apologizing for now, Mr Potter? Catching the snitch? Causing the game to descend into mayhem? Bringing the two teams to the brink of war? Nearly plummeting to your death? What precisely has made you so apologetic this time?”

Harry looked awkward. “ ‘M just sorry you were so worried.”

Snape pretended not to hear the “Ohhh, isn’t that sweet?” from Professor Sprout, but he could practically feel Albus’ twinkling eyes upon him as he glared at the boy. “I was not ‘worried’, Potter!” he snapped. “Merely… concerned.”

He had an awful suspicion that Harry – and the rest of the onlookers – were not fooled by his protestations, but he was damned if he were going to admit to anything.

The brat smiled in relief. “That’s okay then.” His brow creased as a thought struck him. “Where’s Hermione?”

“Here.” Professor McGonagall pushed through the crowd, supporting an exhausted Hermione. The girl held a bloodstained handkerchief to her nose, but despite her fatigue, she was smiling.

“Harry! You’re all right!”

“Are you okay, ‘Mione?” Harry asked worriedly. “That must’ve been awfully strong magic you were doing.”

Madam Pomfrey bustled up, her wand already in motion. “Good heavens, Miss Granger! Your magical core is nearly depleted! You’re coming straight to the Infirmary for several days of rest!”

“But what about classes!” Hermione wailed. “I’ll miss too much!”

“No arguments,” Poppy scolded. “Repeated exertion at this level could turn you into a squib.” At Hermione’s tearful expression, she relented. “Miss Granger, you won’t be allowed to do any spellwork for at least a week, until your core regenerates, so there’s not much point in your attending classes anyway.”

“We’ll take plenty of notes for you, ‘Mione,” Ron added, squeezing in between Quidditch players so that he could ensure that his best mates were all right.

The pronouncement, from a decidedly un-intellectual Weasley, had the effect of silencing all conversation in the immediate area as everyone, from Hermione to Dumbledore, turned to stare at Ron. The boy squirmed uncomfortably. “Well, I mean, I’ll do my best, and Harry an’ Draco an’ Neville will help too, right?”

Hermione’s eyes flew hopefully to Draco. She knew that her Housemates had the best of intentions, but Draco was the only one whom she trusted to take good notes.

Had he not been a Malfoy, Draco would have squirmed under the interested gaze of most of the faculty and a good percentage of the student body. Him? Help a mudblood? At the behest of a blood traitor? His father would –

“Sure we will!” Harry agreed stoutly, slinging an arm over Draco’s shoulders. “It’ll be like you were sitting right there with us,” he promised Hermione.

Draco cleared his throat. “Yes, all right,” he muttered uncomfortably. “Fine.” He shot an apprehensive look at Flint, wondering how the Slytherin prefect would react to his promise to help a Gryffindor. He knew the older boy’s reaction would set the tone for the rest of the House.

Flint glanced at Snape then shrugged. “Good to see you lions appreciate Slytherin intellect,” he drawled.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Like anyone doesn’t know that Draco and ‘Mione are as smart as any Ravenclaw.” He noticed Professor Flitwick standing nearby and colored. “Erm, no offense, Professor.”

Flitwick chuckled in delight. “No one House has a monopoly on intelligence, Mr Potter, nor any other trait for that matter. I happen to agree with you that both Mr Malfoy and Ms Granger would have done very well in my House indeed!”

Draco managed to suppress his feeling of nausea. A Ravenclaw? Him? He looked over at Hermione and saw she was similarly appalled at the notion. It gave him an unaccustomed sense of camaraderie with the girl, and he found himself saying, “Don’t worry, Granger. I’ll make sure these baboons take good notes for you.”

“Oi!” Weasley, predictably, objected. “Who're you calling a baboon?”

Draco smirked. “I apologize, Weasley. With that red hair, I suppose an orangutan would have been a more appropriate choice, but I considered them a bit too intellectual.”

“You’ll pay for that, Malfoy,” Weasley threatened, but there was no real heat in the remark. After all, he had volunteered Draco for extra schoolwork without asking him, all for the benefit of a Gryffindor, and the Slytherin had actually agreed to do it.

Draco rolled his eyes, trying not to preen at the thought of a Weasley publicly acknowledging how smart he was. “I’m shaking in my shoes.”

“Slimy prat.” Weasley gave him a shove, more for effect than out of a desire to hurt the other boy. It would never do for anyone to think that he and Malfoy were really friends.

“Stupid git.” Draco shoved back, for exactly the same reasons.

“Sheesh!” Harry pushed between them. “You’re gonna get us in trouble if you don’t quit it!”

The other two huffed, but honor had been satisfied by the ritual exchange of shoves and insults, and with the teachers’ proximity, further hostilities would have crossed from obligatory posturing to suicidal foolishness. The two purebloods obediently settled down on either side of Harry.

“Miss Granger, can you please explain – briefly – what transpired?” Dumbledore requested. “It would be very helpful to understand matters from your vantage point.”

Hermione thought for a moment. “Harry and I were watching the match, then all of a sudden he was falling.”

“Do you mean he lost his balance on the railing and slipped?” McGonagall asked sharply.

“No, it was as if someone had crept up behind him and pushed him. I mean, Harry didn’t just fall off the railing – it was as if he were launched. That’s why he was so far out over the Quidditch pitch. He was pushed.”

Or pulled, Snape thought sourly, wondering where Quirrell had slunk off. The man had vanished in all the excitement.

“And what did you do then?”

“I cast Wingardium. I thought that if I made Harry light enough, he could just float over the pitch,” Hermione explained. “But then something broke my spell and pulled Harry towards the ground. I just kept casting, but I wasn’t strong enough to hold onto him.”

Flitwick looked thoughtful. “That’s not really the way Wingardium works,” he mused, exchanging a meaningful glance with the Headmaster.

“By the end there, I wasn’t really casting the spell,” Hermione confessed tiredly. “It was more like I was just wishing for Harry to stop falling and be safe.” That statement caused another round of elevated eyebrows among the faculty. Such powerful wish magic was very unusual in all but the most powerful witches and wizards, and even then, to manifest it at such an early age was almost unheard of. No wonder the child had nearly drained her core.

McGonagall put her arm around Hermione’s shoulders. “It’s off to the Infirmary with you, Miss Granger. Come along now.”

“Thanks, Hermione!” Harry called after his friend as Hermione was unresistingly led away.

“Right!” Hooch strode up to the Headmaster, cheeks pink from shouting. “Need to replay the game,” she announced. “Too much interference – bodies plummeting through the field of play. Can’t have spectators grabbin’ the snitch, y’know!” she said, with a stern look at Harry. He blushed and stared at his toes. “No point in tryin’ to start over now. Too much excitement – everyone runnin’ around. Play it again next week maybe. Have to check the calendar.”

“An excellent idea,” Dumbledore said soothingly. “I suggest that both teams have cause for celebration today, as I will be awarding both 50 points for their efforts to rescue Mr Potter, and another 75 to Miss Granger for her assistance.” Student faces perked up at the news. “And another 10 points to Mr Malfoy for helping a fellow student without regard to House affiliation.”

Flint thumped Draco on the shoulder. “Good going, Firstie!”

Draco managed to suppress his wince at the blow – Flint was as bad as Hagrid at not knowing his own strength!

“I will inform the elves to set up a celebratory feast in the Great Hall,” Dumbledore continued, “commemorating how inter-House cooperation averted today’s tragedy.” He sent a sly look at Snape as he said this, and the younger wizard gritted his teeth. As if saving Gryffindors was something to be proud of!

“Party in the Great Hall!” Wood yelled. “Let’s get cleaned up!”

Both teams sprinted for the changing rooms, while the rest of the school hurried up to the castle. Snape made a long arm and snatched Harry by the back of the robes when the boy would have headed off with the others. “Oh, no, Mr Potter. You are in no condition to glut yourself on sweets. You must recuperate from your Ordeal,” he informed the brat sternly.

“Oh, Pr’fessor!” Harry groaned in disappointment. “It wasn’t that bad. Honest!”

“Madam Pomfrey will be the judge of that,” he retorted, unmoved. “If she provides you with a clean bill of health, then you may attend the party but –“ he held up an admonitory finger “- only for two hours, after which I expect you to rest quietly in your room. You may do your homework until nine, when you will go to bed.”

Harry scowled and kicked at the grass. “”S not fair,” he grumbled. “Wasn’t my fault that someone tried to pull me off the railing. Don’t see why I have to miss the party. I caught the snitch an’ everything!”

Snape took him by the shoulder and marched the unwilling boy towards the infirmary. Surely the brat couldn’t face another attempt on his life with such aplomb? Was he merely in shock and denial? Better to let the medi-witch check him over.

“After such a fright, your body needs rest,” he informed the little monster icily. “Overstimulation at a party is hardly conducive to recovery.”

Harry heaved a great sigh, clearly feeling much put-upon. “It wasn’t that scary, Pr’fessor,” he argued. “I mean, it’s not like it hurt or anything. It actually felt kinda fun – y’know, scary-exciting. At least, it did until I started to feel like I was gonna sick up.”

Snape rolled his eyes. Were all children this foolish? Concentrating on the physical sensations rather than the actual threat? “Potter, you will drive me mad,” he scolded. “Are you not even the slightest bit concerned about who did this to you?”

Harry blinked up at him in surprise. “No.” At Snape’s stunned expression, he explained with childlike conviction, “ ‘Cause you’ll find out and take care of it, just like you did last time.”

There was a lump in his throat that made it difficult for Snape to reply immediately.

After clearing his throat uncomfortably, he managed to say, “Well, yes, Potter. You are correct.” He allowed the hand that rested on the boy’s shoulder to gingerly pat him a few times. “You may leave all that to me.”

Harry beamed up at his professor, reveling in the warm hand on his shoulder. Professor Snape might be a bit of a worry wart at times, but as much as Harry might chafe at the examination and the early bedtime (to say nothing of only being allowed a few hours at what promised to be quite a party!), he was still more than delighted at having an adult look after him. It meant that he could concentrate on taking good notes for Hermione – and preventing Ron and Draco from outright warfare – rather than having to solve a huge mystery about who was out to get him this time. He figured that Professor Snape was way sneakier than he was – not to mention more powerful – so he’d not only figure it out quicker, but also be able to exact revenge upon his attacker much better than Harry ever could.

Harry remembered those four Ravenclaw boys. Snape had gotten them expelled before breakfast the next day! Harry could never have managed anything like that – at best he might have been able to stay out of their way, or maybe think of some way to prank them. Professor Snape wasn’t limited to schoolboy revenges like that – he was a lot nastier than Harry could ever be. In fact, Harry felt rather sorry for whoever had tried to hurt him today. Professor Snape was going to kill them. And with a happy grin on his face and his guardian by his side, Harry walked unafraid through the doors of Hogwarts.

Snape glared at the grey stone wall of his dungeon classroom and contemplated banging his head against it. Much against his will, he was spending his evening supervising Harry, Hermione, and Ron, along with two of his own little snakes who had managed to earn a detention with Sprout. (Sprout! What were they thinking? A furious Snape had given each one a second detention for being so inept as to infuriate the normally placid Herbology professor. What kind of Slytherins couldn’t handle a Hufflepuff, for Merlin’s sake? Well, two nights copying “Slytherins are not dunderheads” over and over should help remind them that their House prided itself on out-thinking the rest of the school. If they couldn’t even manage the Head of Hufflepuff, they deserved every hex their Housemates sent their way.)

He would normally have set his Slytherins to scrubbing cauldrons, but he could hardly do that while the three Gryffindors sat at nearby desks working on their essays. So instead, all five children were industriously scribbling away, and Snape had to cast his own cleaning spells on the cauldrons. As if he didn’t have better things to do! It was all Potter’s fault.

And Minerva’s. She had pointed out that being restricted to the Common Room with all their friends wasn’t precisely an onerous penalty for the Trio, nor one conducive to working on their punishment essays. And since neither Granger nor Weasley had access to a private bedroom the way Potter did – though Potter’s was (thanks to Albus) so chock-a-block with toys that it was no more punitive a site for banishment than the Common Room – it was only sensible for the three to spend their time on restriction under the supervision of a professor. And, McGonagall had said with a steely glint in her eye, since she had already spent the last three evenings supervising them, it was now his turn.

In vain had he protested, arguing that they were in her House. She had turned a deaf ear and promptly at seven, the three little miscreants had appeared on his doorstep. His two snakes had followed closely and – much to Snape’s irritation – were visibly relieved to find Gryffindors present, knowing full well that their Head of House wouldn’t be nearly as stinging in his invective when there were non-Slytherins within earshot.

They had underestimated his menacing hiss, however, and before sending them to their desks, he rendered both of them ashen and sweating with a low-voiced lecture about what would happen if they were ever again so foolish as to fail to live up to their House values. Now though, an hour later, they were displaying the resilience of youth and beginning to glance up from their papers and exchange winks and cautious signals with the Gryffindors.

Snape again wished he could bang his head on the wall. His Slytherins were being corrupted by those blasted lions. Normally, Slytherins were either too sulky at being punished or too embarrassed at having been caught to do much during a detention other than the assigned task. They were anxious to get their punishment over with and escape, so that they could then pretend the whole thing had never happened.

By contrast, Gryffindors (probably because they received so many detentions, Snape thought sourly) seemed to view them as a social opportunity. These dratted lions obviously didn’t consider their restriction a shameful indignity, and they were sending sympathetic glances over to his snakes, along with funny faces to try to cheer up the gloomy second years.

To Snape’s intense annoyance, it was working, and instead of wearing tearful expressions of misery, his students were now stifling giggles. Even Snape had to admit that Weasley’s ability to simultaneously cross his eyes, wiggle his ears, and curl his tongue resulted in an… unusual… expression. Still, this was his dungeon, and students were here to suffer.

He brought his hand down hard on his desk and the students jumped and paled. “Does anyone find anything amusing about their punishment?” he asked silkily. “Anything at all?”

A hasty chorus of “No, sir” met his ears, and he gave each child a glare before returning to his own work. He was gratified to hear one of his snakes give a little whimper of terror as she turned back to her paper, but his gratification was short lived.

“Don’t worry,” he heard Harry whisper – the boy had absolutely no sense of stealth. “I know he sounds mean, but he’s really nice. Honest,” he insisted, having obviously received a look of disbelief from the Slytherin. “Even his smacks don’t hurt. Well, not much anyway. But he won’t do anything to you except yell a bit an’ that’s only ‘cause he wants you to do well at school an’ stuff.”

Snape was too paralyzed with horror to react for several seconds. By the time his brain processed what that horrible brat had just done to his laboriously crafted reputation, it was too late. He raised his head to see his Slytherin giving Harry a grateful smile, her sense of relief palpable, while Harry and the other Gryffindors smiled back. The other Slytherin watched, obviously trying to work out whether Harry’s words were some kind of devious plot, worthy of a fellow snake, or the straightforward reassurance they appeared to be.

“Potter!” He finally managed to get his vocal cords to work, and he prepared to verbally eviscerate the little snot once and for all. That should effectively remove any doubt as to his “niceness”.

“Yes’r?” Harry answered innocently, bringing up his eyes to meet Snape’s.

That emerald gaze sent Snape back in time, and once again he found himself helpless before it. “No talking during detention,” he managed to growl.

“Y’s’r. Sorry, sir,” Harry replied apologetically, then turned his attention back to his essay.

Snape muffled his groan. Gryffindors. He was beset by Gryffindors. It was no longer enough that he had to deal with Dumbledore and McGonagall; now that he had a ward who was a Gryffindor, he could no longer isolate himself amongst Slytherins outside of classes. No, Harry naturally enough counted many Gryffindors as his friends, and he was showing an alarming tendency to make friends in the other Houses as well. At least Harry had also formed a friendship with Draco, and that had in turn brought in some of the other Slytherins. Still, Snape knew with a dreadful sense of foreboding that it was only a matter of time before he would have to play host to Hufflepuffs and the rest in his own home.

At least the Malfoy scion was rubbing off on the others. In class the other day, Longbottom had actually managed a sharp retort in response to an insult from Parkinson, and the Weasley brat was showing a surprising talent for scheming. Also, Draco’s influence (along with his well-honed self-preservation skills) would ensure that none of the pranks the little monsters were doubtless plotting would be directed against Snape or his classes.

Of course, if Snape had to be honest, it wasn’t the juvenile Gryffindors that were really driving him crazy. After so many years of teaching, he was more or less immune to the students. No, it was the mutt and the werewolf whom he wished he could obliterate. What had he been thinking to assist those idiot Marauders? Gryffindors – especially those two – should be drowned at birth. But no, he had helped them out, and that morning, matters had come to a head.

Snape glowered and tried to remind himself that, after all, his plan had been successful. The Aurors had been completely baffled by Black’s escape, and the hue and cry had almost entirely died down within a few weeks. Fudge wasn’t about to have his administration’s failures widely publicized.

A few days after the escape, when he had judged it safe, Snape had arranged to collect Lupin from a café in Italy. In retrospect, that had been a mistake, as the waiter had all too obviously thought he was picking up the werewolf for an illicit tryst, and he had had to endure the man’s infuriating winks and nudges and romantic sighs. Bloody Italians.

He had taken Lupin to the Prince family home where the wolf and dog had fallen upon each other in a nauseating orgy of self-recrimination and tears. Things only got worse when Remus had tried to express their gratitude to Snape. The Potions Master had barely escaped being hugged (hugged!) by both Marauders. He shuddered at the memory. He would have had to use some kind of scouring hex on his skin if that had actually come to pass.

Black had then further irritated him by making an annoyingly speedy recovery, although that at least had enabled him to get started on the Dursleys more quickly than Snape had expected. But that too had proved disappointing. Harry’s relatives had been no match for the Marauders.

Severus grumbled. Muggles these days had so little fortitude. The disgusting Dursleys had been almost too easy. Between his boyhood friend’s organization and Sirius’ imaginative ideas, it had taken just under four weeks before the Muggles were twitching involuntarily and diving to the floor whenever they heard a loud noise. Snape sighed. He really needed to find someone who could offer him a genuine challenge.

He had visited the Marauders about ten days previous and had found both at his manor, sprawled on couches and teaching his house elves extremely rude drinking songs. “I see your work ethic has not improved over time,” Snape snarled. “Why aren’t you torturing the Dursleys?”

Black grinned at him and gave that annoying bark-like laugh. “All in hand, my boy. Today’s Petunia’s day to clean the house, and we intercepted Vernon en route to his office.”

“So?”

Remus smirked. “Let’s just say Petunia didn’t notice that her toilet scrub brush looked a little familiar.”

Snape blinked. He had to admit that was quite inventive, especially for two morons who’d barely managed to get through McGonagall’s class on animate to inanimate transfiguration. “That is… adequately imaginative,” he allowed grudgingly.

The two idiots beamed at each other and exchanged a high five.

“Since it is obvious that the Muggles do not require your undivided attention and the mutt appears to have recovered enough to be his usual irritating self, may I ask when you plan to vacate my home?” Snape demanded.

Both turned to him, smiles fading. “You’re throwing us out?” Sirius asked, gobsmacked.

“You thought I would give you indefinite room and board?” Snape asked in similarly disbelieving tones.

“Well, yes,” Black admitted, exchanging a bewildered look with Lupin.

“You actually planned on spending the next fifty years of your life within these wards, only venturing out occasionally to hex the Dursleys?” Snape stared at them incredulously. Was he the only one to realize that, with his miniscule attention span, Black would soon get bored and sulky at such confinement? That he would then embark on some ridiculous stunt to try to meet Harry or discredit Fudge or whatever other Gryffindorish notion lodged in his peabrain? That he would doubtless be captured and killed?

“But – but – “ Black stuttered incoherently.

“It’s all right, Sirius,” Lupin cut in quickly. “Severus is correct. He’s already been more kind to us than we had any right to expect. We can’t continue to impose on his hospitality. I’m sure I can find us a small flat somewhere. I don’t have a great deal of savings, but there are plenty of Muggle areas where rents are quite reasonable.”

Snape eyed the werewolf in disbelief. “I have an even better idea, Lupin. Why don’t you simply see if Mad-Eye Moody or Amelia Bones has a spare bedroom Black can use?” he asked sarcastically.

At Lupin’s expression of confusion, he snapped, “What is wrong with you, you fool? Do Gryffindors lack all sense of self-preservation? The instant Black leaves these wards, no place in Britain will be safe for him. Are you truly that simple-minded, or have you finally realized that the mutt is a useless git and decided to turn him in?”

“Of course not!” Lupin snarled back, his normally imperturbable temper for once igniting. “But what do you expect us to do when you force us to leave? You know full well we have no resources.”

“Wait! I’ve an idea!” Black chimed in. “There are those caves in the Forest by Hogwarts. I could live there as Padfoot, and the acromantulas and the rest of the creatures wouldn’t bother me.”

Snape wearily rubbed his forehead. He was so tired of dealing with Gryffindors. They were like those big stupid dogs who couldn’t understand where the ball went when you put it behind your back. “I suppose you’d survive by eating rats or whatever you could catch?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

Black shrugged resignedly. “If I have to. Maybe I can sneak into the Hogwarts kitchens once in a while.”

“Where the house elves will promptly capture you, lest you threaten their darling Harry Potter, and Dumbledore will do what he did ten years ago and deliver you to Azkaban. Only before they have you Kissed, the Ministry will subject you to Veritaserum and then the werewolf and I will end up as fugitives ourselves.” Snape could feel a headache coming on. Even first year Hufflepuffs weren’t as unsophisticated as these two. How on earth had the Marauders avoided as many detentions as they had, if this was their idea of a cunning plan?

“Er…” Black looked embarrassed, but Lupin was frowning in thought.

“Maybe the Ministry wouldn’t notice us if we disguise ourselves with – “ the werewolf began.

“Enough!” It was obvious Snape was going to have to do this himself. Oh, they might be able to torment Muggles and schoolchildren, but Lupin and Black’s notion of strategic thinking rivaled Harry’s – without his excuse of being merely eleven. No, it was up to him. Left to their own devices, Lupin and Black would hang around in the most obvious places, practically begging to be arrested. Did they have no idea that the world extended beyond the borders of Hogwarts and Diagon Alley?

No, he couldn’t trust them to keep themselves safe, and idiots though they were, they were both strong wizards and devoted to the boy. Snape intended to surround Harry with as many powerful wizards and witches as he could so that when the inevitable battle with the Dark Lord came, Harry would have plenty of allies and no need to rely on the Ministry, Dumbledore, or anyone else. Snape might not trust Black to figure out that toast came from bread, but he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he could be trusted to protect Harry, even at the cost of his own life. That was the sort of things Gryffindors lived for. (Well actually, died for.) …The point was that the mutt wouldn’t think twice before taking an AK meant for Harry, and that meant that Severus needed to keep him around.

In addition, Snape needed to secure Black’s freedom to ensure his own long-term safety. He wasn’t about to live under the threat of Black being interrogated with Veritaserum and his own involvement coming out. He needed the mutt cleared and untouchable, and obviously he couldn’t rely on the Gryffindors to manage it themselves. “Here’s what you will do…”

Several days later, the Wizarding World of Britain had been rocked by a shocking revelation: Sirius Black was alive and well in Switzerland! The Daily Prophet had an enormous picture of a smiling and waving Black outside the Zurich branch of Gringotts, while the accompanying text read:

Death Eater Black Granted Asylum in Switzerland!!

Sirius Black, long held to be a Death Eater and the betrayer of Lily and James Potter – the parents of The Boy Who Lived – has been granted asylum by the Swiss after his daring escape from Azkaban. The former Auror, now the head of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, had been imprisoned shortly after the Potters’ deaths for allegedly murdering his close friend Peter Pettigrew and a dozen Muggle bystanders. Confidential sources speculate that Pettigrew – who was also an associate of the Potters - had bravely confronted Black over his treachery, only to be obliterated by the more powerful wizard. When Black was finished with him, only Pettigrew’s finger remained. The Ministry judged Black such a dangerous threat to society that upon his capture, he was immediately dispatched to Azkaban.

Yesterday, in an astonishing turn of events, the Swiss government confirmed Black had reached Zurich and applied for political asylum. The Swiss have granted his petition and rejected loud demands from Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge for Black’s immediate return.

Swiss Wizarding Council President Pascal Schlumpf released a statement which read in part, “Switzerland is proud to be able to assist Mr Black to restore his good name. For ten years, Mr Black was illegally incarcerated on the island of Azkaban – a clear violation of the Declaration of Universal Wizarding Rights. Furthermore, the British government’s appalling treatment of Mr Black is matched only but its disgusting use of Dementors as prison guards on the island. Civilized countries have long condemned Britain’s medieval use of Dementors in this capacity, and it is a tribute to Mr Black’s mental fortitude and magical prowess that he has emerged from such an ordeal with his mind intact. Switzerland’s long-standing refusal to sign an extradition treaty with Britain has been largely based on Britain’s inhumane policies, and the treatment of Mr Black confirms the appropriateness of our decision. It is our hope that Mr Black will choose to make his home here in Switzerland, a beautiful country whose citizens are dedicated to the ideals of law and justice.”

Mr Black commented, “They’ve got amazing chocolate too - not to mention the women! It’s like they’re all double jointed or something. In fact, the things Swiss women do with chocolate are unbelievable…” The rest of Mr Black’s remark is unsuitable for publication in a family newspaper.

A source close to the Swiss president accounts for this inexplicable offer of sanctuary as follows: “Remember the last European Summit when your Minister got drunk and thought it would be funny to dump that Amortentia in President Schlumpf’s goblet? Remember how your paper printed those pictures of what happened next with the delegation from Sweden? Remember Mrs Schlumpf’s reaction when she saw those pictures? Don’t you have a saying that “payback is a witch”? What is it with you British and these stupid pranks anyway?”

Another top government official on the Swiss Wizarding Council commented, “Vhen ze head of one of ze oldest and vealthiest Vizarding families in Britain shows up on your doorstep asking for sanctuary, vat else vould ve say but ‘Come right in und bring all your money mit you’ ? Und besides, you made it easy for us. You never even gave ze man a trial, und den you expect us to hand him over to you to be Kissed? Ja, right.”

Goblins at the Diagon Alley branch of Gringotts refused to comment, but a spokesgoblin at the Zurich branch stated, “We are happy to allow Mr Black to draw upon his fortune. We are confident that either Mr Black will be proven innocent by the new MLE investigation into his past, in which case our English bank will be permitted to unfreeze his assets, or we will be able to collect any debts from Mr Black’s heir or estate. In the extremely unlikely event that the British government were foolish enough to try to seize all of Mr Black’s accounts and stiff Gringotts,” here the spokesgoblin paused and bared its many sharp, pointed fangs, “the British Wizarding World will find out why it is such a bad idea to annoy a goblin.”

That morning, as Snape entered the Great Hall for breakfast, he overheard snippets of a muffled conversation between Dumbledore and McGonagall. It was still very early and only a few students were at the tables, but – curiously – most of the staff had already assembled.

“Don’t be ridiculous… go mad when he hears… not to show it to him here… students in the crossfire…” McGonagall’s voice was low, but her anxiety was apparent.

Dumbledore tutted at her reassuringly. “…grown man…. take it like an adult… well-controlled emotions… confident he’ll be fine…”

“Oh, Severus,” Hooch called over sweetly. “Seen today’s Prophet?”

“Why?” he asked suspiciously, noticing how all the other faculty seemed to cower away from him.

“Thought you might find this interesting.” Hooch levitated a copy of the paper over to him, and the rest of the staff table whispered hasty Protegos.

Snape read the lead story and went first white, then red. “Er, Severus my boy,” Dumbledore began uncertainly, his confidence abruptly waning at the expression on the Potion Master’s face. “Please do not let this –“

Snape’s full goblet of pumpkin juice missed the Headmaster’s ear by mere inches. “THAT MISERABLE BASTARD!”

The students in the Hall stared, eyes huge, as their normally icy professor threw platters of food and drink around the Hall while the rest of the faculty ducked for cover under the table.

A few house elves popped in to remonstrate with whoever was wasting food in this fashion, but one glance at Snape’s countenance and they instantly vanished. Only after he had entirely cleared the staff table of food, shredded Hooch’s copy of the Prophet, and stomped on the remains, did Snape’s furious shouting come to an end. Heads tentatively popped out from under tables as the man took a deep breath, straightened his robes, and stalked from the room.

McGonagall transformed back from her feline form, in which she had cowered underneath Hagrid’s broad torso, and turned to eye the Headmaster, her smug expression proclaiming “I told you so”. Dumbledore sighed and looked at the wreckage of the Great Hall. “Well, that could have gone a bit better,” he admitted sadly.

Back in his quarters, Snape threw himself into a chair with a huff. That idiot Black! How dare he improvise his own lines? Those remarks about chocolate and Swiss women? He’d be lucky if the locals didn’t string him up by his – Hmmm. Snape’s lips quirked into a smile. Actually, would that be so terrible after all?

He forced his mind away from such pleasant mental images and once again scanned his own copy of the Prophet. Yes, the press release he’d written had been used by the Swiss president practically verbatim. It was amazing what the promise of a generous contribution to a campaign could do. The Swiss were always so… business-like… about such things. And of course the man had been dying for the opportunity to repay Fudge for that love potion stunt. Snape smirked. It always paid to stay up to date on international politics, and after keeping track of the dizzying maelstrom of the adolescent grudges at Hogwarts, it was surprisingly easy to track diplomatic enmities. They were quite sedate by comparison to the ever-changing alliances of hormonal teenagers.

He rolled his eyes, remembering how flabbergasted Lupin and Black had been at the suggestion they go abroad. Seeking allies outside of Britain had apparently never entered their little minds. “Do you imagine that Voldemort is hanging around Godric’s Hollow or the Forbidden Forest?” he had demanded, nearly pulling out his hair in frustration over their incomprehension. “He is surely long gone from Britain – seeking new allies and recovering his strength. You need to do the same!”

“I won’t act like some Slytherin Dark Lord!” Black had snapped, outraged at the suggestion.

“Fine. Stay here and end up as a soulless shell, you nitwit!” Snape snarled. “I expect Fudge will mount Lupin’s head on his wall once the axeman gets through with him.”

Sirius had frozen, stricken at the thought of Lupin facing execution for aiding him, and much of his opposition had melted away. “Well, why Switzerland?” he sulked. “It’s cold there. Why not somewhere with lots of bikinis, like Brazil, or topless beaches, like Denmark?”

Snape gritted his teeth. “Only you would be dunderheaded enough to choose a potential sanctuary based on bathing costumes,” he growled. “Switzerland has no extradition treaty with Britain, its current president despises Fudge, its population was neutral in the war so your reputation as either a Death Eater or Order member will be irrelevant, and their banking system is famous for being independent.”

Lupin, unsurprisingly, got it first. “So you think that their local Gringotts would permit Sirius to access his vaults?” he asked, eyes lighting up.

Gryffindors. Snape rubbed his forehead and did his best to explain things in very small words. “It is well known in banking circles that all Gringotts branches are magically connected. Goblin magic is quite adept at linking two distant sites. Didn’t you pay attention in Binns’ History class? How do you think they managed all those ambushes?”

Black snickered. “You actually listened to the ghost? What a loser! Did you take notes too?”

“The point,” Snape ground out, “which even the werewolf appears to grasp, is that in Switzerland you will be able to bankroll yourself, thus ensuring your safety from prosecution while you launch a counteroffensive in the world press.”

“Oh.” Black thought about that. “That would be good, right?”

Snape again reminded himself he was dealing with Gryffindors. “No rats,” he said slowly and distinctly. “No Dementors. Money. Attention. Women.”

Now Black was looking very happy. “Why didn’t you say so?” he demanded. “Let’s go! Come on, Moony! What are you waiting for?”

And now, looking at the front page of the Prophet, Snape saw the results of his labors. He had to admit, Black looked good. Lupin and the house elves had managed to reverse many of the ravages of Azkaban, and Black now looked the picture of noble suffering, gaunt but still ruggedly handsome rather than filthy and emaciated. No wonder the European paparazzi had gone wild. He was rich, handsome, young, and single: every young witch’s dream.

Snape grimaced at the thought of how women were surely fawning all over Black. Knowing the mutt, he would quickly realize how effective a “tortured by Dementors” spiel would be in attracting the witches. Leave it to Black to use languishing in Azkaban as a means of picking up chicks.

Remus was in Switzerland as well, though he was following orders and keeping a low profile. He’d be better able to portkey back and forth that way, continuing to hand out Marauder justice to the Dursleys and negotiating with Bones at the MLE on Black’s behalf.

Snape hastily Vanished his copy as a tentative knock sounded on his door. “What?” he snarled, opening it to reveal a rather apprehensive-looking Dumbledore.

“I just wanted to make sure you were all right, my boy,” Albus said soothingly. “I have already remonstrated with Rolanda for springing the paper on you in such an abrupt fashion.”

“I am entirely uninterested in Black’s whereabouts or condition,” Snape said coldly. “If those Swiss dunderheads are willing to shelter Death Eating scum, they deserve everything they get.”

Dumbledore sighed. “Yes, well, it appears that there may have been an… error.”

Snape’s eyebrows rose. “What?”

“Although it has not yet made the newspapers, my contacts at the Ministry inform me that Sirius has made copies of his pensieved memories available. They are being examined by Unspeakables to ensure they are genuine and unadulterated, but if true, it appears that a dreadful mistake was made.” Albus abruptly looked every one of his many years.

“You mean he didn’t betray the Potters and Pettigrew?” Snape demanded, playing his role.

Dumbledore closed his eyes for a moment, and his voice was heavy with guilt. “No. It appears he did not.” He opened his eyes and looked at Snape almost pleadingly. “It never occurred to me that Lily and James would change their Secret Keeper without telling me, but according to Sirius, the three of them decided that Sirius was too obvious a choice. They changed to Peter Pettigrew but kept it a secret, thinking that any attacks would continue to concentrate on Sirius. They decided to tell no one, not even me,” he added with unconscious arrogance. “When they died, I naturally assumed Sirius was responsible, and when Peter manufactured that alibi… I never questioned it. I knew Peter had never been capable of constructing elaborate plots, and so it never occurred to me to question why Sirius would turn Dark like that. Of course, Peter wasn’t acting alone – he’d had the Dark Lord and Death Eaters guiding him – and he obviously learned his lessons well. Well enough to be able to frame Sirius and ensure that none of us spoke up on his behalf.” Albus' expression was haunted with self-reproach. “I wanted to keep Harry safe and to put the whole wretched tragedy behind me… And so I condemned Sirius to ten years of torment.”

“Considering he had condemned me to seven years of torment, you will forgive me if I do not join in your orgy of guilt,” Snape cut in acidly. “Perhaps it will make you feel better to remember that attempted murder is often punished by a decade in Azkaban. Thanks to your intervention, Black was granted several years of freedom after nearly luring me to the werewolf, but things seem to have worked out satisfactorily in the end.”

For a moment he thought he had gone too far, as Dumbledore’s eyes briefly blazed with fury, but then the Headmaster’s shoulder slumped and his eyes were merely tired and sad. “Ah, poor Severus. You are the most injured of us all, aren’t you?”

Insulted, Snape started to protest, but Dumbledore held up a hand to silence him. “I did not come here to debate Black’s imprisonment with you, Severus. I am merely here to warn you that Sirius’ memories are likely to be shared with the press within the next day or two. Harry will surely hear of it, and if – as seems increasingly likely – Sirius is exonerated, he will doubtless seek to visit his godson.”

Snape shrugged as carelessly as he could. “Fine. Let him take over the little brat’s guardianship. I would consider it a welcome release.”

Dumbledore’s expression told him that he had not been fooled by Snape’s remark. “I doubt it will come to that, Severus, but I do think Harry should be prepared for the news and for the eventual meeting. Perhaps being introduced to Sirius sooner rather than later would be in his best interests, and it would also show Sirius that he need not sue for guardianship in order to see the boy.”

Snape glared at the Headmaster. “If you think I am going to accommodate that bastard Black in any way –“

Dumbledore looked stern. “I expect, Severus, that you will do what is best for Harry.” And with that rebuke, he turned and left the quarters.

Snape glowered at the door for a few moments, purely for effect, then penned a quick note. Summoning a house elf, he instructed the little creature to fetch Harry’s owl from the Owlry and glanced over the scroll while he waited.

Stage one successful. Advise press conference with pensieved memories within one week. Demand a meeting with boy immediately thereafter. Encourage Padfoot to play in traffic.

When the elf re-appeared with the owl perched on its head, he handed the scroll to Hedwig. “To the wolf, if you please,” he said curtly. She hooted and eyed him expectantly.

“Extortionist,” he grumbled, giving her an owl treat. “You’re every bit as manipulative as your master.”

She gave him a look that could only be described as a smirk and he turned to the elf. “Return her to the Owlry.” The bird could hardly leave from the windowless dungeons.

The elf happily squeaked, “Yes, Master Potions Professor Sir!”

That afternoon, Snape was walking through the corridors, enjoying a rare moment of student-free existence, when he overheard boyish sniggering. He turned the corner to find Harry and several other first years poring over the day’s paper. They had obviously finished with the cover story and were reading the profile of Black on the inside pages.

Harry looked over Seamus’ shoulder, elbowing Vince and Greg aside. The two behemoths obligingly made room for him, while Draco held the paper up a bit higher.

“Isn’t he your godfather, Harry?” Neville asked.

“Him?” Terry Boot asked, his tone acutely envious.

“Here, wait – he’s doing it again!” Ernie Macmillan tittered, pointing to the picture.

Harry watched as the tall, dark haired man in the picture grinned at a large and admiring group of young witches, several of whom held up signs that said, “I LOVE SIRI”. An object came flying at him from out of camera range, and Sirius caught it, then twirled it around his finger while looking directly at the camera and waggling his eyebrows suggestively. His audience of girls screamed and sighed.

“What is that thing?” Ron asked blankly.

“A thong,” Snape answered repressively, covering Harry’s eyes with one hand and plucking the paper from Draco with the other.

“Hey – “ Draco’s loud protest abruptly cut off as he twisted around to see who had confiscated his newspaper.

Snape glared around at the boys. “If you are so lacking in activities that you must turn to pornographic pictures for entertainment, I am happy to assign as much detention as you require.”

“N-no, sir!” Draco assured him hastily, tugging at the other boys who were still trying to puzzle out what he had said. “We don’t need detention!”

That the other boys could understand, and a chorus of agreement rapidly sounded.

“Then get out of my sight!” Snape snarled, and the boys scattered, vanishing almost as quickly as house elves.

Harry looked up at his guardian anxiously. He had sounded awfully cross, and he had scrunched up Draco’s paper as if he wanted to Incendio it. “Um, I didn’t mean to look at something bad,” he offered meekly. “It’s just the Daily Prophet.”

“Smut is smut,” Snape retorted. “If they choose to print such filth, I expect you to have the wit to avoid it.” He knew perfectly well that he was being unfair, but that was all right. The brat had surely heard of his tantrum at the breakfast table, and Potter should know better than to irritate his guardian when he was in a Mood. If the little idiot hadn’t learned that life lesson by now, then there was no time like the present.

“Sorry,” Harry offered swiftly. It looked like the gossip was right, and his professor was in an awful grump about something. Still, he had noticed that the man hadn’t actually awarded any detention to Harry or his friends. He’d only threatened to do so. Harry smiled to himself. Professor Snape was such a nice man.

“Hmf.” Snape gave the boy the evil eye. “I suppose you’re interested in meeting your godfather?”

Harry shrugged. “The other guys say he sounds really cool.” He paused. “I wouldn’t mind meeting him, but it’s not really that important,” he said, carefully casual. The last thing he wanted was to make his professor think he preferred some stranger to him.

“Fine. I’ll consider arranging it. Now get to your Common Room – your restriction isn’t over, and if I find you out here again, you’ll regret it. Or do you need a smack to remind you of the importance of obedience?” he threatened.

“We were just walking back from class when Draco showed us his paper,” Harry protested, but he quickly fled to the Tower before his professor could reconsider his leniency. Snape scowled after him, then went to complain bitterly to Minerva and Albus about what the Prophet was stooping to print these days.

Unfortunately, far from commiserating with him, McGonagall had ambushed him with her demand that he supervise her lions’ restriction, and now here he was, his Evil Bat reputation in tatters, his boyhood nemesis the toast of Europe, and his ward confidently expecting him to arrange a meeting with the most notorious wizard in Britain. Could his life get any worse?

“Oh, Severus?” Albus put his head around the doorframe. “Did Minerva mention your appointment to the Inter-House Friendship and Holiday Decoration Committee?”

“Hey, mate – what’s wrong?” Ron asked, throwing himself down on the Common Room sofa next to Harry.

His friend shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Oh, come now, Harry,” Hermione coaxed, seating herself on his other side. “You’ve been out of sorts for a few days now. What is it?”

“Restriction’s nearly over – you should be happy,” Ron reminded him, trying to cheer Harry, but the other boy just nodded.

Hermione studied him. Was Harry sulking over the punishment? He would hardly be the first person to begin to chafe under a week-long ban. She had expected Ron to start complaining days ago, but he was still so chuffed over his new wand that he really hadn’t noticed much of anything else. But no, Harry didn’t seem like the type. But then what was it? “Did you and Professor Snape have an argument?” she hazarded a guess.

He huffed. “How? I practically never see him these days.”

Ron’s face creased in confusion. “Huh? But we see him in Potions and he just supervised us the other night and –“

“I never see him alone any more,” Harry clarified. “ ‘S'not like we’re gonna have an argument in class.”

“Oh. Right,” Ron nodded.

Hermione nodded too. “You miss him,” she said knowingly.

Harry turned scarlet. “Do not! You think I’m such a baby?” he demanded angrily, uncharacteristically short-tempered.

The girl was taken aback. “No, Harry! No! I just meant that – well, you and Professor Snape haven’t had much time to get to know each other. It’s only reasonable that there are a lot of things you still want to talk about. I didn’t mean that you were – were homesick or anything like that.” Ron watched, wide eyed, as Hermione anxiously tried to placate their friend.

“Okay then,” Harry muttered, mollified. He stared moodily into the fire for a few minutes, while his friends exchanged nervous glances above his head, but his conscience wouldn’t let him keep silent for very long.

“Sorry,” he mumbled guiltily, not looking at Hermione. It really wasn’t fair to take out his bad mood on either of his friends. Hermione just had to figure out any puzzle in front of her, and just because he was a little embarrassed about missing Snape didn’t mean he should snap at her like that. And Ron had been his first friend ever – though Harry doubted he’d stay a friend if he kept ignoring him like that.

“ ‘S’okay, mate,” Ron answered for both of them, throwing an arm around Harry’s shoulders. “It’s like Hermione said, we’ve had eleven years with our folks – it’s not such a big deal for us to be away from ‘em. You don’t miss the Dursleys, do you?” Harry shuddered and shook his head. “See? It’s just that Snape’s new. That’s why you miss him. Totally reasonable, yeah?” he asked Hermione.

“Absolutely,” she agreed, glad to see Harry now smiling shyly.

“Thanks,” he said, grateful to have such wonderful friends. “ ‘S’just that when I’ve gone down to see him the last few times, he’s been too busy to talk. I mean, I can go stay in my room if I want, but he won’t let me stay with him, not even to cut up potion ingredients.” His shoulders drooped. “Maybe he’s gotten bored with me.”

“Nah, mate!” Ron disagreed. “Why’d he do that?”

“I dunno. But it’s not like I have anything interesting to talk to him about. He’s always doing something really important, like remember the other day, when the Headmaster put him on that committee? He always is busy with stuff like that. An’ he’s been working extra-hard on some project lately…” He shrugged again, despondently. “What do I do ‘cept go to classes?”

“I don’t know that you’re being very fair to yourself, Harry,” Hermione pointed out, as usual the voice of reason. “I mean, we’ve been on restriction for the past week. He would have been angry if you had done something interesting.”

“Yeah. Once you’re allowed to fly again, then you’ll have plenty to talk to him about!” Ron said encouragingly.

Harry still looked doubtful. “I guess… ‘Cept he’s not really that interested in Quidditch.”

Ron looked horrified. “Not interested in – Are you kidding?”

Harry and Hermione exchanged an amused look. “Well, I mean, he wants his House to win the Cup an’ all, but it’s not like he spends lots of time reading the Quidditch scores in the Prophet or anything like that.”

Ron shook his head in amazement. “Blimey.”

“Well,” Hermione said, ever practical, “why don’t you do something that he would find interesting?”

Harry perked up. “That’s a great idea!”

“Yeah! ...Uh, like what?” Ron asked after a moment.

“Well, you could do an extra credit research project in Potions,” Hermione began animatedly. “Or maybe –“

“Nah,” Harry brushed aside her ideas excitedly. “We’ll solve a mystery!”

Hermione looked apprehensive. “What mystery? You’d better not be talking about the third floor -”

Harry rolled his eyes. “No, Hermione. I’m not stupid, okay? Pr’fessor Snape would kill me if I went up there after the Headmaster told us all not to an’ said it was dangerous an’ all. An’ even worse than that, the Headmaster might decide to send me back to the Dursleys for disobeying him.”

“But what other mystery is there?” she asked blankly.

“Professor Quirrell!”

“There’s a mystery about Professor Quirrell?” Ron echoed, confused.

“Sure!” Harry’s eyes were shining. “I mean, Pr’fessor Snape can’t stand him – he’s always giving him The Look – an’ that’s got to mean something. An’ now he’s been in the Infirmary since the Quidditch match – that’s got to mean something too!”

Hermione rolled her eyes. Boys! Always trying to find a secret when there wasn’t one. “It means that the poor man fell down the stands in all the excitement. The Headmaster announced that he’d been badly hurt and would have to stay there for a while, remember?”

Harry huffed in disbelief. “C’mon! Madame Pomfrey fixed your wrist up in no time – what could he have done to himself that takes more than a week to fix? If he’s that hurt, why would he stay here? Shouldn’t he be in a hospital?” He paused abruptly, a little uncertain. “There are Wizard hospitals, right?”

Ron looked thoughtful. “He does have a point, Hermione. If anyone’s really hurt, they should be taken to the wizarding hospital, St Mungo’s. I mean, Madame Pomfrey’s really good an’ all, but she’s only one person, and this is just a school infirmary. St Mungo’s has a big staff and special spells and all that stuff.”

“Hmmmmm.” Harry saw that look in Hermione’s eye and knew she too was hooked.

“And then there’s the biggest mystery of all,” Harry said temptingly. “What’s under his turban?”

Ron snorted in amusement. “Is that like asking what’s under his kilt?”

Hermione gave him a primly disapproving glance, ignoring Harry’s snigger. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Ronald.”

“Seriously, though,” Harry persisted. “I overheard some of the older students talking, and he never used to wear a turban, so why’d he start? Maybe he’s hiding something in it!”

Hermione looked at him doubtfully. “Why? If he had something to hide, why not just put it in Gringotts or someplace else that’s safe?”

“Maybe he can’t. Maybe it’s something on him,” Ron suggested. “Like – like a curse scar!” he exclaimed, his eye falling on Harry’s.

“He’s a DADA teacher. Why would he need to hide a curse scar?” Hermione argued.

“Maybe because he lost the fight and he doesn’t want everyone to ask about it and find out?” Ron offered, a bit lamely.

“I bet he’s just going bald and is vain about it,” Hermione said dismissively. “Men can be very silly about losing their hair.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right. And girls aren’t silly about their hair at all.” He mimicked Lavender’s high voice and petulant tones. “Ooooh, I just don’t know what I’m going to do, Parvati! My hair just won’t stay the way I want it to. You’re so lucky that your hair is so perfect. I wish I had straight hair like yours!”

Harry got into the game. “Oooooh, Lavender, I don’t know what you mean! I just love your hair. You’ve got those lovely curls. I wish I had curly hair!” Harry minced in a passable impersonation of Parvati.

Hermione huffed. “Just you wait, you two. In a few years, you’ll be in front of the mirrors too – wanting to look nice and impress all the girls!”

Harry and Ron collapsed in laughter. “Us? Mirrors? Girls? Yeah, right!”

Hermione huffed again and rolled her eyes. Sometimes it was so hard being the mature one.

#

Snape looked over the piles of parchment still to be corrected and sighed. Work had really piled up over the last week, thanks to all the time he had spent masterminding Black’s reemergence into the Wizarding world. Not to mention convincing Dumbledore that he had to do something about Quirrell. After the last Quidditch match, he had told Albus in no uncertain terms to get rid of the stuttering wreck, but the Headmaster had proved surprisingly recalcitrant.

At first Snape had assumed that, once again, Albus’ inability to see the Dark side of anyone was blinding him to the threat that the man posed to Harry, but further conversation had made it clear that Dumbledore simply wanted to know who was giving Quirrell his orders.

“You and I both know that Professor Quirrell has neither the wit nor ambition to attack The Boy Who Lived of his own accord,” Dumbledore had said, his mien for once grim. “I want to know who has the audacity to attack one of my students on these very grounds.”

Snape had grudgingly admitted the logic of such a plan – could it be Lucius? Or one of the LeStranges, pulling strings from Azkaban? Or perhaps… He was forced to admit that not knowing was just too dangerous. “Very well, but how are you going to prevent him from attacking Harry again or – on the off chance that if it isn’t a Death Eater plot – some other student?”

“He will remain in the Infirmary, recovering from his very nasty spill,” Dumbledore replied, twinkling again. “It seems in all the confusion poor Professor Quirrell lost his footing and suffered some very serious injuries in a fall from the stands.”

Snape unwillingly agreed. At least it bought them some time. It kept Quirrell isolated and Harry safe while not – necessarily – tipping off whoever was pulling Quirrell’s strings. But he didn’t trust Albus entirely, and he had taken to prowling the corridors near the Infirmary during the night, ensuring that the DADA professor didn’t sneak out while Madame Pomfrey slept.

Between guarding Quirrell, scripting Sirius’ press conferences, teaching class, and keeping an eye on his House, he was feeling more than a little frazzled. He hadn’t really paid much attention to Harry, either, though at least he saw him in class and at the Great Hall for meals, not to mention during those evenings when he had supervised their punishment. For a few days the boy had seemed a little quiet, but now he and his little friends constantly had their heads together, whispering and muttering. Obviously they were plotting something to celebrate the end of being on restriction, and if they weren’t careful, they’d end up right back on it, Snape fumed. He had no intention of allowing Harry to run wild the way his father had, though he had to admit he hadn’t been a particularly good guardian of late. Perhaps he needed to do something with the brat, just to remind the little terror that he was under close scrutiny.

#

“NO! No no no no. No.”

Albus smiled. “I just wish you to think about it, my boy.”

“Have you gone deaf, Headmaster? I said no. The idea is absurd. When I brought up the topic, I was thinking more along the lines of having the brat do his homework in my quarters one evening,” Snape snapped, mentally kicking himself for even mentioning his thoughts to Albus.

“So that he can be working at one table and you at another? That is hardly spending time with him.”

“It most certainly is spending time with him. He would be in my presence, would he not? That is the meaning of the term ‘with him’. And your idea is patently ridiculous. I am not going to encourage the little monster to celebrate the end of a punishment. That would be the epitome of encouraging bad behavior!”

“I made no such suggestion, Severus –“

“Taking that brat out for an ice cream the first day he’s off restriction most certainly is celebrating the end of that restriction. I am not going to buy him sweets and make a fuss over him when he earned every day of that restriction with his appalling actions.” Snape sulked. “It would be the same as telling him the punishment was too harsh.”

“You are neither celebrating nor apologizing for the punishment,” Dumbledore argued calmly. “You are commemorating the fact that, now that he has served his punishment to your satisfaction, he is once again permitted normal privileges. What is more you are reminding him of some of those privileges, such as an excursion to town and a treat.” He paused, his twinkle replaced by a crafty gleam. “In some ways, it would be quite cruel, you know, showing him what he had missed for the past week and reminding him what he stands to lose, should he misbehave again.”

Severus’ expression shifted the tiniest bit, and Dumbledore pressed his advantage. “And it would remove him from the castle and Professor Quirrell during a weekend day when it might otherwise be difficult to keep track of him. He might, for example, wish to wander around a bit after being cooped up for so long. He did behave himself, didn’t he? No sneaking around despite his restriction?”

“No,” Snape admitted unwillingly. He’d been rather surprised by that. James Potter would never have accepted his punishment so meekly, but Harry and the others had obeyed the strictures, turned in their essays, and even assisted in potion ingredient preparation without any complaints or whinging.

“There, you see?” Albus said happily, as if Snape had just agreed with his ludicrous proposal. “Have a good time, my boy.”

“Headmaster, even if I were going to remove the boy from school grounds, there is no reason to take him all the way to Diagon Alley. Hogsmeade is perfectly adequate for – “

“No, no, my boy. Diagon Alley. Harry needs to experience Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor,” Albus smiled as he walked away, leaving Snape to fume by himself.

Well? Should he do what the old coot patently wanted and take the boy on an outing? It would give him yet another treat he could withhold for punishment, and the broom had worked out spectacularly in that regard…

Oh, all right. He might as well, since he knew that Dumbledore wouldn’t give him a moment’s peace until he had done so. Besides, this way he could pick up some ingredients while they were out and see if there were any new potions journals at Flourish and Blotts. But he certainly wasn’t bringing along a whole passle of brats. He shuddered at the thought of shepherding Neville Longbottom, Draco Malfoy, and the rest of Harry’s friends around the Alley. No, he thought sternly, this was not a trip for Potter’s little entourage. If the brat refused to come without his friends, then he would just learn what it felt like to sit in his quarters and copy lines for the day. That would show him that there were worse things than having to accompany his stern guardian around London and behave himself. If Potter thought a trip without his friends was too boring to contemplate, then he’d quickly learn the truth. Snape nodded in satisfaction. He’d make it clear that this was no treat for the boy, but an obligation about which he’d better not complain.

#

Harry trotted happily at his guardian’s side. He was so lucky! Professor Snape was taking him all the way to London with him! Just him, Harry. Nobody else. Not Flint or Jones or even Draco – no, Professor Snape had chosen him over any of his snakes. Even Hermione, with her better grades, would have been a more reasonable choice in some ways, but no, his professor had wanted him.

Harry beamed. He’d never had an adult want to spend time with him before, yet there was no other explanation for Professor Snape’s behavior. Harry felt like he could burst from happiness.

Even Professor Snape’s timing was perfect. This was their first day off restriction, and Hermione had been waiting outside the door for Madame Pince to open the library that morning. She was planning to spend the day there, among the books, making up for her absence over the last week. Harry shook his head. Girls.

Meanwhile, the twins had promised to smuggle Ron down to the kitchens and bribe the house elves to let him have all the puddings he’d missed over the last week. Harry suspected that they were hoping that Ron would eat himself sick, but he had more faith in his best mate’s enormous appetite. He suspected the twins might be disappointed when their “good deed” turned out to be exactly that, but maybe he was being unfair. Their promise about today had carried Ron through some of the long, long meals when he could only stare in mute longing at the desserts. Harry had told Ron not to linger at the table once the pudding was served, knowing from bitter experience at the Dursleys that it was much worse to be able to see and smell the foods that you had no chance of tasting, but Ron preferred to torture himself.

His behavior had ensured that the rest of the school knew all about the punishment, and as a result Harry had been the recipient of more than one sympathetic look from students who obviously considered his guardian to be a fearsome disciplinarian. Most of the other teachers would have been content to assign detention and perhaps lines, they said. Only Snape would select such targeted and painful penalties.

Harry had happily accepted his schoolmates’ solicitude – it made quite a change from being reviled as “that freaky kid who lives with the Dursleys” – but he was really rather proud that his guardian didn’t just beat the hell out of him (as the Dursleys would have) or use an uncaring “one size fits all” approach (as the rest of the faculty seemed to do) when he screwed up. He found it rather nice that his professor spent time thinking about what would make the most impression on him and chose punishments that actually taught him something, like the essay, or matched the infraction, like the restriction. He wasn’t sure why the other students didn’t see it that way, but he supposed it might be a Wizarding thing and didn’t give it much thought.

And now, as if to address all his fears about his Professor still being mad at him, here he was being taken to Diagon Alley as a special treat! Professor Snape had made it clear that he was going to the Alley to run some errands, and he didn’t normally take anyone along, but he was going to allow Harry to come with him! He’d even taken the time to explain exactly how Harry should behave, which made Harry even happier. The last time he’d been at the Alley with Hagrid had been fun, but he’d been all too aware that he’d stuck out like a sore thumb, not knowing how to dress or talk or behave. This time, Professor Snape had made sure Harry was well prepared and wouldn’t make a fool of himself. He was even allowing Harry to walk beside him, rather than making him stay several steps behind the way his relatives always made him do. Harry hugged himself in delight. This was one of the best days of his life.

Snape glanced down at the urchin walking at his side. At least the brat was keeping up with his longer strides now. At first the little menace had trailed behind, but after he’d seized him by the wrist and yanked him along, holding his hand as if he were a misbehaving toddler, the brat had learned his lesson. Now he was sticking by his side and – oddly enough – smiling.

Snape grudgingly admired the fiend’s ability to accept a rebuke. Most of his Slytherins – including, if he had to be honest, himself – would have sulked for hours after such treatment, but Harry just seemed to take Snape’s point and move on. He’d behaved similarly after Snape had sat him down and explained in excruciating detail just how he expected Harry to conduct himself. He’d outlined all the behaviors that were unacceptable and drilled him on basic etiquette until he’d expected the boy to explode. He was eleven, after all, and he couldn’t appreciate being lectured on such basic things as using a public toilet’s hand washing spells or excusing himself if he came between a wizard and his familiar on the street.

Yet Harry had listened with every appearance of rapt attention, and Snape had been defeated in his attempt to catch the child out in a display of sarcasm. Even his “thank you” after listening to Snape drone on about proper greetings for the Gringotts goblins sounded sincere and interested. Snape decided that Albus must have whispered something to the brat about Fortescue’s, and the boy wasn’t going to do anything that might jeopardize his treat, no matter how insulted he might actually feel.

Snape had been surprised that the brat hadn’t even asked about bringing along his friends, but again, perhaps Albus had warned him. He had to admit, the boy was – so far – behaving very well indeed. He hadn’t even sicked up after they Apparated, much to Snape’s surprise.

#

Harry was in Heaven. He’d loved the sensation of side-along apparition, especially as it gave him a socially acceptable reason to give his guardian a hug. Snape had looked at him a little oddly, but hadn’t objected, and the man had even given him a little pat on the shoulder and a “well done” when Harry kept his feet during the transport. And now, they had been wandering the Alley for hours.

Snape kept going into the most fascinating stores – with weird potion ingredients and captivating books – and he’d actually bought Harry something at most of them. This was utterly unprecedented in Harry’s experience, and he’d protested, but his professor had insisted in his usual way. “Potter! I have had enough of your impertinence! Having the companion guide to your potions textbook will enable you to develop your essay themes in much greater detail. No more arguments. I will be purchasing this book, and you will be reading it. Do you understand?”

And now Harry kept flipping through the amazing book – which had step by step animated illustrations to show the difference between chopping and dicing and why stirring counterclockwise was important and how to tell salamander eyes from newt eyes and… “Potter! Pay attention! You nearly walked into that stand!”

“Sorry, sir, ma’am,” Harry said quickly, nodding to the stand’s owner. The old lady caught sight of his scar and gasped in delight.

“Ooooh, Mr Potter, sir! Here, have one on the house!” She stuck a stick in his hand and waved away his thanks.

Harry hurried over to where Professor Snape stood waiting, a sour look on his face. “What is it, sir?” he asked, holding it out for inspection.

“An all day sucker,” Snape snapped. “It tastes like whatever is appropriate for the hour – pancakes in the morning, tea at midday, and so on.”

“Brilliant!” Harry said, popping it into his mouth. “Mmm!”

Snape huffed. “Just what you need – more sugar.”

Harry started to remove the lollie, but Snape shook his head at him scoldingly. “It would be most ungracious to refuse it, and I suppose you still require additional caloric supplementation to make up for past neglect.”

Harry happily replaced the sucker and handed over his book for the professor to stow with the rest of his purchases.

“Potter,” Snape said, a bit uncomfortably, as they continued down the street, “are you… all right?”

“Huh? I din’ hurt m’sel on th’stand if tha’s what you mean?” Harry asked, a bit confused.

“Do not mumble around that treat in such a slovenly fashion,” Snape corrected sharply. “Take it out of your mouth when you are speaking.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. What do you mean, am I all right?”

“It is a simple enough question.” Snape’s voice was harsh, revealing his feeling of awkwardness. “You have experienced many changes in your life over the past few months. It would be natural to feel – unsettled.”

“Oh.” Harry thought about it. His life certainly had changed a lot, but they were all good changes. He had a new place to live, friends for the first time, more than enough to eat, and – best of all – he had his guardian who looked after him and spoiled him with outings and presents. He was learning to use his magic, and no one had called him a freak in months. Even when he got into trouble here, he didn’t have to fear a beating… Could life get any better? “I don’t think I feel unsettled. Everything’s good,” he assured his professor.

“Has the attention around your godfather been,” Snape cleared his throat uncomfortably, “difficult for you?”

Harry considered. The only real difficulty had come when Snape had caught him looking at what had turned out to be a naughty picture. Harry still wasn’t sure whether his godfather had helped to kill his parents or not – he figured his professor would let him know when everything had been sorted out and a decision reached on that point – but even if it hadn’t been him, someone had helped kill them and they’d still be dead no matter what. Harry suspected that if he were still living with the Durselys, then he’d care a lot more about his godfather’s guilt or innocence, as that might provide him with a way to escape his relatives’ care, but since he now had his professor, the whole thing became a lot less relevant.

Besides, he didn’t know what this godfather was like. Most of his life, Harry’s luck had been pretty rotten, and he knew better than to expect things to turn out well for him. What if his godfather was mean or bullying like the Dursleys? Or even just a lot less tolerant than his guardian? Harry had had enough of getting screamed at and whacked (really whacked, not the little swats his professor administered) and made to scrub floors. He knew his professor would never do any of those things – but with this new unknown anything was possible. No, Harry was very happy right where he was.

He knew his professor was still waiting for an answer, so he shrugged. “Not really.”

Snape frowned. Was the brat in denial? Burying his feelings? Hmm. He might have to get a few more books on child psychology. Perhaps those Muggle books he’d special ordered had finally arrived at Flourish and Blotts. “Come along, Potter,” he led the way into the store. “You may select two books to purchase,” he said sternly. “Only two, mind!”

Harry’s jaw fell open. “B-but, Professor –“

“No arguments,” Snape snapped. Greedy little fiend! “Two!”

“But you already got me a book! You don’t have to buy me any more!” Harry protested. He’d already cost the professor so much today.

Snape blinked, readjusting his preconceptions. “Potter,” he said, his tone significantly less sharp, “I am perfectly aware that I don’t ‘have’ to buy you these books, but it is customary to be permitted a few treats on a shopping expedition – if you behave yourself like a young wizard should,” he added hastily, lest the brat come to think he was entitled to such gifts.

The smile spread over Harry’s face like sunshine. “So I’ve been good? I’ve behaved properly?”

“Didn’t I just say that? Shall I have Madame Pomfrey check your hearing?” Snape asked snarkily. “Now go look for your books. I will not sit around and wait while you dilly dally!”

Harry shot off, straight for the Quidditch section. How predictable. Snape rolled his eyes and made for the counter at the back of the shop.

He’d just finished paying for his books and was about to go in search of the little monster when a voice behind him purred, “Severus. So good to see you again.”

“Lucius.” He turned, his face carefully neutral.

“Mr Malfoy! Hi!” Harry appeared at his side, grinning up at Malfoy. “Is Draco here too?”

“No, I assume Draco is safely back at Hogwarts,” Lucius replied, casting a pointed glance at Snape. “School is still in session, is it not?”

Severus’ eyes narrowed, but he didn’t take the bait. Harry, on the other hand, was as artless as usual. “Oh, sure. But Professor Snape had to run some errands, so he brought me with him. Wasn’t that nice of him?”

“It certainly was,” Malfoy answered, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes. “He must take exceptionally good care of you.”

Harry nodded vigorously. “He’s brilliant!”

“That’s why I was surprised to hear of your latest adventures,” Malfoy continued, finally turning to look at the boy directly. “A troll, Mr Potter?”

Harry’s eyes widened. “How did you know about – Oh! Did Draco write you about it?”

“He did, though I had already read about it in the paper.”

Now Harry’s mouth formed an “O” of surprise. “The newspaper! The newspaper wrote about the troll?” He spun to face Snape. “Did you know that?”

“Why, Mr Potter, of course the newspaper was interested in learning that students at Hogwarts had been threatened by a troll,” Lucius answered before Snape could. “Hogwarts is getting to be a very dangerous place.”

“And yet despite the troll’s efforts, the boy is fine,” Snape replied coldly. “You would do well to remember that.”

“Did they write about everything?” Harry demanded, oblivious to the undercurrents between the two men. He looked at Snape beseechingly. “Did they say about… you know?” At Snape’s look of incomprehension, he threw an agonized look over his shoulder at Lucius, then hissed, “You know. About our punishments an’ all?”

Snape rolled his eyes. Children! “No, Mr Potter, although I am all too aware that the public’s insatiable curiosity about you doubtless means that they would like to know that you were smacked and restricted – “ Harry squirmed, casting a mortified glance at Lucius’ amused face “ – no such information was contained in the article. It merely noted that a troll had entered Hogwarts and threatened several students before being neutralized. Most of the article focused on the obvious need to improve the school wards lest such a thing happen again.”

“Oh.” Harry was relieved. He didn’t want everyone to know such embarrassing details about his life. It was bad enough that most of the school knew! “So are they going to be? The wards, I mean. Improved.”

“Oh, yes,” Snape replied calmly. “The public outcry was enormous. Fudge authorized the additional expenditure last week, and I understand the Headmaster will have the new wards in place very soon.”

If he ended up writing any more press releases, he was going to have to add “journalist” to his resume, but after Albus banned all reporters from school grounds, the Prophet had been only too glad to accept his account of the event, under a penname. And that allowed him the opportunity to improve the school wards, further safeguarding his charge. He had been telling Dumbledore for years that the wards were getting worn, but in the absence of any credible threat, his words had fallen on deaf ears. Other areas of castle maintenance had always been seen as more pressing.

Well, no longer. Now Albus was installing some of the most powerful and comprehensive wards available, aided by Gringotts’ best.

Lucius looked as if he had smelled something unpleasant. “I see,” he said shortly. “And what about the Quidditch game? What happened there?”

“Did that make it into the newspaper too?” Harry asked in disbelief.

“No. That I heard about from Draco,” Lucius admitted.

“Have you found your two books?” Snape interrupted before the brat could answer Lucius’ question.

“Erm – one of them,” Harry admitted.

“Then go find another. Run along!” Snape’s tone admitted no room for discussion, and Harry hurried away. The Potion Master turned to Malfoy, eyeing him assessingly. “And what do you know about the Quidditch game?” he asked coolly.

Malfoy spread his hands in a mocking gesture. “Why, nothing, Severus. Only that it appears that – again – your ward was the victim of an attack. That sort of thing seems to happen quite frequently, doesn’t it?”

“Mm. And yet, the boy is fine, and it’s his assailants who are suffering ill health.” Snape was doing everything in his power to spin events to carry that message. The stronger and more invulnerable the boy appeared, the fewer Death Eaters would have the courage to attack him, particularly in the absence of Lord Voldemort to spur them on.

Malfoy frowned. “I’ve thought about what you said,” he said, abruptly changing the subject.

Snape raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“I admit you raised some ideas that were… new… to me, but you can hardly expect me to throw in my lot with some child on the basis of a few lucky encounters.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed. “Is that what you would term surviving a Killing Curse?”

“No one knows whether that was the boy or his mother or even some miscalculation on the part of –“ Lucius glanced around and lowered his voice “- the Dark Lord.”

“And the troll? And the latest attempt on his life?”

“Suggestive, but not compelling,” Lucius said dismissively. “The boy needs to do more to prove he is indeed a match for… Well. You understand what I mean.”

“The boy is merely eleven and already he has achieved what no other wizard has done.”

“I’m not yet convinced. When I am, I’ll let you know.”

Snape inclined his head and moved away. In truth, he’d gotten more of a concession from Malfoy then he had expected. Obviously the Dark Lord’s defeat ten years ago had shaken him badly, not to mention the near disaster his allegiance had caused his family. Voldemort’s methods may have attracted someone of Lucius’ rather unusual tastes and his notion of pureblood superiority had doubtless appealed to the blond’s vanity, but Lucius’ primary loyalty would always be first and foremost to the Malfoy name. Unlike his sister-in-law, whose fanaticism for the Dark Lord knew no bounds, Malfoy had only been in it for the torture and the power. He had never had any desire to promote Voldemort’s philosophy at the cost of his own interests… hence his pleading the Imperius, while Bellatrix’s unwavering allegiance to Voldemort had ensured her the cell next to Black’s.

Of course, while Malfoy was unquestionably out to cut the best deal he could for himself and his family name, until he was convinced that it was in his interests to ally with Harry and not against him, he remained dangerous. Snape wasn’t sure what Lucius had meant with his comment about Harry needing to prove himself. It sounded somewhat ominous, though Snape was reassured by the prospect of the new wards that would soon be in place.

He collected Harry, reviewed and grudgingly approved his book selection (one was on famous Seekers while the other, titled ‘There and Back Again’, appeared to be a travelogue), then escorted him to the ice cream parlor. He had known this was going to be a chore, but he was genuinely surprised by how impossibly the brat behaved.

Harry’s eyes were enormous as he stared at all the different kinds of ice creams. He changed his order three times, running from one end of the display counter to the other in an agony of indecision. Finally Snape’s patience snapped, and he ordered the boy to one of the tables under threat of a sticking hex.

A few moments later, he arrived at the table bearing the boy’s enormous sundae and his own modest scoop. “Have you calmed down yet?” he grumbled irritably, shoving the sundae in front of the little monster. “You’re carrying on as if you’ve never had – oh.” Abruptly he understood the reason for the boy’s excitement.

Harry reddened, but he didn’t confirm Snape’s suspicion. He didn’t have to.

“Well.” Snape struggled to recapture some of his earlier irritation lest this useless surge of pity overwhelm him. Even his own father – on the few occasions he wasn’t drunk and abusive – had taken him out for ice cream. “I daresay that we will have many opportunities to have ice cream in future,” he informed the brat, “and I expect you to bear that in mind and behave with a modicum of dignity.”

Harry’s embarrassment drained away. Professor Snape had just promised to take him for ice cream lots of times! And wizard ice cream looked lots better than the boring old Muggle stuff. Harry almost wished he could go back and tell Dudley what he was missing. “C’n I – I mean, may I start?” he asked

Snape nodded and Harry dug in with gusto. MmmmmmmmMMMMMMMMmmm. It really was every bit as good as he’d dreamed. Yes, there had been the odd scoop of ice cream with dessert at Hogwarts, but never a sundae, and never these exciting flavors either.

Harry shoveled another spoonful into his mouth and moaned in delight. Professor Snape had even let him get a banana split. Harry had longed for one ever since reading about them many years ago. He’d made the mistake of telling his fat cousin how much he wanted to try one, and from that moment on, he’d had to watch Dudley order them over and over after. Needless to say, Dudley had made sure Harry never got to so much as lick the spoon, no matter how much he’d begged or how hard he’d worked to try to earn one.

Harry sighed in contentment. Professor Snape hadn’t made him do extra chores in order to come with him. Oh, he’d told Harry that if he misbehaved, he wouldn’t get the treat, but Harry figured that went without saying. And then, even when he’d driven the professor mad with his excited babbling and dashing to and fro, his professor had still given him the longed-for treat. Yes, it had been worth waiting for, not only for the sheer ambrosial taste of the ice cream, but also for the fact that he was sitting here enjoying it with his professor.

It was only after he’d scraped up the last of the melted ice cream that he turned to his professor with a half-reproachful, half-amused question. “You wouldn’t really have stuck me to the chair, would you?”

‘I most certainly would have,” Snape informed the brat haughtily. “When have I ever not kept my word?”

“But –“ Harry started to protest, just for form’s sake, as he thought having his bum stuck to a chair a very mild chastisement indeed, compared to the punishments the Dursleys had often applied to that same area, but then an idea struck him and his voice trailed off.

Snape stared at the boy in some concern. The little monster, now properly glutted with ice cream, had begun to whine about something, only to go mute as his eyes focused on something internal. Had Snape’s threat brought back some horrible atrocity the Dursleys had committed? He tried to imagine what they could have done that threatening to Stick the boy in one place could have evoked… Perhaps they had forced him to sit in a chair for hours or days, not permitting him to get up to attend to necessary needs? Perhaps they had bound him in place by Muggle means? Perhaps… Snape found he had bent his spoon in two, and now Harry was staring at him in astonishment.

Harry’s mind worked quickly. A Sticking charm! Of course! That was it. He and his friends had been struggling to think of a way to get Quirrell’s turban off for days now but they’d only come up with silly ideas that even Ron admitted were farfetched – floating hooks, bribing Peeves, that sort of thing. But Quirrell was in the Infirmary, which meant he must be in bed, though they had heard from a Hufflepuff who’d had to see Madame Pomfrey about a hex gone awry that the man had kept his turban on even under those circumstances. Still, if they Stuck his turban to his bed, then managed to get him to jump up… Harry grinned to himself. That could work!

Now all he needed to do was to convince his professor to teach him the spell. He turned to the man, only to find him with the most horrible glower on his face and his spoon twisted like a pretzel in his hands. Harry gulped. Had he so provoked the man?

“I’m sorry,” he said automatically, then shrank further in his chair when a new spasm of fury crossed the man’s countenance.

Snape barely managed to avoid chucking the spoon at the wall. Still apologizing! Always assuming he was at fault! Those bastard Muggles had much to answer for. He calmed himself by thinking of what the Marauders’ reaction would be when he told them this story. Remus had started to idly wonder what the Dursleys would do if they received word they’d won a trip to the forests of Romania and whether dragon handlers were ever short on food for their charges. Sirius had countered by suggesting that in the really deep woods of Transylvania, there were things that even dragons were scared of… not to mention that werewolves could run free in those forests, and of course dragons, being creatures of the sky, could easily pop up where they were least expected, particularly if a highly motivated young dragon handler showed them the way. Remus had looked intensely thoughtful and mentioned that Muggles were beginning to think of Transylvania as a trendy new vacation spot.

At the time, Snape had reminded them that he had no intention of letting the Muggles off so easily, and the idea had been dropped, but now he was wondering if he had been too hasty. A mauling by a werewolf followed by draconic incineration sounded increasingly appealing.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he snapped at the boy, reaching over and rather roughly wiping smeared ice cream from his face. He refused to admit that he needed to touch the boy for his own reassurance. It was merely that he was tired of looking at the chocolate sauce that seemed to coat the brat’s features.

Harry endured the man’s gentle ministrations, fighting down his own sense of delight. He had long ago realized that however much Aunt Petunia might fuss over Dudley, wiping his chin and cutting his meat and kissing his boo-boos, he was never going to get the same treatment. But now… Okay, there was no way he could accept the kissed boo-boos (well, except from Auntie Molly) or the cut-up meat, but if his professor wanted to hide his caring gesture under a grumbling monologue about “messy little boys”, he was more than willing to tolerate it.

He did his part by squirming away – carefully waiting until he judged the professor was pretty much finished anyway – and protesting. “Pr’fessor! I’m eleven! I’m not a baby!”

“If you used your napkin properly, then you would not be subject to such indignities,” Snape retorted, unrepentant. “Now, what was it that in our conversation that so upset you?”

Harry blinked. Upset him? “Erm, I’m not sure what you mean,” he replied in confusion.

Snape ground his teeth. Obviously the boy was too traumatized to speak of the incident. Or perhaps he had just had a dissociative moment and truly didn’t remember? Or was it simply that he was too embarrassed to reveal how shabbily he’d been treated? He well remembered the hot shame he had felt at the thought of anyone seeing his own welts and cuts. He’d often endured several days of agony at the beginning of each school term, sitting through classes on a raw, well strapped backside, rather than having to admit the truth to Poppy so he could be treated.

“Potter, you must learn that your relatives’ treatment of you was appalling and unnatural. You have no reason to be ashamed of what happened.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “Okayyyy,” he agreed slowly.

“Do not try to placate me, Potter!” Snape flared, newly incensed at the brat’s automatic acquiescence. “You will tell me what so upset you when I mentioned a Sticking hex.”

“Oh!” Harry’s eyes lit up with comprehension. “I wasn’t upset, Pr’fessor. I was just thinkin’ that –“ abruptly he realized that he could hardly tell his professor about their plans to investigate the Mystery of Qurrell’s Turban; he needed to wait until they’d solved it, and then he’d have plenty of interesting things to discsuss with the man. “- erm, that it’d be a good spell to use during a duel.”

Snape blinked, then blinked again. “Oh?”

“Yeah!” Now that he thought about it, Harry warmed to the idea. “I mean, if you Stuck your opponent’s feet down, he couldn’t dodge, right?”

“An excellent point,” Snape allowed, privately impressed. Perhaps those extra lessons really were paying off.

Harry gave him a sly look. “It was perspicacious, wasn’t it?”

Now Snape was even more surprised – the brat had actually been paying attention to him? “I suppose,” he admitted off-handedly. It wouldn’t do to let the little monster get a swelled head. “Though you can hardly expect – or want - to receive a chocolate frog immediately after ingesting that mountain of ice cream.”

“No, that’s okay,” Harry agreed, “but could you show me the spell instead?”

Snape considered. The hext had enormous potential for mischief, but Harry hadn’t displayed a prankster streak, nor was he currently enmeshed in any juvenile vendettas at present… And the boy did deserve a reward – not that Snape had any intention of admitting that to him.

“Oh, all right,” he grumbled, casting a Muffliato for privacy. “Now, watch me closely…” He demonstrated the spell, somewhat disconcerted by the way the boy’s eyes glowed as he watched with an almost unnerving concentration. Snape fought down his reservations. It was only a Sticking hex, after all – even Potter could hardly get into trouble with something so benign.

“…And I suppose it just goes to show that sometimes even when something seems to be ill luck, it can have a good outcome,” Poppy finished. “I don’t know how much longer Quirinus could have managed on his own.”

Snape glowered at the desktop. Hearing that shoving the stuttering fool down the stairs had actually benefitted the man was distinctly annoying. He had certainly not meant to do the idiot a favor – far from it!

“What do you think has made him so ill? Is there any kind of threat to the students, from either a magical or Muggle malady?” Albus asked. The other teachers made noises of concern while Snape rolled his eyes in irritation. However, since this was his usual behavior during staff meetings, no one paid much attention.

Poppy sighed. “I don’t really know. My spells don’t show anything abnormal, but there’s something… fuzzy about them. I’m not sure what’s causing it. Given his rundown condition, I’m beginning to wonder if he’s picked up some kind of Muggle parasite when he was wandering around those forests in Albania. He’s lost a great deal of weight, he’s anemic and weak… but he insists that he doesn’t have any of the flatulence or diarrhea that normally is associated with parasites, although I’m thinking that if I use a Muggle device that allows me to look up his –“

Now the other faculty looked like they regretted having encouraged the medi-witch, and Snape seized his opportunity. “Poppy, kindly restrain yourself from discussing people’s bowel habits. We are not your colleagues from St Mungo’s and we don’t care about Quirrel’s shi-“

“I’m sure we all wish him a speedy recovery,” Albus cut in quickly. “Please tell him so for us and assure him he need not worry about his classes.”

Poppy stopped glaring at Severus long enough to nod. “I’m sorry that I can’t give you an estimate of when he will be well enough to resume his teaching duties, but until I figure out what is draining him of all his energy, I doubt he’ll be a very effective teacher anyway.”

Dumbledore ignored Snape’s snort of derision and merely nodded and smiled. “Then he shall remain in the Infirmary until you have solved the mystery. I am quite enjoying taking his classes – it’s been too long since I had daily interactions with the students.”

Pomfrey looked awkward. “I really do think he should be transferred to St Mungo’s –“

“No.” Dumbledore’s tone was adamant. Snape glared again at the table. He wouldn’t feel safe until Quirrel was gone from the castle and had no further access to Harry, but Dumbledore was insistent upon keeping the man nearby until they had a better sense of his allegiances.

Poppy looked mutinous for a moment, then sighed. “Well, for reasons he refuses to disclose, Quirinus insists upon staying here too. I suppose that since he’s not getting any worse, there’s no harm… And he is a little stronger now that he is able to stay in bed and conserve his strength, but I just wish I knew what was causing his problem. I can’t sustain him forever with potions and other artificial means!”

“I’m sure you’ll find the answer,” Albus said comfortingly, and Poppy managed a smile.

Snape considered. It sounded like Quirrell was in no hurry to leave Poppy’s pampering, and that might give Albus the chance to track down his movements during his time in Albania. Their best theory thus far was that he had fallen in with some Death Eaters on his travels and they, knowing that Harry would be entering Hogwarts this year, had convinced Quirrell to join their cabal. Snape hadn’t thought that many of Voldemort’s followers in Eastern Europe had survived his disappearance, but all it took was one or two of the more dangerous faithful – like Bellatrix – and all hell could break loose anew.

“Any other business?” Albus asked.

The others shook their heads, and the meeting was adjourned. As they exited, Flitwick pulled Snape aside to comment on Harry’s rapid progress in his extra classes. “Most impressive, Severus! I have even begun the boy on some very basic wandless magic exercises, and I’ve been astonished with Harry’s aptitude. He’s really quite a powerful little boy,” Filius finished admiringly.

Snape huffed. Yet another member of the Potter Fan Club – how typical! They all thought the brat was the reincarnation of Merlin, rather than stopping to imagine that he might be coaching the brat through several practice sessions a week. Oh no, it couldn’t be his hard work that was responsible – much better to regard The Brat Who Lived as a prodigy.

Hmf. Some prodigy. It had taken two scoldings and five chocolate frogs before the little monster would even consent to try wandless magic – and all because he had read that it was something only the most powerful mages could do. Since Harry still had the self-esteem of a flobberworm, he had promptly convinced himself that he could never do it, and Snape had been forced to indulge in a great deal of sentimental gooeyness to persuade the boy otherwise. He had nearly needed a stomach-calming draught after having to spout all that sickening praise, but Slytherin cunning had (as usual) prevailed over Gryffindor obstinacy, and the brat had lapped it up, then promptly – and effortlessly – levitated a feather without his wand.

But would Flitwick appreciate that? No. Of course not. “Then if the boy is so talented, I assume you are quickly advancing him through the material? I would like him to start dueling later this year.”

Flitwick, himself a champion dueller, blinked. “So early? Well, I am sure his magic will be up for it, but…”

“Excellent. If you will start him on the appropriate offensive and defensive spells, I will ensure that he is aware of precisely what will befall him if he uses any of those spells outside of a supervised classroom.”

Flitwick tutted. “Harry seems like a very responsible boy, Severus. I’m certain you don’t have to worry about such things, and I really don’t believe a heavy handed approach is indicated.”

Snape huffed but didn’t answer. If truth be told, it was rather a relief to learn that at least some of the faculty still thought he was strict with the brat. He had feared that Harry’s ingenuous revelations had thoroughly demolished his Evil Bat reputation, but obviously some beliefs die hard. “Not all children respond well to corporal chastisement, Severus,” Filius was continuing carefully, ever-cautious of his younger colleague’s temper, “and from my experience with Harry, even a few sound smacks will likely do him more harm than good. He is very different from his father, you know.”

Snape turned a deadly glare upon the shorter wizard. “Meaning what exactly?” he purred dangerously.

Flitwick was unfazed. “Meaning,” he replied clearly, “that as a boy, James was – for all his charm – overconfident to the point of arrogance and a bit of a bully to boot. A few sharp corrections to his behavior would not have come amiss and might have reined in his excesses well before he finally matured on his own. Harry, on the other hand, is quite shy and uncertain in many situations, and I feel praise and encouragement, rather than threats and thrashings, will best bring out his potential.”

Snape stared at Flitwick in surprise. He had never before realized that the little man had been wise to James’ character flaws and, he had to admit, his assessment of Harry’s character was quite astute as well. Which made it all the more surprising that he was so blind to Severus’ own.

To be honest, it was both annoying and gratifying – annoying that he was so easily perceived by his peers as a cruel git, but gratifying that the brat hadn’t managed to convince everyone in the school that he was a big softy. “I can promise you that the boy receives exactly what he deserves at my hand,” he told Flitwick loftily, then spun away with a swirl of his robes.

It was good to know the boy’s magic hadn’t been stunted or blocked by his time with those despicable Muggles. If that had been the case, he really would have pulled out some of the Darkest spells from his Death Eater days. But if Flitwick were convinced that Harry was powerful, then he was a strong wizard indeed. Filius might be nauseatingly lenient towards the students’ pranks and mischief, but he was brutally accurate when assessing magical talent. He would never overexaggerate in that regard, and that meant that Harry really was doing well and making quick progress. Severus began to mentally catalog all of the spells Harry should learn, from jelly-legs to Sectumsempra to Avada Kedavra. Oh, he wouldn’t get to the lethal ones for quite a while yet, but he had no intention of sending his ward out to face Voldemort armed with nothing more than Expelliaramus.

He had been uneasy about having taught Harry that sticking hex last weekend, but to his relief, he hadn’t found any of the little monster’s classmates Stuck to the Quidditch goalposts, nor had the other professors complained about their possessions being mysteriously affixed to their desks, though a little voice in the back of his head kept insisting that this was just the calm before the storm. On the other hand, if he were seriously proposing to teach the child offensive spells well before his peers, then he needed some proof of the brat’s self-control and judgment. If Harry couldn’t be trusted with a simple Sticking hex, then how on earth was he to teach the boy the spells he needed to defend himself?

##

Harry beamed at Ron and Hermione. “You’ve got it! That’s it!” Now all three were consistently able to produce an effective Sticking hex.

“Ron, it’s really amazing how much quicker you’re picking things up now that you’ve got a new wand,” Hermione complimented him.

Ron reddened at the praise. “Everything just seems a lot easier, you know?”

“I wonder if the hex could be used to hold my hair in place…” Hermione mused, pushing back her bushy hair for what felt like the thousandth time that day.

“I think it would be more fun to stick Malfoy to the third floor boys' loo!” Ron chortled.

“Oi!” Harry frowned at his friend. “Don’t even think of doing that. Or of telling the twins. Pr’fessor Snape would kill us.”

Ron paled and clutched his bum apprehensively. “Okay, okay. Blimey, Harry, I was just joking.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want anyone to know we know this hex. Not until we’ve figured out the Case of the Purple Turban.”

Hermione giggled. “Sorry, Harry, but that sounds like one of those telly detective mysteries.”

Harry laughed, as much at Ron’s expression of bewilderment as Hermione’s words. “Yeah, I know, but that’s how I think of it.”

“Okay, well, now that we all know the spell, now what?” Ron asked.

“We need to get up to the Infirmary and get a sense of where he is.”

“You mean you want to ‘case the joint’?” Hermione’s giggles again threatened to overwhelm her, but Ron’s next words quickly banished her mirth.

“Hermione can do that. She can go up to see Madame Pomfrey and take a look around while she’s there.”

“Why me?” their friend demanded. “Why not Harry?”

“Quirrell always makes my scar hurt,” Harry protested. “There’s something weird about him, and Pr’fessor Snape already told me to stay away from him. Or else.”

“You don’t want to make Harry get into trouble for disobeying his dad – erm, professor, do you?” Ron looked at Hermione accusingly.

She sighed and gave in. She’d heard what Snape had done to the boys over the troll escapade, and she suspected that she’d be paying for her good fortune in escaping the smacking for years to come. “Oh, all right. But what am I supposed to tell Madame Pomfrey?”

Ron turned pink. “Can’t you go for – y’know – girl problems?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Girl problems? That’s the best you can do?”

The redhead was blushing violently, but he stubbornly stuck to his idea. “You asked. C’mon – it’s a perfectly good idea.”

“Fine,” she huffed. Why on earth had she chosen two boys as her best friends?

Harry, who had avoided that exchange like the plague, smiled in relief. “Thanks, ‘Mione. Besides, you know you’re the only one who can get up there without makin’ anyone suspicious. If Ron or me tried to get out of class by asking to go to Madame Pomfrey, they’d just assume we were trying to skive off.”

“I can’t imagine why they’d suspect that,” she retorted sarcastically, but without any real malice. Harry’s point was valid, and she knew it. “How much longer is he going to be in the hospital wing anyway?”

Harry shrugged. “I asked Pr’fessor Snape and he said he wasn’t goin’ to be back for a long while. An’ Professor Dumbledore was talking about what we’d do in DADA class next week, so it sounded like he was plannin’ to keep teaching it for at least that long.”

“Okay, so I’ll go and figure out where he is – then what?”

“Then the next time we think he’s alone up there, we all sneak up,” Ron suggested.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed enthusiastically. “You two can pretend to want to visit him or ask him a DADA question, and I’ll sneak around and hex his turban to the wall or the bed or something.”

“Harry.” As much as Hermione itched to solve a puzzle – any puzzle – she still felt obligated to point something out to her more impulsive friends. “Don’t you think Professor Snape will be cross with you when he learns what we’ve done to Professor Quirrell? I mean, I know he doesn’t like the man, but it’s still a professor that we’re pranking.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “It’s a mystery, and we’re gonna solve it, an’ I bet he’ll be too interested in what we find to be angry.” At his friends’ incredulous looks, he sighed. “Well, okay, so he’ll be angry, but I think he’ll also want to know what we find. An’ it’s not like he ever actually said not to prank Professor Quirrell, so it’s not like I’m disobeying him, and even if Professor Quirrell is really mad when his turban comes off, he’s not allowed to hit me – an’ I don’t have to let him if he tries – so the worst I’ll get is a detention. An’ you guys can just say that you didn’t know what I was doing.”

Ron looked doubtful. “You really imagine anyone will believe that?”

Harry looked stubborn. “It’ll be my spell, so they won’t be able to prove anything else. An’ it’s not like Pr’fessor Snape will do anything that bad to me. I mean, he’ll probably just take my broom away an’ maybe make me do an essay or some lines. But he hates Quirrell so much he probably won’t punish me too hard. An’ then when I’m on restriction with him, we’ll be able to talk about whatever it was that Quirrell was hidin’ and then he won’t think I’m some boring little kid any longer.” Harry flushed. He hadn’t meant to actually say that last part, but he’d gotten a bit carried away.

Hermione gave him a sympathetic look. “I’m sure Professor Snape doesn’t think you’re a boring little kid, Harry. I think he probably just wants you to be a good student and behave yourself.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Oh, c’mon, Hermione – you’re dying to know what he’s hiding just as much as we are!”

“I never said I wasn’t, Ronald! But I just don’t want Harry to get in trouble again.”

Harry blushed. “ ‘S ‘not that bad, Hermione. And c’mon. It’ll be a lot of fun to figure out something that even the teachers don’t know. And the rest of the school will think it’s a brilliant prank.”

The girl sighed. “I don’t think Professor Snape really likes pranks, Harry. Didn’t Ron say something about him getting furious at the twins for their pranks?”

“Yeah, but theirs are stupid,” Ron argued. “I mean, they turned his House green an’ stuff like that. We’re doing important stuff like learning what a sneaky professor’s doing and why he’s hiding in the Infirmary an’ what he’s got under his turban. We’re not doin’ it just to make people laugh, yeah?”

Hermione surrendered. Her curiosity was afire, and no one could say she hadn’t tried. “Okay, I’ll go up and see Madame Pomfrey now.”

##

Two days had passed since Hermione had reconnoitered the Infirmary and reported back with the intelligence that Quirrell seemed to spend most of his time behind portable privacy screens, napping and badgering the house elves for food, books, comfy pillows, peculiar kinds of tea, and otherwise being a querulous pest. Hermione was – predictably – outraged on behalf of the house elves and her ire was undiminished by Ron’s assurance that the little creatures loved that sort of thing. Even Madame Pomfrey was looking a little strained, particularly since her diagnostic spells were still coming back negative and the professor’s ceaseless, whiny demands to the elves were getting on her nerves.

Two days is, of course, an eternity to 11 year olds, and the three were getting increasingly fidgety about implementing their plan. Then, in the middle of Charms, Ron happened to be daydreaming out the window instead of practicing his spells, and he saw something that nearly made him leap out of his seat.

“Psssst, Harry!” he managed to get his friend’s attention and gestured out the window.

Harry casually leaned back to see what Ron was trying to show him, and his eyes lit up. “Hermione!” he poked the witch next to him.

“What?” she asked irritably, her wand movement now ruined by his interference.

“Look!”

Hermione glanced out the window and saw Madame Pomfrey’s form crossing the main lawn, heading towards Hagrid’s hut. “Now’s the time! The plan’s a go!” Harry hissed. He felt just like the leader of a commando squad from a movie that he’d managed to listen to from his cupboard. He’d often had reason to appreciate that both Uncle Vernon and Dudley liked to have the telly volume way up.

Hermione hated to admit it, but she felt a little thrill of excitement too. “Roger,” she hissed back, having seen many of the same movies. She tidied her things together and approached Professor Flitwick.

Harry and Ron couldn’t hear what she whispered to the wizard, but the man almost instantly blushed bright red and nodded vigorously. Hermione smiled gratefully and left the room.

“Blimey, she’s getting good at that,” Ron muttered, impressed.

Class was over fifteen minutes later, and Professor Flitwick was pleasantly surprised when Ron and Harry presented themselves and offered to bring Hermione’s books to her in the Infirmary.

“Five points for being helpful Housemates,” he praised them. “I’m sure Miss Granger will appreciate your thoughfulness, and here is a pass in case you are a few minutes late to your next class.”

“Thank you, sir!” they chorused, looking suspiciously angelic, then sprinted to the Infirmary lest Madame Pomfrey return before Operation Turban had been successfully concluded.

Hermione was anxiously waiting for them at the entrance to the Infirmary. “He’s back there, sleeping,” she hissed. “You can hear him snoring. Madame Pomfrey’s still gone. What now?”

‘You two stay here,” Harry instructed, his voice low. “When I signal, Ron, you yell, ‘Troll!’ like you did in the library that night. Really loud, okay?” The redhead nodded. “That should make him sit up, and I’ll see what’s under the turban. If he comes out of the screens, Hermione, you start yelling at Ron for trying to prank you. Maybe he won’t even realize his turban is off at first. I’ll be ready to cancel the hex once he’s clear, and he may just think that it fell off, rather than me pulling it off. Okay?”

Ron nodded eagerly. He figured he might get in trouble for trying to prank a friend in the Infirmary, but the odds were good that Quirrell would be so flustered he’d let them all off.

Hermione’s eyes were shining. This was like field research – and it was much more interesting than just reading about what someone else found out. “Okay, Harry! And if Madame Pomfrey shows up, we’ll just say that I got sick in class and you came to help, and you were looking to see if she was with Professor Quirrell.”

Harry beamed and nodded. His conscience tried to point out that they were all telling an awful lot of lies and there were easier ways to have a conversation with his guardian, but in the heat of the moment, it was easy to drown out the little voice.

He slipped off his shoes and moved silently towards the screened area, thankful that a decade with the Dursleys had taught him how to move soundlessly. The privacy screens were nothing more than three separate wheeled panels, so it was easy for Harry to peek between them. He carefully avoided touching the screens, having learned enough about wards to know that if Quirrell had set any – he was a DADA professor after all, and a healthy dose of paranoia was practically a job requirement – the wards would likely be linked to the screens.

Peering through a gap, Harry saw that Quirrell was fast asleep and snoring loudly, the ridiculous turban on his head propped against the pillows and forcing his chin towards his chest at an unnatural angle. Harry stealthily cast three sticking hexes, two to stick the pillows to the bed and one to stick the turban to the pillows. Through it all, Quirrell’s snores continued.

He stepped back and sent a “thumbs up” to his two friends. Hermione checked down the corridor for Madame Pomfrey then, seeing the coast was clear, nodded to Ron. A big grin nearly splitting his face, Ron joyfully sucked in a deep breath and screamed, “TROLL! TROLL!”

The results were everything the trio could have wished. Quirrell gave a convulsive leap off the bed, his wand out and before him in an instant. Even as the force of his Protego sent the privacy screens flying, he was scanning the room for the source of the shouts.

Harry’s plan worked perfectly. The turban had remained behind, Stuck to the pillows, and Quirrell’s naked head was now on complete display. Or should that be… heads?

Harry’s eyes were glued to the dreadful sight before him, all thoughts of undoing his hexes long forgotten. He might be new to the Wizarding world, but he knew instinctively that this Janus-like creature standing before him was something very, very abnormal. Even the magic that was coming off of the form in crackling waves felt corrupted and wrong. The overwhelming aura of evil was only matched by the odor of putrefaction. Now that the covering stink of garlic had been removed, Harry was irresistibly reminded of the smell of spoiled meat. It was disgusting, like the poor dead cat, struck by a car, who had laid in the gutter of Privet Drive until Aunt Petunia complained to the Council.

The rancid stench alone had Harry gulping back bile, but when the glowing red eyes of the face at the back of Quirrell’s head focused on him, he nearly lost his lunch on the spot. “Sssso. The boy seeks to challenge me...”

Ron and Hermione shrank back as the privacy screens tumbled to the ground. Under other circumstances, the sight of their bald-headed professor, wildly brandishing his wand, would have made them laugh, but here and now, there was nothing funny about the sight before them.

Ron was disappointed. Hermione had been right – Quirrell was bald, but he didn’t see anything like a curse scar. Oh, well, hopefully the man wouldn’t be too angry.

Hermione’s sharp eyes instantly noted Quirrell’s lack of hair and she preened inwardly at her correct supposition, but she continued to scan the wizard, looking for any clues as to why he wore the turban. There was something funny about the shape of his skull… She shifted for a better view and froze, just as a sibilant whisper floated through the air. “Sssso…”

Harry swallowed convulsively. “Wh-who are you?”

The distorted face laughed silently, mockingly. “Sstupid boy. Don’t you recognize me?”

Quirrell, having by now reassured himself that there were no trolls in the infirmary, twisted around uncertainly. “Master?”

Ron let out a horrified squeak as he caught sight of the misshapen heads. “Tha- tha- that’s –“ he stuttered, clutching at Hermione’s sleeve.

“Voldemort,” she breathed, staring in terror. “He’s alive.”

“I declare, Quirinus, you owe me a favor for dragging this thing all the way up here. I told Hagrid that grapes were the traditional gift for the sick, but he insisted I bring you one of his pumpki – What in Merlin’s name is THAT?” Madame Pomfrey made her entrance, pushing through the Infirmary’s double doors with an enormous pumpkin clutched to her chest. Her happy chatter broke off with a gasp as Quirrell snapped his head around, keeping his body partially turned so that both faces could see the intruder.

“Duro!” Before the medi-witch could move, Voldemort spat a spell and Quirrell’s body flung his wand hand out, shooting a black beam towards Poppy.

The beam struck the pumpkin and splashed, its power diffusing before it reached the unprotected witch. The force of the spell was so strong, however, that it threw Poppy backwards, through two chairs, to slam against the wall. She was unconscious before she hit the ground. Meanwhile, the spell had turned the enormous pumpkin into solid stone and it fell heavily to the ground, cracking the stone floor beneath it.

Terrified, Hermione and Ron stared from the crumpled body of the witch to the softly laughing professor at the far end of the room. “Poppy, you tiresome cow, I’ve been wanting to do that for days,” Quirrell sneered, his stutter completely absent.

“You – you tried to kill her,” Hermione stammered, incredulous.

“Is that really the best you can do, little know-it-all?” Quirrell snickered, lazily waving his wand at them. “Such a stupid little girl.”

Voldemort’s eyes were still locked on Harry. “Don’t you know me, boy? I have cursed your name every day for these past ten years. Have you not done the same? Do you not know who I am?”

Harry struggled to keep his voice steady, even as he felt as if his insides had turned to ice. “I know you. You’re Lord Volauvent.”

“Yes! I am the one who killed your parents. I am He Who – Wait. What did you call me?” Voldemort’s eyes narrowed.

Taking advantage of the Dark Lord’s momentary distraction, Ron whipped out his new wand. “Get help!” he ordered Hermione, stepping in front of her and raising his wand.

Quirrell casually flicked his wand, and Ron was thrown upwards to smash against the ceiling, then dropped heavily to the ground. He moaned in pain, blood streaming from his head.

“Don’t move,” Quirrell said to a petrified Hermione, then cast his eyes respectfully to the ground. “What shall I do with the brats, Master? May I kill them?”

Harry could dimly hear the conversation going on in front of him, but those horrible red eyes had filled his vision, his mind, and his soul. All light and hope and courage had fled. He was a useless freak, an unwanted monstrosity. Despair dragged him down, and he choked on a sob. He stood alone – utterly bereft and empty – before the Dark Lord. Voldemort had risen again, and this time, he was going to die.

“In a minute,” Voldemort said absently, his eyes still boring into Harry’s. “First, I will finish what I started ten years ago. Tell your parents hello for me, Potter. Sectumsempra!”

The mention of his parents accomplished what nothing else could. The mere word made Harrry’s mind flash first to Severus, then an instant later to images of his parents. For the first time, thanks to the photographs that Snape had compiled from the rest of the Hogwarts faculty, he had seen his parents and known the Dursleys’ lies for what they were. His parents had been brave, loving, strong wizards who had loved him more than life itself. He was no freak. He was a treasure – the most precious thing in their world. Even now, Snape had made it clear that Harry’s welfare – his health and happiness – was more important to him than anything else.

Harry thought of Snape, how he had looked when he was cleaning Harry’s face or giving him his broom. He thought of the picture that Minerva had had of James and Lily snuggling a baby Harry. Snape had placed it in a frame on Harry’s nightstand (though he had subsequently claimed it had been a house elf, Harry had actually seen him do it), and that reminder of his parents’ love was the first thing Harry looked at every morning and the last thing his eyes saw at night.

Those images rose up and blotted out the red eyes of the figure before him. Love, not only the love that was apparent in how his parents had cuddled his infant self, but also the love his professor had shown in going to all the trouble of tracking down the photos for him, filled up the empty void inside him with a warm, safe feeling.

The thought of his parents – all three of them – broke Voldemort’s hold on Harry, and the boy’s wand flew into his hand from its wrist holster. “PROTEGO!” Harry screamed.

His shield flared to life just as Voldemort’s curse flew at him. The powerful shield deflected the Dark spell harmlessly into the bed.

“How – how did you learn that?” Quirrell gasped. “I never showed you that!”

“You’re dead, Volauvent,” Harry snarled, dropping into a defensive crouch.

“It’s VOLDEMORT!” the Dark Lord howled in fury. “I am Lord Voldemort! You will cower before me!”

“You’re just a stupid ghost,” Harry snapped back. “Too dumb to know you’re dead!”

Maddened at the boy’s newfound courage, Voldemort ordered, “Seize him! We will bring him to the Chamber, and I will take great pleasure in removing his tongue and other body parts at my leisure.”

“As you wish, Master,” Quirrell replied obediently, and grabbed for Harry.

Harry tried to hold him off with a Furnunculus which Draco had showed him, but Quirrell effortlessly blocked the spell and seized Harry’s wrist. A second later, he screamed in agony and dropped Harry as if he were scalded.

“Master! It burns, it burns! When I touch him, I burn!” Quirrell protested, cradling his blistered hand.

“It is his blasted mother’s doing. Very well – we shall just have to kill him here and now,” Voldemort said dismissively. “Avada the lot of them.”

Harry stared at his wrist. It wasn’t burned like Quirrell’s, but when the other man had touched him, it had been painful – as if something was dragging the very life force out of him. Every instinct told him to get as far away from Quirrell as he could, but his mind had already processed that Quirrell was wounded. That merely touching his skin for an instant had caused a livid burn to form on the man’s hand.

Harry was never afterwards sure whether he had actually made a decision to act, or whether the instant the thought occurred to him, he had acted upon it, but in that measureless moment between Voldemort’s ordering his death and Quirrell raising his wand, the question popped into his head: “If my touch can do that to Quirrell’s hand, what can it do to his face?” And no sooner had he thought it than he had darted forward and grabbed Quirrell’s head – one hand over the professor’s face and the other planted firmly between Voldemort’s blood-red eyes.

The resulting shriek jolted Hermione loose from her paralysis, and she rushed forward, determined to help her friend. Harry was hanging onto the wizard like grim death, his head down and shoulders hunched to try to protect his own face from the other’s flailing hands.

Quirrell grabbed hold, screamed again and let go, then tried again to beat Harry away without actually touching him. Meanwhile, Voldemort was shouting orders and howling in pain, while Harry’s fingers gouged into his eye sockets in an effort to hang onto the thrashing, bucking man.

Quirrell fell to one knee, dragged down by Harry’s weight, his skin already blackening and disintegrating where Harry touched him. In doing so, he presented Hermione with an irresistable target. Her father had always made sure that his little girl knew how to protect herself and – with a technique that would have done David Beckham proud– she stepped forward and kicked Quirrell right between the legs.

Even those possessed by Dark Lords find certain pain pathways impossible to ignore. Quirrell’s shriek reached a pitch usually exclusive to banshees, and dropping his wand, he clutched himself and fell over onto his side.

The movement tore him away from Harry’s grip, and Harry paused for a second, sucking in a breath to try to steady the world that kept whirling around him. Hermione took one look at him and felt her breath catch. Harry looked exhausted – that horrible creature was somehow draining his very soul – yet she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was going to latch back onto the man in order to try to defeat Voldemort yet again.

“Ron!” she screamed, looking over her shoulder. “Do something! We have to help Harry!”

Ron managed to stagger to his feet, propping himself on the wreckage of one of the chairs splintered by Pomfrey’s body. His eye, frantically scanning for some weapon, landed on the pumpkin boulder and with a sweep of his wand – which he had somehow managed to keep hold of – he levitated it. He wasn’t sure what to do with it, but he recalled Harry’s use of the pikestaff against the troll and thought he might have a similar notion. “Harry!” he shouted.

Harry glanced up and saw the enormous vegetable hovering in the air, and he instantly thought of a recent team practice when he’d nearly been decapitated by a Bludger. “Send it to me!” he cried.

Even with a mild concussion, Ron’s body retained its knowledge of Quidditch moves. He seized hold of one of the chair legs and, using it as a bat, knocked the Bludger-like pumpkin spinning towards Harrry

Hermione, somehow guessing what they were thinking, quickly cast a sticking hex, pulling the still groaning Quirrell flat on his back on the floor. “Stinking little mudblood.” Voldemort’s head snapped around to glare at her. “I will purify the world of abominations like you!”

“Not today you won’t,” she spat back, just as Harry used his wand to first capture the onrushing stone, then cancel the levitation spell.

Quirrell, his head perforce turned towards Harry while Voldemort snarled at Hermione, caught the movement with his eye and looked up. “MASTER!” His screech of terror was abruptly truncated by a loud, wet noise after gravity reasserted its hold on the huge rock.

The three children stared at the sight before them. For all intents and purposes, the professor’s body now ended at the neck. Where his head (and Voldemort’s) had been was now the stone pumpkin, while a spreading pool of red seeped out from underneath it.

“That is the worst sound I’ve ever heard,” Ron said sickly, his green face contrasting nicely with his red hair.

Hermione was swallowing convulsively. “I once saw a show on the telly where this man was hitting watermelons with a sledge hammer. That - that was the same as the noise they made.”

Harry’s countenance was utterly grim, without the slightest trace of nausea. “Guess he wasn’t so hard to kill after all.”

And then two things happened at once.

The Infirmary doors burst open, and what seemed like the entire faculty of Hogwarts burst through it, wands out. The Headmaster was – amazingly – sprinting in the lead, but Snape was right behind him, with McGonagall and a crossbow-wielding Hagrid right behind him. Tiny Flitwick – for once without his trademark smile – was actually flying over the rest of them, his outstretched wand glowing with a half-cast Protego.

Even as the children spun to stare at this incredible sight, a horrible red haze coalesced above Quirrell’s mortal remains. “Potter!” An eerie, eldritch voice shrieked, the ghostly cloud coalescing into Voldemort’s snake-like visage. “I will return, Potter – and you and your friends will learn the meaning of pain.”

Harry chucked the first thing he could lay his hands on at the ectoplasmic mass. It happened to be a bedpan, which summed up his opinion nicely. “******!” he shouted back.

“Tom Riddle!” Dumbledore bellowed, his voice terrible in its power. “BEGONE!” The faculty shot a kaleidoscope of variably colored spells at the specter, but most passed straight through without effect.

Voldemort’s image twisted in hatred and rage, but it fled, moving between the children and faculty and out the nearest window. A golden bolt from Dumbledore’s wand pursued it, but the shade seemed vanish into thin air.

There was a moment of utter silence, then “Erm… so… is he gone then?” Ron asked tentatively.

Dumbledore and Flitwick had been muttering spells, but at the question, both exchanged a look then sighed and nodded. “Yes. He’s gone. For now,” the headmaster said tiredly.

Snape, one hand clasped to his left forearm, advanced on the children. “Are you all right?” he demanded, looking at Harry.

Harry dragged his eyes up to meet his professor’s. For a long moment, his frozen expression didn’t change, then his features slowly relaxed into a relieved smile. “Pr’fessor. You came,” he said softly.

And then he fainted.

The ensuing chaos took quite some time to sort out. Healers had to be floo’d in from St Mungo’s once Poppy’s still-unconscious body was found, and Aurors from the Ministry were summoned when Quirrell’s corpse was, eventually, noticed.

Ron, suffering from a concussion, was tucked into bed, and Hermione was as well, despite her protests that she was unharmed. Snape refused to let anyone but himself and the head of St Mungo’s pediatric injury team touch Harry, then insisted upon staying with the boy even after the Healer assured him that it was nothing more than a slight case of magical exhaustion, coupled with a severe emotional shock. In the end, the Healer forced a draught of dreamless sleep down Snape’s throat as well, commenting aggrievedly to the Headmaster that he had never met such an impossible parent.

Finally, the Headmaster insisted that, under the circumstances, nothing would be discussed until the following day. It was enough to know that Voldemort had – again – been routed and the immediate threat was gone. His magical power and political influence, both at Hogwarts and in the Wizengamot, trumped all opposition, and soon the Infirmary was left in peace, with St Mungo’s healers watching over the slumbering patients.

Harry woke up slowly the next morning, gradually becoming aware that his surroundings differed from his usual bed. On the one hand, he could hear Ron’s snores, which made him think he was in the Tower, but on the other hand, his bed felt different, and there were no curtains blocking out the pale sunlight of the near-dawn hour. He turned his head and found his guardian sleeping in the bed beside him, and for a moment he couldn’t understand where he was or why. He felt safe – after all, his professor was right there with him – but he couldn’t imagine where they were.

He felt tired, even though he had just woken up. Nothing hurt, but he felt exhausted, as if he had been playing Quidditch for hours and hours the day before.

Quidditch.

Bludgers.

Stone pumpkins.

And then Harry remembered everything, and he couldn’t restrain a whimper of distress.

Snape was having a well-deserved sleep. With all his work with the Marauders and school and his snakes and Harry, he had been more than usually busy. As much as he had shouted at the Healer forcing the sleeping potion down his throat, he had had to admit to himself that it had been much too long since he had managed to have a good night’s sleep. What’s more, the potion would be the only way to prevent his slumber from being disturbed by nightmares.

He had been grading papers during his free period when every (newly upgraded) ward in the castle suddenly went off, and Snape knew all too well that the only thing that could cause that level of response was the Dark Lord Himself. Somehow, someway, Voldemort had risen, right there at Hogwarts. And Snape had known, with a dread certainty that made his heart freeze in his chest, that He was after Harry.

The screaming portraits of former medi-witches and –wizards, frantically babbling about monsters attacking students in the Infirmary, had simply provided the final proof. He had run faster than he had thought humanly possible, heading for the Infirmary, only to find Dumbledore moving even faster still.

Who would have thought that under those ridiculous-looking, headache-inducing fluorescent robes the old coot wore running shoes?

Every professor in the castle, it seemed, had been summoned by wards or portraits or both, and a solid phalanx of faculty had burst into the Infirmary together. Poor little Flitwick had realized that with this much adrenaline in the air, Hagrid would never even notice trampling him, and the small professor had cleverly used a flying charm to keep himself out from underfoot as well as to provide air cover, if needed.

Snape had never before – even during the war – seen Dumbledore looking so dangerous, and McGonagall’s expression should have been enough to banish any number of Dark Lords foolish enough to cross her path. He had noted Sprout and Sinistra’s absence and assumed (correctly, as it turned out) that they were safeguarding the students, but then they were through the doors and Snape only had eyes for Harry.

His frantic gaze swept the Infirmary, noting the broken furniture, the youngest Weasley wavering on his feet with his face a mask of blood, and Granger, bushy hair flying every which way as she spun, wand up, to face them. His horrified stare fell on the gory corpse only long enough to register that it was an adult’s and therefore of no immediate interest to him. Then – thank Merlin – he had spotted Harry.

The boy was standing unnaturally still and quiet, and was staring at the headless body with a disturbingly blank expression, but he was there, upright, breathing, with all his limbs. No blood was visible – unlike Weasley – and he was moving of his own volition.

Snape felt a wave of almost unbearable relief wash over him, so strong that he felt his knees nearly buckle, but it was immediately followed by a flood of rage so powerful that he actually moved forward to grab the boy and shake the living daylights out of him. How dare that child cause him to feel such panic?

But before he could push past the Headmaster – who was, oddly, still poised as if for battle – his Dark Mark flared to life. Snape gasped aloud as the half-forgotten agony of the brand blazed anew, his other hand surging to clutch his burning forearm. How could this be? The only thing that could awaken his Mark was –

“Potter!” Oh, no. No no no no no no. He wasn’t ready. His plans were only half-laid. Not yet. The monster couldn’t be back yet. It was too soon. Harry was still just a little boy. He wasn’t ready to face a deathless Dark Lord. No no no. Not yet, dear Merlin, please not yet!

But Snape would know that voice anywhere, that breathy, hate-filled, power-laden voice. And he listened, numb with terror, as it threatened the only thing that mattered in his life. As it threatened an eleven year old with an eternity of pain and he could do nothing but grip his forearm and struggle to breathe.

Happily, incredibly, unbelievably, the eleven year old was made of sterner stuff. Harry yelled a word that Snape would definitely have to speak with him about, then chucked a bedpan through Voldemort’s insubstantial form.

That broke Snape’s stasis, and he brought his wand up just as Albus roared at Voldemort, the power of his magic rippling through the room. Snape joined in with the other faculty in attempting to subdue the shade – even Hagrid fired a crossbow bolt at it – but to no one’s great surprise, the Dark Lord, or what was left of Him, managed to escape.

And then that redheaded nitwit had babbled something and Snape had rushed over to see Harry. It was an unfamiliar Harry, looking much older than his age, who had first looked up at him, but then something in the boy’s eyes had shifted and Harry had suddenly recognized him. Just in time to pass out.

Snape never again wanted to remember that horrible moment, before Minerva assured him that Harry was indeed breathing, when he was certain that Voldemort had managed one last Avada Kedavra before leaving.

That was probably why he had been so uncharacteristically… agitated... when the healers had arrived. It wasn’t as if he really cared about the brat, it was simply that, linked to him as he was by two Unbreakable Vows, he naturally wanted to ensure that the little fiend received the best possible care. It had nothing to do with more sentimental notions, regardless of what Dumbledore or McGonagall might have intimated. It was just that this was, after all, The Boy Who Lived, and he wasn’t about to allow some brand new, wet-behind-the-ears, healer in training to practice on the child.

Perhaps he had been a trifle sharp with the Chief Healer when the man finally deigned to arrive (Snape was unimpressed with the Healer’s claim of being delayed by a multi-victim accident involving the Knight Bus), but that certainly did not give the man the right to dose him with Dreamless Sleep, nor to accuse him (publicly, no less!) of being an overprotective parent. Snape huffed at the memory. Some nerve! As if he were guilty of coddling the brat! Obviously, despite his many degrees, the Chief Healer was too thick to realize that Potter was a special child and required exceptional treatment. After all, it’s not as if anyone understood why the brat had survived a Killing Curse – obviously there was something special about his physiology and extra tests would naturally be required to ensure that he was truly unharmed.

It had been around that point, as he was volubly pointing out the Chief Healer’s incompetence in not re-casting his diagnostic spells, that the man had forced the potion down his throat. Snape had had only enough time to give Albus a look of reproach for deflecting the Dark Curse he’d sent at the Healer before the potion rendered him unconscious.

And now it was obviously morning and the potion had finally worn off. He lay quietly for a moment, reveling in the quiet and wondering if he could possibly permit himself to drift off again. Then he heard a whimper of distress that he instinctively identified as Harry’s and his eyes flew open.

“Potter,” he whispered, cognizant of being in the Infirmary and remembering how battered the Weasley boy had looked – to say nothing of Poppy. “What is it?”

Harry looked over at his professor, his eyes filled with tears. He wasn’t even sure what was wrong, exactly. It just all felt awful. The horrible head growing out of Quirrell’s skull. The fight and how Ron had been covered in blood. The disgusting threats Voldemort had made against Hermione. The Dark Lord’s casual, offhand instruction to Quirrell to kill him. The sudden realization of what his parents’ last moments must have been like. The awful knowledge that Voldemort was truly back and determined to kill him. The sickening noise that the transfigured pumpkin had made as it crushed Quirrell’s skull like an eggshell. The guilt over nearly getting his friends killed with his stupid “Case of the Mysterious Turban”. Or the fact that he felt absolutely no guilt for actually killing another human being. Was he no better than Voldemort?

Snape scowled at the brat’s inability to express himself. Was the child one or eleven? He had asked Potter a simple question, and the boy appeared incapable of doing anything but quivering his lip at him. Obviously he was going to have to take control of the situation. “Come here,” he ordered firmly, folding back his blankets. He could hardly keep hissing over at the next bed, and if Harry chose to ignore him, what recourse would he have? The obvious course of action was to bring the boy to him. After all, why should he go to the boy? He was the adult. Let the boy be the one to get out of his nice warm bed.

Harry didn’t wait for a second invitation. He scooted out of his bed and over into his professor’s before the man could reconsider. He snuggled against his professor who was, for once, not dressed in his usual black. Like Harry, Snape was in standard hospital pyjamas, though his had a little Slytherin crest on the chest.

Harry hugged his professor hard, laying his head on the man’s chest and letting the sound of his heartbeat calm him. He felt a powerful rush of love as Snape’s arms encircled his shoulders and held him close.

Snape kept a firm hold on the little creature. He wasn’t about to let Harry take off and hide like a frightened animal. Better to hold him tightly until he realized that struggling to escape was useless. It had nothing whatever to do with reassuring the brat or being all sentimental. It was merely that Snape had no intention of having to traipse all over the castle looking for wherever a traumatized first year might hole up or, like last time, having to drag him out from underneath the hospital bed.

“Really, Potter,” Snape scolded, once the brat had stopped trembling. “I don’t expect you to be articulate, but simple answers should not be beyond you. Are you in pain?”

“No, sir,” Harry answered obediently. He was so lucky! His professor took such good care of him.

“Are you frightened?”

Harry squirmed. “A little,” he admitted.

Snape sighed. It was unfortunate that the boy had to learn at such an early age about the threat Voldemort posed to him, but there was no way around it. No use sugar coating the truth. “It is true that the Dark Lord is a powerful adversary, Potter,” he finally said, choosing his words with care. “But he is gone for now and you saw with your own eyes that he is in a weak and incorporeal state. You need not fear for your safety here and now.”

“ ‘S not that,” Harry said, twisting to look up at his professor with surprise. “I know you’ll keep me safe.”

“And so I will,” Snape agreed, doing his best to ignore the warm feeling of pride that the boy’s foolish comment had triggered. “But then what are you frightened of?”

“Me,” Harry admitted. “I think I’m gonna grow up to be like Him.”

Snape could hear the upper case letter. “Like the Dark Lord? Why on earth would you think that?”

“ ‘Cause I’m a murderer, just like him,” Harry whispered, burying his face into Snape’s chest. “I killed him! Well, Quirrell anyway.”

“Potter!” Snape’s voice was trembling with fury, and Harry looked up in dread. Would his professor kick him out now that he knew what Harry had done? “I recognize you are a Gryffindor, but kindly do not be any more moronic than you can help! Surely even you can recognize the fallacious nature of the moral equivalency argument?”

Harry just blinked at him, mouth open. Snape sighed again. Gryffindors, Severus. Remember what Gryffindors are like. “Potter, don’t you understand the difference between killing and murder?”

“Ummm….” Harry screwed up his face in thought. “In murder you mean to make ‘em dead, but in killing, you don’t necessarily mean it. Like if you accidentally hit someone with a car?”

“A Muggle example but one that is reasonable,” Snape allowed.

“But I meant to kill him, Pr’fessor,” Harry argued unhappily. “I wanted him to die. An’ I don’t even feel bad about it.”

“Idiot.” Snape scowled. What does McGonagall teach them in that House? “Of course you wanted him dead, Potter. Quirrell was a willing stooge of the Dark Lord. I assume he was trying to harm you and your friends?” At Harry’s nod, he continued, “Then you can imagine my reaction if you hadn’t tried to kill him. What did I tell you about defending yourself?”

“Th-that I should,” Harry acknowledged. “But that doesn’t mean I had to kill him.”

“Potter, you are an 11 year old child. You were battling a fully grown wizard who was not only a DADA instructor in his own right but also had some sort of link with the most powerful Dark Lord in the last half-century. In a situation like that, you do not seek to wound or capture. You kill before you are killed.”

“B-but that’s murder,” Harry sniffled.

Snape sat up and tugged the boy until Harry was sitting up, face to face with him. “Potter, this is important, so mind me well. That is not murder. Murder is the deliberate killing of an innocent who means you no harm. You did not murder anyone, though you did in fact kill." Harry's lip started to quiver again, and Snape glared. "Potter. You have no reason to be upset. Now listen closely. There is a Muggle saying that I expect you to remember: ‘If someone is coming to kill you, rise early and kill him first.’” Harry blinked in surprise, his lip stilling. “Now, what does it mean?”

“It – it means that if you know someone is trying to hurt you, then you should get out of bed and get him before he gets you?”

“Exactly. It means that if you know that someone intends to do you grievous harm, you have an obligation to protect yourself. You are not to sit in bed and cower and moan and hope that something happens to dissuade him. You are not to wait to see if he has a last minute change of heart because the odds are excellent that he won't. You are to rise and take action before the other person can harm you.” Snape gave him a very stern look. “This does not mean that if you think someone might hurt you, you then have permission to harm him. It does mean that if you have evidence that someone is actively trying to kill you, you should remove that threat before you – or others – can be harmed.”

Harry sniffled. “But if I want to kill Him like He wants to kill me, doesn’t that make me as bad as Him?”

“There is no moral equivalence between the two actions, Potter.” At the boy’s blank look, Snape rephrased. “It’s not at all the same thing. The Dark Lord is seeking to kill a child for his own purpose and pleasure. He murdered your parents on the off chance that you might one day fulfil a prophecy. He tortures and kills people because of who their parents were or what beliefs they hold. He is a despicable and evil creature who enjoys creating pain and terror in others. You are seeking to kill him to protect yourself and others from the very real threat of the Dark Lord’s violence. There is nothing equal about your motivation.

“Voldemort used to go to Muggle villages just to kill people. He sought to hurt as many people as possible. He targeted men, women, and children indiscriminately. He made no distinction between Auror and civilian. He wanted a high body count and when attacked, he would use Muggles as shields. It is never acceptable to deliberately kill people who mean you no harm and who are innocently going about their daily business.”

“Aurors, by contrast, may kill in the line of duty, yet they do it to protect civilians. In the war, they did not deliberately target the children of Death Eaters, while the Dark Lord and his followers attacked many families just as he did yours. It is ridiculous to say that any death is a tragedy or that all deaths are morally equivalent. There are people who, by their own actions, deserve to die, and killing someone in order to protect yourself or the innocent, is not murder.”

Harry took a deep breath. His professor’s words made sense. Maybe he wouldn’t grow up to be a Dark Lord after all. “So you’re not mad at me?” he asked cautiously.

“For killing Quirrell? Of course not.” Snape gave the boy a menacing glower. “What do you expect I will do to you if you ever fail to protect yourself as vigorously as you did yesterday?”

Harry’s lips quirked into a smile. He just loved it when his professor got all fierce and protective. “You’ll whack me.”

“Precisely.”

“So… if I hadn’t killed Professor Quirrell, you would have spanked me?” Harry asked mischievously.

“Quite.”

“Then do I get a chocolate frog for defendin’ myself properly?”

“No chocolate frogs before breakfast,” Snape said severely.

Harry pouted for a moment, then brightened. “Okay. I’ll ask you again after breakfast.”

“Hmmmm.” Snape began looking around.

“What is it, Pr’fessor?” Harry asked curiously.

“I am looking for my wand.”

“Oh.” Harry looked too, wanting to help. “What d’you want it for, Pr’fessor?”

“I believe I need to introduce you to a mouth-soaping spell,” Snape replied calmly.

Harry’s eyes widened in horror. “What! But why? What’d I say?”

“Do you not recall what you said to the Dark Lord, just before you threw a bedpan at him?”

Harry colored. “Oh.” He cast a sidelong glance at his guardian, trying to decide how lenient the man might be. Though the saturnine countenance was not encouraging, he decided to try arguing anyway. “But, Pr’fessor, it was Voldevont! It shouldn’t be so bad to swear at Him. It’s not like I said it in class or anything,” he pleaded.

“If I ever catch you using such language outside the Dark Lord’s presence –“ Snape began.

“You won’t!” Harry promised swiftly.

“Oh, very well,” Snape allowed grudgingly. Harry sagged against him in relief. Whew! Lucky for him his guardian was so nice! He snuggled closer and closed his eyes. He felt safe and loved and – for the first time – proud of himself. Leave it to his guardian to reassure him that he wasn’t an awful freaky murderer. Harry felt the tension ease out of his muscles and the fatigue creep back in.

Snape regarded the child with alarm. Surely the brat could not be planning to fall asleep on him. He was not a pillow for Potters! “Potter, get up this instant and return to your own bed if you wish to go back to sleep.”

“No,” Harry mumbled, already half-dozing.

Why, that disobedient little brat! Obviously he needed a reminder of what awaited such intransigent behavior. Snape lifted his hand from where it was resting against the boy’s back and smacked him on the bum. “Potter! Go to your own bed!”

Harry just burrowed closer and let out a sigh of contentment. It was so nice of Professor Snape to tease him like that. Of course the gentle pat on the rear made it clear that he was only kidding. Harry tightened his grip around his professor. How could he imagine he was anything like Lord Volauvent? His guardian loved him, and that was proof that Harry wasn’t some awful, evil creature.

Harry drifted off to sleep, secure in the certain knowledge that he was a good person who had done a needful, if unpleasant, task. His guardian’s approval confirmed it – there was no need for further worry or angst. Professor Snape had said it, and it was so.

Well. This was quite nauseating. Obviously with his hand’s range of motion limited by the duvet, his swats made no impression on the brat. He could remove his hand from beneath the covers, but then the intervening blankets would provide padding for the little wretch’s backside, and he’d be no further along. He could levitate the boy – But wait. Perhaps he was overlooking something. Why was the child so somnolent? Surely at his age, the brat should be bouncing out of bed and demanding food, not trying to sleep until noon like some lazy teenager.

Snape huffed. He knew it. He’d been right all along. Obviously the boy was more affected by the events of the previous day than that idiot of a Healer had detected. Well, it was obviously a good thing after all that he’d fallen asleep where he had. He would need to monitor Potter’s sleep to be certain he didn’t develop any complications along the way. He would begin by monitoring the boy’s respirations. In… and out. In… and out. In… and out. It certainly seemed very regular. Quite soothing, really. In… and out. In… and out. Very relaxing, in fact. In… and out. In… and out. In… and…

Twenty minutes later, the medi-witch from St Mungo’s and the Hogwarts headmaster regarding the sleeping pair with amusement. Harry’s head lay against Snape’s chest, and the Potion Master’s arms encircled the boy protectively. “My wards told me that two of the patients had awakened, Professor, which is why I summoned you, but I see that my call was premature. Perhaps in another hour or so we can awaken all of them, but I’d prefer they get as much sleep as possible.”

“Yes, of course,” Dumbledore agreed, taking a camera from his voluminous robes. “But let me just take a few snapshots before I go. I’m sure Professor Snape will enjoy seeing them, as will the rest of the staff room.”

When Harry next woke, it was to feel the gentle hand of a St Mungo’s medi-witch rubbing his back. He blinked and raised his head, realizing that he’d been drooling on his pillow. Except that it wasn’t his pillow, it was his professor. “Potter.” The man’s stern tones made it clear that he had noticed the puddle of drool currently seeping through his pyjama top.

“Good morning, Pr’fessor,” Harry said guiltily.

“Come along, boys,” the medi-witch said, professionally cheerful. “You’re the last ones out of bed this morning. Get washed and dressed – the others will be waiting for you.”

Snape gave her his best death glare – “boys” indeed! – but followed Potter to the washrooms at the far end of the wing.

Once their ablutions had been satisfactorily concluded, the medi-witch escorted them to a private meeting room near the Headmaster’s office. Entering the room, Snape found quite a crowd assembled around a long conference table.

Fudge was there with Bones, Skeeter, and, predictably, Lucius Malfoy. McGonagall and the Headmaster flanked a still-pale Poppy. A blaze of red caught Snape’s eye and he turned to find Arthur and Molly Weasley, the latter holding Ron on her lap. Next to them sat two unfamiliar adults, at whom Ron kept darting nervous glances. From the fact that they were hovering solicitously over Hermione, Snape deduced these were the Doctors Granger.

“Auntie Molly! Uncle Arthur!” Harry chirped happily from his side, then darted away as Arthur opened his arms wide.

Harry was hugged breathless by his honorary uncle, whose embrace effectively ended his worry that the Weasleys would blame him for Ron’s injury. “Oh, Harry!” The instant Arthur released him, Molly wrapped him in one arm, keeping Ron enfolded in the other. “Are you all right?”

“Yes’m,” Harry answered, once he had managed to get his breath back. Ron grinned at him, a bit shamefaced at being found cuddled on his mum’s lap. Harry grinned back, but decided that if Ron hadn’t witnessed him lying like a toddler on top of his guardian, he wasn’t about to say anything.

“Harry, come meet my parents,” Hermione called excitedly. “Mum, Dad, this is my friend Harry and his fa– uh – guardian, Professor Snape.”

“How do you do?” Snape had to admit the Muggles had excellent manners, and he wondered why the Weasley boy seemed so anxious around them. Ah well, who could understand the minds of children?

“Good morning,” Dumbledore twinkled at the final arrivals. “The elves have kindly laid out breakfast at the back wall, if you’d like to help yourselves. Then perhaps we can get started. I’m sure we are all interested in determining exactly what happened here yesterday.”

Harry instantly focused on the tables at the back of the room. “Ooooh, pastries!” he squeaked and made a beeline for the sugary treats.

Snape followed in hot pursuit and stopped the little brat before he had helped himself to a plateful of unhealthy items. “What have I told you about your eating habits, Mr Potter?” he asked, his voice dangerously quiet.

“But I fought Voldesnort!” Harry whined. “Don’t I get a treat for that?”

“Only after you have consumed a healthy breakfast.” Snape filled the boy’s plate with fruit, eggs, toast, and a grilled tomato. At Harry’s glum expression, he relented slightly. “You may choose one pastry, but if I see you eating it before you have cleaned the rest of your plate –“

“I won’t!” Harry beamed, immediately choosing the biggest, gooiest item with the most sugary icing.

As Harry carried his plate back to the table, he was surprised to see nothing but healthy fruit on Ron’s plate. He would have expected the redhead to have piled on the sweets since it seemed unlikely that his parents would deny him anything today. Both kept stroking his hair or hugging him. Ron appeared simultaneously embarrassed and delighted by their behavior – after eleven years of being overshadowed by the twins or Ginny, not to mention the rest of his brothers, he was for once basking in his parents’ undivided attention.

As an only child, Hermione was more accustomed to her parents’ focus being on her, but the Grangers, while obviously affectionate with their daughter, didn’t seem to be feeling the same frantic relief as the Weasleys. It was hardly surprising, of course. As Muggles, they couldn’t really understand what the children had faced down the previous day, while the Weasleys were all too cognizant of what might have happened.

There were two chairs between the Grangers and the Weasleys, and Snape steered Harry towards them. Once they were settled, Albus beamed.

“And here we are, all together, safe and sound. We should give thanks for -”

“Yes, yes, thank Merlin and all that,” Fudge interrupted testily. “But what I want to know is what happened? All these rumors of Dark Lords and murdered professors and vampires and killer squashes are going to cause a panic soon!”

Harry looked at his guardian. Vampires?

Snape sniffed and rolled his eyes. Fudge was such an idiot. He kept his attention on his own plate.

“Yes, of course, Cornelius, and that is why we have invited you and Madame Bones. Lucius is here as a representative of the Board of Governors, and Ms Skeeter will ensure that an accurate –“ he gave the reporter a sharp glance and she looked sulky but nodded “- account is made available to the public.”

Albus turned politely to Harry. “Harry, my boy? Perhaps you would be so kind as to begin the tale? Your friends suggested it was your story to tell.”

Suddenly Harry wasn’t so hungry anymore. He put down his fork and gave worried glances at his friends. Were they mad at him? But both Hermione and Ron shot him encouraging looks, so he took a deep breath and tried to figure out how to explain things so as to avoid getting anyone into trouble. He knew it was an all but impossible task, but at the very least he wanted to avoid landing Ron and Hermione in the suds with him.

“Harry?” Dumbledore prompted.

Harry sighed and gave Professor Snape a guarded look from beneath his fringe. He had a pretty good idea that his professor wouldn’t be fooled by any evasions, but he was going to give it a try anyway.

“Erm, well, we were in Charms when Hermione – ah – told Professor Flitwick that she wasn’t feelin’ well, and so –“

“You were sick, Hermione?” Hermione’s father interrupted, looking at his daughter with concern.

Hermione reddened as all eyes turned to her, and she gave her mother an anguished look. “Mum…”

“Hm? Ah!” Mrs Granger understood the silent Teen Girl Speak and nodded to her husband. “It’s all right.”

“Oh? Oh! Right.” Mr Granger quickly dropped the subject.

“Uh, yeah,” Harry felt guilty for embarrassing the girl like that, but he hadn’t really seen any way around it. From the glare Hermione was shooting Ron, it was the redhead she was blaming for the original suggestion. “So anyway, once class was over, me ‘n’ Ron got permission to bring her books to her, an’ when we got to the Infirmary, Hermione was there, waiting for Madame Pomfrey –“

“Oh, dear!” the medi-witch exclaimed. “I must have just missed you when I went to Hagrid’s. I’m so sorry, dear, but why didn’t you use the magic bell to let me know you were waiting? I would have returned at once! Didn’t you see it on my desk, with the little sign explaining how to use it?”

“Erm…Y-yes, but it wasn’t anything very urgent, Madame, and I didn’t want to trouble you if you were taking care of someone who was really ill,” Hermione lied uncomfortably.

“So, when we got there, I – ummm – I said I’d go look to see if Madame was down behind the privacy screens. Hermione hadn’t wanted to peek, and I saw Professor Quirrell was there.” Harry tried to think how best to tell this next part. “And – and then Ron thought he’d, erm, play a trick on Hermione and so he – ah – yelled that there was a troll coming, and I guess Professor Quirrell heard him so he jumped up and –“

“Wait.” The icy word, coming from the adjacent chair, made Harry wince. Quailing, he turned to his professor.

“Y’sir?” he asked hesitantly.

“You are omitting a key part of the story, Mr Potter. Perhaps you can explain why Professor Quirrell’s turban was found Stuck to his bedding?” Snape’s snapping eyes informed Harry that he hadn’t been fooled one iota by the carefully crafted story.

Harry gulped. Right. He never did get around to canceling that hex, did he? “Ah, well…”

“What difference does that idiot’s headwear make?” Lucius snapped. “What I want to know is where He Who Must Not Be Named came from!”

Albus gave Harry a disconcertingly knowing glance. “I suspect the two things are related, Lucius. You see, when I examined the late professor’s turban, I discovered that it contained layer upon layer of shielding charms. It was being used to hide something very powerful and very Dark.”

Lucius frowned, trying to work it out, while Fudge looked blank, Bones blanched, and Skeeter whispered excitedly to her automatic quill.

“Er…” Harry gave up. He was going to have to admit at least part of the plan. “Well, I might have, erm, hexed his turban while he slept,” he confessed, his gaze firmly on the table top. He heard Snape’s furious inhalation and cringed, waiting for the scolding of his life.

Before his professor could speak, however, the voice of the Headmaster was heard. “But why, Harry? You have never before shown much interest in either pranks or Professor Quirrell. Playing a trick upon an ill professor is quite unlike you, my boy.”

Harry blushed bright red. He had never thought of it like that, but if Quirrell had been just a weird and smelly teacher, his action in scaring the poor man while he lay in his sickbed would have been a truly despicable act. “I – I – um…” He glanced pleadingly up at his guardian. “I just knew something was wrong.”

“Boy Who Lived Blessed With Second Sight,” Skeeter sighed rapturously. “Detects Dark Lord Despite Shielding Wards!”

Snape gritted his teeth. Leave it to that interfering woman to get it wrong. But he was uncomfortably aware that Harry must have picked up on his loathing for Quirrell and – given the boy’s nature – decided to “help”. Who would have guessed that children could be so perceptive? Vowing to do a better job of hiding his own opinions, Snape glowered at the brat. “We will discuss this later, you and I,” he promised chillingly.

Harry drooped. Well, at least his professor wasn’t demanding answers right there in front of everyone or taking away his flying privileges while the reporter lady took notes.

“Please continue, Harry. We will assume that you had some sense that all was not as it seemed.” Albus nodded at him.

“Um, okay, so anyway, when Professor Quirrell got up so fast, his turban was pulled off, an’ – an’ there was a second face sticking out the back of his head,” Harry quavered sickly. The memory of that awful sight was still too fresh.

Fudge’s jaw dropped, and Lucius’ eyebrows soared to his hairline. Amelia Bones lost her monocle. Minerva choked and Albus looked very, very grim. The Weasleys were both hugging Ron, their faces pale, while the Grangers, despite their quite obvious confusion, picked up on the atmosphere in the room and grasped Hermione’s hands tightly.

Harry glanced nervously up at Professor Snape. The man’s face was a severe mask, as always, so it was a surprise when his strong arms reached out and pulled Harry onto his lap.

After the initial shock – and the relief that he wasn’t being pulled across the man’s lap for a public walloping – Harry relaxed and leaned back against his professor’s chest. He was surprised to feel the man’s heart hammering away. Could his professor actually be worried or upset?

“Pr’fessor?” he asked, wide eyed.

“Foolish child!” Snape snapped automatically, tightening his grasp around Harry until it rivaled the Weasleys’ hold on Ron. In all his worst imaginings, he had never, ever thought of this. Possession? Partial corporeal manifestation? No wonder the boy’s scar had prickled whenever Quirrell had walked by! And what immense power it must have taken to maintain the two souls in one body – to say nothing of shielding the Dark Lord’s aura from the school’s wards.

Poppy shuddered. “Now I understand why his body was consuming itself. To think that – that abomination was working here, walking the halls, teaching the children!” She wrapped her arms around herself, as if suddenly chilled, and Minerva placed a comforting arm about her shoulders. "He wouldn't let me touch his turban, but I just assumed it was some fetish or that he was going bald!" Poppy wailed. "I never guessed..."

“There, there, Poppy,” McGonagall soothed. “It’s just as well you don’t remember anything.”

Poppy shook her head. “Not a thing from the moment I left Hagrid’s hut until I woke up with the St Mungo’s staff around my bed,” she explained, sniffling, to the others.

“It – it was pretty awful,” Hermione spoke up. “We had all just seen V-Voldemort, and Madame Pomfrey, that’s when you walked in with a big pumpkin that you said Hagrid had sent to Professor Quirrell.”

“Ah, Hagrid – always so thoughtful,” Dumbledore said fondly, oblivious to the impatient glare Lucius sent his way.

“Yeah, Madame – you were sayin’ something to the professor as you came in the door, and your hands were full, and as soon as he saw you, he – well, they – cast a spell at you,” Ron explained. “Blimey! It was this awful black light coming straight at you!”

“He said ‘Duro’,” Hermione put in, and Poppy turned grey.

“He was trying to kill me then,” Pomfrey whispered, half to herself. “I didn’t really believe it…”

Snape huffed. Naïve nitwit. Voldemort was a Dark Lord. Did she really think someone earned that title by just being unpunctual or inconsiderate? Dear Association of Dark Lords, I would like to apply for membership. Please advise as to your entry criteria. Do you actually need to murder scores of people, or can you just use a really nasty stinging hex on them? Is ‘Crucio’ an absolute requirement, or could I get by with insulting someone’s parentage and telling them that their taste in clothes leaves much to be desired? I also make a point of picking out the good Bott's beans and leaving all the bogey- and vomit-flavored ones for other people. I have invented a curse that gives someone several painful paper cuts – do I get credit for that?

“Yeah, it was a good thing you were holdin’ that pumpkin,” Ron chimed in. “The curse hit that and turned it to stone, but the power of the curse was still strong enough to knock you flying. You smashed some chairs an’ everything.”

“And then Quirrell said some nasty things to us, and Voldemort –“ Hermione ignored how most in the room flinched at the name “- was talking to Harry, and Harry said something that made him really angry.”

Now all eyes were back to Harry. “I – er – I – “ he stammered to a halt, embarrassed.

An awful suspicion blossomed in Snape's mind, and he closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand. “You called him Lord Vol-au-vent, didn’t you?” he asked resignedly.

Lucius audibly choked, while Bones fought back a grin.

“Er, yeah,” Harry admitted.

Fudge seemed torn between horror and reluctant admiration, while Skeeter was actually squirming in her chair with glee. “Harry Potter Refers to Dark Lord as Flaky Pastry. Hero of the Light Sneers in the Face of Death.”

Albus’ eyes were madly twinkling. “And then?”

Hermione spoke up before Harry could. “Ron was ever so brave!” she exclaimed. “While You Know Who was distracted, he tried to fight him.”

Molly whimpered and clutched Ron tighter.

“But Quirrell threw him against the ceiling and then let him fall. That’s how he got hurt,” Hermione finished, sending Ron a look that left him blushing. The redhead could be a bit of a prat sometimes, she thought, but he really was a true Gryffindor.

Snape narrowed his eyes. Taking on not one but two Dark wizards armed with nothing but a new wand and insane bravado? The boy was indeed a true Gryffindor.

“And then?”

“I was too scared to move for a few seconds, and Voldemort kept talking to Harry. It looked like he was hypnotized or something.”

Harry nodded. “He did something and I felt awful. All alone and hopeless an’ I knew he was gonna kill me. But then he said something else an’ I got mad.”

Now all the adults (except the Grangers) were staring at him in astonishment. The boy had thrown off Voldemort’s mind control? Grown wizards, including trained Aurors, had not been capable of such a feat!

“What did he say that made you angry?” Snape managed to ask, his voice stilted. Just how much power did this child have? He caught Lucius giving him an assessing look. Potter could hold his own against Voldemort himself, and here was Snape, oh-so-blithely scolding him and smacking his bum?

Harry looked awkward. “He – he said something mean about my parents. But that made me think about you an’ then I din’ feel alone anymore,” he admitted his voice dropping so that only Snape caught his last words.

Snape swallowed hard and forced his expression to remain unchanged, but Harry could feel his arms tighten protectively, and the warm feeling blossomed in his chest again. However mad his professor might be, and however much he might scold, Harry knew that he still loved him, and the hug just proved it. Professor Snape was acting just like Ron’s and Hermione’s parents, as Harry's sharp eyes could attest.

For the first time in his life, Harry didn’t have to watch his classmates be cuddled by their parents and feel alone and left out. In fact, Professor Snape was even better than Ron and Hermione’s folks – hadn’t he stayed in the Infirmary with Harry?

“So then he used some ‘secum’ thingy on me,” Harry continued at the headmaster’s gentle prompt.

Snape went rigid. “Sectumsempra?” he asked, his voice wavering just a little.

“Yeah, that’s it!” Harry was impressed. His professor knew everything!

Snape shut his eyes, using his Occlumency to force away the unwanted image of what that spell – his spell! – might have done to Harry.

“But see, I was mad then, so I pulled my wand – those holsters are great, Pr’fessor! – an’ used Protego.”

“Your shield charm withstood the Dark Lord’s Sectumsempra?” Lucius gasped. Skeeter shuddered in ecstacy and whispered to her quill.

“Yeah. Erm, I mean, yes sir, Mr Malfoy,” Harry quickly corrected himself, not wanting to appear ill-mannered in front of Draco’s dad. Draco said his father was a real stickler for that sort of thing. “And then he said some rude things, so I was rude back, an’ he told Professor Quirrell to grab me so he could take me to some chamber and –“

“Harry. He said he wanted to go the Chamber? The Chamber of Secrets?” Dumbledore leaned forward urgently.

Harry shrugged. “He just said ‘the chamber’. I’m not sure which one he meant.”

Dumbledore and Snape exchanged a look. If the Dark Lord knew where Salazar Slytherin’s hidden Chamber was…

“So then Quirrell tried to grab me, but when he touched me, it burned his skin,” Harry continued, oblivious to the looks on the adults’ faces. “Voldevont said that it was something to do with my mum and told Quirrell just to AK all of us.”

This time it was Arthur who whimpered and dragged Ron away from Molly and onto his lap. “Dad!” Ron protested, happily indignant.

“But I figured that if it hurt him when he touched me, it would hurt him when I touched him, so I grabbed him,” Harry explained simply.

“He started to burn up,” Hermione added. Ron was being held too tightly to speak. “You could smell it – I mean, he smelled awful even before that –“

Dumbledore nodded. “He had been using garlic to try to mask the odor of death and decay that clung to the remnant of Voldemort’s soul.”

“- But after the turban came off, it was just disgusting. Then when Harry grabbed him, you could smell the burning flesh.” Hermione looked ill, and everyone in the room independently decided to have a salad for dinner that night.

“It was working. He was screaming and he fell to one knee,” Harry put in.

“And it didn’t hurt you?” Snape demanded.

“I wasn’t burned,” Harry answered cagily.

“No, but there was something wrong,” Hermione butted in, oblivious to Harry’s groan of annoyance. Why did girls always have to ruin your story?

“I could see that he was hurting Harry, so I – erm – I ran forward and, uh, I sort of… kicked him?” she ended uncertainly.

“Oooh, did she ever!” Harry crowed, his moment of pique over. “She kicked him right in the bollocks!”

“Blimey, did he yell!” Ron managed to put in.

“Boy Who Lived Saved by Girl Who Kicked You-Know-Who You-Know-Where,” Skeeter hissed.

Hermione beamed, rather taken with this new title.

“And that pulled him away from me, an’ I was feelin’ kinda dizzy,” Harry took up the tale again, “so it was a moment before I could grab him again.”

“He was draining your magical core,” Snape said furiously, giving Harry’s shoulder a little shake. “You foolish, idiotic child!”

“Is that what it was?” Harry asked in surprise. “It felt like there was a part of me that was getting pulled into Him.”

Hermione continued, “So I called to Ron to do something, and –“

“- And I saw the pumpkin. I thought maybe Harry could use it, so I levitated it, an’ then he yelled for me to send it over, so I grabbed a piece of the broken chair an’ I pretended it was a bludger an’ knocked it to him.”

“Quidditch Prodigy Helps Boy Who Lived Defeat Dark Lord,” Skeeter whispered to her busy quill.

“And ‘Mione Stuck him to the floor an’ he was so busy insulting her, he didn’t see what I was doing. So I brought the pumpkin over on top of his head and then I let it drop,” Harry finished quietly.

There was a moment of silence as they all pictured that in their minds. Then “Pumpkin Power – The Boy Who Lived’s Secret Debt to Vegetables.”

“Oh, for – “ Minerva had had enough. “One more absurd headline out of you, Miss Skeeter, and I will transfigure your chair into a cactus!”

“Hmf!” Skeeter sniffed in outrage, but Snape noted she cast a silencing bubble around herself.

“It was at this point that the faculty and I arrived, having been summoned by the castle’s wards,” Dumbledore explained to Fudge. “I believe that the moment the turban came off, Voldemort was revealed and our newly strengthened wards were triggered. No one but a Dark Wizard of enormous power – that is to say, Voldemort – could have engendered a reaction quite so strong, so of course most of the faculty rushed to confront him. A few seconds after Quirrell’s demise, Voldemort’s shade, for lack of a better term, left the body. I don’t know if it was looking for a new host, but with all of us right there, it fled.”

Fudge puffed out his breath, eyes big. “This – this –“

“- Is extremely concerning,” Bones cut in smoothly. “Though it would seem that, with the departure of He Who Must Not Be Named, the issue is moot, at least for the moment.”

“Yes!” Fudge grabbed the lifeline. “Exactly! Be sure you put that in the paper,” he said to the reporter. “You Know Who is gone. The public need not worry. We have everything under control.”

Skeeter nodded and mumbled – inaudibly – to herself, as Dumbledore got to his feet, signalling the end of the meeting. The rest followed the Headmaster's example and as the handshakes and farewells took place, Snape glanced over at Lucius. How would these events sway the man's allegiance?

Lucius contented himself with giving Snape inscrutable looks while Fudge and Bones took their leave of Dumbledore. Soon the others were gone, leaving only Hogwarts staff, students, and parents behind. Lucius had, predictably, declined the opportunity to speak with his son, claiming an important business meeting back in the city.

“Perhaps your parents would like a tour of the school, Miss Granger? And Mr Weasley, a few things have changed since your parents’ days – why don’t the three of you accompany the Grangers? Then perhaps you can join the school for lunch before you depart,” he suggested to the adults.

The Grangers and Weasleys agreed, and Minerva offered to take them around. Albus escorted a still-convalescent Poppy back to the Infirmary, leaving Snape and Harry alone.

“Are you really mad?” Harry asked unhappily.

“What do you think?” Snape retorted. “Pranking the Dark Lord, indeed!”

“I didn’t know it was Him,” Harry protested.

“Oh, so pranking a professor is acceptable behavior?” Snape sneered.

“No,” Harry admitted, flushing, “but it’s not dangerous. It’s just – y'know – naughty.”

“If you imagine that you are not going to be disciplined for your outrageous conduct –“

“But I didn’t mean to do anything dangerous. I mean, it was Quirrell,” Harry argued. He didn’t want his professor to think he had deliberately defied his most important precepts. “We thought he was just strange and stinky. You didn’t know he had Voldevert in his head, did you?”

“Of course not!” Snape huffed, insulted. Did the brat imagine he would have allowed such a threat to remain in his vicinity?

“Well then I don’t see why you’re mad that I didn’t.” Harry felt rather bold, arguing with his guardian like this. He would never before have dared to protest, but he had a suspicion that Snape wouldn’t mind.

“I suppose you’ll again suggest the Headmaster is to blame?” Snape demanded, privately rather pleased that Harry was no longer behaving like a whipped puppy, cowering away from punishment. Obviously those impudent Gryffindors were rubbing off on him.

“Well, isn’t it his job to make sure we’re safe? An’ to pick the professors who teach here?” Harry pointed out reasonably.

“You are trying to obfuscate matters,” Snape declared. “The issue before us is your atrocious behavior. How do you think your friends feel, knowing that you used Miss Granger’s indisposition as an excuse to attack Quirrell? Don’t you think she feels hurt by your mendacious expressions of concern?” Harry’s lack of reaction convinced him that his suspicions were well-founded. The whole thing had been a set up and the other two had been co-conspirators right from the start.

Snape felt a bit misty eyed – his ward’s first plot, and it was quite the Slytherin one. Nothing like the ‘in-your-face’ antics of his father and godfather. This was sneaky and subtle and Harry had even managed to fool both Dumbledore and McGonagall as to his motives and confederates. The boy had real potential.

He forced down his feelings of pride and scowled at the brat. “Do not imagine you will go unpunished, Mr Potter. The other parents may be so faint with relief – and blind to the real goings on – that they will excuse your peers, but you are not so lucky. I have no intention of permitting you to misbehave with impunity and grow up to be an irresponsible nincompoop.”

“Awwww,” Harry pouted, even as inwardly he exulted at this further evidence that Snape cared for him. He’d even said “other parents”, like he really felt like Harry’s dad.

“You will have detention every day for a week, Mr Potter. With me, since it seems that no one else is capable of seeing through your little deceptions." Perhaps by the end of the week, he would no longer have this overwhelming need to keep the brat within eyeshot at all times. If he did, he would just have to find another excuse to assign more detention. "You had best bring plenty of quills and parchment, as you will be writing numerous essays. If you are so determined to enter the struggle against the Dark Lord at such an early age, you will need to begin serious study of strategy and tactics.”

“Cool!” Harry exclaimed. Then at Snape’s narrowing eyes, he quickly corrected, “Uh, I mean, that’s not fair.” He struggled to think of something to complain about. “Erm… if no one else is getting punished –“

Snape raised an eyebrow. “I would be happy to assign Miss Granger and Mr Weasley a week of detention, if you insist. Mr Filch can always use assistants.”

“No, no!” Harry hastily backpedaled. “It was all my idea. You’re right.”

“Hmf.” Snape eyed him. “Perhaps several hundred lines of ‘I will not prank Dark Lords’ would be appropriate as well.” Harry groaned. “That will be enough of your histrionics, young man. Come here.”

Harry sighed, doing his best to keep up appearances. He hopped out of his chair and stepped over to where Snape had pushed his chair away from the table. “Just one smack, right? For disobedience in breakin’ the rules an’ pranking a professor. ‘Cause I really didn’t know about the danger,” he reminded his professor anxiously. Was Professor Snape furious with him?

Snape was still haunted by images of Harry’s broken, bleeding body – tortured and left for dead in the Chamber of Secrets, staring sightlessly upward after an Avada Kedavra, sliced to pieces from his own spell – and he couldn’t help pulling the boy to stand between his legs so he could run his hands over the boy’s shoulders and arms. He wasn’t about to cuddle the brat – Potter would hardly welcome being pawed by a Snape, for Merlin’s sake – but he just had to touch the boy to be certain that he really was alive, fit and whole and well. He’d been more shaken by the children’s recitation of events than anyone had realized, even himself, but now that he was alone with Harry, the possibilities of what could easily have happened were making him tremble.

Harry looked at his guardian quizzically. Snape’s eyes were even more shuttered than usual – maybe he was really angry? Not only at Harry’s actions with the DADA instructor but also at his arguing and backtalk? Harry bit his lip. Maybe he’d protested too much? It wasn’t as if he hadn’t expected to be punished, and after all, he had achieved his objective. He now had a week of one on one time with his guardian, and from the sounds of his assignment, they’d have plenty of things to talk about.

He turned slightly and leaned over his professor’s thigh. “I’m ready, Pr’fessor,” he offered, hoping that his willingness to accept what was coming to him would outweigh his earlier protestations.

Snape gritted his teeth. He knew he had to swat the child. It was an expected consequence for his misbehavior. Harry obviously was prepared to accept it. And the brat had deliberately taken on the Dark Lord – or at least a DADA instructor, not that that was much better. But right now, all he wanted to do was hug the little fiend and feel him breathing and hear his heartbeat and reassure himself that Harry really and truly was fine.

But Snape had plenty of practice in not doing what he wanted, so he raised his hand and gave the wretch a sound slap right across the seat of his trousers.

“Ouch!” Harry shot upright, grabbing his bum. It didn’t really hurt much, but he didn’t want his professor to think he wasn’t doing a good job. Professor Snape was trying really hard; Harry needed to help him gain confidence.

Snape cursed himself. Too hard! Obviously he still didn’t have a sense of what was an appropriate, admonitory tap. He had thought he’d been being suitably gentle, but of course, he was comparing everything to his own bastard father’s treatment of himself, and obviously he was still getting it wrong.

Harry rubbed at the smarting spot and wondered if he should cry. He was 11, after all, and it was just a single smack, so he decided it was okay to remain dry eyed. “Erm, Pr’fessor?” he ventured cautiously. His professor still looked awfully grim and grumpy.

“What?” Now the boy would surely want to go and whine at the Headmaster or Weasleys about how unfair and cruel he had been. Or perhaps he intended to ask Poppy to heal his backside?

“D’you think it would be okay if we joined the others on the tour of the castle?” Harry looked up at his guardian hopefully. Now that he had a parent of his own – sort of – he really wanted to show him off, and taking part in such an obvious parent/child activity was the sort of thing he had always dreamed of doing.

Snape frowned down at him. The brat actually wanted him to come along? Surely he had misheard. Why would Potter want to be accompanied by the greasy bat of the dungeons?

“Pleeeeeease?” Harry begged, forgetting to feign discomfort.

“Oh, very well,” Snape huffed. He was in absolutely no condition to deny the brat anything. He just wants me to go along with him so he has an excuse for missing his morning classes, he told himself. That must be it.

Harry’s face lit up. Grabbing his professor’s hand, he pulled him out of his chair and dragged him towards the door. “What will you have me read in my detentions?” he asked curiously. “Will I have to write essays on everything, or can we talk about some of them? Can I loan the books to Hermione and Ron when I’m done? Where do you think Voldewhatsit has gone? Did you see Professor Flitwick flying yesterday? Can you do that? Can you teach me to do that? What was the spell that Quirrell used on the pumpkin? What would it have done to Madame Pomfrey if the pumpkin hadn’t been there? Do you think Hagrid will be upset that he was being nice to Voldesnort? What about…”

Snape grumbled as he was tugged along. Little monster. He was only permitting this because it was obvious the boy was traumatized. Potter would never want to be seen with him in public if he weren’t suffering from delayed shock. Better to just let the hysteria run its course. And, maybe, to enjoy it just a little bit while it lasted. Once the boy came to his senses, he’d doubtless be sulky and furious about his detention – as what child wouldn’t? – but just for now, he could pretend that the boy actually liked being with him and that the guardianship would last beyond Black’s exoneration.

Snape knew in his heart of hearts that he would never be able to compete with the mutt. Black was funny and lighthearted and charming. Everything he was not. And beyond that, Black had the imprimatur of Potter’s parents. Of course the boy would want to honor them by living with their choice for his guardian.

Knowing that Potter would want to live with Black didn’t mean Snape wouldn’t fight tooth and nail to keep the boy, but it just meant that if he succeeded, Harry would be bitter and resentful at being kept from his godfather. And if he lost, it meant that he’d never see the child again as both Black and Harry would view him as the enemy. Either way, Harry would never again laugh and smile and pull at his hand the way he was doing right now. Not that it mattered. Not that he cared about the brat. But now, just for a few moments, he could imagine what might have been…

Harry and his professor found the others in the trophy room. Harry rather ostentatiously joined the group, making sure that everyone saw that Professor Snape was with him. “Sorry, Professor,” he said to McGonagall. “My guardian needed to talk to me. That’s why we’re a little late joinin’ you an’ the other parents.” He felt as if his chest would burst from happiness – this more than made up for never having anyone to sit with him on any of the “parents’ nights” at his school in Surrey.

Minerva McGonagall fought down her own smile. Good heavens, this would never do. Severus wasn’t the only one with a reputation to uphold. Yet, the pride and happiness on Harry’s face as he oh-so-casually held onto Snape’s hand were impossible to miss. Nor was she oblivious to the fact that, for all his studied nonchalance, Snape was making no effort to wrest free of the boy’s grasp.

Arthur and Molly noticed and nudged each other, as did Ron and Hermione. Only the Grangers didn’t realize anything was up, but they were still adjusting to wandering ghosts and talking portraits.

As the tour made its way through the castle, Ron managed to get Harry on his own. “Are you okay, mate? Did he… y’know?” Ron mimed a whack, and Harry nodded sheepishly. “Ouch! I’m sorry, mate. You shouldn’t’ve been the only one to catch it.”

“It was my idea,” Harry pointed out, “an’ besides, you had a concussion. It wouldn’t be right for you to get walloped on top of that.”

“Well, it’s not my head that would get it,” Ron pointed out dryly, “but I won’t argue with you. Did he go spare?”

“He was pretty upset,” Harry admitted. “I’ve got a week of detention and a set of lines, but considering what we did, it could’ve been a lot worse.”

“Yeah! And at least he punished you himself and didn’t leave you to the Headmaster!”

Harry shuddered. The Headmaster would probably have shipped him back to the Dursleys if his professor hadn’t been there.

Then another thought struck Ron. “Blimey, Harry, you’d better stay away from Hermione’s folks after what you had for breakfast. Didn’t you figure out who they were before you got your food?”

Harry stared at him in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

The pureblooded boy paled and leaned close to whisper, “They’re dentists! An’ you ate one of those pastries! You better watch out that they don’t catch you an’ drill holes in your teeth.”

Harry fought down his giggles. That was why Ron had been so polite all morning? Because he was scared witless?

Mrs Granger turned to Professor Snape. “I gather that the children got mixed up in something very dangerous. Do you think it’s safe for them to remain here? I must admit we’re considering taking Hermione home with us and finding another option for her. I mean, it’s one thing for her to go away to school, but if there’s danger here…” She looked at him in appeal. “This is all so new to us. We want to do the right thing, but we certainly don’t want to risk our little girl. I can see you feel similarly about your Harry – what do you plan to do?”

Snape nearly choked. HIS Harry? Obviously the Muggle was truly confused. “I believe that your daughter will be safe if she remains here. Yesterday’s events were…impossible to foresee.”

Mrs Granger sighed. “I hope so. Hermione doesn’t want to leave. For the first time she has friends as well as good grades… And I have been very impressed with how well-mannered and respectful the children are here. Though they do seem a bit high-strung, especially young Ron over there.”

As they spoke, the bell for classes rang, and students spilled out into the hallway. As usual, they dodged around the Potions Master, but they were less careful about the other adults. That is, until they caught sight of Hermione holding her father’s hand, and realized who the tall man must be. Immediately, most of the students – particularly purebloods – blanched and stiffened to attention. “Hello, Hermione. Hello, sir,” they gulped, flattening themselves against the wall to give the Grangers a wide berth.

“See what I mean?” Mrs Granger whispered to Snape. “I’ve never seen anything like it! Such courtesy!”

“Hi, Draco!” Harry caught sight of the blond, who was trying to hide behind Flint. “Want to join us?”

“No, no!” Draco shook his head vehemently, then paled as Mrs Granger looked at him curiously. He quickly blurted, “Thank you though,” and added a bow for good measure, as did an equally nervous Flint.

Snape had heard the Dentist Story – having had to reassure several of his younger Snakes that he would never, ever permit Granger or her parents anywhere near their teeth – but felt that explaining the matter would do little for Muggle-Wizard relations. “Yes, we place a high value on etiquette here at Hogwarts,” he said blandly. “And I think you’ll find the Wizarding world somewhat more formal than the Muggle one,” he added as a trembling Millicent Bulstrode dropped a quick curtsy as they passed her.

“What a sweet little girl!” Mrs Granger cried, and bulky Millicent nearly wet herself in relief. “You and the other faculty must be accustomed to such shows of respect, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it,” she explained to Snape.

“No, I wouldn’t say I’m used to it,” Snape remarked, watching as three Ravenclaws fought to be the one to open the doors to the Great Hall for the party.

The only crisis at lunch came when the house elves discovered the pudding course had been relatively untouched. But by then the Weasleys and Grangers had departed, with many hugs and kisses and instructions to write home, and the Trio had been sent back to rejoin their classes.

There, they had to tell their story over and over for their awestruck peers. Everyone was both amazed to hear what had become of their DADA instructor and delighted that Quirrell would not be returning to teach them. Even those who came from Death Eater families were pleased to be rid of an unpopular and incompetent professor, so the Trio received nothing but praise and gratitude for their actions.

Harry’s fame among the student body only increased when, later that night, he was discovered in the Gryffindor Common Room writing “I will not prank Dark Lords” 200 times. Sure, lines were a common punishment, but those lines?

Over the next week, the rest of Harry’s detention passed as pleasurably as he had hoped. The books his guardian assigned him were fascinating, and Snape did a wonderful (if acerbic) job of explaining the complex topics. Harry began to see how lucky he’d been in the infirmary and why half-baked plans were so dangerous to all involved. The lessons dovetailed nicely with the dueling strategy that Professor Flitwick was beginning to describe during their time together, and it was surprisingly easy for the contented eleven year old to put the events with Professor Quirrell firmly behind him.

Snape was less happy. Though he couldn’t fault the brat’s behavior, he was becoming increasingly apprehensive about Black. The mutt had done everything Snape had instructed and, to the Potion Master’s resignation and dismay, everything was working out exactly as he had intended.

Sirius had shown the world press copies of his pensieved memories, as well as sending them to Madame Bones. After that, there was no way for the Ministry to pretend Black was guilty, and Fudge ordered his staff to do whatever it took to shut Black up and make him go away.

Snape, Black, and Lupin put their heads together and soon thereafter, a growling Fudge publicly apologized for the wrongs done to Sirius Black. A hefty pay-out accompanied the apology, as did a full pardon for Black and all (unnamed) associates regarding his escape from Azkaban. Although Bones, Moody and the other Aurors were dying to know how their former colleague had managed to sneak off the island, an explanation was not part of the deal, and they all (even Moody) felt so ashamed of themselves for believing the worst about Sirius, that they couldn’t bring themselves to ask him.

The upshot was that about a week after the brat’s latest detention ended, Snape had to sit Harry down, explain that Black had been exculpated, explain what “exculpated” meant, and then inform the boy that the next evening, the two of them would be portkeying to Switzerland so that Harry could meet his godfather.

##

“What’s he like? Will he like me? What do I call him? Is he nice? What if he doesn’t like me?” Harry’s excitement bubbled over as Snape fiddled with his tie in preparation to their taking the portkey from Albus’ office.

Dumbledore looked on, smiling fondly at the excited child. Only Snape’s grim face and tightly pressed lips detracted from his enjoyment of the moment. He had offered to take Harry, thinking to spare his Potion Master the distasteful task of seeing his hated enemy, but to Albus’ surprise, Snape had turned him down flat. Dumbledore sighed. It was obvious that he had lost a great deal of Severus’ trust with his mishandling of Harry’s situation, and in all honesty, Albus couldn’t blame him.

Not only had he placed Harry with those wholly unsuitable Muggles – and then not had the foresight to check on him regularly – but he had misjudged Sirius and even failed to detect Voldemort when the man – well, creature – was right under his nose! Albus sighed. Perhaps his plan to lure Voldemort to the school by using the Philosopher’s Stone hadn’t been such a good idea after all. Well, the Stone was now back with Flamel, who had managed to keep it safe all these years, and they had clear proof that Voldemort had returned.

Albus looked over at Snape. Poor man. He hid such a good heart under layers and layers of protective snark and snarl, but all of Albus’ efforts at helping him emerge from behind those shields had failed. At least until now. Watching him carefully fix Harry’s tie, even as he scolded the boy for being an excitable babblemouth, Albus thought that his idea of putting the two wounded souls together might have been one of his moments of brilliance. He could feel how deeply each longed to be loved, and it had seemed as if things were working out brilliantly… at least until now. Sirius’ arrival was bound to upset things, and try as he might, Albus just couldn’t come up with a means to prevent Snape from – once again – being badly hurt.

Considering the complete lack of help Albus had provided him ten years ago, Sirius was hardly likely to welcome any advice or entreaties from his former mentor. And while Albus was hopeful that Sirius still loved Harry despite the damage that a decade in Azkaban must have caused, he rather doubted that the brash, impulsive, and often unintentionally thoughtless Black would be the best guardian for the troubled, fragile, and extraordinarily vulnerable Harry. But neither could he imagine Black accepting Snape in that role. Not for a second. In fact, when he found out that Snape was acting as de facto guardian, Sirius was all too likely to immediately demand custody of the boy. Albus could only hope Sirius wouldn’t pull Harry from Hogwarts entirely, though given all that had happened, as well as Sirius’ enormous fortune, deciding to have the boy privately tutored or give him a fresh start at Beauxbatons wasn’t such a far fetched idea. And if it had the added bonus of wounding Snape, Black was all too likely to do it for that reason alone.

Albus sighed, feeling extremely old and tired. He should have done so much more to stop Sirius’ bullying of Severus back when they were both students. He should have worked to foster a friendship between them, but he had been so delighted to think that at least one of the Blacks had turned away from the Dark, he had given the boy far too much leeway in other things. And now the fact that he had never managed to curb Sirius’ spite towards Severus was not only going to harm Snape anew, but also carry the damage into the next generation by involving Harry as well.

His poor boys. His two poor, poor boys, both of whom he had harmed so very deeply. “Severus, perhaps if I were to bring Harry, Sirius would be more open to negotiation…?” he offered delicately, feeling compelled to make one last attempt at protecting Snape from Black’s vitriol.

Snape turned from where he had been scolding a depressingly unsquelched Harry. Of course, the boy has already realized he no longer needs to listen to me. His godfather is about to take over his care. “No, Headmaster. I will take him.” He needed to ensure that the idiotic mutt knew he wasn’t going to get Harry without a fight, plus he wanted to be brought up to date on what the Marauders had done to the Dursleys this week.

Dumbledore drooped in defeat and handed Snape a toy penguin. “Just tap it and say ‘Black’ to get there, ‘Home’ to return.”

“Come here,” Snape ordered, and Harry immediately grabbed his guardian in a hug. He was so excited… and a little apprehensive too. He wasn’t really worried since his professor was going to be there, but his godfather did look kinda scary. Professor McGonagall had said that he’d loved Baby Harry like his own son, and she’d started to tell him other stories about his godfather, but then her nose had gotten all pink and she’d had to leave abruptly.

Professor Snape said that a lot of people owed his godfather a great big apology for misjudging him, and they all felt ashamed of themselves for not helping him ten years ago. Harry had rather indignantly felt that was only fair. If his friends and teachers had let him rot in jail for something he hadn’t done, they’d better feel guilty about it. Professor Snape had also explained that he and Harry’s godfather had never liked each other – not one bit – so if his godfather said rude things about him, Harry shouldn’t be surprised. Harry figured that that sort of let Professor Snape off the hook about helping his godfather. If you didn’t like someone, you would expect that they’d do awful things like blowing up a street and killing people, but if you liked someone – like everyone said Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore had done – then you should have faith in them.

Harry didn’t think he trusted the Headmaster very much. He made too many mistakes about people, like thinking the Dursleys were nice or that Quirrell was a good (or at least normal) teacher or that his godfather was bad. Harry was glad the Headmaster wasn’t responsible for him anymore and that he had Professor Snape looking out for him now. Even if his professor did yell at him for getting overexcited when, really, who could blame him? He was about to meet his godfather!

Snape rolled his eyes as the brat, instead of simply taking his arm like a normal person, drove his pointy forehead into Snape’s breastbone. The little fiend seemed to relish pretending that a simple portkeying was a dangerous adventure. Honestly. But that didn’t stop him from wrapping one arm tightly around the boy as he activated the portkey with the other.

Harry felt a jerk behind his navel and yelped in surprise, the noise muffled against his professor’s robes. Then they were suddenly standing in a strange room, filled with sunlight and comfortable – though expensive – looking furniture. Tall snowcapped mountains could be seen out the window.

“Is - is that him? Is that Harry?” a breathless voice asked from behind him.

Harry could feel his guardian’s exasperated sigh as the man sneered, “No, Black. I have arrived with a random Hogwarts student. Do you mean you wanted a particular one?”

“He’s only kidding! It’s me, Harry,” Harry laughed, turning within his guardian’s embrace. His professor could be really funny when he wanted!

Odd – his professor hadn’t turned him loose yet. Usually he let go as soon as they arrived and it was Harry who prolonged the contact, but this time, he kept his arm around Harry, almost as if he were scared he wouldn’t get the chance to hold him again anytime soon. Oh well. Harry mentally shrugged. Adults were weird.

He found himself looking at the man from the newspaper photo (minus the thong). His godfather was tall, with dark hair and blue eyes that Hermione insisted were “gorgeous”. His face was lined, but right now it was lit up with a huge smile. “HARRY!” he let out a joyous shout that was almost a bark.

“Um, hi,” Harry said, suddenly feeling shy.

“Come here – let me take a look at you!” the man commanded, holding out his arms.

Harry felt his professor’s grip tighten for a second but then Snape’s arm withdrew entirely, and Harry obediently stepped towards his godfather. Only to yelp in surprise as he was grabbed and tossed high in the air.

“I used to do that when you were a pup!” Sirius grinned, catching him and hugging him tight. “Do you remember?”

“Padfoot, Harry was just a baby then. I doubt he remembers us at all,” another man said, smiling, as he stepped from behind the couch. “Hello, Harry, I’m Remus Lupin.”

“Er, hello,” Harry offered. He glanced at his professor. “Erm, they were my father’s friends, yeah?” he asked uncertainly.

Snape looked sour. “Yes. The idiot and the werewolf.”

“Hey!” Sirius protested. “Who are you calling an idiot?”

Snape just looked at him and after a moment, Sirius shrugged resignedly and turned back to Harry. “Well, okay, but I’m a lot better now.”

Harry giggled.

“I’ll just leave you alone,” the other man said quietly. Harry noticed that he’d made no effort to come any closer.

“Wait,” Harry said, twisting to see him. “Mr – uh – Lupin? Why are you leaving?”

“Yeah, Moony,” Sirius protested. “Don’t go.”

“I think your visitors would be more comfortable if I weren’t here.” Remus gave Sirius a pointed look.

“Oh!” Sirius looked torn as he glanced from Harry to Remus and back again.

Harry looked puzzled. “Why would you make us feel uncomfortable?” he asked blankly.

“Lupin is playing the martyr because he assumes that you share the prejudice against werewolves common to most in the Wizarding world,” Snape commented in a bored tone. “He believes that you will be frightened of him and shy from his touch.”

Remus shot Snape a dirty look. “Well, since someone obviously saw fit to inform Harry of my condition,” he retorted, “the least I can do is not interfere with his reunion with his godfather.”

Harry squirmed until his godfather let him down, then walked up to Lupin. “I’m not afraid of you, sir,” he offered, holding out his hand. “I know you were one of my father’s best friends.”

Amazed, Lupin shook Harry’s hand, tears coming to his eyes. He looked over at Snape, who stood arms crossed over his chest. “Severus, again you shame me. Thank you for this gift.”

Snape grumbled in irritation. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, wolf. I certainly wasn’t going to frighten the brat half to death with some nonsensical propaganda, though neither did I pretend you’re a harmless little puppy dog.”

“That would be me!” Sirius, never one to allow the spotlight to be off him for long, promptly transformed into his canine form, leaving Harry speechless.

Remus sighed. “Trust your godfather to keep a secret. Padfoot, I thought we agreed that it was better for Harry not to know about your secret animagus form.”

“That’s so wicked!” Harry yelled, running over to pat his godfather. Padfoot promptly rolled on his back so Harry could scratch his tummy. “You’re just like Professor McGonagall! Wow!”

“Brilliant, Black,” Snape sneered. “Do you really imagine that confiding in an 11 year old is a way to safeguard your secret? Let me guess – you’ve shown off for at least a dozen local women as well.”

Sirius transformed back and grinned at the Potion Master. “Snape, my lad, trust me. I impress the women just fine with my human form, though I admit there’s quite a transformation involved there as well,” he leered.

Harry looked quizzical, and Snape gritted his teeth. “Spare me your smut, Black.”

“Jealous?”

Remus stepped in before Severus could answer. “Sirius, I doubt you want to get into this kind of comparison with a Slytherin. Remember what Missy Rogers told you?”

“Oh.” Sirius scowled. “Right.”

Snape blinked. Who was - ? Oh, yes. Rogers. A Slytherin the year behind him. But what did she have to do with…?

Remus stepped over to Snape, who managed (barely) to control his flinch. The werewolf lowered his voice confidingly. “Sirius dated Missy for a few weeks our sixth year. When they broke up, she made some comments about his, er, prowess, and told him that, ah, the Slytherin mascot had special – uh – meaning for the males in your House. That they were taught special spells to – er – emulate a serpent with, erm, a certain part of their anatomy and that, uh,” Remus was a brilliant red, but he gamely continued his whispered explanation, “well, it was hard for a girl to go back after having had a Slytherin boy. Sirius sulked for three days straight.”

Snape’s eyes were wide, and only his stern control prevented him from clutching himself. That was what the other Houses said about Slytherin? Where the hell had he been when those spells were being taught?

“A few weeks later, Missy told me she’d made it all up, just to teach Sirius a lesson, but somehow I never quite got around to sharing the news with him.” Remus grinned at Snape’s expression. “It’s good to keep Sirius feeling a little humble.”

“He’s never figured it out?” Snape asked, stunned.

“Well, he tried to get his brother to teach him the spells, but of course he and Regulus were estranged by then, so Reg just told him to sod off.” Remus’ eyes were crinkled as he held back his laughter, and Snape suddenly found it hard to despise the creature quite as much as he had.

Sirius had gone back to talking to Harry after Remus interrupted his little spat with Snape, and now he gave another bark of laughter. “Sure, you can learn to be an animagus, Harry. I mean, your dad did, so why not you? We weren’t much older than you when we started to learn.”

“My dad was an animagus? Cool! Do you get to choose your form? ‘Cause I want to be a talking snake.”

The words were met with a moment of shocked silence, then Snape took two steps forward. “A talking snake? What do you mean by that?” he demanded, the back of his neck prickling with dread. Sirius and Remus exchanged worried glances.

“You know,” Harry explained innocently, “since wizards can talk to snakes, I think that’d be a wicked choice. You’d get to be an animal but you could still talk to people who weren’t animaguses.”

“Animagi,” Snape corrected automatically, his mind racing. Sirius and Remus were looking at each other in horror. “You can talk to snakes?”

Harry nodded.

“Show me.” Snape abruptly conjured a snake. Startled, the Marauders pulled out their own wands, but before they could do anything, Harry had stepped forward. “Hello,” he said politely to the hissing cobra. “It’s nice to meet you. My name is Harry.”

“A ssspeaker!! Hello, ssspeaker,” the snake dipped its head in welcome. “Why have you ssummoned me?”

“My guardian wanted to see me talk to you. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all. Is there anyone you would like me to bite before I go?”

“No, thank you. But do you think you could find your way to Surrey? I have –“ But Snape, having heard enough, had banished the snake, and now all three adults were staring at Harry.

“What?” he asked, then realized he was still speaking Snake. “Sorry. What is it?”

“He’s a Parselmouth?” Sirius gulped, looking a bit sick. “When did that happen?”

“If anyone finds out…” Remus looked worriedly at Snape. “The reaction could be bad. People can be very cruel.”

Snape nodded absently, busy calculating all the benefits this talent could bring, if handled properly. Perhaps Harry could challenge the Dark Lord for mastery of his familiar Nagini? Or obtain his own, even more powerful, snake familiar? Hmmm. How long did it take to grow a basilisk….?

“Snape!” Sirius was hugging Harry protectively, and the boy was beginning to look worried. “What are we going to do about this?”

“Obviously this needs to be kept a secret,” Snape replied, giving Sirius a killer glare. “And by that I mean a real secret. Not like your ridiculous animagus form.”

“Why? What’s wrong with talking to snakes?” Harry demanded.

“It is a very rare and powerful talent,” Snape replied before either Marauder could. “The fewer people who know it, the more value it will be in your fight against the Dark Lord. Keeping it a secret is therefore in your best interests and will help you protect yourself and your friends better. You don’t ever want to allow Him to harm Ron and Hermione again, do you?”

Harry shook his head, eyes wide. “I won’t tell anyone. You won’t either, will you?” he appealed to Sirius and Remus.

“No! Not a soul,” Sirius swore, hugging him again.

“Not even Dumbledore?” Remus asked.

“NO!” Harry yelled, just as Snape shook his head. The Gryffindors looked at Harry in surprise.

“Why not tell the Headmaster?” Remus asked Harry. “Don’t you like him?”

Harry shrugged awkwardly, looking at the floor. “He’s nice an’ all, and he always gives me lollies, but he didn’t help Mr Black an’ –“

“Mr Black!” Sirius repeated in horror. “What did you call me that for?”

Harry looked at him nervously. “I’m sorry. What do you want me to call you, sir?”

“Sir! Did you just call me sir?!” Sirius’ yell was even louder, and Harry began to look frightened.

Rolling his eyes, Snape stepped forward and pulled Harry away from Black. “Stop screaming like a first year Hufflepuff,” he ordered brusquely, draping one arm over the brat’s shoulder. “You never told the boy what to call you, so don’t be alarmed when he demonstrates that he has been taught appropriate courtesy.”

“Yes, but ‘Sir’ or ‘Mr Black’?” Sirius demanded pitifully. “You can’t be serious.”

“No, that would be you,” Remus put in, chuckling, only to be hit by glares from the others.

“Harry, can’t you call me Sirius? Or Padfoot?” he asked hopefully.

“Erm, okay, Padfoot,” Harry agreed timidly. “I didn’t mean to make you mad.”

“I’m not mad, Harry; it’s just… I want to be your friend. Not some random adult in your life, okay? I mean, how many godfathers do you have?”

Harry smiled.

“And you can call me Remus or Moony, Harry,” Lupin put in. “And we won’t tell Professor Dumbledore anything, okay?”

“Thanks!” Harry exclaimed in relief. He still didn’t trust Dumbledore not to ship him back to the Dursleys if he thought Harry was too weird for Hogwarts. “So when c’n I learn to become a snake?”

“Well, Harry, it doesn’t exactly work like that. You don’t get to choose your animagus form. Sorry,” Sirius explained apologetically.

Harry pouted. “But what if my form is something stupid?”

“It’s still wicked to be an animal, Harry,” Sirius coaxed. “Not everyone can do it, you know.”

Harry looked over at his professor. “Can you?”

“No,” Snape admitted coldly.

“Then maybe we could learn together!” Harry said excitedly.

Snape nearly snorted in derision. Black, willing to teach him something? That would be the day!

“Yeah, okay,” Sirius agreed, ignoring Snape’s shocked expression. “Then you can help each other practice. It was easier for James and Peter and me to learn together.”

“Um,” a thought struck Harry and he glanced over at his professor nervously. “You’re not still mad at my professor, are you?” he asked Sirius. “I mean, I know there are a lot of people you’re probably still mad at for believing you did all those things the Ministry said you did, but Pr’fessor Snape’s not one of them, right?” Becoming an animagus sounded hard and maybe a bit dangerous, and if his godfather was still annoyed with his guardian…

Sirius stared at Harry. “You mean he didn’t tell you?” he gasped. Snape’s head came up, but he wasn’t in time to prevent Black’s next words. “Snape’s the one who broke me out!”

Harry’s eyes bugged. Professor Snape?? His guardian had been the one to smuggle his godfather out of that prison that everyone said was impossible to escape? His guardian had been the one to break the rules like that? “But – but why?” he gulped, staring at Snape.

Snape’s hands itched to strangle the mutt. Black had the restraint of a kumquat! Was there anything he didn’t spill on the spot? How could Lily have ever thought of using this idiot as their SECRET keeper?

“Now, Severus,” Remus said, correctly interpreting Snape’s rage, “we’re all in this together. Keeping secrets among the four of us isn’t really necessary, now is it?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, Lupin, Harry is eleven years old,” Snape spat. “He is a child. He is not to be burdened with keeping adults’ secrets for them! He has enough to worry about without taking on additional concerns that are well beyond his power to control and equally beyond his maturity to consider rationally!”

“I am so mature enough!” Harry protested.

“No, you are not,” Snape shot back. “While I do not dispute that you are at least as mature as Black, that is still not saying very much.”

“Oi!” Black exclaimed, but Snape ignored him.

“He is a child, Lupin, not a co-conspirator. While there is no value in keeping him wholly ignorant of matters which affect him, it is equally dangerous to treat him as if he were a fully grown wizard with an adult’s experience and judgment. I will decide what he is told, when and how. That is what I am here for.” At least until Black replaces me, he added silently.

Harry started to pout, but then remembered he had even more interesting news to ask about. “Why did you help Sirius to escape?” he demanded, tugging on his guardian’s sleeve. “I thought you didn’t like him.”

“I don’t,” Snape said shortly. Sirius rolled his eyes.

Harry frowned in thought. “When did you help him?”

“What difference does it make?” Snape snapped at the boy, hoping to head off the line of inquiry. Of all the times for Harry to finally be perceptive, this was definitely the most awkward!

“Was it before or after you said you’d take care of me?” Harry asked suspiciously.

“I can answer that,” Sirius said sweetly, ignoring Snape’s “SHUT UP, MUTT!”. “It was just afterwards.”

Snape slumped. This was what he got for hanging around with Gryffindors. Sure enough, the brat had put the pieces together and was staring at him with unabashed adoration. “You did it for me?” he squeaked. “You got my godfather back for me?”

Snape grumbled and muttered as the boy – naturally – hurled himself against him, further bruising his sternum and getting his robes all snotty. Black and Lupin looked on, beaming proudly at the mess they had created.

“All right, all right,” Snape growled, finally pulling the boy away from him and mopping up all the splooge with a handkerchief. Did all children leak from happiness the way this brat did? “Now mark me well, Potter, you are not to mention your godfather’s escape nor my part in it to anyone. That includes any of the Weasleys, Granger, the Headmaster, or anyone else. Do you understand?” Harry nodded vigorously. “You are also not to breathe a word about your idiot godfather’s animagus form, the fact that Lupin is a werewolf, or that you are a parselmouth – that you can speak with snakes. Do you understand? If you do –“

“I know,” Harry grinned through his tears, “you’ll smack me.”

“No, Mr Potter. You will put all of us – and all of your friends – in jeopardy from the Dark Lord.” Harry lost his grin. “This knowledge is not being held secret out of a puerile sense of adventure. Rather, it is information that can assist us in the fight against You Know Who. If you reveal it, it will put people’s lives at risk and impair our ability to prosecute our campaign against Him. Do you understand?”

Harry nodded soberly. “I won’t tell. Honest. I’m good at keeping secrets.”

That Snape didn’t doubt. Harry had kept the secrets of those bastard Muggles all too well. “Very well. Then we will say no more about it.”

“Hold on,” Sirius butted in. “What does Harry mean, you’ll smack him? Have you laid a hand on my godson? After what you said those fucking Muggles did to him?”

Harry’s eyes widened. Oooooh, his godfather swore! And right in front of him!

“Padfoot!” Remus rebuked. “Language!”

“Moony! He hit Harry!”

Remus sighed. “Did you deserve it?” he asked quietly, bending down to look Harry in the eye.

Harry nodded.

“How long before you could sit down?”

Harry blushed. “Er, maybe a minute or two,” he exaggerated, worried that his professor would look bad otherwise.

Remus blinked. “Is that all?”

“Errr… could have been three or four,” Harry offered.

“So it doesn’t sound as if it was a very hard walloping?”

Harry shook his head. “He’s not really good at smacking, to tell you the truth. He doesn’t like to hit, and he doesn’t know how. Mostly he just scolds and has me write essays or lines, but he doesn’t even make me do that very much. He – he’s really nice to me. Nicer than Mr Weasley even!”

“And he just swats your bum, right? With his hand?”

Harry nodded.

“He doesn't hit your face or anything else?”

Harry shook his head.

“He doesn’t use his wand?”

Harry frowned, perplexed. “Y’mean to hit me with?”

Remus fought back a smile. “No, to hex you.”

“Oh, we haven’t started duellin’. Pr’fessor Snape says I’m not ready yet.”

“No, no. I meant does he hex you for punishment?”

Harry’s eyes widened. “You mean using magic to hurt me?” At Remus’ nod, he huffed in outrage. “Pr’fessor!” he turned to Snape, scandalized. “Remus is asking if you ever hex me for punishment! Do people - I mean wizards - really do that?”

Part of Snape – the part that wasn’t busy exchanging loud insults with Sirius – felt a glow of pride and triumph that he was the one Harry trusted. The brat still didn’t trust the werewolf’s word. No, it was Snape, the nasty Slytherin, who’d won his loyalty first.

Unfortunately, the little voice in his head pointed out this would hardly be the case much longer, and the sweetness turned to ashes. “Yes, yes, Potter," he said testily. "Some wizarding families do use magic to discipline their offspring. I'm sure some of your classmates are very familiar with the practice.”

“Huh.” Harry folded his arms across his chest and glowered at Remus. “That’s disgusting.”

Remus decided he didn’t need to bother asking whether Snape had ever used any Dark curses on the child. “What did you get your last smacking for?”

Harry squirmed, his embarrassment returning. “There was this DADA professor at school…”

Remus blinked. “You mean Quirrell?”

Harry looked surprised. “Yeah! You heard about that?”

Remus chuckled. “Everyone heard about that. So you got smacked for that?”

“Well, a smack, anyway,” Harry admitted. “Plus detention and lines.”

Remus straightened up, trying unsuccessfully to keep a straight face, and looked over to where Sirius was still yelling at Snape. “Padfoot!”

“What?”

“Ask Harry why he got his last swat.”

Sirius walked over, still grumbling. “Doesn’t matter why, Moony. Evil git shouldn’t be hitting my godson. Poor little guy. Doesn’t deserve to be – Harry?” his voice softened remarkably. “Can you please tell me what that mean old bat Snape walloped you for? I promise I won’t get angry.”

Harry mentally shrugged. Grownups sure were strange. “I got a swat for Sticking Professor Quirrell’s turban to the infirmary bed and letting out Lord Voldesnort.”

Sirius’ eyes widened. “What did you call – Wait. One swat? You only got ONE swat for Quirrell? Only one? One?” Harry nodded blankly. “Merlin! You jammy little sod! Your grandfather would have blistered your bum for something like that! When your father and I took our brooms into the Forbidden Forest, he made sure we couldn’t sit for a week! And you only got ONE SWAT for facing You Know Who?”

“Pr’fessor Snape doesn’t hit to hurt,” Harry told him primly, “just to make sure I know I messed up.” He felt relief that his professor was the one caring for him. It sounded like, for all his playfulness, his godfather might not be quite so indulgent. “No one’s hurt me like that since the Dursleys.” And I’m going to keep it that way.

Snape glared at the Marauders and his ward. “If you are quite done reviling me and questioning my disciplinary methods…”

Sirius huffed. “Never would have thought of you as being lenient,” he grumbled.

“Harry is many things, but dimwitted isn’t one of them,” Snape retorted. “I don’t have to worry about him taking nocturnal joyrides in the Forbidden Forest.”

Harry straightened proudly. That had definitely been a compliment!

“We weren’t joyriding,” Sirius protested, obviously still nursing a grievance from twenty years back. “We were reconnoitering good places to take Moony during the full moon. But we could hardly say that when Filch caught us, so Dumbledore called James’ dad and we got our arses striped good and proper.”

Snape shot a look at Harry. The boy was looking almost sympathetic. “Harry knows perfectly well that if he were to get into similar trouble, he is able to tell me the complete and unvarnished truth so that I may decide what best to do,” he said, giving the boy a pointed look.

Harry grinned and nodded. It seemed a little odd that his father had had to keep secrets from his own dad, but Professor Snape had said that wizards were funny about werewolves, so maybe that was it.

“Well, if you let him off with a little tap on the bum for facing down You Know Who, why wouldn’t he tell you everything?” Sirius sulked.

Remus hid a smile behind his hand. “You know, Padfoot, I rather think that’s Severus’ point,” he explained.

Harry had had enough of the adults’ pointless asides, and he steered the conversation back to what really interested him. “So what’s it like to be an animagus?” he asked, pulling on his godfather’s arm. “Is it hard to change?”

Sirius’ grumpy mood melted at the sight of his godson’s eager face. “Would you like to see your father and the rest of us as animagi? Should I get the pensieve?”

Harry nodded, eyes shining. “Sure! What was my dad? Was he a bear? A lion? A hawk?”

“He was a stag,” Sirius told him proudly.

Snape nearly snorted with amusement at the look of utter disgust that came over Harry’s face. “A deer? My dad was a deer? They don’t even have teeth!”

“Harry!” Sirius protested. “Your dad’s form was brilliant! He was a magnificent stag, with big antlers and –“

“Are you sure you can’t choose your form?” Harry whined.

Remus put an arm around the boy. “Wait until you see Prongs in action, Harry. Sometimes he was the only one who could keep the wolf back. Those antlers can do a lot of damage, you know, and he was a big animal.”

Harry sighed. “I guess…” he allowed grudgingly.

Remus went off to fetch the pensieve, and Harry accompanied him for a tour of the house.

Snape took a deep breath and forced himself to approach Black. He had a favor to ask, and he might as well get it over with. Though it might be sensible to start with a pleasant topic first. “What have you been doing to torture the Muggles lately?”

Sirius perked up. “We talked to the Bertie Bott's Company – you know, they make the Every Flavor Beans?” Snape nodded. “Being a celebrity makes everything so much easier. I just had to send an owl and they were falling all over themselves to help me. Anyway, they showed us the spells they use to get the really disgusting flavors, and we’ve spiked the Muggles’ food. Pretty much everything they eat tastes like vomit, pig shite, rotten onions, week-old roadkill, dead rat, ear wax, toe jam… Even those two fatties are losing weight. Dursley must have dropped a stone by now.” Sirius’ evil grin was a little too reminiscent of his expression when he stalked Snape through the corridors of Hogwarts. Snape had to fight off the urge to draw his wand.

Still, it was an inspired punishment for those gluttons. “Quite inventive. Perhaps I could give you a few flavor suggestions from my work with Potions ingredients?” he offered.

“Yeah, sure.”

Encouraged by Black’s congenial tone, Snape decided to request the favor. He doubted the Marauder would acquiesce, but he couldn’t risk not asking. If Black had been more of a Slytherin, like the rest of his benighted family, Snape could have bargained – in the Slytherin universe, everything has a price, so everything is negotiable- but Gryffindors didn’t think like that. They sneered at deals. If they liked you, they’d do anything for you; if they didn’t, it would be snowing in Hades before they’d so much as spit on your burning corpse.

Snape forced his voice to remain cold and uncaring as he said, “I would like to request that you delay your lawsuit until the end of the school year.”

There. He’d said it. Quite politely too. No one could claim he’d antagonized the mutt.

Black looked confused. Stupid Gryffindor. “What lawsuit? I thought you said the whole point of cutting the deal with Fudge and accepting his apology was so that things wouldn’t get bogged down with the Wizengamot.”

Snape managed not to roll his eyes. “The custody lawsuit, Black. The one to gain guardianship of the boy.”

“Who? Harry?”

“No, Weasley. Or perhaps Malfoy? I had no idea that you considered the little brats so interchangeable.”

Black scowled. “Very funny, Sniv - er, Snape. What are you talking about? I’m not after Harry.”

Yeah, right. Now Snape couldn’t resist the eye roll. “So you’re simply going to leave your best friend’s orphan in the greasy clutches of your worst enemy? Pull the other one, Black.”

Ha! He’d known it was a ploy. Black was now looking embarrassed. Obviously he hadn’t expected his little ruse to be so transparent. “Erm, you’re not greasy. Not anymore, anyway.”

Snape brushed the incoherent babble aside. “Black, Harry’s first year hardly got off to a smooth start. He’s had to adjust to a new school, new culture, new guardian, new friends, all while simultaneously dealing with attempts on his life, fighting first a troll and then the Dark Lord… Giving him some additional stability for the rest of the school calendar would be to his advantage, while enmeshing him in a custody battle which will surely play out across the Prophet’s front page, will not – “

“Snape!” Sirius sounded as if he were grinding his teeth. “Would you listen to me, you damned bat? I am not suing for custody.”

Severus merely gave him a cold look of disbelief, then continued, “As I was saying, a custody battle will distract him from exams and make him worry about where he will be living over the summer holidays.” He didn’t know what Black was hoping to achieve with his ridiculous denials, but he was a rank amateur at such mind games. Snape had been screwed with by the best – Dumbledore, Voldemort, his own father…Even during their schooldays Sirius had never been one for subtle plots and tortures. In contrast to most of his ancestors, he would scorn an untraceable slow-acting poison; his style was pure Gryffindor in-your-face. Black had always wanted to see the blood and pain his torment was causing and he had had no patience to wait for it. In all their time at Hogwarts, he had never toyed with Snape’s mind like this. Obviously he had learned some new tricks at Azkaban.

Snape sighed and continued, wanting to end the charade before the brat returned. “He may not appear so, but Harry remains quite apprehensive about being sent back to those Muggles, and a perceived lack of stability will-“

“SNAPE! Would you listen to me, you fuckwit! Has inhaling potion fumes made you stupid? I have TOLD you that –“

“Oi!” Harry and Remus had returned in time to catch the last comment, and a glaring Harry marched up to his godfather. “Don’t you call him names!”

Sirius raked his hands through his hair in exasperated fury. “He’s driving me crazy, Pronglet! He won’t listen!”

“He listens to me,” Harry countered fiercely, causing Snape to preen. Then Harry paused. “What did you just call me?”

“Pronglet. Or Prongs Junior. Your dad’s animagus name was Prongs, so when you were born, we all started calling you Little Prongs and Pronglet…” Sirius grinned. “Like it?”

Harry grinned back, his irritation forgotten, much to Snape’s annoyance. Disloyal little viper.

“Yeah.” Then he held up a cautionary finger. “But only ‘til I have a form of my own. ‘Cause I might have teeth,” he pointed out hopefully.

“What were you two yelling about?” Remus asked, always the voice of calm reason.

“Oh!” Sirius turned to Harry. “Hey, Pronglet – “ he ignored Snape’s furious signals to shut up “ – do you want to come live with me?”

Harry frowned uncomprehendingly. “Huh? I live with Pr’fessor Snape now. When I’m not at Hogwarts, I mean. I mean, when I’m not living in the dorms with the other kids an’ all.”

“Yes,” Sirius agreed patiently, “but wouldn’t you rather live with me? Your parents named me your godfather.”

Harry looked troubled, and he glanced over at his professor. Snape had managed to regain his composure, but he seethed with fury beneath that frozen expression. Leave it to Black to do exactly what he had hoped to avoid and involve the boy. The bastard had no discretion or – quite possibly – any higher brain function whatsoever.

Harry chewed his lip anxiously. He didn’t want to offend anyone, and he thought his godfather might well turn out to be a lot of fun, but all this talk of taking him away from his professor was making him nervous.

Snape caught the lip chewing and felt a sinking feeling in his gut. Obviously the boy was trying to work out how to tell him that he wanted to live with his blasted godfather. Well, fine. It wasn’t like he had expected anything else.

“Well,” Harry said cautiously, edging closer to Professor Snape in case his rather excitable godfather reacted badly to what he was about to say, “I wouldn’t mind visiting you, y’know, like the Weasleys.”

“But don’t you want to live with me? Instead of Snape?” Sirius pressed.

Snape ground his teeth together. Of course Black would make Harry come out and say it right in front of him. He forced his features to remain expressionless. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing how much this renunciation was going to hurt. It was his own fault, anyway. He knew better than to allow himself to develop feelings for anyone, let alone another Gryffindor. Hadn’t he learned anything from the agony of his relationship with Lily? This was what happened when you let your guard down. He’d been a sentimental idiot, and now he was going to pay the price. He braced himself as the boy started to speak.

Harry had tried. He really had. But obviously Sirius wasn’t going to be put off with polite evasions. Be a Gryffindor, Harry! Show them you have courage! Even if his godfather was furious and never wanted to see him again, it wasn’t that bad, right? Professor McGonagall would probably help him learn to be an animagus if he asked her. And even if she wouldn’t do it for him, she probably would if Professor Snape was the one to make the request.

Harry felt a pang at the thought of losing this link to his parents, but by now he’d heard so many stories about them from Hagrid and Professor McGonagall and Auntie Molly and Uncle Arthur and Professor Flitwick… As soon as his professor had let it be known that his relatives hadn’t told him anything, people had begun sharing their memories and sending him pictures and… Harry sighed happily. It was just another example of how well Professor Snape looked after him. He made sure that Harry knew just how many people cared about him. He was so surrounded by love now that losing one or two people – even if it was his godfather – just didn’t make that much of a difference. So he braced himself and spoke. “No, sir. I don’t want t’live with you. I’d rather live with Pr’fessor Snape.”

There was an odd roaring noise. Snape wondered faintly whether there was an ocean nearby, but they were in Switzerland, weren’t they?

“Oh, for – GRAB HIM!” He heard Black shout at someone and tried to look around, but there was a hard hand at the back of his neck and all he could see was the floor.

It took him a moment to realize that he was seated on the sofa and someone was holding his head between his knees. He fought free and found himself nose to nose with a pale-looking Harry.

“Are you okay, Pr’fessor?” the boy asked anxiously. “You looked really weird there for a minute.”

“He just needs a cup of tea,” Remus said comfortingly. “Come help me call the house elves.”

Black dropped down next to him, grinning like a fiend, but Snape was so confused at the moment that all he could do was blink at him. “See?” Black said happily. “I told you you were a fuckwit. Why would I try to get custody? Harry wants to stay with you.”

“But – but – but –“ Snape felt as if someone had hit him with a Confundus. Had he actually heard the boy choose him over his godfather? And Black wasn’t having raging hysterics about it?

“Sheesh, Snape, you’d think we were still kids and hated each other,” Black said, laughing a little uncomfortably. “I mean, did you really expect me to take Harry away from you after all you’ve done for both of us? What kind of prick do you think I am?” Then he hastily added, “No, don’t answer that.”

He nervously raked his hand through his hair again. “Look, I know I haven’t exactly got a good track record where you’re concerned, but I meant what I said at Azkaban. I am sorry for all the things we – I – put you through, and I’m really grateful to you for taking care of Harry and getting me out of there and… well, even if I were enough of a bastard to ignore everything you’ve done, I’d still not be in any shape to take Harry.” For a moment, the look in Black’s eyes reminded Severus of the wreck he had seen in the cell at Azkaban. “I’m still having a lot of nightmares, and I get upset really easily, and my memory’s shocking…” Black gave a sudden, savage grin. “But the Dursleys are great for helping me work out what Remus calls my ‘anger issues’ and I’m doing my best to enjoy myself and make up for lost time in other ways – it really is amazing what those Swiss birds do with chocolate – but I’m not able to be a dad for Harry right now, and that’s what he needs. And since he’s already found a father, I’m certainly not about to do anything to destroy Pronglet’s happiness. Besides, if I were stupid enough to think of doing it, James would return from the dead to kick my arse. And Lily would be right behind him.”

Snape had honestly believed that nothing could shock him as badly as the boy’s preferring him to Black, but Black’s actually referring to him as Harry’s father did it. He found his head back between his knees as Black shouted to Remus to hurry up with the tea.

“Are you all right, Pr’fessor? Maybe you should have a biscuit,” Harry offered, hovering worriedly. “D’you want me to go an’ get Madame Pomfrey? Or…do they have wizard doctors here in Switzerland?”

Snape’s pride finally reasserted itself. He was not about to sit here like an overemotional Hufflepuff! He managed to straighten up, ignoring the spots flashing before him. “I’m fine, Mr Potter, and do not think I was so overcome I did not see you pocket those cream cakes. Kindly remove them at once.”

Harry blushed guiltily. “They weren’t for me,” he protested, pulling out the now-linty cakes. “I was savin’ ‘em for Ron an’ Hermione.”

“Hmf.” Snape sipped at his tea and grimaced. Had the werewolf upended the sugar bowl into his cup?

“Sugar is good for shock.” Remus interpreted his expression correctly. “It will speed your recovery. Trust me.”

Snape huffed again, but he was beginning to feel a little better. Events had just been… unexpected.

Harry sat on the couch next to him, not quite on his lap, but definitely closer than decorum indicated. He gave the brat a sharp nudge, but of course he was oblivious to such subtle corrections. Snape gave up with a sigh. There would be plenty of time later on for etiquette lessons, and – if truth be told – just now he rather liked having the boy so near.

Harry made sure to sit extra-close to his professor, so he could keep an eye on the man. He hadn’t liked it at all when his professor had gone all funny, but Remus insisted he’d be fine and it was probably just something he’d eaten. Still, Harry was going to stick close for the rest of the visit. His professor must have noticed, because he gave him a friendly little nudge as Harry sat down, as if to say “thanks for being there”. Harry scooted even closer. He knew how awful it was to be alone when you were sick, and he definitely didn’t want his guardian to feel that way. “If you need anything, just let me know,” he told Snape sternly. “You sit and rest, okay?”

Snape tried to understand what had just happened as he sipped his too-sweet tea. Black had actually been… pleasant. He had endorsed the brat’s affection for Snape (nonsensical though it was) and had appeared quite sincere in his intentions not to assume custody of the child. Snape could not have been more surprised if a house elf had punched him in the nose.

Of course, Black had called him a “fuckwit”, but for Black that was practically a term of endearment.

Sirius finally managed to drag a hovering Harry away and began pulling memories out of his head and placing them in the pensieve, much to the boy’s fascinated disgust. Remus settled next to Snape, and it was a measure of how rattled the Slytherin was that he didn’t recoil from the werewolf’s proximity.

“You look a bit confused,” Remus said, his voice quiet.

“Has Black recently suffered head trauma?” Snape asked seriously.

Remus muffled a laugh. “No, but I was wondering if you had. You’re usually much quicker on the uptake.”

“The workings of Gryffindor minds – such as they are – remain mysterious to me,” Snape retorted, giving him a dirty look.

Remus grinned. “Better get used to it. You’re living with one now.” He glanced over at where Harry was warily peering into the pensieve. “But I don’t see what’s so confusing.”

“You don’t see anything at all odd about Black – Sirius Black – consenting to allow his godson, the orphan of James Potter, to be raised by a greasy Slytherin who is offensive merely by existing?”

Remus had the grace to color. “Merlin, Severus, we were what, sixteen? I’d have thought you might have forgotten by now.”

“And you have such a short memory for those who call you names, wolf?”

Remus sighed. “Touche. It was inexcusable then and now, but Sirius really does regret it, you know. As do I.”

“He did apologize,” Snape commented begrudgingly.

Remus heard what Snape had not consciously intended. “Please let me do the same. Severus, I am sincerely sorry for my actions. We treated you abominably, and we were never properly punished. Your treatment of Harry proves that you are – and were – the better man.”

This was not helping Snape’s mental health. Apologetic Gryffindors? Mouthing the very lines his teenaged self had longed to hear? Maybe he didn’t need to worry about Voldemort after all – surely the Apocalypse was upon them. How many more Signs of the End Times did he need?

Remus sensed his befuddlement. “Severus, I may be the one with the wolf inside me, but Padfoot has always shown a doglike devotion for his friends. His loyalty, once given, is so strong that he would have made a good Hufflepuff, if it hadn’t taken such obvious courage to break with the rest of his family and join the Light.”

“And this is supposed to have something to do with him not hexing me or taking Harry?” Snape demanded testily.

“What is the most important thing in Sirius’ life?” Remus asked, seemingly at random.

“Casual sex,” Snape replied promptly.

Remus choked, then laughed in delight. “Actually, that’s number two. Number one is Harry – he’s all that we have left of James and Lily, but even more than that, Padfoot swore to look after Harry if anything happened to them.”

“And a fine job he’s done to date,” Snape sneered.

“That’s exactly the point, Severus. Once Sirius realized what had happened to Harry and saw what you have done for him – and for Sirius himself – he realized how badly we had misjudged you. You broke him out of Azkaban when you learned he was innocent. You weren’t stopped by the fact that you hated him – or the fact that he couldn’t stand you. You did the right thing regardless of your personal feelings. Of course he felt grateful. And then to realize that, when you discovered Harry’s situation, you had done the same thing for him? Severus, you saved the only thing in this world that Padfoot really cares about. You did it when Dumbledore wouldn’t, and Sirius couldn’t, and – “ Remus swallowed hard but forced the words out, his voice thick with guilt “ – and I didn’t. You were the only one who was there for Harry, even though you owed him nothing and could feel only hatred towards his family. Sirius and I know how much we owe you and that you are – despite being a ‘greasy Slytherin git’ – a very good person. Much better than us, in fact... Like it or not, Severus, you’re now a Marauder too. You’re part of our Pack.”

How ignominious. Snape mused gloomily that this was every bit as bad as being an honorary Weasley. What more humiliation would the brat have in store for him? All he wanted to do was to prevent the Dark Lord from murdering the boy, but at this rate, he’d be a bloody Gryffindor before Harry was in third year.

“Come on!” Black called over. “I’ve pulled some memories for Harry to see us in our animagus forms. Let’s go.”

“Marvelous,” Snape grumbled as Remus and he left the couch. “Strolling down Memory Lane with the Marauders. Just how I wanted to spend my afternoon.”

All too quickly for Snape, the four of them were immersed in the memory, watching a big dog and a stag play in a clearing of the Forbidden Forest. Suddenly a howl split the night and Harry grabbed for Snape’s hand. “What was that?” he asked nervously.

“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” Remus said, panicking slightly at the thought of Harry’s reaction. “This can’t be comfortable for Severus -“

Snape was busy fighting not to wet himself in terror, but he was not about to let the idiot Marauders know that. “I’m fine.”

“Is it really just a memory?” Harry whispered, his face white with fear.

“Yes,” Snape assured him, trying to convince himself at the same time. “You cannot be harmed.”

Harry still looked uncertain and edged closer. As usual, Snape found it easier to feign calm when those around him were petrified. “You are in no danger,” he told Harry firmly.

“I – I know,” Harry agreed with an utter lack of conviction in his tone, and then the werewolf entered the clearing.

The dog and stag instantly moved to join it, and to Snape’s surprise, the werewolf bounded playfully forward, rather puppyish in its enthusiasm. “Moony, you’re kinda cute,” Harry said in surprise, venturing forward a bit in order to have a better view.

Remus visibly relaxed. “Never forget that in this form I am very, very dangerous, Harry. If I catch a human scent, I become… obsessed.”

“But isn’t there something that helps?” Harry looked up at his professor. “Didn’t we learn about a potion that does somethin’ for werewolves?”

“Wolfsbane,” Remus nodded. “It allows me to retain my human mind, but even with it, I remain very dangerous and untrustworthy, Harry. Do not ever come near me during the full moon. No matter what. You are to Stun me if you ever see me in this form outside a memory. Do you understand?” For once the gentle wizard looked very stern.

Harry nodded soberly. He glanced up at his professor. “But you make sure he gets his potion, right?”

Snape nodded, still surprised to realize he found the werewolf actually rather cute in this memory. Of course all of his memories of the blasted thing occurred when it was trying to rip out his spleen, not when it was playing tug of war with Black’s canine form over an old stick. “I do. But that does not change what Mr Lupin has just told you. You will obey him in this.”

“Okay,” Harry said, sounding a little exasperated. “You know, it’s not like I’m stupid or anything. Why are you all acting like I don’t know enough to stay away from dangerous things?”

Snape raised an eyebrow. “Was it some other first year who nearly smashed himself against the castle walls? Offered to take on a troll single handed? Threw a bedpan at –“

“Okay, okay,” Harry interrupted, redfaced. “I promise, all right?”

Snape smirked and turned back to the memory. It really was quite astonishing that three students had all mastered the animagus transformation without any faculty help, not to mention assisted in containing a werewolf for seven years.

“Ewww!” Harry yelled, pointing. “Padfoot, you have a rat on your head! He’s gonna wee on you!” Then he looked more closely. There was something about that rat…

“Padfoot! What is wrong with you?” Remus demanded, keeping his voice down to a furious whisper. “Why would you show Harry a memory that has Peter in it?”

“There aren’t that many memories of us in our forms where Peter isn’t present,” Sirius retorted defensively.

“What about that time that he was sick with dragon pox? Or the month he had detention with Filch for –“

“Okay, fine, there were some,” Sirius grumbled.

Snape rolled his eyes as the two bickered. Idiots. “Come back here,” he called to where Harry had moved to get a better view of the cavorting animals. Although he knew it was just a memory, the sight of Harry so close to a werewolf made his skin crawl.

Harry obediently trotted back, his brow creased with puzzlement. He tugged on Sirius’s elbow, interrupting his ongoing argument with Lupin. “How come you had Scabbers with you?”

“Who?” Sirius asked.

“Scabbers. Ron’s rat. He’s sitting on your head.”

“That isn’t Scabbers, Harry. That was another student whose animagus form was a rat. His name was Peter Pettigrew, though we called him Wormtail. He was… a friend of ours at the time,” Remus said carefully.

Harry shook his head. “That’s Scabbers.”

Sirius shook his head. “No, it’s Pettigrew. He’s – “ he glanced at Snape, then continued at the man’s nod “ – he’s the one who betrayed your parents, Harry. He was their Secret Keeper, and he told You Know Who where to find them.”

“No,” Harry insisted. “That’s Scabbers. I mean, he’s still got his toe an’ all, an’ his fur’s not so grey, but that’s Ron’s rat.”

“Harry, one rat looks awfully like another,” Remus argued.

Harry scowled. “I said,” he began, his voice rising dangerously, but before he could launch into a full-scale yell, Snape interrupted.

“What did you say about his toe?”

Sidetracked, Harry looked up at his guardian. “Scabbers is missing a toe. Ron said he’s always been like that, ever since Percy found him all those years ago.”

The men exchanged glances. “It can’t be,” Remus broke the silence first. “Impossible.”

“The Weasleys of all families?” Sirius demanded. “Why them? Peter had to know they were staunch opponents of You Know Who. Why not take refuge with the Malfoys or some other Death Eater family?”

“Because that’s the first place they would have looked for him, if his effort to frame you hadn’t been so successful. Not only would no one have ever considered looking for a Death Eater at the Burrow, but Pettigrew must have also known that the Weasleys’ financial situation would make them highly likely to accept a ‘found’ pet. Another family might have chosen to purchase a familiar; the Weasleys would be all too happy to forego the added expense,” Snape replied.

“So you believe me?” Harry asked.

“I don’t know, Harry,” Sirius said doubtfully. “It’s awfully hard to believe…”

“I agree,” Remus said apologetically. “I think you’ve just made an understandable mistake, Harry.”

Harry’s face fell.

Snape scowled at the sight. “So where do you think Pettigrew is?” he demanded of Black.

“Huh?” Predictably, Black blinked at him stupidly.

“If we are to believe you, Black, you did not murder Pettigrew and all those Muggles. Rather, you were set up by the rat. Ergo, Pettigrew is still alive. Where is he? Where has he been for the past ten years?”

Black shrugged uncertainly. “How would I know? Maybe he’s in Brazil enjoying the bikinis.”

“So Pettigrew was the sort to have an elaborate plan in place, whereby in the completely unexpected defeat of the Dark Lord, he could effortlessly escape from Europe and go into hiding so successfully that not even a hint of his presence has escaped in the past decade?”

Remus rubbed his chin and exchanged looks with Sirius. “No… I wouldn’t have thought Peter would have planned ahead like that. He was always a follower. He needed someone else to tell him what to do, or he’d just panic and flail around.”

“Considering that the Dark Lord’s defeat at Godric’s Hollow caught even Lucius Malfoy by surprise, and he is – you will agree? – a consummate Slytherin and therefore has back up plans for his back up plans, is it so hard to imagine that Pettigew was similarly shocked? And that in the aftermath, he sought refuge in his animagus form and, as you put it, ‘flailed around' until he found sanctuary with an unwitting family with impeccable credentials? Molly Weasley had lost her twin brothers in the War – no one would have imagined for an instant that they could be harboring a Death Eater, even unaware.”

Harry beamed. His professor believed him! And he was convincing the others. Harry could tell from their expressions.

Sirius and Remus proved recalcitrant, but in the end Snape won the day with his caustic query: “So you’d prefer to risk Har- erm, Potter’s – life by ignoring his concerns and doing nothing? He is the only one among us who has seen both Wormtail and Scabbers, but of course you choose to dismiss his opinion. Did it not occur to you that by refusing to act on the boy’s suspicions, you are reinforcing his poor opinion of adults and giving him no reason to trust you? Do you really imagine this is the way to convince him to turn to adults for help, rather than trying to tackle the Dark Lord by himself or with the aid of his little friends? Clearly you do not consider his welfare worth expending a bit of investigative effort.”

That naturally trumped the objections, as both guilt-ridden Marauders apologized profusely to a now-smug Harry. Then the council of war began.

Of course, Sirius was all for going directly to Hogwarts and grabbing the rat, while Remus’ only alteration to the plan was that he was the one who should go, lest Sirius’ exoneration not have reached all ears in Britain. Snape nursed a headache and wondered how Gryffindors managed to survive in the wild.

“You don’t suspect that Pettigrew might possibly be tipped off to your arrival, perhaps by some of the myriad ghosts, portraits, or students? And that, once alerted in that fashion, he might be able to escape in the enormous, magical castle?” Snape finally snarled.

They blinked at him. “But – but – that wouldn’t be fair,” Sirius objected. “He should stay and face us like a Gryffindor!”

Now even Harry was looking disgusted, and Sirius blushed. “Okay. So that was stupid. But I just spent ten years surrounded by Dementors!” he whined. “I’m not at my best!”

“What do you suggest, Severus?” Remus cut in smoothly.

Severus unconsciously slipped into lecture mode, and Remus – with a wink at Harry – conjured quills and parchment for the rest of them. “It will be important that the rat not suspect anything is amiss,” he began, his Slytherin mind busily plotting. “Black will therefore hold a press conference...”

“Brilliant!” Sirius brightened.

“…at which you will make some very disparaging remarks about Britain and Fudge and how despite your exoneration you have no intention of ever setting foot on British soil again.”

“What, never?” Sirius asked in concern.

Severus sighed. Gryffindors. “That is what you will say,” he replied with exaggerated patience. “Are you unfamiliar with the concept of lying? Think of it as pranking the British public.”

“Well, yeah, but think of all the witches back home who’ll go into mourning at the news,” Sirius grinned. “They’ll likely burn Fudge in effigy.”

Harry giggled and Remus groaned, even as Snape massaged his forehead. “To continue,” he ground out. “this statement will reassure Pettigrew that you will not be showing up at Hogwarts to visit Harry and therefore potentially encounter him. It will make it less likely that he will try to flee. In the meantime, we will lay our plans for his capture. First, of course, we must move Potter out of his dorm room.”

“What?” Harry yelped. “Why?”

Snape glared at him. “Do you think I will allow you to continue to sleep in the same room with the creature who betrayed your parents to the Dark Lord? Have you forgotten that the Dark Lord's target that night was not your parents, but you? If Pettigrew, despite our efforts, feels unsafe and decides to flee, he might easily choose to harm or abduct you as he departs. Or you might let something drop that would make him suspicious –“

“I would not!” Harry argued hotly. “An’ me leaving the dorm would make everyone talk an’ that would definitely make him suspicious! We need to catch him, an’ I’m goin’ to stay in the dorm an’ keep an eye on him!”

“Oh, no, you’re not!” Three adult voices rang out in unison, and the men exchanged a somewhat embarrassed look before focusing on the determined-looking boy before them.

“You will move to my quarters immediately upon our return to Hogwarts.”

“No.”

“Harry,” Remus tried, “it’s too dangerous. Peter is too unpredictable.”

“No!”

“C’mon, Pronglet,” Sirius urged. “I’ve got to admit, Snape has a point. Catching that traitor isn’t worth risking you.”

“NO!”

“Potter, disobedience will only result in –“

“I don’t care if you smack me,” Harry growled, his scowl looking remarkably like his guardian’s. “I’m not going to move out of the dorm! I’m going to help catch the rat who betrayed my parents!”

Snape glared at the brat. Such Gryffindor obstinacy. Ah well, it was a good thing that it was no match for Slytherin cleverness. “Very well, Potter,” he said calmly.

Harry blinked, taken aback by the sudden capitulation. “What?”

“I said, very well.” Snape repeated. Now all three Gryffindors were staring at him. “If you refuse to participate in this plan, then we will use another one.”

“Now wait,” Sirius protested. “We can’t risk Harry’s safety –“ he began, ignoring his godson’s grimace.

“I quite agree. So instead of developing a complex yet foolproof plan that would require a great deal of cunning on the boy’s part but virtually guarantee Pettigrew’s capture, we will instead be forced to employ a much cruder plan that will not need Potter’s help.”

Harry looked alternately intrigued and distressed. “Wait. What do you mean your other plan required me to be cunning an’ stuff? I thought you said I was going to have to move out of the dorm.”

“Potter,” Severus rolled his eyes, “you can hardly be plotting Pettigrew’s downfall in front of him, nor can you engage in planning meetings with the three of us from a couch in your Common Room. But since you prefer to stay with your little friends rather than join the adults in devising and implementing the plot, we will have to use a more direct approach. I will merely floo-call the Aurors from here and provide them with your observation. Hopefully, despite their history of ineptitude, they will decide to investigate the accusation of a child, based on the penseived memories of an escaped felon -”

“Oi! I was pardoned!”

“ – and proceed to Hogwarts with sufficient speed and guile to capture the rat unawares. Of course, it is significantly more likely that they will dither about, decide to contact the Weasleys, who will in turn ask Ron about Scabbers, but I’m sure Ron will have no difficulty in concealing this information…”

“Wait, wait!” Harry protested. Ron might be his best mate, but Harry was under no illusions as to the redhead’s ability to dissemble. Nor, to be brutally honest, was Ron all that quick on the uptake. He would surely tip Pettigrew off. “That’s an awful plan,” he argued. “Pettigrew’s sure to get away.”

Snape shrugged. “Since you are not willing to participate in the other –“

“No, no. I’m willing. I just don’t want to move out of the dorm!”

Snape leaned forward until they were nose to nose. “Your safety is not negotiable,” he said with absolute finality.

Harry gulped and glanced at the other two. Remus, his arms folded across his chest, shook his head implacably. Sirius looked more apologetic but he shook his head too. Harry bit his lip. He was obviously not going to win this one… but maybe he could manage at least one or two concessions.

“Okaaay,” he said reluctantly. “But then I get to help, right?”

Snape gave him a long, considering look, while Harry did his best “puppy dog eyes”. In the end, the Potions Master nodded once. “Very well,” he said curtly, much to Harry’s relief. That meant his professor wasn’t really annoyed with him.

“So the question becomes how do we remove Harry from the dorm without that action in itself making Peter suspicious?” Remus asked.

A lively debate ensued, but in the end Remus came up with the best idea: Harry would do something so egregious and so public that all of Hogwarts would understand why he was being confined to his guardian’s rooms as punishment.

Snape was less than pleased with the plan, as he felt it would set a dangerous precedent, but Sirius was predictably delighted at the thought of designing such a great prank. For the rest of the day, Sirius and Harry whispered and giggled at one end of the room, while Remus and Severus plotted at the other.

In the early evening, as Harry and Snape got ready to return to the school, the Slytherin demanded to know what Harry would do to ensure his removal from Gryffindor Tower.

“It’s better if you’re surprised,” Sirius grinned. “Just act natural,” he advised.

Before Snape could protest further, Harry – the little traitor! – activated the portkey, just as Albus had instructed.

“Well, well, did you have a good time?” Albus asked, as they reapeared in his office.

Snape was too busy trying to quell his nausea after the unexpected transportation to reply immediately, so Harry said, “Yes’r. May I please be excused?” and without waiting for an answer, he darted out of the office. By the time Snape was able to speak, the brat was long gone.

“Are you all right, my boy?” Albus' tone was very gentle.

“Fine,” he answered shortly.

Albus felt sad. He could imagine what a trial the day had been for Snape, but it was obvious the intensely private man had no wish to speak of it. “It is nearly time for dinner, won't you accompany me?” he invited.

Snape wanted to get down to his dungeons and start putting the first step of their plan in place, but he recognized the resolute glint in Dumbledore’s eye. The ancient wizard was determined to comfort him, no matter what. With an inaudible sigh, he decided it was better to get it over with quickly, and he nodded his acquiescence.

Forty minutes later, he was cursing himself. Not because of the steady stream of meaningless prattle that Albus obviously considered soothing, but because they had already been in the Great Hall for twenty minutes and there was no sign of the brat, though the rest of the student body had long since assembled.

What had he been thinking? The little fiend was a Gryffindor, and one who was already puffed up with his own abilities, having survived encounters with both a troll and the Dark Lord. Why had he ever imagined that the brat would do as he was told? Doubtless he had made a beeline for the Weasley boy’s rat and had either hexed to death an inoffensive animal or been brutally murdered by the wizard who had betrayed his parents.

Sitting here was madness. He got to his feet to run to the Gryffindor tower.

Meanwhile, at one of the student tables, Ron, Draco, and Hermione were deep in a discussion of a recent Cannons match. To the boys’ irritation (and the girl’s glee), Hermione's post-troll punishment had ensured that she was now able to jump in and correct their statistics quotations. “I’m just saying, Ronald, that the fact that the Cannons haven’t successfully caught the snitch in their last eighty-seven games indicates that their Seeker isn’t particularly talented!” she argued.

“It's only been eighty-three games, ‘Mione!” Ron argued with all the fervor of someone who knows that (a) he is wrong and (b) his point is moot anyway.

“Oh, like that makes such a difference," Draco rolled his eyes. “Why do you keep insisting that this is their year, Weasley? They haven’t – hey, look! There’s a snitch loose in the Hall!” He pointed, and the others followed his gaze.

“Yeah!” Ron yelped. “What’s a snitch doin’ in here?”

Their shouts quickly caught the attention of both students and staff, but before anyone could move, Harry shot into the Hall… on his broom.

Harry flew in hot pursuit of the snitch, seemingly oblivious to the havoc he was wreaking in the process. He overturned serving dishes with his low dives, came close to braining himself on more than one sharp turn, ricocheted off the ceiling at one point, and lost several bristles when he scraped along the far wall for a heart-stopping four seconds.

In the meantime, the students screamed and cheered and dove for cover as he zipped over and among the tables after the little golden ball. The house elves popped in to try to remonstrate, but after one was nearly run over (flown over?) by Harry, they decided to retreat to the kitchens. Several staff, Snape among them, tried to catch the boy with a spell, but he dodged the magic as effectively as the more physical obstacles.

It was an electrifying four minutes until Harry’s hand closed around the Snitch, and everyone gave a sigh of relief as he landed safely in the aisle between the staff and student tables. Harry grinned at the students and proudly waved the snitch, prompting a howl of approval. (It should be noted that Hermione sat, frowning, throughout this accolade.)

The cheers broke off abruptly as Snape, pale with fury, rose to his feet. Noting that every eye was suddenly on something behind him, Harry felt rather like a character in a Muggle horror movie. He turned around slowly and flinched at the expression on his guardian’s countenance. As the rest of the school watched breathlessly, Snape advanced on the small boy, who suddenly seemed much smaller by contrast. Afterwards, staff and students alike agreed they had never before seen Snape so enraged.

As soon as he was within reach of the brat, Snape grabbed him by the arm, spun him around and landed a resounding slap on Harry’s backside that made the entire Hall wince in sympathy.

To his intense humiliation, Harry couldn’t restrain a loud yelp at the sting that blossomed across his bum. That had been a real whack!

"Just what were you thinking?” Snape’s hiss carried throughout the enormous room, and his tone alone caused several first years to whimper and cower. Most of those watching were convinced that Harry’s encounter with Quirrell/Voldemort could not have been nearly as terrifying as his current confrontation with the maddened Potions Master.

“I’m sorry,” Harry gulped, “but it was a dare. I had to do it. It was a matter of honor!”

“WHO DARED YOU?” At Snape’s bellow, the entire student body paled.

“I – I can’t say,” Harry managed to choke out. Even knowing that his professor was aware that this was all an act, he was still scared witless.

“Oh, you will, Mr Potter. That I promise you.” Snape’s silky threat made several – entirely innocent – children start crying, and when his malevolent gaze swept the student tables, the Hall went deathly still.

Internally Snape smirked as he watched several likely suspects tremble and shake their heads in a desperate attempt to assure him of their innocence. The Weasleys, Wood, Flint, and Draco seemed particularly petrified that he would assume they were the guilty parties, and he made sure to glower at them in particular. I’ve still got it, he thought smugly, watching the entire student body – except for the brat still squirming in his grip – quake before him.

“I will find out,” he repeated, his voice carrying throughout the silent chamber, “and when I do, the dark and hideous consequences will be spoken of for years.” Now most of the younger Hufflepuffs were weeping in terror, and even his snakes were positively green. They knew, better than most, just what happened to those who incurred his displeasure.

After scanning the Hall with one last ominous glower, Snape turned back to Harry. He snatched the broom from the boy’s hand and shrunk it before the brat could do more than yip in protest. “This will remain with me, Mr Potter!” he announced, placing the tiny broom in his pocket of his robes. “And since you are obviously too dimwitted to resist suicidal dares from other little dunderheads, it follows that you are also too immature to be allowed to board like the other students. You will reside in my quarters like the foolish little boy you are until you have proven yourself trustworthy to live without my constant supervision.”

“Noooooo!” Harry howled in loud dissent, even as the rest of the Hall broke out in excited whispers. Snape ignored them all and dragged off the boy, still bitterly protesting. As the doors shut behind the two, the noise level skyrocketed as students and staff alike started animatedly discussing what had just happened.

Dumbledore rose quickly, intending to go after them. He should have anticipated something like this. Exposure to his godfather would doubtless provoke Harry into mischief, and Albus had a strong suspicion that Sirius was the one who had dared Harry to behave so badly. He must have known that it would enrage Severus, and the punishment that Severus would have no choice but to mete out would only drive the boy away from the stern professor and into the waiting arms of his "playful" godfather. Albus sighed. Sirius unquestionably had reason to be bitter, but he had hoped he wouldn’t involve Harry in his revenge. Turning the child against Severus might wound the Potion Master deeply, but in the end it would harm Harry as well.

Well, whatever he suspected could or should be laid at Sirius’ feet, he needed to get down to Severus’ quarters right away. He trusted the Slytherin implicitly, but any parent could lose his temper and say or do something he would later regret. He rather doubted Severus would harm Harry physically – that one episode aside, Snape was too terrified of turning into his father to use much corporal chastisement – but the man’s tongue practically dripped acid when he was upset, and for all the remarkable improvement Harry had made since arriving at Hogwarts (or, to be fair, since being taken under Snape’s wing), he was still very fragile. Snape’s verbal vitriol could have devastating effects.

Severus was too irate to be left alone with the poor boy just now, and while Albus could appreciate Severus’ point about Harry's susceptibility to dares, he couldn’t permit the misguided man to deprive Harry of his friends in the dormitory. Surely some more traditional detention and maybe a loss of points would – To his surprise, a firm hand caught him by the back of his robes and jerked him to a halt before he could leave the table.

“Oh, no, Albus,” McGonagall told him, a steely glint in her eye. “You sit yourself right down again.”

“But – but, Minerva –“ he protested, so stunned by her interference that he automatically sank back into his chair. Surely she should have been pounding on Snape’s door by now, demanding the return of her little lion!

“You had the care of the boy for ten years, Albus, and we won’t talk of that result. You will now give Severus the chance to manage Harry as he sees fit.”

Dumbledore opened his mouth to argue but at Minerva’s expression, he meekly shut it again and silently turned his attention to his food. Powerful he might be, but he hadn't reached his advanced age without learning a few important survival skills, and something told him that arguing with Minerva over this would be a very, very bad idea.

Meanwhile, Snape all but threw Harry through the door to their quarters, then came through himself, warding it after him. Once they were secure, but before he could start to shout at the boy for his deathdefying idiocy, Harry rounded on him.

“That hurt!” Harry said accusingly, clutching his still-smarting bum. “I want a healing potion! That was almost as bad as one of Uncle Vernon’s whacks.”

“You deserved it,” Snape retorted, nevertheless Accio’ing the appropriate potion. “Your recklessness could have killed you. Flying a broom – AND CHASING A SNITCH – in the close confines of the castle? Have you lost the few wits you normally possess?”

Harry swallowed the potion and grimaced. “Yuck. Well, I had t’do something big. I bet everyone is talkin’ about it now,” he added, grinning. “The guys will talk an’ talk about it tonight in the dorm, an’ Pettigrew will hear an’ he won’t be surprised I’m not there.”

“The whole purpose of moving you out of the dorm was to keep you safe,” Snape scolded. “Breaking your neck flying inside the castle defeats the entire exercise.”

“It was the Great Hall,” Harry protested. He hated having his professor angry at him.

“Even so! Brooms – particularly one like the Nimbus 2000! – accelerate much too quickly for use in such a limited space. What were you thinking, you naughty child? I’m going to hex that idiot Black for suggesting you do something so dangerous!”

“Padfoot only said I should fly around a bit. The snitch was my idea,” Harry admitted. His spirits rose as he remembered his flight around the Hall and everyone’s open-mouthed admiration as he landed with the snitch. Okay, he had been pretty naughty, but there was no denying it was a wicked prank.

“WHAT?” Snape fumed and held out his hand. “Give me back the potion. You deserve that stinging backside.”

Harry grinned cheekily and displayed the empty vial. “Too late! Sting’s all gone!”

Snape raised one eyebrow. “Then I shall just have to reapply the cause of the sting,” he said coldly.

Harry gulped and hastily seated himself on the nearby couch. “It’s not fair to punish me twice for the same thing,” he argued reproachfully, making sure his bum was pressed against the cushions. He didn’t think his professor would make good on his threat, but he didn’t want to push it. “I’m sorry, Pr’fessor. Honestly. An’ remember, you said you don’t hit to hurt. Besides, you know I only did it ‘cause of Pettigrew, right? I wouldn’t do somethin’ like that just as a prank.”

Snape huffed, but deep down, below all the irritation with the brat, he was pleased to see that the Weasleys had indeed been rubbing off. Harry was no longer the downtrodden boy who meekly accepted every punishment, no matter how severe or undeserved.

“Um, Pr’fessor?” Harry ventured, heartened by the fact that it didn’t look like he’d be getting smacked again. “When c’n I get my broom back?”

“On your 30th birthday,” Snape retorted.

Harry pouted. “That’s not fair! It was all an act!”

“You could have easily injured yourself with that ridiculous stunt, and if you think you will not be punished for such a stupid idea, you obviously hit your head during all that grandstanding! Such reckless behavior is classic James Potter gloryhounding!” he snapped.

Harry subsided at this last demonstration of his guardian’s disapproval. He knew that his father had often targeted Snape with his pranks, and Harry felt bad that he had – however unwittingly – reminded his beloved professor of such unpleasant memories. He’d thought his professor might be a tiny bit pleased at his flying skills, not to mention impressed with his ability to think up such an outrageous stunt so as to be the talk of the school. He had just been trying to show that he wasn’t too young to help, but – as usual – he’d just messed everything up. Now his guardian was mad at him, and Sirius and Remus would probably be too. Harry’s shoulders drooped dejectedly.

Snape noticed. Such an annoyingly fragile child, he grumbled to himself. James wouldn’t have stopped crowing and congratulating himself on such a stunt for days, yet a few sharp words, and Harry’s practically in tears. Really – the boy needs to be more thick skinned, he huffed, feeling uncomfortably guilty. Who would have thought that his simple disapproval could so affect the brat?

“Your behavior was atrocious, Potter,” he said gruffly. “If you weren’t the most talented flier Hogwarts has seen in several generations, you would surely have killed yourself with that foolishness.”

Harry perked up at the praise. His professor couldn’t be that angry if he was taking the time to say nice things about Harry. Plus, it hadn’t been the violation of the school rules that he objected to, it was Harry’s risking injury. That showed he really liked Harry, despite everything. Harry grinned shyly at his guardian.

“Come along, you troublesome brat,” Snape scolded. “Do you imagine I will let you skip your dinner? Sit down in the kitchen while I order a plate of liver and brussel sprouts for you.”

“Yuck!” Harry protested, knowing his guardian’s threat was empty. Even if Snape did order such a disgusting meal, Harry knew the doting house elves would send up something else. “Not liver, Pr’fessor! I’ll be good!”

Sure enough, as if to make up for the drama in the Great Hall, the house elves delivered Harry’s favorite meal of roast beef with Yorkshire pudding and two vegetables. Snape huffed as it appeared on the table and pointedly ignored Harry’s delighted exclamation.

The two settled down comfortably to their meal. Harry wiggled on his chair, exulting in the fact that even though he had been absolutely eye-popping furious, Professor Snape had still given him the healing potion to make sure his bum didn’t hurt and took the time to show he’d noticed what a good flier Harry was. Harry beamed at his plate. Plenty of other parents weren’t nearly as kind. He’d heard his peers complain about their parents enough to know there were parents who, when they got angry, said awful, hurtful things to their kids, or walloped them until they were sore for days, or – worse – didn’t care in the least. Harry had experienced all of the above from the Dursleys, but he’d assumed it was because he wasn’t really theirs that they were so awful to him. After all, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia never treated Dudley like that.

It had astounded him to learn that some parents did that to their real kids. In the Wizarding world, Remus said there were even parents who hexed their children. Harry shivered at the thought. How could grown ups act that way?

He glanced over to where Professor Snape was sipping his tea. He was so lucky. Professor Snape was one of the nicest people ever. He’d saved Harry from the Dursleys and rescued his godfather for him and he didn’t even care that he was defying the Headmaster and breaking the law to do it. He was brave and noble and heroic and he was kind even to people he didn’t like – like making that potion for Remus every month. He never lost his temper – though he did put on a terrifyingly good act, Harry admitted silently – and he didn’t smack Harry really hard even when he should, like that time at the Weasleys. He also looked after his House better than any of the other faculty did – Professors Flitwick and Sprout and McGonagall might not insist on bedtimes and stuff, but neither did they offer extra tutoring or make sure that the prefects stamped out any internal bullying before it had the chance to begin.

During his week of detention after the Quirrell incident, Harry had had plenty of chances to see his guardian interact with his little snakes – and he and his friends had even gotten into the habit of stopping by the Slytherin Common Room to do their homework. Not only was it a lot quieter and more conducive to studying than was the noisy bonhomie of the Gryffindor Common Room, but also the older Slytherins were actually expected to help the younger ones, rather than the “every wizard for himself” philosophy of Gryffindor. Even better, it gave Hermione and Draco the chance to argue with each other over the assignments’ finer points, thus sparing Harry, Ron, Neville, Vince, and Greg.

At first Ron and Harry had worried that without Hermione browbeating them, their schoolwork might suffer, but Professor Snape – and the Slytherin prefects – didn’t allow them to get away with turning in sloppy assignments. Ron had discovered this one evening when a prefect demonstrated that: (1) doodling snitches and brooms was an unacceptable use of study time and (2) being seated in no way protected one’s backside from a stinging hex. Ron had started to hotly complain to the others about how the prefect was picking on him for being a Gryffindor, but Neville quietly pointed out that the same prefect who had just communicated his displeasure with Ron’s study habits was now administering the same correction to two fourth year Slytherins at the next table who’d chosen to discuss the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend rather than work on their Arithmancy homework. Ron had stared, open mouthed, as the two older students yelped and squirmed just as he had, then rather thoughtfully returned to revising his essay. (Like the two Slytherins, he also found it more comfortable to spend the rest of that evening working from a standing position.) The end result was that, while they would never rival Hermione or Draco for top honors, both Harry and Ron's academic efforts dramatically improved - and their grades followed suit. Auntie Molly and Uncle Arthur had been beside themselves with delight when Professor McGonagall contacted them with the news that Ron had earned special praise for his latest Transfiguration essay.

Harry also discovered that helping Vince and Greg with their work was actually kind of fun and helped him understand the material much better. Neville had even stopped being so scared of Potions when he realized that however poor his grasp of the material might be, it was infinitely better than Greg’s. Plus, Harry had noticed that his guardian liked it when there were Slytherins in the group of students who showed up with Harry to help Snape prepare ingredients. It was a good mix in other ways too; the purebloods were more familiar with the various magical ingredients, while the muggleborns were often good at preparation tasks, thanks to growing up in families that prepared food the Muggle way. Everyone hated to scrub cauldrons, though, and they quickly realized that any bickering or misbehavior while preparing ingredients in the dungeons led to a lengthy acquaintance with Snape’s scrub brush – and the rough edge of his tongue. Even Hermione and Draco learned to avoid arguing about house elves’ rights after spending a few evenings up to their elbows in cauldron sploodge.

Harry grinned again. His guardian not only took care of him in his quarters, but also made sure that he and his friends were welcome in his House and were treated there just like the other little snakes. Professor Snape oversaw his schoolwork, and not just in Potions either, and fussed about whether Harry ate his vegetables and got enough sleep. And of course he went spare whenever Harry did something reckless.

Harry knew that there were plenty of other students whose parents were nowhere near as concerned about them. Hadn’t Professsor Snape been the only one to stay with him in the Infirmary after the Quirrell incident, just so he would be there when Harry woke up and felt upset?

Snape sipped his tea, hoping that eventually his stomach would calm enough to permit him to eat something. Watching Harry careen around the Great Hall, nearly smashing himself against the unforgiving stone with one ridiculous, dizzying swoop after another, had caused his stomach to churn and roil. Obviously it was nothing more than a touch of motion sickness caused by his trying to track the brat long enough to snag him with a magical rope. What else could it be?

He had to admit though, that as dunderheaded and insanely dangerous as it had been, the stunt had also brilliantly accomplished its task. No one - students, staff, or portraits - could possibly fail to hear about it, or to question Harry’s absence from the dorm. And Harry had carried off the entire act flawlessly! He had appeared convincingly frightened when Snape had descended upon him, and his howls of protest as he was dragged through the corridors had made Snape’s ears ring. It was clear that it had all been an act though, given Harry’s strident demands as soon as they were behind his personal wards. Who knew that the little brat could be so duplicitous? Snape would have sworn that even Dumbledore had been fooled by Harry’s performance. It was… positively Slytherin.

The realization made Snape’s mouth twitch upwards, and though he quickly hid it behind his teacup, Harry caught the fleeting smile of approval and basked in its warmth. See? His professor was pleased with him.

That made it all the more unexpected when his professor ordered him to his room immediately after the meal. “What! But why?” Harry whined. “I want to sit out here with you for a while.”

Snape quirked an eyebrow at him, hiding the glow of pleasure the boy’s words gave him. “Indeed, Mr Potter? Perhaps you have forgotten your little exhibition in the Great Hall, but I assure you I have not – nor the fact that you have not yet been punished for it.”

“You smacked me!” Harry yelped.

“I healed you,” his guardian countered.

“You took my broom,” the boy tried.

“Yes, and now I am sending you to your room, where you may consider your foolishness at length.”

Harry scowled. “ ‘S not fair.”

“It is entirely fair, Mr Potter. You took a not-unacceptable plan of your godfather’s and unilaterally embellished it to the point of reckless idiocy. An evening spent alone in your room –“ Snape carefully avoided using terms like “locked in” “- will help you reconsider the wisdom of such actions. Stupidity,” he said sternly, “will always be punished, as will putting yourself in jeopardy.”

Harry pouted, but he couldn’t help squirming a little. Some of those turns had been a little tight…

“What is more, I expect that any minute the first of a long line of students and staff will be knocking on our door to ensure that you have not been strung up by your thumbs and tortured with hot coals.” Harry had to snicker. “It would hardly do our little fiction any good if you were found comfortably settled on my couch nibbling biscuits when you are supposed to be in serious trouble.”

“But I don’t want to go to my room,” Harry tried one last time, doing his best impression of Dudley’s whine with his own patented “puppy dog eyes”.

Snape’s eyes narrowed, then he shrugged. “Then by all means, Mr Potter, you can remain here.”

“I can?” Harry perked up.

“Certainly. If you are adamantly opposed to being confined to your room, you may spend the evening standing in the corner over there, where all of our visitors can witness and appreciate your disgrace.”

Harry choked in horror. Stand in the corner? Like a disobedient toddler? Where people could see him? “No, no, that’s okay,” he babbled hastily, backing away. “I think you’re right to send me to my room. It’s a very good ‘dad thing’ to do. I’m going, I’m going!”

Snape smirked after the fleeing boy. Gryffindors – they pose no challenge whatsoever.

It was less than ten minutes before the first knock came. “Good evening, Severus,” Minerva said calmly, stepping past him into the room.

“Do come in,” Snape said sarcastically, bracing himself for what was sure to be a noisy tirade.

“I trust you have explained the error of his ways to Mr Potter?” she asked.

“Indeed.”

“And he remains generally intact?” she continued.

Severus rolled his eyes. “Potter! Reassure your Head of House that you are still among the living,” he called out.

“H’lo, Professor McGonagall.” The reply floated out of the back bedroom and came – Snape was pleasantly surprised to note – in tones of extreme melancholy.

McGonagall nodded briskly. “Good work, Severus.”

Snape goggled. “I beg your pardon?” he managed to gasp out.

“Your reaction made it extremely unlikely that any other student will ever be foolhardy enough to emulate Mr Potter’s prank,” she explained. “We can hardly have students flying through the halls on broomsticks. Now then,” she changed the subject while Snape was still blinking in surprise, “about Mr Potter’s punishment...”

Ah. Good. This is what he was prepared for. “Since the other little idiots obviously cannot resist teasing The Boy Who Lived,” Snape said, sarcasm dripping off the title, “and Potter is too proud to ignore a dare, he is not to re-enter his dormitory until his behavior improves.”

“Yes, yes,” Minerva waved her hand impatiently. “I’m not here about that.”

“You’re not?” Snape paused in mid-rant. “Oh. Well, if it’s about my disciplining Potter in the Great Hall,” he began, recapturing his belligerence.

“Severus, try to concentrate,” McGonagall sounded exasperated. “I am hardly going to interfere between a parent and child over a single, well-deserved slap on the bottom.”

Snape shook his head, trying to clear his ears. He could not possibly have heard McGonagall say what he thought she had said.

“No, I am here about something important.” She eyed him meaningfully. At his look of utter confusion, she sighed. “His broomstick, Severus. For how long did you confiscate it?”

Snape managed not to snort. It wouldn’t be good for his image. “Quidditch.” He really should have known.

“Exactly,” she nodded, pleased that he had finally caught on. “As Harry’s Head of House, I must insist that if he is removed from his dormitory, then he is permitted to continue playing Quidditch as a means of maintaining his ties to Gryffindor.”

“And the upcoming game against Ravenclaw has nothing to do with it,” Snape observed drily.

McGonagall merely raised an eyebrow at him. “Well?”

“Oh, all right,” Snape gave in with poor grace. It wasn’t like he wanted to be annoyed by the little wretch moping about his quarters, whinging about missing his games and moaning about wanting his broom back. Both professors ignored the muffled cheer from the back bedroom. “I will also allow him to go to classes and take his meals with the other students, but he is not to enter the Tower until he has shown that he truly regrets his actions.”

McGonagall nodded once, crisply. “Understood. Good night, Mr Potter,” she called as she made her way to the door.

“ ‘Night, Professor!” Harry called back, his tones significantly happier than before. Snape huffed in annoyance.

Before much longer, Dumbledore, Flitwick, and Hagrid had each come by, urging Snape to be merciful towards the miscreant. To Snape’s surprise, Dumbledore didn’t attempt to overrule him on the issue of punishment, but he did encourage Severus to “give young Harry things to do to show he is earning your trust, my boy, and thus earning his way back to his friends in his House.” Snape had grudgingly agreed to this – there was no reason not to do so and it made the Headmaster happy.

No sooner had the parade of faculty ceased than the student one began. Unsurprisingly, Ron and Hermione were the first.

“Erm, h’lo, Professor,” Ron gulped, looking up at the saturnine countenance. “We – uh – just thought… well…”

“We just wanted to make sure you and Harry were all right,” Hermione put in swiftly.

Snape sneered. At least the know-it-all had the wit to pretend she was concerned about both of them. “Your classmate is not being stretched on the rack, if that is what you are asking.”

Hermione blushed. “We never thought he was, Professor,” she protested unconvincingly. “We – we just were worried. About both of you,” she insisted.

Snape rolled his eyes. He would never get rid of them until Potter demonstrated he had not been beaten senseless. “Potter! Reassure your friends.”

“I’m okay, guys,” came the pitiful call from the bedroom. “H-honest…” Snape was impressed. That had almost sounded like a hiccupping sob.

“That was really ace flying, mate!” Ron couldn’t help bursting out at the sound of Harry's voice. “The whole team is dead jealous and that last dive over the ‘Puffs’ table was just wicked! You – OW!” Ron broke off with a yell as a glaring Hermione punched him solidly in the arm.

At his best friend’s cry of pain, Harry came charging out of his room, suspecting the worst. “Da! Did you just smack him?” he demanded hotly.

He screeched to a halt upon seeing Ron nursing his arm, not his backside, but before he could say anything else, Hermione had erupted like Vesuvius. “Harry James Potter! What were you thinking! Did you lose your mind? What kind of an idiotic stunt was that? Taking a dare? Are you five years old? How can you –“ she shouted, advancing on him.

Harry’s eyes widened in fear and he started scrambling backwards. “Her-Hermione! I’m being p-punished! I can’t talk to you!” He broke off with a squawk as her hand shot out and grabbed a handful of his shirt.

“You will listen to me, Harry Potter!” she snapped, sounding almost as scary as his guardian. “If you EVER do something like that again, I will kill you!”

Harry gulped and nodded vigorously. After one last glare, Hermione turned him loose, and he shot back to the safety of his room. “Come, Ronald,” she ordered, turning on her heel.

Ron knew better than to argue. He hurried out the door before Hermione could turn her fearsome temper on him (again). Hermione started to follow him, only to be detained by Professor Snape’s hand on her shoulder. Surprised, she looked up at him.

“Miss Granger, while I appreciate your sentiments,” he said sternly, “I would suggest you recall that you are not Mr Potter’s mother, but rather his friend. Obnoxious know-it-alls may be tolerated for their scholastic assistance, but vituperative shrews will quickly find themselves friendless. Your intellect may be formidable, but your social development leaves much to be desired. You must learn that just because you are right in no way means that other people will welcome your advice, censure, or interference. Quite the opposite in fact. Making other people feel stupid or small is a foolish approach, and if you do not wish to be damned as an unpleasant, albeit brilliant, witch, you must pay more attention to showing respect to your peers. I am in no way disputing your opinion of Mr Potter’s latest stunt, but I am more than capable of convincing him of his error in judgment. He does not need you to act as a parent, Miss Granger, nor are you well-suited to the role. You have already proven yourself to be a brave and loyal friend. I suggest you work on being a supportive and sympathetic one as well.” And with that, he pushed her out the door and closed it firmly behind her.

Hermione stood, her mouth open and her eyes bright with tears. Her thoughts were in utter turmoil. He had called her an “obnoxious know-it-all”! But he’d also called her a “brave and loyal friend”, not to mention "brilliant". She wasn’t sure whether to burst into tears of mortification or joy.

Ron’s worried face loomed in front of her. “Uh, are you okay, ‘Mione?”

Hermione sniffled piteously. “D-do you think I’m a shrew, Ron? Or a know-it-all?”

“Erm…” Ron’s eyes darted wildly in search of some escape. His worst fears were realized as Hermione burst into tears and threw herself at him.

“I’m sorry!” she wailed into his shoulder. “I shouldn’t have hit you! I’m sorry! I don’t mean to be so bossy.”

“Errrrr, well, it’s just ‘cause you’re so smart, ‘Mione,” Ron said, patting her back awkwardly. “ ‘S no wonder the rest of us drive you mental.” He swallowed hard. He didn’t think he’d ever felt so uncomfortable in his entire life. “You – you just have to remember t’be more, um, patient.”

“You think I’m smart?” Hermione asked hopefully.

“Well, yeah!” Ron rolled his eyes. “An’ you’re brave too,” he added generously. “Kickin’ You Know Who like that? Blimey! I couldn't've done that in a million years.”

Hermione’s eyes were now shining with adoration, not tears. No one else (besides her parents) had ever said such nice things to her. “Oh, Ron!”

“Errrrrm, you better now?” he asked hopefully, rather unsettled by the look in the girl’s eye.

She nodded and took his hand. “Uh huh.”

Ron turned pink. He wasn’t really sure he wanted to hold hands with a girl – not yet anyway – but his arm still ached a bit and he figured it was safer not to object. “Well, um, let’s go then.”

She nodded happily.

Ron and Hermione's pilgrimage to Snape's quarters was closely followed by visits from Wood, Jones and Percy, Flint, and even Draco and Neville – a pairing Snape would not have expected. “We were studying Herbology and Neville wanted to – erm – ask a Potions question,” Draco explained to his Head unconvincingly, while the Gryffindor craned his head to see down the hall towards Harry's room.

Snape sighed. Hopefully the boys would learn more guile before much longer. “Mr Potter is confined to his room. His organs have not been used in any potion. He will rejoin the student body at breakfast. Now, do you have any other questions, Mr Longbottom?”

“No, sir,” Neville admitted, redfaced.

“Good. Mr Malfoy?”

“No, sir,” Draco said sheepishly.

“Then good night.”

Snape closed the door behind them and took a deep breath. The next several minutes would not be pleasant, but he knew he couldn’t shirk his duty.

“Potter.” He stood at the boy’s open doorway. He had been careful not to lock or in any other way beyond verbal instruction confine the child, lest Harry be reminded of his time in the Dursleys’ cupboard.

Harry looked up and gulped. He had hoped against hope that his professor might not have noticed his slip, but it was obvious from Snape’s expression that he had. Harry dropped his gaze and cursed himself. Stupid! You are so STUPID, Harry! How could you have done that?

So, okay, he might have occasionally thought of his professor by that term (well, rather more than occasionally), but he had never, ever planned to use it to the man’s face. It was just that after today’s conversation with his godfather, he had been thinking more and more about it. And then he’d gotten so upset hearing Ron’s yelp and thinking that his guardian had given his mate a swat for expressing admiration for Harry’s stunt… It had just slipped out.

He knew it was the ultimate impudence to call his professor that. Professor Snape had shown enormous generosity in agreeing to be his guardian and then agreeing to keep him rather than making him go live with his godfather, when it was clear that’s what Padfoot expected. Plenty of people would have been happy to get shut of an unexpected ward at the first opportunity, but when Harry said he didn’t want to go with Sirius, Snape hadn't once argued. He'd just agreed to keep Harry. And how did Harry repay his generosity? By being so presumptuous as to call him “Da”, as though Snape would want some freaky orphan calling him that.

Harry knew perfectly well that his professor cared for him – it was obvious in everything the man did – but that didn’t give him the right to address the man in such terms. He had clearly overstepped the bounds of propriety. Even his godfather didn’t want Harry calling him by a family title like “Uncle”, and who could blame him? Who would want to pretend to be related to him by anything other than a deliberately assumed obligation? It was one thing to nobly accept the burden of caring for an orphan, quite another to have anyone think you were actually related by blood to such a freak.

“I’m sorry I called you that,” Harry said swiftly, hoping to forestall a harsh scolding or – worse – a delicately worded explanation of why such a term was neither appropriate nor appreciated. “It won’t happen again. I swear.”

Snape didn’t pretend to misunderstand the boy. Harry was red with embarrassment, and Snape could understand why. He must be thinking – as was Snape – that his real father would be spinning in his grave at the child’s slip of the tongue. How the brat could have been so confused to call him “Da”, he would never know. Perhaps the meeting with Black and Lupin had caused him to be thinking of James and Lily?

“I do not think your father would be… irate… with you, Potter,” Snape said cautiously, lying through his teeth. The James he knew would likely strangle the boy for confusing him with a greasy Slytherin. “You have had a long and emotionally charged day. It is understandable why you made the error.”

Harry felt a little relief, but also a great deal of dejection. It was good that his professor didn’t seem furious at his audacity, but a tiny corner of his heart had hoped that Professor Snape might pretend to have been at least a little pleased. Not flattered, exactly, but at least not repulsed by the idea of having Harry for a son. Harry firmly squashed such an insolent thought and reminded himself of how much the professor had done for him.

“I’ll be sure an’ tell Ron and Hermione not to tell anyone,” he vowed. That way the professor could see that he understood and wouldn’t try to offend the man’s sensibilities further.

Snape raised his eyebrows. Did the brat imagine his friends would tease him over the remark? “I doubt they will mention it.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll tell ‘em just to be sure. I mean, I know you wouldn’t want anyone to think you were really my dad.” Harry managed a quick smile. “ I know it's not like anyone would really want me. For their son, I mean.”

“What?” Snape demanded, his voice harsh with astonishment.

“I mean, you’ve been great,” Harry said, frightened at the look on the man’s face. Had his professor thought he was being ungrateful? “You’ve acted just like a – a real father would, an’ so I just, y’know, pretended in my head that it was real – just for a minute,” he said hurriedly, realizing he was digging himself deeper. “I know you don’t want me t’be more than your ward, an’ that’s plenty, honest. I mean, just bein’ your ward is really, really great. I don’t blame you for not wantin’ someone else’s kid to call you ‘Da’ – I mean, I know that’s rude. I know that, I really do. An’ I won’t call you… that name… again. Okay? I know I’m a freak,” Harry babbled, now so disconcerted by Snape’s expression that he was only half-aware of what he was saying, “and you’re just being nice an’ all an…”

“Harry.” Snape finally managed to make his voice work again. It came out rather rough, and he cleared his throat and tried again. “Potter. Come here.” There. That was much better.

Unwillingly, Harry came to stand in front of him. It was obvious from his stance that he was expecting to be – at best – shouted at. He kept his eyes firmly on the ground, shoulders hunched in preparation for the diatribe.

“Do you mean to suggest that – “ Snape had to clear his throat again. “ – that you think of me as a father? As your father?”

“ ‘M sorry,” Harry whispered, wondering if you could die of humiliation.

“That is not an answer,” his professor replied coolly.

Harry screwed his eyes shut. Oh, Merlin, could this get any worse? “Yes,” he finally admitted, his voice barely audible.

Snape refused to give in to the loud rushing in his ears. Nearly passing out in front of Black had been bad enough. “You – you wish to call me… ‘Da’?” The word felt peculiar on his tongue.

“I was just pretending,” Harry said pleadingly. “I didn’t mean to say it out loud. I didn’t mean to make you mad.”

“Why would you think such a thing would make me angry?” Snape asked blankly.

Harry shrugged, despondent. “Why would you want a freaky, useless kid like me for a son? I mean, everyone knows that you take care of a ward ‘cause it’s your duty, but you’re not, y’know, related.”

Snape stared at the child. The boy actually thought that he would contaminate others. That his calling Snape “Da” would in some way taint Snape. Severus choked down a wild laugh. As if he weren’t already tainted beyond all redemption by the tattoo on his forearm.

“Potter, you have… misconstrued… the situation.”

That brought Harry’s head up, with a frown of incomprehension. “Huh?”

“I am not upset with you for calling me ‘Da’, foolish child,” Snape said, managing to keep his voice steady. “But affiliating yourself with me in that way would be to your detriment, not mine.”

“Huh? But that’s stupid,” Harry protested, too shocked to recognize rudeness. “I mean, you’re brilliant. You’re a Potion Master an’ Head of Slytherin, and you fought Voldesnort an’ no one messes with you an’ you saved me an’ – “ Harry caught himself “ – an’ others too, an’ you’re not scared of anyone, not even the Headmaster! Everyone knows how smart an’ strong you are, an’ even Fred ‘n’ George don’t dare to try a prank in your class! All the other professors tell us to behave or they’ll ask you to take their class for a day. An’ that reporter lady did what you said, an’ Auntie Molly and Uncle Arthur say you’re like the best parent ever an’ even the Headmaster an' Draco’s dad listen to you. An’ all the girls are puttin’ your picture up on their walls, like they do with Padfoot’s,” Harry added, wrinkling his nose. “Madame Hooch has even got one up in her office, next to the brooms.”

Snape blinked. Hearing this external view of himself was, to put it mildly, mind-blowing. Har-Potter thought he was smart? And strong? And respected? And the girls considered him a pinup? How could any description of himself omit terms like “greasy”, “big nosed”, “cruel”, “Death Eater”, “unfair”, “snarky”, and “evil”?

“But me? I mean, I’m just Harry. No one wants an orphan. My own aunt an’ uncle couldn’t stand me, even back when I was a baby before I got all freaky. An’ now that I can talk to – well, you know – that just makes it worse. And I keep screwing up and getting in the paper an’ now Voldesnort’s mad at me, even more than he was before, and I keep needing you an’ Professor McGonagall to rescue me and –“

Snape stopped Harry’s litany of self-denunciation by the simple expedient of pulling him into an embrace. He couldn’t suppress a wince as that pointy little forehead again impacted his breastbone, but then Harry was clutching his robes and sobbing. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I know no one wants me! I know you won’t ever love me like I love you! I’m sorry for pretending you did!”

“Hush, you ridiculous brat!” Snape commanded, his own voice wavering. “Those unnatural Muggles have planted lies in your head. Do you not understand just how special and talented you are? The entire Wizarding world practically worships at your feet. You, unlovable? There are many many people who love you, foolish child.”

“But you don’t!” Harry wailed. “An’ I don’t care about the others!”

“Idiot. Of course I l-love you,” Snape snapped, tightening his grasp about the boy.

Harry’s gasping sobs shut off as if a switch had been thrown. Slowly, without daring to breathe, Harry raised his head and looked up at his professor’s severe face. “Y-you do?” he whispered incredulously.

Snape tried not to fidget under the piercing green gaze. “Yes. I love you.” Ha. Managed it that time without stuttering.

Harry’s eyes were huge in his white face. “Really? Honest?”

Severus rolled his eyes. “Yes. Need I repeat myself yet again?” At Harry’s shaky nod, he huffed. “Fine. I love you. Satisfied?”

And then Harry was crying even harder and hugging him until Snape thought his ribs would crack. “Is this another example of your ‘happy tears’?” Snape eventually asked warily.

Harry managed to laugh and sob at the same time. “Uh huh.”

Snape sighed and continued to wait the storm out. Finally he could feel the boy gulping and hiccupping. “Are you nearly done?”

Harry nodded against his sternum. “Uh huh. Erm… Are you mad at me?”

Severus nearly groaned. Did this child have no self-esteem whatsoever? “Why would I be angry with you, Mr Potter? Did we not establish that I am happy for you to call me ‘Da’?”

“Y-yes, I guess so.” Harry couldn’t keep the smile out of his voice.

“Good. Because while I do not object to your calling me by that term, I most decidedly do object to your referring to yourself as a ‘freak’. I believe I have spoken to you about this in the past.”

Harry gulped and burrowed his head further into Snape’s robes. Uh oh. “Y’sir,” he mumbled, though if truth be told he hadn’t even realized he was doing it. Not that he really minded that Snape was annoyed. Weren’t dads supposed to make sure no one called you names? Not even yourself. "No soap, 'kay? I won't do it again," he promised, screwing up his face at the thought of a mouth full of soapsuds.

A light swat landed on his backside, causing him to squeak in surprise and glance up at his professor. “If I hear it again, you will not get off so lightly,” Snape told him sternly.

Harry ducked his head again, hiding his smile in the man’s robe. Even as he had delivered the smack with one hand, Snape's other arm had continued to hold Harry tight. “Y’sir,” he said obediently.

“Get into your pyjamas. I believe an early bedtime is appropriate tonight,” Snape ordered. "You are obviously overwrought."

Harry sniffled and gave his guardian one last squeeze before letting go. He wiped his nose with one hand and rubbed his behind with the other. Not that the swat had hurt in the slightest, but just for the principle of the thing.

Snape took the slimy little urchin by the (relatively dry) shoulder and pushed him towards the bathroom. “Wash and change, Mr Potter. I will return shortly and you had better be in bed.”

“Yes… Da.” Harry screwed up his courage and tested the new word, biting his lip anxiously and glad he couldn’t see the man’s face.

A pat on the shoulder answered him and he relaxed with a sigh, heading for the shower.

Snape watched the bathroom door close behind the little fiend, then went straight to his supply closet where he downed two Calming Draughts in rapid succession, considered briefly, then took a third. It was only then that his hands stopped shaking.

He was surprised to find that his happiness – oh, all right, his ridiculous joy – at the boy’s declaration actually outstripped his gleeful anticipation of the mutt’s reaction. Although after today’s unexpected and uncharacteristic speech from Black, he supposed that the Gryffindor might not be all that surprised. Or at least not as surprised as Snape himself had been.

When he returned to the boy’s room twenty minutes later, he found the brat in bed, his green eyes hopeful. “C’n we practice Occlumency tonight, Da?” Harry asked, delighting in the sound of the word and the way it rolled off his tongue.

His profess- father grumbled, but seated himself on the edge of Harry’s bed. “Oh, all right. Roll over and start clearing your mind.”

Harry let out a whimper of sheer happiness as his father’s strong fingers started rubbing his back and the man’s velvety voice guided him through the initial relaxation. Less than five months ago, he’d been living in a cupboard, without a single friend, hated by his only relatives. Now he had a new life, complete with a somewhat peculiar (but well-meaning) godfather, wonderful friends, and the best father in the whole world.

Snape stroked the boy’s back, idly noting with a corner of his mind that the boy was actually beginning to construct some very respectable mental barriers. His head was spinning as he absently recited the words to Harry’s visualization exercise. Less than five months ago, he’d been living in his dungeons, without a single friend, and despised by most of the British Wizarding world. Now he had a new life, complete with lovestruck teenagers, newly admiring colleagues, and a son who loved him. He allowed a sneer to steal over his features; did that foolish Dark Lord actually imagine Snape would allow any harm to come to this child? Voldemort would never know what hit him.

The next morning, Snape was surprised to find Harry wholly unembarrassed by the previous night’s emotional meltdown. He himself had spent much of the night castigating himself for being such a sentimental fool. Honestly! Even Sprout – chief Hufflepuff though she was – would have blushed to utter the syrupy endearments that had somehow emerged from his mouth.

And yet… and yet he couldn’t bring himself to regret the admission he’d made – embarrassing though it might appear in the clear light of day. And looking at Harry’s shining face this morning further convinced him he had done the right thing, whatever the cost to his pride or evil reputation.

“Remember,” he cautioned the boy sternly as they made ready to leave their quarters, “you are in complete disgrace. You spent last night sobbing into your pillow after my harsh treatment of you.”

Harry grinned. He loved his guardian’s sense of humor. Even more, his chest swelled with pride as he thought of how much his guardian trusted him to play his role. So often grownups wouldn’t rely on a kid to do anything. They just patted you on the head and told you to run along. But not Professor Snape. He was willing to involve Harry in something important.

Harry vowed to make his guardian proud of him. “I’ll r’member,” he promised.

“Do you have Quidditch practice today?”

Harry blinked at the apparent non sequitur. “No.”

“Then immediately after your last class you will return here,” Snape instructed.

Harry’s brow creased. He hadn’t expected that. “Am I on restriction?” he asked in dismay.

Snape rolled his eyes. “What do you think?”

Harry sighed. “I guess I’d have t’be,” he agreed mournfully, after a moment of consideration. “An’ write an essay?”

“And lines,” Snape said in a tone that brooked no argument. “You will make a start on those during your study period. Five hundred lines of ‘I will not chase snitches on my broom in the castle.’”

Harry opened his mouth to protest the length of the sentence, but thought better of it. It had not escaped his notice that his professor had chosen a line that referred specifically to his own embellishment of the authorized prank, and Harry rather suspected that while the restriction and essay might be for show, the lines were a genuine punishment. “Y’sir,”he mumbled. “I am sorry, Da,” he added, wanting the man to know he genuinely regretted upsetting him.

Snape fought against the warm gooey feeling in his chest that the brat’s words had caused – not to mention his sorrowful puppy dog eyes. “And you will doubtless be even more repentant after the three hundred lines,” he retorted firmly.

Harry’s eyes widened. Three? But hadn’t he just said five? He caught the hint of embarrassment in his guardian’s eyes and the pink tinge to his ears and beamed. Yup, his professor was doing his ‘nonymous benefactor’ thing again. “Y’sir. Three hundred lines, sir,” he echoed quickly. “I’ll start them this afternoon.” His eyes lit up at the thought of how the other students would gawk. “We’re going to fool everyone,” he added excitedly.

“That is the general idea,” Snape agreed, taking the irrepressible boy firmly by the shoulder and pushing him out the door.

Their arrival in the Great Hall caused quite a stir. Students stared, some going so far as to rise from their seats to see for themselves that Harry had all his limbs. Harry gave Snape a sulky glare before heading off to join his friends, while Snape stepped over to the staff table. There he pretended to ignore the looks of relief on Hagrid and Flitwick’s faces, as well as the poorly hidden amusement on Minerva’s. “Good morning, Severus,” the elderly witch said demurely.

“Hmf,” he grunted, reaching for his morning coffee. He was startled when a house elf popped up in front of him, glared at him reproachfully, then snatched the coffeepot out of reach. “What the – “ he looked after the disappearing elf with astonishment.

Minerva managed to force down her snickers. “Well, Severus, it would seem the house elves are not very pleased with your treatment of their favorite student. Apparently you have lost your coffee privileges.”

He stared at her in outrage. “What! How dare they –“

“You know how protective the little creatures are,” she cut in calmly. “And they obviously feel you deserve it.” She nodded to Harry’s table.

Snape’s gaze followed hers and he was gobsmacked to see Harry – that overdramatic little fiend! – slowly lowering himself onto the bench with a painful grimace. The surrounding students looked on with expressions of mingled sympathy and awe while Harry gingerly shifted position, as if he found it acutely uncomfortable to sit.

Why that duplicitous, conniving little schemer! Snape snarled to himself. No wonder the house elves were furious with him. To all appearances he had thrashed The Boy Who Lived to within an inch of his life. Snape was now receiving looks of dread and terror from most of the students in the Hall, and more than one of the faculty. Even Dumbledore was gazing at him in sorrowful disappointment.

Beside him, Minerva hid her twitching lips behind her teacup. “This is perhaps the first time I’ve seen so much of James in Harry,” she commented to Snape, so quietly that even Sprout, on her other side, couldn’t hear.

Snape removed his glare from the boy long enough to demand, “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t you recall, Severus? James – and Sirius – were always happiest with an audience. Until now, I had felt sure Harry had inherited Lily’s more private nature, but this morning is quite a change, don’t you think?”

Snape blinked as McGonagall’s words penetrated. Of course. The brat wasn’t doing this merely to make him look like an ogre. Harry was playing his role – and doing a much better job at it than Snape had ever imagined.

He knew – better than most – just how much Harry hated the spotlight. He kept his famous scar covered by his fringe and had turned purple with embarrassment when he’d been recognized and fussed over on that trip to Diagon Alley.

In addition, Snape recalled, Harry had gone to extraordinary lengths to successfully conceal how sore he’d been after that whipping from his uncle. The only reason he’d now pretend to a discomfort Snape knew perfectly well was feigned, and thereby attract everyone’s attention to himself, was to do as Snape had instructed and convince the rest of the school of the fiction that Harry had been soundly disciplined by his furious guardian.

Such effective misdirection was… quintessentially Slytherin. Snape felt himself swell with pride at his ward’s talent and, like Minerva, he found it necessary to hide his expression behind a teacup. He would miss his morning coffee – tea never provided the jolt he needed in the morning – but the house elves’ disapproval was a small price to pay if Pettigrew were lulled into a false sense of security.

Harry found himself surrounded by a rapt audience of avid faces as soon as he stepped into the Hall. Here we go, he told himself, forcing his features into an angry pout, as if he’d just received another ticking off from his guardian. He stormed away from his professor as angrily as he dared, heading for the table where Hermione, Draco, and the others already sat. He could feel practically every eye upon him, and he squirmed internally, hating that sense of being gawked at. But he reminded himself it was all part of the plan, and his professor was counting on him to make everyone believe that he was in deep, deep trouble.

He started to sit down, then had a brilliant idea and jerked to a halt, as if in pain. He saw his friends’ eyes widen in shock as he slowly and stiffly lowered his bum onto the bench, grimacing as if he’d been smacked raw.

“Blimey – are you still sore?” Ron burst out, so stunned that the toast in his right hand was momentarily forgotten. Vince took advantage of the redhead's distraction to successfully steal the remaining sausage on his plate.

“I’m fine,” Harry replied quickly, and he barely suppressed a giggle as he saw the disbelief on every face.

“You really caught it this time, Potter,” Draco observed, but his lazy drawl contained a note of genuine admiration. “No one’s ever seen Professor Snape as furious as he was last night.”

Harry snorted. “You didn’t see anything,” he retorted, shooting a dark look at the staff table where his guardian appeared to be in an argument with a house elf.

“Merlin, Harry,” Katie Bell put in. “What were you thinking to go after the snitch like that?”

“Yeah, Potter,” Flint chimed in. “D’you have a death wish or what? How did you manage some of those turns?”

“It wasn’t that hard,” Draco argued. “I bet I could have done it!”

There was a moment of silence, then Flint leaned forward. “You really want to make that bet, Malfoy?” he purred.

Draco gulped, glancing from Flint to the staff table and then to Harry. “Erm, no. I guess not,” he admitted, coloring.

“I thought you were done for when you lost half your bristles along the wall,” Katie continued. “How’d you pull out of that one?”

Harry animatedly began reliving the flight, and soon even Draco had gotten over his sulk and was asking questions.

“Hey, what if we were to set up an obstacle course – outside, I mean!” Katie added hastily. “That might be a great training aid for the team.”

Flint’s eyes lit up. “That’s not a bad idea, Bell.”

“How come all the cool stuff is only for the Quidditch teams?” Ron whined. “It’s not fair that we can’t do any flying first year – except for those dumb classes with Madame Hooch.”

“Yeah – those are useless,” Draco agreed petulantly, too caught up in his grievance to realize he was publicly agreeing with Ron. “It’s not fair!”

“Well, why not build an obstacle course that anyone can use?” Hermione asked sensibly. “We could have competitions to see who can get through it quickest.”

“You could have some routes that were easier than others, so that first and second years wouldn’t be competing against sixth and seventh,” Neville offered.

“That’s a good idea!” Ron said excitedly. “Otherwise it’d just be the Quidditch players who’d win each time.”

“You wouldn’t even need to have teams,” Hermione said. “Just let everyone compete as an individual without all the silly House rivalries.”

Her words, heretical in Hogwarts’ hallowed halls, caused a moment of stunned silence.

“Well,” Ron finally spoke up, a bit tentatively, “if we’re thinkin’ of doing stuff outside the Houses, then why don’t we have some Quidditch games for people like Draco an’ me who aren’t on the teams? Yet!” he added hastily.

“You mean like a Quidditch club?” Harry asked around a mouthful of porridge. “I always wondered why Hogwarts doesn’t have stuff like that the way they do in Muggle schools. I mean, there must be plenty of people who like to play but who didn’t make their House team.”

“That’s not a bad idea, Weasel,” Draco’s shining eyes belied his casual tone. “I wouldn’t mind forming a team with you. We could ask Zabini too – he plays pretty well.”

“An’ so do Thomas and Macmillan,” Ron added eagerly.

“Since it’s our idea, we’ll be the first to form a team and we’ll be able to get the best players from every House. We’ll be sure to win all the games,” Draco said smugly.

Flint and Katie exchanged a humorous look at the First Years’ plotting. “Maybe then Madame Hooch can use class time to help the people who need tutoring, rather than having to chase after people who already fly very well,” Hermione added tartly. She and Neville had, on more than one occasion, shared their frustration with a flying class that was little more than informal Quidditch matches.

“Don’t worry, ‘Mione. If we put a club together, I’m sure there’d be people who’d be willing to give lessons,” Harry offered comfortingly.

She brightened. “Maybe that should be part of the club’s activities! We could have a charter and…”

“Harry.” As the others got caught up in their plans for a Quidditch club, Neville lowered his voice and leaned close to Harry. “Are you really okay? I mean, Professor Snape didn’t… Well, he didn’t leave bruises, did he?”

Harry looked at Neville’s broad, worried face and felt incredibly lucky to have such good friends. “Nah,” he reassured the blond boy. “I mean, he whacked me an’ all, but it’s not that bad. He was really mad though, an’ I don’t know when he’ll let me back in the dorm. I’m on r’striction again and I’ve got lines an’ essays too.”

“Well,” Neville struggled to find something positive to say, “at least we’ll see you when we’re helping prepare potion ingredients, right? Once you’re off restriction, I mean.”

Harry sighed. He hadn’t thought of that, but being on restriction meant that he wouldn’t be allowed to participate in the cozy ingredient preparation sessions that took place in his guardian’s classroom several times a week.

His room in Snape’s quarters was brilliant, so leaving the dorm wasn’t so bad. And Harry had yet to explore all of his shelves’ contents, let alone read all the books, so he didn’t really mind not being allowed to hang out in the Common Rooms, but he was going to miss getting together in the dungeons with the others and squishing and peeling and mincing and hearing stories about famous Potion Masters and listening to Snape talk about the different ingredients… “Yeah,” he sighed. “I just hope it won’t be too long.”

Neville patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry. He’s kind of like my gran. She can get real angry an’ scary too, but she doesn’t usually stay that way for very long.”

--##--

The day passed with surprising ease. Snape was both surprised and amused to see how well-behaved his classes were; obviously his fearsome reputation had been fully restored by the past 24 hours. If it hadn’t been for the house elves’ cold shoulder, he would have been quite pleased with the state of affairs. Still, by lunchtime, Minerva had thought to pass a cup of coffee to him, and that circumvented the elves’ plot quite nicely. As annoyed as they were with him, they weren’t about to risk irritating the Deputy Headmistress.

When his last class of the day finished, Snape went to see the Headmaster. “Severus, my boy, it is very good to see you. How are you?” Albus asked, sending a dish of lemon drops floating over to meet him.

Snape dropped into a chair, batting the candies out of his way. “Headmaster, I have decided to have a prize-giving for my NEWTS and OWLS students at the end of this term. Such an event will hopefully motivate the little dunderheads to keep up with their studies over the winter holidays, so that we do not lose valuable class time revising upon their return.”

Dumbledore blinked in surprise. Snape had never before embraced positive reinforcement as a teaching method. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Severus. It sounds to be an excellent idea.”

“I have also decided that it is time for the school and the Ministry to acknowledge the importance of Potions in the curriculum. It is, after all, a prerequisite for a number of careers, including Healers and Aurors.”

“Yes, that is so,” Albus agreed cautiously, unsure where his Potion Master was going with this.

“Yet despite the integral importance of Potions in their fields, these professions have never once during my time here acknowledged the debt they owe to Hogwarts and to me in transforming ignorant children into accomplished brewers!” Snape leaned forward angrily. “This complete lack of respect must cease! I will expect both professions to send representatives to the prize giving, as a show of appreciation of my efforts and encouragement to the students.”

Dumbledore blinked. Where was this coming from? Severus had never before seemed so annoyed about toiling in relative obscurity. Then he caught the man’s gaze on his copy of the Daily Prophet’s latest edition. Of course! The front page had a large picture of Sirius Black in yet another press conference.

“Sirius does seem to be quite popular,” Albus commented gently, nudging the paper towards Severus.

Snape flushed and looked away. “It is of no interest to me if the wizarding world sees fit to fawn upon that degenerate while ignoring others’ long years of important service,” he declared unconvincingly. “This has nothing to do with Black. Skeeter and her ilk may have seen fit to elevate him to celebrity status but that has everything to do with his wealth and outrageous behavior and nothing to do with his actual value to society.”

“Of course not,” Dumbledore said soothingly. “Your work here with the children – to say nothing of your courageous service during the war – demonstrates how valuable you are to Hogwarts and the Ministry alike.”

“Precisely!” Snape snapped, straightening up. “And that is why I expect you to get St Mungo’s and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to send their leaders to Hogwarts for the prize giving in my classes.”

“Now, Severus, you know it will be difficult for such people to find the time to come, especially on such short notice…”

“Fine. Then we will hold two prize givings – one at the end of this term and the other at the end of the year. The Aurors can come to one and the Healers to the other,” Snape declared. “That will make it hard for them to decline outright.”

Dumbledore sighed. Once Severus got an idea, he was like a crup with a bone. “I will do my best, but –“

“Since Madame Bones kindly pointed out that the return of Voldemort is ‘nothing to worry about,’” Snape sneered, “I am sure her Aurors are in need of things to do. They can come to this term’s prize giving, while the healers at St Mungo’s will receive notice as to their expected attendance next term.”

Hmmm. That might be best, Albus mused. The head of pediatric injuries at St Mungo’s was still rather disgruntled from his tussle with Snape after the Quirrell incident. Allowing additional time before bringing the two into contact again did make sense, Albus decided. And with his old Order connections, the chances were good that he could get at least one or two Aurors to the school, even on short notice. “Very well, Severus, I will contact Madame Bones and issue the invitation, and I will use all of my charm to try to entice her to come,” he said, twinkling. “I quite agree that you deserve some recognition for your dedicated service. Shall we have Ms Skeeter back as well?” Perhaps some publicity would soothe the man’s injured ego.

Snape nodded stiffly. “Thank you. Please inform both that I plan to hold the ceremony this Friday, on the last day of classes before the holiday.” He rose to his feet, nodded once, and left in a swirl of robes.

Albus looked sadly down at the paper on his desk. Black Slams Britain! the headline screamed. Vows Never to Return to Land that Wrongly Imprisoned Him. Poor Sirius. It appeared he was very bitter – and who could blame him? But Albus worried what having a godfather with such a grudge would do to Harry. It certainly sounded likely that Sirius would do his best to remove Harry from Hogwarts, if only to make it easier for him to visit the boy, and what would that mean for the prophecy? Or the child? Or the Potion Master?

Albus sighed again. He suspected that great pain lay ahead for his poor boys, and there was – for all his power – very little he could do to protect them. Well, at least he would do what he could to bring some pleasure to Severus in the short term. He picked up a quill and began to write.

Snape stalked down the halls, hard pressed not to rub his hands in glee. That had gone even better than he had hoped! He hadn’t dared to suggest inviting the press, but Skeeter’s presence would ensure that the Ministry would have no hope of hushing matters up.

Back at his quarters, he found Harry happily ensconced in his room, reading one of the books Albus had selected for him. “Hi, Da!” the boy called out, spotting the man in the doorway. “Have you read this one? It’s really good.”

Snape frowned at the brat. He knew better than to read for pleasure before finishing his assigned work. “Have you completed your lines?” he asked forbiddingly.

Harry grinned. “Yeah!” he answered cheekily, pulling the scroll out of his bookbag and handing it to the man. “And I’ve got the sore fingers to prove it!” he added, shaking out his writing hand.

“You should have thought of that before earning the punishment with your foolish behavior,” Snape huffed, but he wasted no time in taking the boy’s hand and gently examining it for any signs of inflammation.

“Da! I was just kidding. I’m okay,” Harry protested, trying – and failing – to hide his delight at his guardian’s solicitude.

Snape paid no attention. He was well aware of Harry’s tendency to minimize any physical discomfort. He accio’d a jar of salve and rubbed it into the boy’s hand. “There was no need to complete all three hundred lines in one sitting,” he scolded. “Naturally your fingers are stiff.”

“Well, I may have sorta hinted to everyone that you said you’d wallop me again if I didn’t get them done,” Harry admitted.

Snape mentally bade farewell to the thought of his morning coffee. “Do not overdo it,” he warned.

“Me?” Harry asked in surprise. “After the way you looked yesterday, everyone was surprised that I didn’t end up as a pile of potion ingredients!” He paused, a grin stealing over his face.

“What?” Snape asked, apprehensive at what was making the brat smirk like that.

“Professors Flitwick an’ Sprout even gave me an extension on all my essays,” Harry told him smugly. “They said they figured I ‘might not be able to concentrate’ right now.”

Snape rolled his eyes. It was a good thing the little monster hadn’t genuinely pulled a prank. He could see that if he ever had geniune cause to punish the wretch, he would be thwarted at every turn by his fellow faculty.

Harry was still snickering at how gullible some of the teachers were. Imagine! Thinking his professor would really hurt him – how silly was that? “See? So it was you, not me, who got everyone so worried.”

Snape pressed his lips together. “Hmmmmmmm. Well, I suspect Pettigrew is more than willing to believe the worst of me, so it would seem our plan has been successful thus far. Your godfather appears to have done his part as well – he held a press conference either last night or this morning, promising never to return.”

“Cool!” Harry chirped. “Did he get his picture in the paper? He really likes that.”

“Of course he would, the exhibitionist,” Snape said sourly. “Very well, Mr Potter – enough chatter. To bed with you.”

Harry’s jaw dropped in amazement. “What!” he yelped. “It’s practic’lly the middle of the afternoon!”

“And you are taking a nap,” Snape retorted, inexorably pushing the boy towards his bed.

“Naps are for babies!” Harry whined, sounding rather like a four year old. “Why do I need to take a nap? What did I do?”

“It is not punishment, Potter,” Snape said in exasperation, pushing him onto the bed and reaching down to pull off the brat’s shoes.

“But then why?” Harry said, almost tearful at the indignity of a nap.

Snape regarded the boy in vexation. He would never understand children. He would kill for the chance to take a nap, but no, he had to correct papers and supervise his snakes’ study time. All the little brat had to do was enjoy some blissful rest, and yet he was more upset at the mere prospect of a nap than he had been after being spanked in front of the entire school. “Potter, have you forgotten that we are engaged in a campaign to capture the rat?” he demanded. “You and I will be busy with a covert operation late tonight, and it is therefore important that you rest now so as not to be exhausted later, when it will be vital that you have your wits about you.”

Harry’s eyes grew huge. “Really?” he breathed. “A secret mission?”

“Yes. In the Forbidden Forest. And if you think I will take along a cranky, sleepy child, who will attract every acromantula in the forest with his noisy yawns –“ But Harry had already turned and dived under the covers.

“I’m restin’! I’m restin’!” Harry yelled, screwing his eyes shut. “Just don’t go without me!”

Snape rolled his eyes. Changeable little sod. “I will wake you in a few hours for dinner,” he informed the brat.

“Harry, it’s time to get up.” Pause. “Harry.” Pause. “Potter.” Pause. “POTTER!”

“Mmmrglph.” Harry burrowed deeper into his soft pillow, wishing the annoying voice would go away and leave him in peace.

“Potter, get up this instant!” A smack fell on his backside, but the thick comforter attenuated all force, and Harry merely wiggled his bum in sleepy protest.

“Harry, if you do not get up right now, I will go to the Forbidden Forest without you,” a soft, silky voice spoke directly into his ear, and Harry grumbled back.

“Fine,” he slurred. “G’wan without –“ then his brain actually processed what was happening, and he sat bolt upright with a yell. “NO! WAIT! I’M UP!” he shrieked, scrabbling about wildly for his glasses. His professor hadn’t gone without him, had he?

No. Whew! Professor Snape was still there, glaring furiously as he braced himself against Harry’s night table with one hand pressed against his heart.

“There is no need to emulate a banshee, Potter!” Snape said severely, willing his hammering heart to slow. Who expected the brat to go from an apparent deep coma to full screaming hysteria in the blink of an eye?

Harry blushed. “I just din’ want you to leave me behind,” he explained, hopping out of bed. He tried his best to flatten his hair which was, of course, sticking up in all directions.

“Put on your shoes and wash up,” Snape instructed. “Dinner is already on the table.”

“Cool!” Harry stuffed his feet into his shoes and bolted down the corridor, oblivious to Snape’s scowl.

Honestly! Pre-teen boys were a mass of contradictions – protesting naps with a vehemence most adults reserved for active torture, then falling deeply asleep even as they insisted they’d never be able to so much as doze.

“So what’s our secret mission?” Harry asked eagerly after they were seated in Snape’s small kitchen.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Snape admonished automatically.

“Sorry.” Harry swallowed and repeated himself.

“We are going into the Forest in search of snakes.”

Harry blinked. “Y’mean like Slytherins?” he asked, finding it hard to imagine any member of Snape’s House would be foolhardy enough to sneak into the Forest. If their Prefects didn’t get them, their Head of House surely would.

“No, no, you foolish child. Real snakes. I expect you to speak with them and enlist their assistance.”

Harry’s chest swelled with pride. Wow! He was a really important part of this operation! His father must really trust him. “Okay,” he agreed quickly. “What do we want them to do?”

“When Pettigrew is revealed, I will do my best to keep him contained, but in the event that he is able to return to his animagus form, it is critical to ensure he is unable to escape. This castle is old and has many cracks and crevasses down which a rat can disappear. The snakes will be present to prevent this from happening.”

“Ooooh.” Harry looked at his guardian with admiration. What a great plan! “So if he tries to get away as a rat, the snakes’ll eat him?”

“Exactly. I suspect that Pettigrew will revert to his human form rather than allow that to happen, but then he will be unable to slip away.”

“That’s a brilliant idea!” Harry said sincerely. “So I just explain what we need the snakes t’do?”

“Precisely. I understand from Hagrid that there are many magical snakes in the Forest who remain active all winter long. I suspect that if a Parselmouth ventures into the Forest in the dead of night, calling them, they will come out to investigate.”

“Cool! Erm, what time is it, anyway?”

“Nearly two in the morning. It is obviously important that we remain unseen during this activity. Finish your meal and we will go. It is very cold out, so dress well, and I will put a warming charm on you before we leave the castle.”

Just before dawn, a tired but immensely pleased eleven year old reentered the castle. Behind him, Snape carried a large basket that was hissing suspiciously.

“I bet we've got thirty snakes in there,” Harry whispered happily to his guardian as they made their way down the dark hallways.

“Indeed,” Snape replied, trying hard not to think of the several dozen snakes he was carrying mere inches from his person. The Forest had positively come alive with serpents after Harry started hissing, and Snape had been hard pressed not to scramble up the nearest tree in a panic as the snakes, in their excitement, slithered over his feet in their haste to reach Harry. It was just as well he hadn’t, as a moment later more snakes started dropping from above. He shuddered at the memory of how one serpent, as thick around as his leg, had used his body as a way to leave the tree more hastily.

Whatever the boy had said to them had won their instant cooperation, and Snape had been able to pick and choose from a wide variety of volunteers. He was confident that within the basket were snakes that were small enough be able to pursue Pettigrew’s rat form no matter where he went, yet were still large enough to be able to dispatch and consume him. He permitted himself a small smile of pure malice at the thought of what lay ahead for the traitor.

At his side, Harry yawned. “C’n I take a nap before breakfast?” he asked beseechingly. “Please?”

Snape rolled his eyes at the inconsistency of children. “Very well,” he told the brat. “But if you do not wake up when I call you, be prepared for Aguamenti.”

Harry nodded sleepily and leaned comfortably against his guardian, smiling as the man reached down and draped a strong arm around his shoulders.

Little pest, Snape sniffed, guiding the half-asleep child through the corridors. I’m surprised he doesn’t expect me to carry him the rest of the way.

Sure enough, no sooner had they entered Snape’s quarters, then Harry went directly to the couch and fell upon it, face down and asleep before his head touched the cushions. Snape huffed and put down the basket, then lifted the boy in his arms.

“Da,” Harry mumbled and wrapped himself around his guardian, resting his head against the man’s neck. Snape stood stock still, a bolt of pure happiness jolting through his body. He closed his eyes, tightening his grip around the boy and wishing that this moment could last forever: Harry safe and content in his arms, all threats and dangers far away.

But then the hissing of the snakes roused him and he shook himself. Sentimental fool! he scolded, carrying the child into his room. He laid Harry on his bed, giving the slumbering brat a quick swat on the bottom for being such a nuisance. The boy didn’t even stir, but the light slap did much to restore Snape’s sense of self. See? I’m still an Evil Bat, smacking poor innocent children. I’m not a maudlin, doting parent, overcome by the mere scent of my child’s hair.

By the time he roused the boy three hours later, Harry was fully restored, while Snape was feeling increasingly haggard after his sleepless night. As a result, the refusal of the house elves to provide him with a pot of coffee brought him to new heights of invective.

“What’s the matter?” Harry demanded, entering the kitchen with his hands over his ears and staring at where his father was shouting at an unmoved house elf.

“No, naughty Master Potion Professor, you is not to be having no coffee,” the house elf scolded. “Coffee is only making Master Potion Professor more cranky. You is not having no coffee today, naughty Master Potion Professor!”

Before Snape could hex the horrible little creature, Harry intervened. “Why?” he asked the elf innocently. “What did he do?”

Snape forced himself to put his wand down while the child was in the line of fire. “Naughty Master Potion Professor was being horrid to poor Master Harry Potter Sir,” the revolting little creature turned a sickening gaze of adoration upon the brat. “The house elves is deciding that naughty Master Potion Professor is not to be having any coffee until he is being not so grumpy with poor Master Harry Potter Sir.”

Harry blinked. “Well,” he said slowly, “you know that Pr’fessor Snape’s my guardian now, right?”

The little elf nodded vigorously. “Oh yes, we is knowing that! We is seeing how happy Master Harry Potter Sir is!”

“An’ you saw what I did in the Hall the other day, right?”

“Ooooh, yes. Master Harry Potter Sir was flying his broom inside the castle and making a very big mess! Naughty Master Harry Potter Sir!” To Snape’s great irritation, the elf waggled an almost playful finger at the brat. Unlike the tone of denunciation the elf had used when referring to Snape, his tone was one of amused indulgence when he spoke to the boy.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “I really shouldn’t’ve done that, right?” The elf nodded. “An’ so I had t’be punished, yeah?” The elf nodded again, though it was with a little less assurance than before. “An’ so that’s what my Da did.”

“Is Master Harry Potter Sir not being angry with Master Potion Professor?” the elf asked in surprise. “Even though naughty Master Potion Professor smacked poor Master Harry Potter Sir so hard that poor Master Harry Potter Sir couldn’t sit down at breakfast yesterday?”

“Erm, well,” Harry blushed. “I might have been exaggerating a little,” he admitted.

The elf frowned. “But if Master Harry Potter Sir wasn’t so sore, then he should not have been making the elves so angry with Master Potion Professor!”

“I didn’t know you’d be mad at him,” Harry protested. “It’s not like I asked you to punish him.”

“Naughty Master Harry Potter Sir!” the elf repeated, a lot less indulgently. “Now the house elves has been being mean to poor Master Potion Professor for no reason! We is now having to go and punish ourselves for being so wicked!”

“Da!” Harry looked over at Professor Snape in a panic.

Snape growled. Although he wouldn’t have minded seeing the little creatures bang their heads against the castle in penance for daring to withhold his morning coffee, the noise would probably echo in his dungeons and disrupt his classes. And it would upset Harry no end. “No, you are not to punish yourselves,” he ordered sharply. “I appreciate how much you care for my ward, even if he is a naughty brat who deserves many more smacks on the backside,” he added, looking pointedly at a sheepish Harry. “Bring me my coffee and our breakfast and we will say no more of this.”

Except of course the house elves were wholly incapable of saying no more, and a procession of what felt like every house elf in the castle followed, each with a lengthy and tearful apology, coupled with paeans of praise to Master Potion Professor’s kindness and forebearance. Snape felt nauseous by the end, while Harry happily munched his way through all the little delicacies and treats the penitent house elves brought to make amends.

Snape forced himself to look on the bright side. Not only was Harry ensuring that he didn’t have to eat the numerous goodies, but also it was clear that the house elves held no grudge against the child. In the eventual conflict against Voldemort, it was obvious that the house elves would ally themselves with Harry, and while the little creatures were often overlooked, there was no denying they possessed a powerful magic all their own. Snape was certain he could find ways to use that to Harry’s benefit.

“Mmm, that was great!” Harry said at long last, producing happy twitters among the remaining house elves. “I’m stuffed!”

“And so you should be, considering what you ate,” Snape said severely. “No pudding for you tonight.”

Harry nodded philosophically. His da was pretty fierce about not allowing him too many sweets, so the stricture came as no great surprise. “I’ve got Quidditch practice this afternoon – can I study in the library with the others before then?”

“Yes, but you are not to –“

“-go into Gryffindor Tower. I know, Da!” Harry rolled his eyes. Grown ups!

“Very well then, be off with you.”

Harry grinned and left, snatching up his bookbag on his way out the door. Snape finished his coffee then made his way to his storage cupboard and downed a Pepper Up Potion. He had little hope of making it through his classes without magical assistance.

“Ah, Severus!” Dumbledore came into his classroom just before his first class. “I have excellent news. Aurors Moody and Shacklebolt will be coming on Friday, along with Miss Skeeter of the Daily Prophet.”

Snape frowned. “And Amelia Bones?”

Dumbledore spread his hands. “Madame Bones expressed her regrets but said she was too busy to attend. But sending two of her top Aurors…” Snape tuned out as the Headmaster prattled on. His plan could succeed even without Madame Bones’ presence, but it would go a lot more smoothly if she were there. On the other hand, her refusal was a reassuring demonstration that the entire Ministry and Wizengamot were not under Dumbledore’s thumb. That could be very good news if the day ever came when he and the Headmaster had a serious difference of opinion regarding Harry.

Hmmm. No, he decided, his plan really did need Bones’ presence. He would simply have to turn to his back-up method to compel her attendance.

“Thank you, Albus,” he interrupted the older wizard politely. “I very much appreciate your assistance and I look forward to seeing the Aurors and Miss Skeeter on Friday. But now, if you will excuse me, I must prepare for my class of first year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws.”

Dumbledore smiled, relieved that Snape was taking Bones’ rebuff so well. “Of course, my boy, of course.”

Soon thereafter, the first years all but tiptoed into the dungeon classroom, Snape’s terrifying rage of the other day fresh in their minds. Fortunately for them, he appeared to be his usual snarky self, cold and sarcastic rather than furious and scary.

Class started off in a fairly unremarkable fashion, with the usual review of the homework assignment. “And what is the third ingredient in burn salve?” Snape asked. “Miss Bones?”

“Pickled newts’ eyes,” Susan responded promptly, glad that she had spent extra time on her essay.

“I beg your pardon?” Snape slowly rose from his chair.

“P-pickled newts’ eyes?” Susan repeated, her voice faltering at the expression on the professor’s face.

“Did you say pickled newts’ eyes?” Snape demanded incredulously, swooping down in front of the now terrified girl.

“Y-yes, sir,” Susan managed to squeak.

“Pickled. Newts’. Eyes.” Snape rolled his eyes to the heavens. “Tell me, Miss Bones, while I am aware that your House is not noted for intellectual ability, does it not perturb you in the slightest to ensure that your House becomes known for academic incompetence?” he demanded. Ignoring the girl’s whimper, he leaned close and demanded silkily, “Did you even bother to purchase the assigned textbook, Miss Bones? I only ask because it is apparent that you have never bothered to read the tome, and so I wondered if you at least had the common decency to spare your family the expense of the book.”

“B-but, sir, I did the reading,” Susan tearfully protested. “I really did!”

Snape snorted in loud disbelief. “Spare me the mendacious protestations, Miss Bones! I am aware that your disrespect towards both me and my topic is a mere reflection of your elders’ contempt for this topic.”

Susan gaped at him in utter confusion. “Wh-what? Sir?”

“Your aunt, Miss Bones,” Snape dropped his voice to a menacing hiss, “has made her contempt for this course abundantly plain. She has rejected an overture from me, signaling to all and sundry just how little regard she has for the study of Potions. And your behavior has made it equally plain that you wish to follow in her footsteps and scorn both my instruction and my coursework.”

“No, sir! No!” Susan pleaded, shaking her head in horror.

Snape ignored her protests. “Let me make it clear to you, Miss Bones, that your aunt’s disrespect will cost you dearly. You may atone for your outrageous insolence in not bothering to read the material by copying – before our next class – the first two textbook chapters in their entirety. I am certain one of your classmates will be able to lend you their book. If your copy is not legible, you will spend your winter holiday copying the entire textbook. If you do not complete that exercise in the allotted time, we will see if spending the first week of the new term in detention will teach you better time management skills. Do you understand, Miss Bones? Or do you require additional encouragement to refrain from displaying your family’s distaste for Potions quite so obviously?”

“Yes, sir! I mean, no, sir! I mean…” Susan broke down into terrified tears. Snape gave her a disdainful look.

“How pathetic. A hysterical Hufflepuff,” he commented snidely. “You are dismissed, Miss Bones. Do try to compose yourself before our next class.”

Susan bolted from the room. At Snape’s nod, Hannah Abbott rushed after her, eventually finding her friend weeping in Moaning Myrtle’s lavatory.

“Oooooh, Susan, I’m so sorry! That Snape is just horrid!” Hannah raged, wrapping the other girl in a hug.

“What am I going to do, Hannah? You heard him! I’m doomed!” Susan sobbed. “I don’t even know what it is that Aunt Amelia did to him, but he’s going to hold it against me for the next seven years! I don’t want to have to copy out the Potions textbook – it’s six inches thick!” she ended with a wail of distress.

Hannah thought furiously. “Well, if it’s your aunt’s fault that you’re in this mess, then maybe she can get you out of it. Let’s go talk to Professor Sprout. If you tell her it’s an emergency, maybe she’ll let you floo your aunt and you can tell her she’s just got to do what Professor Snape wants.”

And so it was that her niece’s hysterical tears accomplished what no amount of manipulative blandishments from the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot could. On Friday, a seething Amelia Bones stepped out of the floo beside Kingsley Shacklebolt and Alastor Moody.

“Madame Bones!” Dumbledore’s eyebrows rose. “I wasn’t expecting you!”

“My schedule unexpectedly opened up,” Bones said from between gritted teeth. She might have lost this battle with Snape, but she had no intention of leaving the campus without having it out with the hook-nosed Death Eating bastard. He might be able to frighten little girls, but he’d quickly find out that trying to blackmail the head of the MLE was a very different matter indeed.

The floo roared to life behind them, and Rita Skeeter daintily picked her way out of the fireplace.

“Well, now that we’re all here, perhaps we should go down to the dungeons,” the Headmaster invited, offering Madame Bones his arm. She grudgingly accepted it, and he smilingly led the others out of his office.

Shacklebolt and Moody obligingly fell into step behind the Headmaster and Madame Bones. Neither was particularly happy at the thought of wasting a day watching a bunch of spotty adolescents brew up smelly concoctions, but their loyalty to Dumbledore was high, and besides Madame Bones had ordered it.

Neither was certain why their chief was in such a foul mood, but both were doing their utmost to stay out of her way. Amelia Bones was a powerful witch under everyday circumstances. In a towering rage, she could give even Dumbedore a run for his money, and in her current state of mind – well, Moody was seriously contemplating a long trip to Greenland. “Constant vigilance” was all well and good, but it didn’t help much when your boss was in the mood to chew someone’s arse off.

Behind them, Rita Skeeter wondered if she might be able to dig up some dirt during her stay here. Even some “behind the scenes” snaps of Potter might do in a pinch. Normally she wouldn’t have been sent to cover some piddling little prize giving, but so much had gone on at Hogwarts over the past few months that when Dumbledore contacted her editor, she had made no demur at the assignment. Who knew what could happen? Murderous brawls, trolls strolling the hallways, resurrected Dark Lords, the Child of the Light being handed over to a Death Eater to raise… Great Merlin, she wouldn’t have turned down an invitation to Hogwarts for all the Quick Quotes Quills in the UK! She would have come even if the offer had been to watch that dimwitted giant dig up another pumpkin. She licked her lips, wondering what might be in store for her today… and whether she'd need to give matters a little nudge to get them started.

“Here we are, Professor Snape,” the Headmaster led the way into the empty Potion classroom, and the dark haired wizard glanced up from his desk.

“Excellent. I’m glad to see all of you could make it,” Snape said, the merest hint of a smirk in his expression as he glanced at Bones. The Head Auror clenched her fists and promised herself that she would make him pay before the day was out.

“I believe that you will find it instructive to see how Potions is taught here at Hogwarts,” Snape announced. “You will witness how the Aurors you hire learn Potion lore, and this will provide you with insight into how hard the OWLS and NEWTS students have studied. The class that will soon be joining us is a group of first years, doing a basic potion, and –“

“You expect us to sit here all day and watch your students at their lessons?” Bones demanded, her voice brittle with fury. It was bad enough to be pressed into service to hand some idiotic teenager a school medal, but now she was expected to stand around and watch Snape preen and posture in front of his classes all day long?

“Why, Madame Bones, if you find the topic uninteresting, I am certain you are under no obligation to stay,” Snape replied silkily.

She clenched her jaw until she was certain she'd cracked a tooth, but she managed to prevent herself from responding.

“As the little dunderheads would doubtless find your presence distracting, thus leading to the melting of several cauldrons, I have decided that it would be best for you to remain behind an invisibility ward. You will see, but not be seen. Headmaster, if you would be so kind as to ask the castle to expand the front corner of the room and then set up the invisibility ward? In this way, the children will be unaware of your presence.”

Dumbledore did as he was requested, and soon the visitors were settled on chairs in the newly expanded corner, shielded from the sight of those in the room.

Skeeter watched with interest as Snape opened the classroom door and children started filing in. That kid with the red hair had to be a Weasley, and she was pretty certain that the sharp-featured blond was a mini-Malfoy. And… yes! She hugged herself in glee. There was Potter! She knew she had been right to take the assignment. With this cast of characters, something big was sure to happen…

The students hurried in, most of them carrying cages of some kind. Snape swept to the front of the room, and the students quickly fell silent.

“As you know, today you will brew the Animalis Fide potion, which measures the bond between you and your familiar. I see that most of you were able to carry out my instructions to bring your familiar with you to class. After brewing the potion, you will use it to see how closely bonded you are with your pet.”

“P-Professor?” Neville raised a timid hand.

Snape huffed impatiently. “Well? What is it, Longbottom?”

“Sir, will it hurt our familiar? Trevor’s kind of old for a toad, and…”

“The potion – if brewed correctly – is entirely harmless, Longbottom. The animals are merely here to serve as the focus of your mind. The potion will measure how bonded you are to the animal, not how bonded the animal is to you. Does anyone else wish to ask a foolish questions and reveal how imperfect your grasp of the material is?”

Oddly enough, no one else took him up on his offer, and the class was quickly immersed in brewing. “Oi! Harry!” a loud shout broke the quiet, and Snape glared at the youngest Weasley boy who was protectively cuddling his rat. “Keep your owl away from my rat! She’s lookin’ at him like he’s dinner!”

“Weasley! Is working silently beyond your capabilities?” Snape scolded. “Move your things up here to this corner and perhaps you will be able to stay focused on your task.”

“But Hedwig was gonna eat Scabbers,” Ron whined in protest.

“Would you prefer to work in the corner or stand in it?” Snape asked him, too low for the other children to hear, and Ron instantly stopped arguing, aghast at the idea of having to stand in the corner - in front of the entire class no less!

“Yes, Uncle Sev,” he whispered hastily, scurrying to move his supplies to his new table and therefore missing the look of horror that crossed Snape’s face at the newly awarded title.

Dumbledore and the others fidgeted behind the wards, watching the children with varying degrees of polite interest. Finally, the potions were completed and the students waited expectantly by their desks.

“Potter,” Snape called. “Bring that owl up here along with your potion.”

“Her name’s Hedwig,” Harry reminded him reproachfully, placing her perch on his professor’s desk and setting the vial down beside it.

Snape scowled at him. “Quiet, Potter. Take one drop of the potion and place it on your owl’s head, then drink the rest yourself.”

Harry obeyed, and a moment later, an intense gold beam coalesced between the two. The class oohed and aahed in admiration. “This represents a very strong bond,” Snape lectured. “Both the color of the light and the width of the beam are measures of strength. Take your seat, Potter. Zabini, get up here with that creature.”

Blaise, then Millicent, then Dean all went with varying results. In all cases, though, the familiar merely sat there and hooted or meowed or ribbited, looking wholly unimpressed by all the excitement.

“Longbottom!”

Neville glanced nervously from Hermione’s pale blue potion to his own deep gray sludge. “Erm, P-Professor, I th-think I’d better not.”

Snape cast a contemptuous glance at the potion. “I suspect you’re making a wise choice, Longbottom,” he snapped. “Zero for the day!”

Neville drooped miserably and hugged a placid Trevor, while Snape scanned the room. “Weasley! Bring your rat!”

“Yessir.” Ron obeyed, depositing Scabbers on the front desk and fumbling for his potion.

The boy was never quite sure what happened next. One moment he was pulling the potion vial from his robe, while Professor Snape waited impatiently on the other side of his desk, and the next minute there was a bright flash of light and suddenly a fat little man sat, blinking stupidly, where Scabbers had just been. “Oi! Where’s my rat?” Ron demanded, then Harry grabbed him by the back of his robe and jerked him away from the desk.

The invisibility ward shimmered and fell as Dumbledore and the others erupted out of the corner. “Peter?” Dumbledore gasped in astonishment.

Pettigrew threw a hunted look over his shoulder, then lashed out at Snape, heading for the door.

Bones had no idea what was going on, but she knew that a middle aged man masquerading as a little boy’s familiar was not a good thing. The things some sick bastards do, she sighed to herself even as she leveled her wand and yelled, “Take him!”

Moody – constantly vigilant! – surged forward, with Shacklebolt right behind him, but in a roomful of shrieking children, they were understandably nervous about firing off any spells. “Surrender to the MLE!” Moody bawled, stumping forward as quickly as his leg would allow.

Pettigrew snarled and knocked over a table, blocking their way, and continued in his rush to the exit. Just before he got there, a form appeared in front of the door, nearly seeming to materialize out of thin air. “Hello, Severus. I just came by for my potion,” Remus smiled, then gasped as he found himself face to face with his childhood friend.

“Peter Pettigrew!” Remus shouted, his expression shocked.

“WHAT?” The Aurors momentarily froze in astonishment, even as Peter gasped, “Remus?”

Amelia Bones took the mutual recognition as an admission of guilt, and her voice rang out, “Peter Pettigrew! I arrest you for the murder of –“

Pettigrew looked desperately from side to side but the Aurors were fast approaching from behind and Remus was between him and the door. An instant later, a rat darted into a narrow crack in the wall.

“Get him!” Bones shouted, knowing that it was hopeless, but then the rat was scrambling out of the wall even faster than it had gone in, pursued by a hissing, snapping snake.

The children screeched and jumped on their desks as more snakes boiled out of other cracks in the walls and floor, all seemingly intent on catching the terrified, fleeing rat.

Pettigrew was quickly cornered by the serpents and, in imminent danger of being eaten, he shifted back into his human form. “Wait, wait!” he begged, flinging out his arms. “I didn’t mean it!”

“Peter, how could you?” Remus demanded, his wand out and pointed at the smaller man.

“Remus, my friend, please!” Pettigrew wept. “Have mercy! Surely you of all people understand! I was forced to do it! I had no choice! He would have killed me!”

“Then you should have died before betraying them!” Remus spat. “I would have!”

“Oh, noble Remus,” Peter snarled back, dropping his groveling pose, “always showing how good and human you are! Always despising anyone who wasn’t as smart or strong or handsome as you and the other Marauders! What did you expect me to do? Do you think I didn’t know that I was only kept for comic relief? Do you think I didn’t know you all secretly despised me?”

“What are you talking about?” Remus demanded. “We trusted you! James and Lily trusted you with their secret! With their lives! With Harry’s life!”

“Only because they were convinced that I was such a pathetic creature no one else would ever imagine that they’d be stupid enough to make me the Secret Keeper! It was an insult, not an honor! Do you think I was too stupid to understand that? But the Dark Lord saw my talent! He praised my intelligence and cunning! He honored me for what I am! He respected me!”

“He used you, you deluded fool,” Snape drawled coldly. “As he uses everyone. He respects no one but himself, least of all a useless cowering little rodent who would sell out his best friends for an insincere compliment and then spend ten years in hiding as a child's familiar.”

Ron’s face worked furiously as he figured it out. “Scabbers!” he shouted angrily. “You bad rat! I’m gonna tell Percy on you!”

“It’s over, Pettigrew,” Moody growled, relieved to note that the snakes had withdrawn as mysteriously as they had appeared. “Give yourself up. There’s nowhere to go.”

“No!” Peter shouted. His eyes scanned the room frantically, then fell upon Harry’s wide eyed form. “Harry!” He lunged for the boy, knowing that with him as a hostage, he would be safe from the others. “Come here!”

Harry squeaked and tried to get away, but Pettigrew was shoving his way through the student desks with unexpected speed, driven by utter desperation. The adults cursed and fought to follow him, still trying to avoid using spells in a room full of screaming children, unstable potion ingredients, and dangerous snakes.

Hedwig flew at the man, striking at his eyes with her talons, while Neville grabbed Harry and struggled to pull him away, much as Harry had earlier dragged Ron to safety. Peter flung up his arms, driving the owl away, just as Neville’s elbow struck his cauldron, tipping it over and sending the sludge-like contents towards the short wizard.

The ruined potion splashed all over Pettigrew, and the man shrieked in agony as he began to cycle uncontrollably between forms. Even the hardened Aurors drew back in horror at the appalling sight before them. It was a transformation gone terribly wrong, and after a few horrible, nightmarish moments of screaming agony, Pettigrew lay still, reduced to a twisted lump of deformed flesh, half-man, half-rat. His head in particular was stuck between the two forms, with the left half human, and the right half rodent. In between the two mismatched skulls, brain matter oozed out, and there were several other… watery… bits where the tortured flesh had liquefied under the stress of too many transformations.

The children were shrieking like maniacs and hiding their faces – all except Harry, who had watched the whole thing with a grim visage.

“Damn it!” Bones snarled, finally shoving her way through to the corpse. “I wanted to take him alive!”

“Considering how alarmingly easy escaping from Azkaban has become of late if even Pretty Boy Black could manage it, perhaps it is just as well that we will not need to worry any longer about this self-confessed minion of the Dark Lord,” Snape commented snarkily.

Bones glared at him. “He had a lot of questions to answer,” she retorted. “And I don’t see how we can fully clear Black without Pettigrew’s confession.”

Snape raised his eyebrows. “Everyone in this room, including numerous students, the head of the Wizengamot, two senior Aurors, the head of the MLE, and a boyhood chum of the dead man all heard his confession and can identify him and provide pensieved memories. I cannot imagine what more you could possibly require.”

“Listen, you Death Eating bastard,” Bones began heatedly, then stopped as she realized that the children – now that a much more fascinating diversion was before them – had stopped screaming and were watching her exchange with Snape with lively interest. After all, as much fun as it was to shriek in abandon and jump on desks (in Snape’s class, no less!), it was even more entertaining to watch their most fearsome professor take on the equally intimidating head of the MLE.

Madame Bones cleared her throat and started over. “In the absence of a Veritaserum-elicited confession from the accused, there are some who might challenge the testimony.”

“Such as?” Snape challenged. He gestured lazily about the room. “This is a first year class of Gryffindors and Slytherins. Who on the political spectrum won’t believe one side or the other? Or are you seriously suggesting that Lucius Malfoy – or Arthur Weasley – would challenge his own son’s account and force him to submit to Veritaserum, despite the potentially permanent brain damage it can cause when administered before puberty?”

Bones scanned the room and realized the truth of his words. Anyone who might want to deny what had just happened – whether former Death Eaters, Minister Fudge, or the Pettigrew family – would be wholly unable to do so. The families represented in this room were the power elite on both sides of the last war, and just about the only thing that would cause them to close ranks and form an alliance would be a threat to their children. No one would be foolish enough to challenge what had just happened if doing so would bring down upon them the wrath of Malfoy and Weasley alike. Pettigrew’s deception (and therefore Black’s innocence) would be instantly accepted.

But something was wrong. Amelia Bones hadn’t become the head of the MLE without having an excellent instinct, and something told her there was more here than met the eye. It was all just a little too neat.

She turned speculatively to Remus. “Hmmm. Mr Lupin, wasn’t it fortuitous that you were here and could positively identify the fugitive? Why are you here just now? Aren’t you supposed to be in Italy?”

Remus returned her gaze calmly. “I came to pick up an urgently needed potion from Professor Snape. I knew he’d be in class at this time, and it seemed sensible to come in and let him know I was here.”

Bones pursed her lips skeptically. “Oh, really? Professor Snape hardly seems the type to welcome an interruption to his class. What potion is so urgent he would permit such an intrusion?”

Snape’s calm, faintly contemptuous expression didn’t change, but internally his heart sank. They hadn’t planned for this level of scrutiny of Remus’ presence.

At least Lupin had managed to emerge from under the Invisibility Cloak during the worst of the chaos, so no one had realized he had been in the room all along - hiding beneath the Cloak and behind the tall supply cupboard, ready to blast the rat should Snape's plan go awry. The Cloak - which Dumbledore had given to Snape when the Potion Master had taken over Harry's guardianship - was now tucked away in the pocket of Lupin's robe and would hopefully stay there until Snape could reclaim it and place it back in secure storage. Oh, Albus had made some mad suggestion about giving the Cloak to Harry for Christmas - as if a mischief-prone 11 year old really needed an Invisibility Cloak! - but Snape had dismissed that notion with the contempt it deserved. Still, if Bones' questioning rattled Lupin, he might give something away...

He needn’t have worried. Remus tilted his chin up and gave Bones a challenging stare even as he calmly answered, “Wolfsbane.”

There was an audible gasp, followed by excited whispers, as the students reacted to this revelation. Remus’ expression didn’t alter, but a tinge of red crept up his neck.

Bones had the grace to look embarrassed. “I beg your pardon,” she said, genuinely apologetic. Then she turned to the children and cleared her throat for their attention. “As you have heard, Mr Lupin suffers from the condition of lycanthropy, however this in no way reflects negatively upon him. He has registered with the Ministry and as you have heard, takes great care to have a monthly supply of Wolfsbane. You should accord him the same courtesy that you would any other wizard. Don’t you agree, Headmaster?”

“Absolutely,” Dumbledore said firmly.

“An’ he’s like my godfather too, so you better not be rude to him,” Harry added pugnaciously, sending a glare towards Pansy Parkinson. He’d heard some whispered comment about “Dark creatures” from her direction, and at his belligerent look, she sniffed and tossed her hair.

Remus looked surprised and pleased at these unexpected endorsements, while Snape fought down his nausea before returning to the attack. “May I have my classroom back now, Madame, or are you too busy asking foolish and embarrassing questions to mop up your evidence and leave? Perhaps there are a few more miscarriages of justice that my class and I can help clear up for you?”

The students giggled. Oooh, that was their professor, all right! He was snarky with everyone. They felt rather proud of Snape. Getting a tongue-lashing from the man was practically a Hogwarts rite of passage, and they didn't need to feel too badly about it if even Madame Bones came out the worse after an encounter with him!

Unfortunately, Bones was no fool, and unlike Fudge, she was not easily driven away by a few snide remarks. “I’m struck by the fact it’s rather convenient that Pettigrew was killed by a potion before he could be interrogated properly.”

Snape quirked an eyebrow at her, even as he mentally damned the inconveniently persistent witch. “Are you seriously suggesting that Longbottom, rather than producing the assigned potion, deliberately crafted a weaponized version of a Potion-Master-level brew?”

Before the words were out of his mouth, the entire room of students – including Neville – burst into laughter. Even Dumbledore masked a chuckle behind a politely raised hand.

Bones and her Aurors didn’t join in the general hilarity, Bones because she was still analyzing the situation, and the men because they were still leery of their boss’ mood. Besides, Bones’ intuition had been proven right too often in the past, even in cases that had appeared more open-and-shut than this one.

“You could have crafted it,” Bones suggested, once the giggles had died down. “You’re a Potion Master. You could have switched the boy’s potion or adulterated it in some way so as to convert it to a deadly poison.”

“I see,” Snape sneered. “And I’m supposed to have engaged in this sleight of hand under the magical eye of Auror Moody? Presumably he didn’t notice because he was off daydreaming? Or perhaps he is so fond of me he felt he could relax his ‘constant vigilance’ while in my classroom?” he inquired sarcastically.

“Then what is your explanation for these events?”

“As I am not on your payroll, Madame, I see no need to offer an explanation,” Snape retorted coldly. “However, I would point out that it is well known that students enjoy pranking each other by slipping things into each other’s potions. That said, I cannot imagine you would seriously propose to interrogate every student in this room.”

Draco, watching this exchange as closely as the rest of the class, reacted to this challenge predictably. “My father would never permit such a thing!” he announced arrogantly, every inch the Malfoy scion.

“Nor mine!” Pansy agreed shrilly.

“I don’t think my parents would want me to be interrogated!” Parvati Patil exclaimed in alarm, prompting Lavender Brown to loudly agree.

As Slytherins and Gryffindors alike began chiming in, Bones realized it would be political suicide to push the matter further – and unlikely to prove anything useful anyway. She glanced over to Moody, silently querying whether he had seen Snape do anything.

The grizzled old Auror shook his head and, knowing the man’s hatred for Snape, she accepted that and decided to back off gracefully. After all, it wasn’t as if she was upset at the outcome. One more dead Death Eater – and the betrayer of the Potters to boot – was something to be celebrated, and with that idiot Fudge in office, not to mention Voldemort hanging around Merlin knew where, she would just as soon have the rat animagus safely dead.

Still, the proprieties had to be observed, especially with a reporter documenting the whole thing and the scandal of Sirius Black making everyone all too aware of what could happen when fair trials weren’t provided. “It would seem to have been an accident,” she declared. “Making that grab for the Potter boy proved his undoing – there’s some poetic justice in that, I suppose.” She glanced over at Harry. “You all right there, young man?”

“Yes, Madame Bones,” Harry said politely, but she could see that several of the children, including one of Arthur Weasley’s lot and Augusta Longbottom’s grandson, had moved to flank him protectively.

“We can thank Merlin that none of the children were harmed,” Dumbledore said soothingly. “The potion accident was obviously just that: a dreadful accident.” He clapped his hands. “And now I think it’s time for the students to hurry along to their next class. Under the circumstances, the prize giving will have to be canceled, don’t you agree, Severus?”

“Alas, yes,” Snape replied calmly.

The children, knowing an order when they heard one, even if it was gently phrased, gathered their books and started to file out, widely skirting the puddle of slime and gristle that had been Pettigrew.

Harry paused by his guardian on his way out, stopping to look up into the man’s dark and fathomless eyes. “Run along, Potter,” Snape said firmly, but the hand that dropped to the boy’s shoulder was gentle. “I will see you tonight in our quarters.”

Harry relaxed and nodded, following Hermione and Ron out the door.

“Remus, perhaps you will escort Miss Skeeter to my office so she can floo to the paper? I’m certain she has a busy afternoon ahead of her,” Dumbledore twinkled.

Skeeter didn’t even look up when Remus gently took her by the arm and steered her out the door; she was too busy dictating the story to her automatic quill. At this rate, she’d be a shoo-in for Journalist of the Year!

“Goodbye, Headmaster. Goodbye, Professor.” Every inch the proper young pureblood, Draco nodded politely as he passed in front of them on his way out of the classroom.

“Mr Malfoy,” Snape replied, his tone neutral. He exchanged a special, knowing look with the boy, whose timely outburst of aristocratic arrogance had been extremely convenient. Draco’s expression didn’t change one iota – Lucius had taught him well – but his silvery eyes gleamed.

“A moment, Mr Longbottom.” Snape halted the stocky boy as the last student made ready to leave. “Given the fact that your potential for unintentional destruction has reached new heights,” he said acidly, “I will be contacting your grandmother later today to suggest that you are excused from regular potions class, effective immediately. Instead, I will suggest to her that you study privately, one on one, with a special remedial Potions tutor. Perhaps individual instruction, coupled with a curriculum that emphasizes the close ties between Herbology and Potions, will ensure that no one else perishes during your training.”

Neville’s eyes grew huge with delight. “Really, sir? Will you?” He caught sight of Madame Bones and abruptly muted his response. “Erm, yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” He was unable to conceal the happy skip to his step as, clutching Trevor, he fled the classroom, hopefully for the last time.

Shacklebolt, as the junior-most Auror present, had gloomily accepted the unpleasant task of collecting what Moody had termed “Pettigoo”, and Bones and Moody got ready to depart.

Madame Bones paused on the threshold of the classroom and gave Snape a speculative look. “About my niece’s performance in your class,” she began slowly.

“Susan?” Snape said mildly. “An excellent student. I’m sure she will do very well this year.”

“Hmmmm.” Bones’ expression grew even more pensive, but she departed without another word.

Moody started to follow her, then paused, glancing from Dumbledore to Snape and back again. Unexpectedly, he reached out and shook Snape’s hand, saying. “I hear you’ve done well by the Potter boy.”

Snape blinked incredulously. A kind word from Moody was nearly as much of a shock as Black’s apology had been.

“Reckon you’d’ve given the Artful Dodger some competition!” the Auror commented obscurely, then limped away after his boss.

The Headmaster stared after the old Auror for a moment then turned and gave Snape a very sharp look. The Potion Master returned the look blandly, and after a moment, Dumbledore sighed.

“I hope you know I am not the enemy, my boy,” the older wizard said sadly.

Snape nodded silently but he thought, Not being the enemy doesn’t necessarily mean being a friend, Albus. You should have learned that lesson from the Dursleys.

Dumbledore sighed again. “Sometimes, my boy, I worry that you see everything in such black and white terms. Please remember that we all deserve mercy.” With one last look at where Shacklebolt was gingerly mopping up the last of the dead Gryffindor, Dumbledore departed.

Snape glared after him; it had been a long, difficult day and it would have been nice to get a little acknowledgement of how brilliantly he had pulled the whole thing off. But what could he expect from a non-Slytherin?

Anyway, Dumbledore was just too committed to the notion of happy endings – his greatest weakness was his refusal to admit that some are beyond redemption and help… and to act accordingly.

No one knew better than Snape that redemption hurts, and few people were willing to put in the hard work and pain that it required, no matter what they might wish and/or say. He turned a hard look onto Pettigrew’s remains. Whatever Albus’ preferences, Snape wasn’t about to risk Harry’s welfare in the hopes that that someone who had already proven his enmity might be turned back to the Light. If that made him – a grateful beneficiary of the Headmaster’s mercy – a hypocrite, so be it. He was prepared to accept that label if it meant that Harry would be safe.

Snape knew perfectly well that Dumbledore hadn’t wanted Pettigrew dead, any more than he desired the death of any other Death Eater – hence the Order’s reliance on spells that subdued but did not kill. And that was why he had no intention of ever revealing to Albus just how much plotting had gone into today’s “dreadful accident”. But if the Headmaster imagined that Snape would willingly leave such an obvious threat to Harry alive and kicking, he was well and truly senile.

Snape watched dispassionately as Shacklebolt tried to scoop Pettigrew into an evidence bag. Bits kept dripping off the sides, much to the lanky Auror’s disgust.

Dumbledore could be a powerful ally, but it would have to be on Snape’s terms – not his own. Snape could no longer blindly trust the Headmaster, not only because of the older wizard’s past mistakes – from the Dursleys to Sirius – but also because it was obvious that he had a completely different opinion as to how best to prepare and protect Harry for the battle ahead.

Snape knew that he had chosen a long and lonely road for himself, one on which there might be allies, but none with whom he could share the big picture. He trusted no one to take as good care of Harry as he himself would, not even those who were truly devoted to the boy, such as Sirius or the Weasleys or possibly even the Headmaster. No, only he was willing to do whatever it took to protect the boy – whether that meant ruthlessly eliminating a threat like Pettigrew or depriving Harry of some of the dubious pleasures of childhood, such as innocence about his ultimate role in Voldemort's downfall.

Still, it would all be worth it if, at the end of the day, Voldemort was vanquished and Harry was alive. He would deal with his conscience at that point, and pay whatever penance he had to pay. So long as Harry survived, it would be worth it.

Late that afternoon, Snape was correcting papers at his desk in his quarters when Harry burst in. Snape rose to his feet, but before he could scold the brat for his noisy entry, Harry tossed his bookbag onto the couch and grabbed him around the waist. “We did it, Da!” the little monster yelped in delight. “We got him! Your plan was brilliant! Did you see how the snakes chased him around the room? Did you see how s’prised everyone was? What was the spell you used to turn him back into a human? I didn’ even hear you say it! Did you see I did what you told me and stayed out of the way? What happened to Neville’s potion? He said you said he doesn’t have to take Potions any more, is that true? Did th’ Headmaster figure out what happened? Wasn’t Moony great? Madame Bones is scary, isn’t she? For a minute there, I thought she was gonna hex you! Why doesn’t she like you? Did I do a good job? Huh? It was good that Draco got kinda huffy, wasn’t it? Did you know he was gonna do that? What happens now? Will Padfoot be able to come here to Hogwarts to visit us now? Didn’t I do a good job? Did you see how I didn’ do anything – not even when he tried to grab me? I just stood there and acted s’prised like everyone else!”

“Of course I saw everything, you foolish child. I was right there, was I not?” Snape huffed, but he couldn’t bring himself to give the boy the sharp rebuke his unseemly behavior deserved. After all, he was the first person to actually compliment Snape on his cunning plan. “Sit down.”

Harry obediently seated himself on the couch, but he was too excited to sit still. He began to bounce in place. “Did you see how s’prised Ron an’ Hermione were? Ron’s still pretty upset about Scabbers an’ Percy’s really upset. Th’ Headmaster came an’ got Ron out of Charms this afternoon t’talk to the Aurors some more. Did you know that? And they’re gonna talk to the rest of the Weasleys too. They’re not going to get into any trouble, are they? What will the Aurors ask them? Do you think -”

“Potter!” Snape had seated himself next to the brat and the constant bouncing was making him seasick. One Sticking hex later and Harry jerked to a halt with a comical expression of surprise. “Oi!” he yelped, finding his posterior immovably adhered to the heavy couch. He squirmed around, but couldn’t work loose.

“Stop that infernal fidgeting,” Snape said sternly. “I need to speak with you and I cannot do it while you are acting as though you are sitting on a nest of fire hornets. You know perfectly well the hex does not cause you any pain.”

“I didn’t say it did,” Harry protested, his surprise at Snape’s words successfully distracting him from his efforts to pry his bum off the sofa. “I know you won’t hurt me.”

Snape cleared his throat, doing his best to ignore the lump that the boy’s trust-filled expression had caused. “Yes, well, then you need not wiggle around like that. I will release the hex when you demonstrate you can sit properly like a young gentleman and carry on a civilized conversation.”

“Y’sir.” Harry obediently settled down and even folded his hands in his lap.

“That’s bet-“ Snape began, only to have Harry interrupt, his eyes once again shining with excitement.

“But you did see what happened, right? I mean, with Pettigrew tryin’ to grab me an’ all? It was awf’ly brave of Neville to grab me out of the way, wasn’t it?”

Snape sighed. He was beginning to have a certain sympathy for Lucius Malfoy’s draconic methods for teaching his son pureblood etiquette. “Yes, I saw what Longbottom did. It was quite… helpful.”

“Are you gonna award him points?” Harry asked, a glint of mischief in his eye. He knew his father’s reputation for not awarding points to non-Slytherin Houses.

“No,” Snape said, cutting off that line of inquiry before it could progress any further. “I am however going to reward you.”

Harry’s excited chatter broke off with a gasp of surprise. “Me? What for?” he asked.

Snape scowled at him. Stupid books, insisting on positive reinforcement. “You followed my instructions, did you not? And resisted any absurd Gryffindorish feats of bravado? You did not attempt to capture Pettigrew yourself nor interfere in any way with the adults in the room.”

Harry nodded, eyes wide. “You told me not to.”

“Quite right.” Snape did not add how surprised he had been at the boy’s obedience. James Potter would never have been able to resist jumping in once the apparent chaos had erupted, nor would that idiot Black. That was why – despite the mutt’s loud protests – only Remus had participated in the plot. Snape had had no faith in Black’s ability to remain on the sidelines and step in only if the plan had failed and Harry was in immediate jeopardy.

“And because you did as you were told, you have earned a reward.” He ignored the incredulous joy breaking over the boy’s face and accio’d a small box. “Here.”

Harry eagerly ripped off the wrapping paper. “Wow!” he yelled. “A whole box of chocolate frogs! Thanks, Da!” He hurled himself at the man, somewhat hampered by the still-active Sticking hex.

“Yes, yes, you’re welcome,” Snape muttered, embarrassed. The brat was acting as if he’d been given some priceless treasure, not just a few sweets. He hastily patted the boy’s shoulder before sitting him up again.

Harry stared at the box of frogs with a mixture of disbelief and delight. He had never before received any kind of present for behaving properly. In his experience, doing as he was told was the only way to avoid a smarting bottom or an angry diatribe. He had never heard of getting rewarded for it!

Harry gulped back happy tears. His da was amazingly nice to him. Not only did he provide him with gifts for no particular reason – like his broomstick – and assign only the lightest of punishments when Harry was bad, but his professor was now also giving him presents just for following orders? How many other kids were lucky enough to get treats for that?

Snape watched as the boy wonderingly stroked the box as if it were some fragile blossom and struggled not to let the pity he felt show on his face. It was all too apparent that the child had received precious few rewards in his life to date. “Your adherence to our plan permitted me to focus my attention on Pettigrew’s capture, rather than on having to protect you from the consequences of any foolish actions,” he told the boy. “I am… pleased… with you.”

Harry looked up at that, a huge smile on his face. “You are?” He felt like his heart would burst out of his chest, he was so happy. His da was pleased with him! He had even said so. There and then, Harry vowed to do whatever he could to get his da to be pleased with him again. This feeling was just too wonderful.

“Mmf.” Snape cleared his throat again. “And your instructions to the snakes were similarly appropriate. They did their work extremely well. Had it not been for their actions, Pettigrew would surely have escaped.”

Harry beamed.

Later Snape would decide that those green eyes had temporarily unhinged him, for he had had no intention of saying the words that next came out of his mouth, but of course once he had, there was no hope of taking them back. “And so you have earned a second treat for yourself. What would you like?”

Harry’s jaw dropped. TWO treats? He was getting TWO? All because he had done what his professor told him to do? This was brilliant. Sure, he’d known that Ron had gotten an extra galleon of pocket money from Uncle Arthur after doing so well on his Transfiguration essay, and Hermione had said that her folks usually rewarded her for good grades with a trip to the bookstore, but he’d never imagined that he might receive similar treatment – especially not when his guardian hadn’t even been entirely convinced that Harry’s identification of Scabbers was correct! It was just that Professor Snape hadn’t been willing to risk the consequences, so he’d argued Moony and Padfoot around and then set up his wicked plan to trap the rat… And then, when it worked out and Harry’s claim had been verified, his professor actually thought Harry deserved more rewards?

Harry was just relieved he’d been right. What if he’d been mistaken, the way Remus and Sirius had thought? All day long, he’d fretted about it. What if he’d just gotten confused over two similar rats? His professor would be furious at all the wasted effort. And if the Headmaster found out – Harry shivered. He’d likely send Harry back to the Dursleys for being such a stupid, troublesome idiot and causing so much uproar.

Even if Professor Dumbledore never learned of the issue, Harry still figured that if Scabbers turned out to be just a rat who bore a striking resemblance to Sirius and Remus’ old classmate, he was going to have a very uncomfortable time of it. His godfather and Remus would probably be too nice to say “We told you so” to Harry, but Harry had a sneaking suspicion that Padfoot, at least, would likely tease Snape about it. And he knew his professor didn’t like to be wrong – let alone have his errors pointed out to him.

Harry had thought his guardian wouldn’t give him an Uncle Vernon-style smacking even for such a well-deserved reason, but he’d been mentally preparing himself for a harsh tongue-lashing about how only dunderheaded little boys jumped to conclusions. He hadn’t really relaxed until the fat man had abruptly appeared on Professor Snape’s desktop.

But while Harry had felt intense relief that he had been correct in his identification, he’d just assumed that it meant he wouldn’t get scolded. He never imagined he’d be rewarded.

“A – a treat?” he echoed incredulously. “An’ I get to choose?”

Snape rolled his eyes, furious with himself. What are you, a Hufflepuff? You already hugged and praised the child! You are going to spoil the brat with such open-ended offers! Merlin only knew what kind of extravagant treat the little brat would now demand! “I said so, did I not?”

He shuddered mentally, imagining what kind of treats Weasley or Malfoy might dream up. Obviously he had to get an answer from Harry before he could consult with the other boys. “Well?”

“C- could we…” Harry trailed off uncertainly, dropping his eyes. Too much! It would be greedy to ask for something like that!

Snape’s temper rose at the boy’s obvious self-censorship. As if he didn’t have better things to do than sit here and wait for the little snot to think up ever more elaborate presents. He already regretted his largesse, and if the brat thought he’d spend the rest of the day trying to coax an answer out of him… “What do you want, Potter?” he demanded harshly. “Speak up!”

Harry jumped in surprise. “Erm… I don’t know,” he stammered, taking the easy way out.

To his surprise, he felt strong fingers under his chin, forcing his eyes up to meet his da’s.

“I will not tolerate falsehoods, young man,” Snape said angrily. “It is quite apparent that you have thought of something. Out with it!”

Harry gulped. He was going to sound so greedy and ungrateful! “Erm, well, I – I just wondered… if it wouldn’t be too much trouble… if you had the time, could we… I mean, it’s okay if we can’t!”

“WHAT?” Snape demanded, his patience at an end.

“Couldwegoforicecreamagain?” Harry blurted, his eyes downcast despite the fingers under his chin. He really didn’t want to see his da’s annoyed expression when he realized how demanding Harry was.

Snape blinked. That was the boy’s request? Another trip to the ice cream parlour? That’s all he wanted? And with him? Didn’t most children of this age want to avoid being seen in public with their parents?

Snape refused to show how touched he was by the boy’s request. “Very well, Potter. You and I will go on an outing to Diagon Alley and enjoy Mr Fortescue’s ice creams again.”

The boy’s shining eyes fastened on his own. “Thank you, Da!” Harry breathed. Merlin, but his da was good to him!

“You may attend tonight’s Farewell Feast, though I understand it will be somewhat muted, given today’s events. Tomorrow, you will take the Hogwarts Express with your friends as they go home for the winter holidays, then I will meet you at the station and take you on the outing before we return to Hogwarts.”

“Thank you!” Harry would have wriggled in delight, except he was still Stuck to the cushions. Now he also got to take the train ride with all his friends!

Snape consoled himself with the thought that he could always pick up some potion ingredients that the stores in Hogsmeade didn’t stock. The brat had demonstrated on their previous trip that he was unusually patient during such errands. “I will expect you to conduct yourself with decorum,” he warned sternly. “Any mischief or hijinks on the train, and I will bring you straight back to spend the rest of the day writing lines.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry acknowledged obediently, but internally he scoffed. As if Jones and the other prefects would allow any mischief on the Express! Besides, Christmas was coming up and their parents awaited them at the station. What student would be foolish enough to risk a report of bad behavior under those circumstances?

“Very well.” Snape gave the suspiciously compliant boy a sharp look, but he couldn’t find a reason to issue more dark threats. He paused. “Are you able to sit properly now?”

“Yes, sir.” Harry held still while his da waved his wand, then wiggled a bit – just enough to confirm that his bum was unStuck. “Erm, Da…”

“Yes?” Snape eyed him forbiddingly. What now? A complaint about being subjected to a Sticking hex?

Harry looked suddenly serious. “Did you know what was going to happen today in class? To Pettigrew, I mean? Did you know he’d end up – like that?”

“You mean dead?”

Harry nodded soberly.

Snape considered. How much to reveal? He wanted the boy to learn to think like a Slytherin – since it was widely acknowledged that Gryffindors didn’t think; they just screamed and leapt – but at the same time, Harry was only eleven. Wasn’t that too early to explain how one went about plotting someone’s death? “What do you think?”

“Well,” Harry said carefully, “I was thinkin’ about what you said before.”

“About…?”

“About how if someone’s comin’ to kill you, you need to wake up early an’ kill them first. And, well, Pettigrew was sort of coming to kill me, right? I mean, when Voldesnort comes back – “ Snape was pained to realize Harry accepted the Dark Lord’s return as a given. He was correct of course, but it still gave the Potion Master a pang to hear the boy speak of it with such resignation “ – then he would’ve done his best to help him kill me, right? ‘Cause they’re still mad that I didn’t die when I was a baby, yeah?”

“I have no doubt but that the Dark Lord continues to seek your death,” Snape said as gently as he could. “And that he will enlist the aid of his followers to achieve that goal.”

Harry nodded. “So you got up early an’ killed Pettigrew before he could kill me,” he said simply.

Snape nodded in confirmation, watching the boy closely.

“This way there’ll be one less person there to help Voldesnort hurt me.” He sighed, looking downcast. “I wish they’d just leave us alone. It’s not like I want to have to fight stupid old Volauvent. I’m just a kid!”

There was a sharp pain in Snape’s chest as he once again grasped Harry’s chin, forcing the boy’s gaze to meet his own. “I will not let anyone harm you!” he said fiercely. “I will take whatever steps are necessary to ensure your safety.”

Harry looked at him, startled. “Oh, I know that, Da. I just hope that next time poor Neville isn’t caught in the middle like that. He was really upset afterwards.”

Snape blinked. He hadn’t actually thought about what the Longbottom boy’s reaction might be to having been labeled the unwitting agent of Pettigrew’s demise. Considering how high-strung he was already, the child might actually require some sort of mind healing. “He was upset?” he echoed, wondering a bit guiltily if he needed to speak with the boy’s grandmother and suggest a visit to St Mungo’s.

“Yeah, he said that if he’d put his potion on Trevor an’ it melted him, he’d’ve felt just awful.”

“Longbottom was concerned about his toad?” Snape repeated stupidly. “Not about Pettigrew?”

Harry looked at him oddly. “Why would he worry about Pettigrew? Don’t you know what happened to Neville’s parents? He hates Death Eaters.”

“Longbottom told you about his parents?” Snape knew he sounded like an idiot, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself from restating what Harry had already told him. At the start of the year, Dumbledore had told all the faculty that the Longbottom boy apparently refused to talk about his parents with anyone. His grandmother said he was practically phobic about the subject and broke into tears when it was even indirectly broached. That was why, for all of his many snarky comments to the moron, Snape had been exceedingly careful never to so much as allude to his parents, tempting though it had been to inquire whether Longbottom’s idiocy was genetic.

“Well, yeah. I mean, everyone saw me doin’ my 500 lines about my relatives so they knew they weren’t really nice or anything, and that now I was living with you. An’ Neville told me that he lived with his gran and his great-uncle an’ sometimes he wished he could live somewhere else too. Not that they’re awful like Uncle Vernon, but just that sometimes they don’t really understand what a kid needs, yeah?” Harry added, correctly interpreting the look of concern on his guardian’s face. “So I asked what had happened to his parents, an’ he told me. He really hates Death Eaters, Da. I mean, that’s why he’s got to live with his gran an’ why he doesn’t remember his parents any more than I r’member mine. So when we were talking after class an’ everyone was sayin’ how Pettigrew had been a Death Eater an’ Sirius was innocent and all, Neville said he was really glad that Pettigrew had melted. He was just worried what the potion might’ve done to Trevor if he’d put it on him first.”

Snape blinked again. Oh. Well. That was… good news. “I see. Hm. Well, it is getting close to dinner time. You should be on your way. I want you to drop something off at the Hufflepuff Tower for me on your way to the Great Hall.”

“Okay,” Harry chirped agreeably. He liked doing things for his da.

“Here.” Snape handed the boy a sealed scroll. “Give this to Miss Bones.”

“Susan? Okay.” Harry suddenly gave his guardian a sharp look. “It’s not something bad, right? ‘Cause those ‘Puffs cry really easily.”

Snape smirked. The boy was sounding more and more like him every day. “No. It is something on the order of a Christmas amnesty. I assure you Miss Bones will be very grateful to receive it.”

Earlier that day, the girl had tearfully admitted she had only been able to copy one and a half chapters of her Potions text in the allotted time. Given the length of each chapter, that had been more than Snape had expected. While he had sneered that she would obviously be busy over the holiday, he knew perfectly well that he would have to release her from the punishment – if only to avoid having her aunt emerge from the fireplace like a deranged Father Christmas and hex his arms off.

The scroll that Harry would deliver contained a brief note informing Susan that she had earned an Outstanding on her final exam of the term. That being the case, it was apparent that she had in fact made an acceptable effort to study the material and he was therefore, this one time, going to waive the rest of her punishment assignment. He had also added a postscript to review pages 445-447 on the differences between pickled newts’ eyes and pickled frogs’ eyes.

He had been honest with Harry that Susan would welcome the message, but he had been somewhat disingenuous about the likelihood of tears. Having been introduced to the concept of “happy tears” by Harry, Snape was gloomily certain that Hufflepuffs were likely to engage in such outbursts as well, and he had no intention of being anywhere in the vicinity in case if Susan Bones greeted her reprieve with an outburst of snot and other body fluids.

“Bye, Da. See you after the Feast!” Harry called, making his exit.

Snape watched after him, wondering if the boy was ever going to inquire as to their Christmas plans. He suspected Harry was avoiding the topic lest he be disappointed, as he undoubtedly had been in previous years.

However, Snape was – thanks to the Weasleys’ input – reasonably certain the brat would be pleased. Harry would be staying with him at Hogwarts through Christmas Day – the Weasleys had offered to take him for the entire holiday, but Snape hadn’t been about to allow that. Several weeks with those redheaded menaces would corrupt the boy beyond all hope, requiring Snape to engage in stern remedial measures to restore appropriate behavior patterns. And of course the mutt expected to see the brat as well. Taken together, it meant that Harry would split his time among Hogwarts, the Burrow, and Switzerland.

It had nothing to do with Snape being determined to have the brat to himself on Christmas morning. Alone – ha! As if Albus and the other teachers weren’t likely plotting to crash on his door shortly after dawn just so they too could see Harry’s expression when he saw all his presents under the tree.

Not that he intended to give the boy all of the presents the other faculty members had provided. The ones from Albus alone were numerous enough to allow Harry to set up his own toy store. The brat’s room was already full of unnecessary trinkets. He would allow Harry only a few additional toys – the ones that had clear educational value.

His gifts for the brat, for example, were purely scholastic in nature. It would be scandalous if a Potion Master’s ward did not excel at Potions, and the deluxe brewing kit that he had purchased would ensure that Harry’s technique was flawless. And the Quidditch supplies were merely to safeguard the whelp while he was zipping around the pitch so that Snape didn’t have to waste his time brewing healing potions and Skele-Grow. And the photo album that he had unearthed in the Durselys’ attic after paying a quiet visit to Petunia late one night was only to prevent the boy from whinging about not being able to compete with Draco when the little pureblood boasted about his family. It wasn’t as if he had enjoyed using Legilimens on that horse-faced Muggle… Well, actually, he had. Knowing that she would suffer from blinding headaches for at least the next week had been quite an enticement, once the idea of getting Harry pictures of his grandparents had occurred to him.

But it was plain that all of his gifts to the brat were motivated by necessity, not sentiment. Even the chocolate frogs and Fortescue gift certificates merely gave him treats to withhold from the boy, thereby reinforcing his stern reputation. It wasn’t as if he was going to drop everything and deliver the brat to Diagon Alley whenever he wanted one of those ridiculous sundaes, and the sooner Harry realized that, the better.

No, his presents were clearly designed to teach the boy obedience and respect and to assist with his schoolwork. It was Albus and the mutt and the werewolf, not to mention the other little dunderheads, who would naturally bestow all manner of useless and contraband goodies on him. Snape reminded himself to check all of Harry’s presents before they went under the tree. Given Albus’ (now-thwarted) wish to give the boy an Invisibility Cloak, he had no faith in the others’ ability to discriminate between appropriate and inappropriate gifts, and he’d rather intercept the unacceptable presents before Harry saw them, rather than having to wrest them from the little monster’s greedy grasp after the fact.

Snape sighed. It was bad enough that he had agreed to bring Harry to the Burrow on Boxing Day and to join the family for a festive lunch. Apparently Mr and Mrs Weasley had originally thought to leave their younger boys at the school, then visit Charlie in Romania or seek out some other member of their enormous family, but after the events of the last several months with Ron nearly being Crucio’d by that Ravenclaw, then facing down Voldemort in the Infirmary, they had decided it was better to bring the entire family home for the holidays. Snape snorted. He rather suspected that today’s events – learning that they had unwittingly harbored a dangerous fugitive for a decade – would only make Molly more determined to gather all her chicks beneath her wings.

Besides, it would be helpful for the older two to help their parents reinforce the Burrow’s wards. The present wards had been cast when Pettigrew was already resident in the home, a welcome member of the household. They now needed to be recast, presumably after the Aurors had confirmed that there were no other Death Eaters hiding in their henhouse or masquerading as garden gnomes. Snape suspected that Albus would also be visiting the Burrow to augment the wards – a helpful precaution and one that he was confident would occur before Harry’s visit.

He had reluctantly agreed to leave Harry there until New Year’s Eve. Molly had pooh-poohed all of his concerns about homesickness, misbehavior, and troublemaking potential, finally asking point-blank, “Severus – are you worried more about Harry missing you or you missing Harry?”

Snape had of course dismissed such an absurd comment with the scorn it deserved, but he also decided that perhaps his concerns were a trifle excessive. He had even agreed that the visit with the Weasleys was a good time for Harry to make use of his final gift from Snape. It was a trip for five to “Featherbee’s Flights of Fancy and Broomstick Arena” – an “adventure playground” that Hooch had promised Harry would adore. It had all sorts of flying courses, magical dueling games, and everything else that would overstimulate impressionable pre-teens. Harry would doubtless invite Weasley, Malfoy, Granger, and Longbottom to accompany him, oblivious to the fact that the latter two were hardly the flying fanatics the others were. Despite this, Snape suspected Granger and Longbottom would accept rather than be left out of the (alleged) fun and excitement.

He’d been a little apprehensive when Molly told him that she and Arthur would, with some of the money Dumbledore now regularly deposited into their account, buy tickets for the rest of their brood, so that the entire family could enjoy the outing along with Harry and his friends. Snape had rather dubiously inquired as to how Molly intended to keep order without his own threatening presence, but she had blithely assured him that Bill and Charlie would be there, pointing out that a dragon tamer and curse breaker should be able to handle a few children. He remained unconvinced until she added that Percy would surely invite that lovely new girlfriend of his along as well. Hearing that Davidella Jones would be in attendance, Snape no longer worried that Malfoy, Weasley, and the twins would lead Harry astray with their mischievous tendencies.

Charlie and Bill would have no qualms about walloping Ron or the twins if necessary – or even young Miss Weasley, should she take after her older siblings as Snape rather feared she did. Similarly, Jones would not hesitate to use her Prefect status to rein in Draco, if the pureblood forgot himself to the point of misbehaving in public. That only left Granger and Longbottom, and even Snape’s pessimistic imagination couldn’t imagine either of them causing any trouble. He had Molly’s promise that if Harry acted up, she would contact him immediately, but he tended to lump Potter in with Granger and Longbottom. He might be a “trouble magnet”, but unlike the twins, Potter didn’t actually set out to create mayhem. Snape was reasonably certain that Harry would be too awestruck by both the gift and his surroundings to get into trouble, and so he grudgingly agreed to Molly’s plan.

On New Year’s Eve, he would return to the Burrow and collect the brat, then they would immediately portkey to Switzerland, where they would then spend the next several days celebrating the new year with Black and Lupin. Snape could only shudder at the thought of what outrageous revelries those two had planned, and he had flatly refused allow them to have Harry unsupervised. Of course, much to his irritation that meant that he would be stuck there with them as well. Still, it was better than entrusting Harry to the care of his godfather and then having to deal with the fallout, which could be anything from Black “misplacing” Harry while he chatted up some witch to Harry returning to Hogwarts in a daze induced by fire whiskey and Cornish pixie dust.

Snape growled to himself. The things he did for that brat!

He grumpily drew his robe about himself and prepared to make an appearance at the Farewell Feast. Before he could reach the door, however, there was a soft, tentative knock on it.

“What is it?” he barked, somewhat nonplused to find Percy on his doorstep. What was more, the Gryffindor prefect seemed distraught about something. His eyes were red-rimmed, and his hands shook.

“M-may I speak with you, Professor?” he asked timidly.

“Oh, all right.” Snape ungraciously showed the boy to the couch, wondering what he could be doing here. Surely he hadn’t just broken up with Jones and had come to beg Snape for either his intercession or advice.

“What is it, Mr Weasley?” he snapped as soon as the boy had seated himself.

Percy took a deep breath. “I’m here so you can – can – “ He ground to a halt, his eyes filling with tears.

Oh Merlin, not another one. Snape groaned mentally. “If it is advice that you seek, perhaps you would be more comfortable speaking with your head of House or your father?” he suggested hopefully, trying to forestall an unwanted confidence.

“No,” Percy looked surprised. “I’m here so you can thrash me.”

Snape’s brows drew together. It was one thing to have a reputation as a terrifying instructor. It was quite another to be considered a child abuser. “And why, pray tell, do you imagine I would do such a thing?” he demanded, trying not to show how deeply offended he was.

“Because I nearly got Harry killed. And if you spanked him until he couldn’t sit for riding his broom in the Great Hall, I guess you’ll probably c-cane me for what I did.” Percy looked positively green at the prospect, even as Snape cursed Harry’s overdramatic breakfast scene.

“And how exactly did you place Mr Potter in jeopardy?” Snape pressed, though he had a good idea where this was going. Bloody Gryffindors with their bloody over-developed sense of responsibility!

“I was the one who found Scabbers,” Percy whispered, staring at his tightly clasped hands. “I begged Mum and Dad until they said I could keep him. It was all my fault that he was at the Burrow. And I made a big fuss when I got my Prefect badge, saying I needed a new familiar. That’s why Ronnie got Scabbers. It was all because I thought I was too important to have an old rat anymore. I made my parents hand him down to Ronnie, and that could have gotten my little brother killed. Pettigrew was living in the dorm with them. He could have killed Ronnie or Harry anytime in the last few months.”

Snape felt a headache coming on. “Mr Weasley, you were a mere child when you first encountered Pettigrew. You can hardly blame yourself for not recognizing a disguised animagus.” But looking at the boy’s face, he knew that was untrue. The boy obviously could and did blame himself.

“While you are correct that I am normally highly intolerant of anyone who places Mr Potter in harm’s way, even I cannot find you culpable in this case, Mr Weasley.”

“But who else is there?” Percy burst out, his eyes bright with tears. “There’s no one to blame but me!”

“What about your parents?” Snape cut in. Percy’s jaw dropped.

“My parents?” he echoed blankly.

“Yes, Mr Weasley. Why do you find it peculiar that I would look to the adults in the household, rather than fixing the blame on a young child? Do you imagine your parents are in some way intellectually impaired? That they were unfamiliar with the concept of animagi? That there is nothing negligent in allowing a child to adopt a wild creature without so much as having the animal examined to ensure it is not carrying some disease, let alone be a fugitive Death Eater in disguise?”

Percy goggled at him. “But – but –“

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake.” Snape rose to his feet and stalked over to the fireplace. Snatching a handful of floo powder, he shouted, “The Burrow!” and stuck his head into the flames. “Molly, Arthur. I need you here. Now.”

“No, no – I don’t want to see them!” Percy gabbled, panicked. “They must be furious with me.” He turned to flee, and Snape grabbed him by the back of the robe.

“Oh, no. You stay right there and don’t move,” he ordered the boy, but the Gryffindor ignored him, struggling to reach the door.

That was it. Playing therapist to Gryffindors was not in Snape’s job description, and a hefty smack to the teen’s backside signaled the end of Snape’s patience.

“Ow!” Percy yelped in shock. He spun to face Snape, both hands clutching his bum. Merlin, that HURT. It’s been so long, I’d forgotten what it’s like to get walloped. He noticed the professor’s glare and abruptly realized that his outright defiance had been a very bad idea.

“Sit. Down.” Snape pointed to the sofa.

Percy swallowed hard. “Yes, Uncle Sev. Erm – m-may I please stand? I’d rather not sit just now.”

Snape’s reaction to Percy’s use of the term “Uncle Sev” was happily aborted by Molly and Arthur emerging from the floo. “What is it, Severus? What’s happened now?” Both were understandably wild-eyed, trying to imagine what new catastrophe might have occurred in the few hours since they were informed of the last one.

“Your son,” Snape indicated Percy, who now stood redfaced in front of his couch, “is convinced that Pettigrew’s ability to masquerade as a family pet is entirely his fault. He has convinced himself that you hold him responsible for the danger in which your family has been living.”

Molly gasped. “Percy! No!”

“Is this really true, son?” Arthur asked gently. “Surely you know better.”

Percy stared at the ground. “It was all my fault. I was the one who had a tantrum when you tried to say that a strange rat might not make a good familiar. I was so worried about being the only kid at Hogwarts who wouldn’t have a familiar, I didn’t give you a choice. I made you let me keep him.”

“Oh, Percy!” Molly enfolded the distraught teen into her capacious embrace as if he were a much younger child. “You mustn’t blame yourself! You didn’t make us do anything. We decided to allow you to keep it.”

“But I yelled and screamed and –“

“Well, yes, love, that’s what children do. Don’t you remember when you wanted us to sell Ronnie to the circus so you wouldn’t have to share a room with him anymore? You yelled and screamed and had a big tanty then too, but you didn’t get your way.” Molly patted his cheek gently. “Or the time that –“

“Yes, okay!” Percy said quickly, cutting off further embarrassing recollections. “I remember.”

Arthur grinned. “It’s true you pitched a fit to try to keep the rat, son, but that isn’t what convinced us. We just thought it would be a good idea for you to have a pet. You deserved a treat for helping with the younger children, and it seemed like a harmless reward. If we hadn’t wanted to let you keep Scabbers, no amount of howling would have changed our minds. Surely you haven’t forgotten how most tantrums ended?” he asked, smiling.

Percy rubbed his backside reminiscently. “Yes,” he admitted.

“So you see, love, it wasn’t up to you. It wasn’t your decision or your fault,” Molly pressed.

“Exactly,” Snape drawled. “The fault lies squarely with Pettigrew. Although if you insist upon assigning blame, logic dictates you start with your parents. After all, well before either Ronald or Harry was at risk, you were.”

Now all three were staring at him with varying degrees of surprise. “Me! But why would Pettigrew kill me?” Percy asked.

Snape rolled his eyes. To the Chronicle of Higher Wizarding Education, When faced with naivete that is obviously genetic in origin, and compounded by sorting into a House that apparently equates appearance with reality, is it ever acceptable to throw up one’s hands and declare the student hopeless? Does professionalism require that one continue one’s efforts to encourage the willfully blind to see, or is it permissible to cease efforts before developing an ulcer?

“You are the child of blood traitors who fought against the Dark Lord,” Snape said, speaking slowly and distinctly. “Your maternal uncles were martyred in the war. Neither the Prewitt nor the Weasley family is beloved among Death Eaters. Had Pettigrew murdered you in your bed and then appealed to a known Death Eater, your death would likely have purchased the sanctuary he sought.”

“Aaaaaack, Mum!” Percy squeaked in protest as Molly’s arms reflexively tightened around him.

“Percy,” Arthur spoke urgently to his son (once he had prevented further maternal smothering), “you must see that this is not your fault. You did what any child would do – you adopted a friendly animal as a pet. The Death Eater tricked you, just as he tricked all of us, but you were the most innocent of all.”

Percy sniffled. “Yes, but I was – well – cross with you for bringing Harry into our home. I thought we have enough kids and Harry was just going to put us in danger if You Know Who ever came back.” Snape scowled. “But all that time, I was the one who brought the most danger to Burrow. I blamed Harry, but I was more at fault than he was!”

Arthur sighed. “Son, it’s not fair to blame Harry for being a target any more than it’s fair to hold you accountable for not recognizing Pettigrew for what he was. Both of you are children, caught up in events that are entirely beyond your control. There are things in this world that we can’t control, Percy. Things that don’t follow the rules.”

Percy dragged out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes. “But that’s not fair,” he whined, sounding even younger than Ginny.

Snape ground his teeth together and thanked Merlin that Harry appeared to grasp the essential unfairness of life much better than the average Gryffindor.

“No, it’s not fair,” Arthur agreed. “But it is the way the world is. And that’s why there are times when people of good conscience have to take a stand, even if it does put them at greater risk.” His voice became more firm. “That is why your mother and I chose to welcome Harry into our family. You are not old enough to fully understand our reasoning, but I expect you to trust us to do what is right for the entire family. I don’t want to hear any more of this talk about Harry not belonging with us. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Percy said, a bit shamefaced. “I’m sorry.”

Arthur relented and ruffled his son’s hair. “I know you are. Now – have we made it clear that you’re not to feel at all responsible for Pettigrew?”

Percy managed to extricate himself from Molly’s embrace and stood, squaring his shoulders. “Yes, Dad. Thanks. Thanks, Mum.”

“You’re very welcome,” Molly replied, brushing his hair back from his face and visibly restraining herself from hugging him again. “Do you want to floo back to the Burrow with us now, dear? It sounds like you’ve had a very stressful day. No one will mind if you leave Hogwarts a bit early.” She looked to Snape for confirmation and he shrugged. He certainly wouldn’t care.

Percy blushed. “Erm, well, I – ah – sort of promised to sit with Davidella at the Feast,” he explained awkwardly.

Molly and Arthur exchanged an amused look. “Well, then, you surely don’t want to keep her waiting,” Arthur said, patting his son on the shoulder. “We’ll see you at the station tomorrow.”

The two adult Weasleys turned to the floo. “Thank you, Severus,” Arthur smiled.

“You’re welcome,” Snape said, managing – barely – to keep his tone courteous. Unfortunately, his polite reply to Arthur allowed Molly to grab him, and he was caught in a crushing hug and noisy kiss before he could dodge behind a suitably bulky piece of furniture.

“You are such a good man, Severus Snape!” Molly announced, before following her husband into the floo.

Snape snarled as he fought his robes back into position, then turned a deadly glare on the young Gryffindor who was the cause of all this aggravation.

“Erm, ah, uh…” Percy trailed off in complete confusion.

“Have you disturbed my evening sufficiently, Mr Weasley, or is there another absurd confession you wish to make? Perhaps you are the one responsible for the Great Gringotts’ Robbery of 1673?”

Astonishingly, despite his most snide tone, the redheaded fiend had the temerity to smile. “No, sir. Thank you, sir. I’ll try not to be so foolish in the future.”

“Do not make promises you are unable to keep,” Snape spat, striding to the door and throwing it open with a gesture even a Gryffindor could not mistake.

“Erm, right. Um, well, thanks for everything. Well, everything except the whack,” Percy added cheekily, sounding almost like one of the twins.

Snape gripped the door harder, fighting down the urge to give the newly annoying brat a real smack. “Out.”

Even Percy couldn’t miss the glint in Snape’s eye. “Right.” He hurried out the door, pausing only long enough to call back, “Good night, Uncle Sev!”

“Don’t call me that!” Snape shouted after him, knowing even as he did so that it was futile. The Weasleys were like an infestation of garden gnomes, nearly impossible to dislodge once they had established a foothold.

To Snape’s surprise, the winter holidays went remarkably smoothly. Oh, the faculty went through their usual bout of Christmas insanity, only worsened by the fact that it was – for all intents and purposes – Harry’s first Christmas. But despite Snape’s fears that Harry would use the holiday as an excuse for all sorts of excesses, the boy was actually rather more subdued than usual. He stuck close to Severus and appeared content merely to spend time in his guardian’s company, preparing potion ingredients or doing his holiday homework while Snape corrected student papers. Snape found himself rather enjoying the brat’s quiet companionship, and his anticipated longing for his previous solitude never materialized.

Christmas Day itself was somewhat problematic. Snape's dire predictions were, of course, realized: the rest of the Hogwarts faculty showed up on his doorstep at daybreak in order to witness Harry's first real Christmas. As annoying as their blithe disregard for his privacy was, the presence of the other teachers became positively disastrous when Harry flatly refused to believe that all those presents under the tree were for him. Amidst loud whispers of "Awwwww" and "How sweet", not to mention Hagrid's noisy sobbing, Snape found himself in the unexpected position of having to publicly reassure Harry that he did deserve to enjoy the holiday and to urge the child to accept the gifts. There was more than one bout of “happy tears” as the boy reacted to the largesse shown to him, and despite his most menacing growls, the little monster flew to him for reassurance each time - smearing his dressing gown with alarming quantities of snot and causing the other faculty to suffer minor apoplexies as they struggled to restrain their glee.

Snape was fairly certain that Flitwick had ruptured something in his effort to suppress his hysterics, and it was the only bright spot of his morning. Harry destroyed any reputation for harshness Snape might have regained after giving the brat that oh-so-public smacking in the Great Hall by planting himself on Snape's lap to unwrap and exclaim over every single present. By the time the pile of gifts under the tree had been exhausted, Sprout and Hagrid had practically sobbed themselves sick in a rhapsody of joy over "poor little Harry's happy new life", and Hooch's smirk would have done credit to a Slytherin. Snape was close to his breaking point, and when Dumbledore suggested that they all share some eggnog and sing Christmas carols to welcome in the day, it was only Minerva's quick intervention that saved the Headmaster from receiving an Unforgiveable right between the eyes.

"Now, Albus, Severus and Harry are still in their pyjamas, and we do have other students here at the school who need looking after." She paused, turning an affectionate eye on Harry, who was still perched on Snape's lap, happily examining the flute Hagrid had carved him. "We can have your Christmas sing-a-long later this morning in the Great Hall."

"Well, if you insist," Dumbledore sighed, but the blissful expression on Harry's face soothed his disappointment. "Very well, we'll just leave you in peace for now, my boys. See you in the Hall for breakfast!"

Harry's close proximity prevented Snape's candid reply, and Minerva - after another glance at the vein throbbing in Snape's temple - efficiently shooed the rest out.

Snape breathed a sigh of relief as the door clicked behind them, and instantly raised and strengthened his wards in what he knew was a futile attempt to prevent Dumbledore from ever returning. A shrill toot in his ear made him jump and he directed a fearsome glare at Harry, who immediately lowered the flute and bit his lip.

"Sorry," Harry said quickly, trying to hide the flute behind him. Would his da now confiscate and smash his gift as Uncle Vernon would surely have done?

An evil grin stole over Snape's face as a truly sadistic idea entered his mind. "You obviously need instruction in playing that flute," he told the brat sternly.

"Y'sir," Harry agreed unhappily. Here it came - the "since you can't play it, you have no use for it, so hand it over....CRUNCH!"

"I am certain Hagrid would be happy to provide that instruction," Snape continued, cackling inwardly. "I think you should restrict your playing to his hut while you are learning. If you present yourself at his hut several times a week, you will doubtless be able to play in no time." That ought to punish that numbwitted giant for giving the child such a noisy toy!

Harry brightened immediately. He was so stupid! Imagining that his da would destroy his gift when all he did was suggest a way Harry could get lessons. He hugged his da for the thousandth time this morning. "Thank you, Da!"

Now that there were no spectators, Snape was willing to give the brat a quick squeeze in return. "Yes, yes, all right," he said gruffly. "Foolish child, you have said that a hundred times already."

"But this is the best day in my whole life!" Harry argued, looking up at him. "An' it's all 'cause of you."

Snape fought back the lump in his throat. "Idiot. Do you not realize that you are the responsible party? Had you not behaved properly for the last several weeks, I assure you you would have found nothing but a few lumps of coal under the tree this morning, or perhaps a switch to be used on naughty children's backsides."

Even Harry wasn't fooled by the dire threat, and he just snickered as he burrowed his head deeper into his da's chest.

Snape blamed that pointy little forehead for the sharp pain in his chest that threatened to take away his breath. He found that bending forward helped - the fact that this made it seem that he was hugging the little brat was unfortunate, but couldn't be helped. Obviously he needed to do what he could to improve the sensation. He found his face buried in that unruly mop of hair, its strands tickling his nose. He had no choice but to do his best to force his face back and pressing his lips against the brat's scalp did seem to help.

Harry sighed in bliss as his da gave him a big hug and even a quick kiss on the head. He had never thought he'd receive such treatment, yet here he was - a big boy of eleven! - getting cuddled and fussed over. He squirmed closer. His da was even careful only to get mushy after the others had left. Harry wouldn't have wanted Professor McGonagall to see him getting snuggled like a four year old... though he wouldn't have given this experience up for all the chocolate frogs in Honeyduke's.

At long last, the feeling in Snape's chest eased enough for him to be able to release the boy. He clucked impatiently at the boy's wet cheeks and glowing eyes, and accio'd a handkerchief to mop up the brat. Honestly! These happy tears were extremely annoying... though he did feel a few tickles at the back of his own sinuses. Perhaps he was getting a cold. Yes. That must be it. The children were constantly brimming over with germs - it was a cold, nothing more.

"Oh!" Harry's eyes widened and he abruptly wiggled free of his guardian's grip. "I almost forgot!" He dashed into his bedroom, leaving Snape frowning after him. Such an impossible child! Always rushing hither and yon.

Harry hurried back into the room and stood before Snape, fidgeting nervously.

"Yes?" The Potion Master raised an inquiring eyebrow. The brat looked as if he were about to confess to some misdeed, biting his lip anxiously and with his hands out of sight behind him - protecting his backside from an imminent swat?

"I - I -"

"YES?" Snape's patience was rapidly running out.

"Erm, I - uh - thisisforyou," Harry blurted, abruptly thrusting a scroll, cheerfully bound with a brightly colored ribbon, at him.

As unusual as this morning had been, the notion that the brat had gotten him a present was still enough to rock Snape backwards, and he was very glad he was already seated. "This is for me? From you?" he asked blankly.

Harry nodded, blushing furiously and staring at the ground. "You'll prob'ly just think it's stupid an' all."

"Hmmmm." Snape eyed the scroll. Had Harry been more like his father or godfather, he would have suspected some stupid prank like the old "exploding scroll" gag, but he knew the boy well enough to know that such a thing would never have occurred to Harry. He forced back his surprise and pulled at the ribbon, little knowing that he was about to endure the greatest shock of the day.

He unrolled the scrolls and raised his eyebrows in mild surprise. The brat’s gift to him was a surprisingly good if amateurish drawing of him, complemented by an essay titled “My Da”. He glanced over to where Harry was still fiercely examining the floor then began to read.

My Da, Harry wrote, isn’t like other kids’ fathers. My Da chose me after I asked him to. My Da is a Potion Master, which means he’s really, really smart. He’s also Head of Slytherin House, which means he’s really, really sneaky too – but in a good way. He takes care of all the kids in his House as well as taking care of me. He was a spy in the war against Voldemold, and he was so smart they never figured out that he was spying on them. He was the one who knew my parents had to go into hiding, and he tried his best to protect them, even if he didn’t like my dad very much, but he was really good friends with my mum. But that’s my Da – he does the Right Thing, even if he doesn’t want to. He saved my godfather for me too, but that’s a big secret so I won’t write how. But he did it just for me, and not because he likes my godfather, because he doesn’t really. But he still did it. And he makes potions for everyone who needs them, like Remus and Madame Pomfrey. He makes extra potions for me too, to help me grow taller and stuff. Sometimes I wish he weren’t a Potion Master because the potions taste awful!

My Da takes really good care of me. He has his whole House looking out for me, and if anyone tries to hurt me, he gets rid of them. He’s really strong and powerful. Those Ravenclaw boys were too scared to stay at school when he was mad at them! He lets me stand up for myself too. I don’t have to just sit there and let people like Dudley hit me anymore. My Da told me that if I ever see Dudley again and he tries to punch me, I can hex him all I want! He says I could even hex Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia – but I don’t know if I could really do that. I would probably just let my Da do them.

A lot of people are scared of my Da. I think that’s because he’s really tall and dresses in black and he glares in a really scary way. But he doesn’t yell or throw stuff. Even when he’s mad, he still talks really low and uses big words, so you can tell that he’s not out of control or anything. He knows how to use words really well and he knows a lot of really big words so you have to think about what he says before you actually understand it. And sometimes you don’t even realize that he just called you dumb or something, which is pretty funny if you think about it.

My Da has to be mean in class so we don’t do stupid stuff and melt our cauldrons, because that would be really dangerous. It’s not like in Charms or Herbology where nothing really bad can happen even if you mess about. Potions are really cool and blow up if you do even the tiniest thing wrong. My Da lets me help prepare his potion ingredients. That is really cool. All the kids are jealous of me and keep pestering me to let them come and help too. It is fun to see all the slimy, smelly stuff and get to squish them and chop things up. My Da doesn’t let us fool around though. Even though it is really fun to squirt bubotuber pus at each other, he told Ron and Draco and me that if we did it again, we wouldn’t be able to sit down in class the next day. He says stuff like that and people get really scared because they think he means it, but he really doesn’t. He just doesn’t want us to act like dunderheads.

He is always thinking about me and he likes me. He thinks I’m really smart, and he expects me to act like it. That’s why he sometimes gets mad when I do something stupid. No one before ever told me I was smart. But my Da says I am. He says I’m TOO smart sometimes, but you can tell he actually thinks that’s a good thing. He helps me with my homework and he won’t let me skive off the way a lot of kids do. He can always tell if I’m not doing my best, and then I get in trouble. He can say stuff to me that makes me feel like I’m about two inches tall, but even then he also says nice stuff like how I’m too smart to act so dumb. So even when he’s angry with me, he still tells me I’m smart and all. He never calls me bad names, or says that I’m useless or that he wishes I was dead the way my aunt and uncle used to. And he won’t let me call myself names like freak. If I forget, he goes all mental and he’ll even whack me for it. He really hates my relatives for what they used to do to me. I hate them too.

My Da is always nice to me and to my friends too. He lets us study in his House or in my room and he’s always really patient about letting me ask him questions, even though a lot of my questions are dumb because I’m not used to the Wizarding World yet. He doesn’t make fun of me though, no matter what I ask. Sometimes the other kids laugh at me for stuff I don’t know, but my Da never does. He just sits down and explains. He’s never ever said he wishes he hadn’t agreed to be my da.

I like the other teachers here too – now that Quirrel is gone – but none of them are as nice as my Da. He gave me a really great room and filled it with all sorts of great toys and books and stuff. I almost wish I could bring Dudley here, just once, to show him how great my room is. He would be really jealous! My Da also got me the best broom ever and let me play on the Quidditch team even after I was bad. He bought me new clothes and incendio’d all of Dudley’s old ones so I don’t look funny and the other kids don’t laugh at me like they did at my old school. He buys me so many presents, almost as many as Dudley got, but Dudley got prezzies because he yelled and screamed if he didn’t. My Da gets me presents to show me that I did something right and because he loves me.

My Da doesn’t even get mad when I ask him to say that. A lot of guys won’t you know, but my Da says it right out. My Da doesn’t like it when I talk about how good he is. He would rather be nonymous and not let people know how great he is. I think it’s because he gets embarrassed easily.

My Da is really gentle too. Even when he is smacking me, he never hits really hard, and he doesn’t yank me around or grab me by the hair or anything like that. I almost never get swatted though. My dad mostly just scolds me or takes away my broom or puts me on restriction or has me write an essay or lines. I think the scolding is the worst. He always knows what to say to make me realize that what I did was wrong and then I feel really stupid and I start to cry like I was three or something. It’s funny because I never was allowed to cry when I lived with the Dursleys, so I just stopped. But my Da doesn’t mind if I cry and so I started again. But even though I sometimes get snot and stuff all over him, he doesn’t get mad. He never tells me I’m being a baby or makes fun of me or hits me until I stop crying. He just gives me a hug or pats my shoulder or something until I stop on my own. He never just leaves me alone when I’m crying, even if I’ve done something really bad.

He isn’t all girlie though – he pulls me up and gives me little pushes and he swats me sometimes, but the way guys do to be friendly and all, not to hurt. He’s really careful about that. Even when he’s mad and gives me a smack for real, I know it’s coming. He never sneaks up on me or pretends he’s not angry if he is. My Da always tells me the truth, even if sometimes it’s scary. My Da trusts me. He tells me stuff that most other adults wouldn’t tell kids. He knows I can keep a secret and that I won’t tell anyone ever, even if they pull out my fingernails or something. He treats me like a grown up – well, sort of. I mean, he doesn’t tell me EVERYTHING – and he gets mad when Padfoot does – but he doesn’t act like I’m four years old either and don’t know the difference between really important things and stuff that doesn’t matter. He trusts me to do what he tells me. And I trust him. I know he’s smart and he’s going to take care of me and keep me safe. I know that he’s not going to hit me or be mean to me. I trust my Da. He makes me feel safe.

Sometimes when I want to do one thing and he says no, I get mad. But he’s usually right. And usually I remember that and I do what he tells me. But even if I forget, he doesn’t hate me. He just explains what I did wrong (and then he punishes me) and then it’s all over. It’s sometimes hard for me to remember to listen to him, but I’m getting better. And if I ask him why he is saying no, most of the time he’ll tell me, and then I see his point. Sometimes I still think he’s wrong, but by then he’s usually distracted me with something else, and I forget what I wanted to do. Like I said, my Da is pretty sneaky! Even for a Slytherin!

When I grow up, I want to be like my Da. I want to be brave and strong like him. I want to help people like he does. I want to be smart and know practically everything like he does, and I want other people to respect me like they do him. And when I have kids, I’m going to treat them like he treats me, like they matter and are important and all. Uncle Arthur once told me that I didn’t really understand what dads are like. I thought dads either just smacked you for being bad, like Uncle Vernon used to do to me, or they got you lots of presents and treats and stuff, like Uncle Vernon does for Dudley. Now I know what a good dad is though, because my Da has showed me.

It took me a long time to believe that my Da loves me. I didn’t think kids could really be loved by anyone but their own parents, so I figured that since mine are dead, no one would ever love me. But my Da showed me that I was wrong. He loves me, and he makes sure I know it. He says he loves me, but he also shows that he loves me. He shows me every day. I am a really lucky kid.

I love my Da.

Dear Da, I didn’t know what to get you for Christmas so I asked Professor McGonagall. She told me to write this essay. I don’t know why because you already have lots and lots of essays to read. I thought at first you might like some potion ingredients instead, but she said that you’d like this a lot more. I couldn’t let anyone else read it because there’s some stuff in it about Padfoot and all, so I didn’t get to ask her if I did it right. I hope you like it but if you don’t I can still go and get you some potion ingredients if you’d rather have that. Love, Harry.

Even his iron control was insufficient to the task, and Snape had to claim a sudden, serious cold to explain his watery eyes and runny nose to the worried brat. Then of course, Harry promptly summoned both Madame Pomfrey and the house elves who forced him to consume disgusting potions and numerous hot drinks. “It’s really bad,” Harry anxiously informed Poppy. “He needed like two handkerchiefs before he felt better!”

Poppy studied her scans and gave the glaring Potion Master a sharp look. “Hmmmm. Yes, well, I think he’ll get better quickly now, Mr Potter. Perhaps some quiet time would be best, however. I’ll tell the Headmaster not to expect either of you in the Great Hall until dinnertime.”

That news brightened Snape’s spirits considerably, and Harry was reassured by the prompt “recovery”. Snape was even able to convince the brat to spend the afternoon building animated snowmen with Hagrid and the other students, thus providing him with privacy in which to reread the essay over and over. The picture he placed in his bedroom – it wouldn’t do for Albus to spot it and think he was getting all soft – but he placed the essay next to Lily’s sweater for safekeeping. They were his two most prized possessions, even if he had no intention of revealing that fact to anyone. Ever.

Harry greatly enjoyed his visit with the Weasleys, though from time to time he found himself missing his father and the quiet of their quarters. Such brooding didn’t last long, however, as one or another of the redheaded clan would quickly interrupt him with offers of various activities. Harry began to realize that being in the middle of a large family made it hard to be bored for long, though sometimes his ears rang from all the noise.

Having Bill and Charlie at home was great fun, and Harry grew to adore both young men, but his first few days at the Burrow were a bit challenging. All the roughhousing that occurred, seemingly without end, was at first a little too reminiscent of Dudley's Harry-hunting or Vernon's angry shouts, but Harry quickly realized that none of the Weasleys were actually being hurt. Of course, his initial confusion was understandable, given the yells and shrieks that usually accompanied such activities. When Bill - still shedding yellow feathers from one of the twins' latest pranks - grabbed each one by an arm and dragged them, still in pajamas and bare feet, outside out to scrub their faces with snow, the windows trembled with the force of their howls. When Molly realized what had occurred, her own shouts made it clear that such healthy lungs were a maternal inheritance.

Even after it became clear that the tussles were nothing more than good fun and noisy play, Harry still hung back, uncertain of both his welcome in such activities and his willingness to risk Molly's wrath. That lasted all of 48 hours, when a monster snowball fight spilled into the house and even Arthur and Molly forgot their adult dignity and joined in. No one was spared and Harry - and even Percy - were swept up in the battle. Harry's speed and agility made him a difficult target, but Charlie finally eschewed all subtlety and simply engulfed him in a surprisingly gentle tackle. Ginny promptly leapt to his rescue, her hero worship of The Boy Who Lived having long since transformed into a more realistic and genuine affection for her brother's friend, and stuffed several handfuls of snow down Charlie's back before he could grab her in turn. Now with one squirming, kicking, pinching child tucked under each arm, Charlie rose and - with a gleam in his eye - headed for a particularly deep snow drift.

"Nooooo! Charlie, don't!" Ginny shrieked, seeing their doom approach. Harry looked around frantically for allies, but Ron and Percy were blitzing Arthur's position with snowballs while the twins desperately tried to wreak vengeance on Bill for their earlier snowy face washing.

Charlie gave an evil chuckle as he stopped, swinging from side to side as he worked up momentum to toss his two unwilling passengers into the snowbank ahead of him. Harry and Ginny tried to wiggle free of his grip, but Charlie was used to wrestling baby dragons and was oblivious to the children's efforts. Just as Harry knew they were about to be airborne, Molly sweetly called, "Oh, Charlie, dear!"

All three heads turned in surprise to see Molly smiling at them from a few yards away. She pointed upwards and they followed her gaze to discover an enormous clump of snow hovering just above Charlie's head. The instant their eyes widened, Molly canceled her hover charm and had the great satisfaction of seeing all three disappear underneath a mountain of snow.

It took them a moment to dig themselves out - spitting snow and with eyes newly shining in glee - and then all previous hostilities were forgotten as the three turned on their mutual foe. "Get her!" Charlie roared, and Ginny and Harry let out shrill war whoops as they chased after the big redhead and the fleeing, laughing Molly.

That more or less removed the last of Harry's inhibitions and he slowly relaxed and enjoyed all the mayhem as it swirled around him, occasionally breaking over his head as well. He still tensed a bit when one of the older boys took off after the twins - who were, as usual, using the holidays as an excuse to test their latest gags and driving everyone mad in the process - but he could be confident the resulting screams were due to a tickling hex and not a brutal beating. Even when Charlie or, more often, Bill finally lost his temper and held the two teens down for a few resounding whacks on the rear, it was clear the twins' loud yelps and dancing about clutching their bums owed more to their love of attention than any real distress. Harry also noticed their antics tended to mollify their older brothers, and he grinned at this further evidence that the twins were rather more Slytherin than anyone realized.

What Harry didn't notice was how carefully all of the Weasley children avoided pouncing on him from behind or doing anything that might take him by surprise. Though only Ron had been privvy to Harry's confidences, Snape had made it clear to Molly and Arthur that Harry was still struggling to overcome his time with the Dursleys, and they had, in turn, shared enough with their older children to make it clear that Harry was not to be ambushed or forced into anything. Even the twins understood that Harry was off limits, and though they didn't know all the details, they knew enough to realize that (a) they could seriously upset the boy with unthinking pranks and (b) their parents would murder them if they did. Arthur's pointed reference to the aftermath of their attempt to get a young Ronnie to make an Unbreakable Vow had been more than enough to convince them that this was one parental stricture to be obeyed without question.

Only Ron and Ginny had been spared the parental briefing, but Ron had - unbeknownst to the adults - told his sister that Harry's home life had hardly been the idyllic fairy tale of The Boy Who Lived and that if she insisted on treating him like an icon, she'd embarrass both herself and Harry. Ginny was bright enough to fill in the gaps of what Ron didn't say, and her awe and shyness was transformed into a fierce protectiveness that at first startled both her brothers and Harry. As a result, between Molly and Arthur's stern directives and Ginny's eagle eyed vigilance, the Weasley boys took great care not to alarm Harry with their exuberance.

The object of all this solicitude was blissfully unaware of it, and Harry slipped happily into life among the Weasleys, experiencing for the first time the chaos and joy of a large, happy family.

--##--

Though Harry managed to avoid any major trouble during his time at the Weasleys, he did not escape completely scot-free. Towards the end of his visit, he demonstrated his comfort at the Burrow by joining Ron and Ginny in a heated battle with the twins, prompted by the twins attempting to prank Ron with a rather realistic-looking toy spider. Fred and George found to their dismay that their youngest brother now had formidable allies in both Harry and Ginny (who had been privately tutored by Bill in some particularly nasty hexes). The living room was reduced to rubble in the ensuing hostilities, and all five children were banished to bed right after supper.

“The twins also ended up with sore backsides, both for starting it and for being old enough to know better,” Molly explained over a cup of tea when Snape came to collect Harry two days later, “but since Ron and Ginny were only punished with an early bedtime, I felt it appropriate to treat Harry the same way and saw no need to inform you.”

“And the twins did not attempt further retaliation?” Snape asked, frowning. He would have expected Fred and George to be more than a little angry at receiving such a humiliating, not to mention painful, punishment. Taking that resentment out on the younger children would have been understandable.

“If we held a grudge –“ Fred piped up, unexpectedly entering the kitchen with his twin at his side.

“- each time we got whacked –“

“- we would have run out of siblings – “

“- a long time ago, Professor.”

“Besides, to be completely fair –“

“ – we did start it. We just hadn’t expected –“

“- Harry and Ginny to jump in like that.”

“But once they did – “

“ – we kind of got carried away –“

“ – and we pretty much knew – “

“ – when the tree caught fire – “

“ – that we were in for it.”

“You burned down your Christmas tree?” Snape echoed incredulously.

George grinned as he poured two glasses of pumpkin juice. “Not intentionally.”

“And Christmas was technically over,” Fred pointed out, grabbing a handful of Christmas cookies from a jar on the counter.

“That was the worst of the damage,” Molly intervened hastily. “Everything else just required a good cleaning, which the children provided. Without the help of magic.”

Snape scowled. After Harry’s house elf-like upbringing, he did not want the boy subjected to further cleaning duties.

“We actually had – “

“ – a pretty good time with it,” the twins admitted in between cookies.

“By then we weren’t mad at each other any more – “

“ – Mum’s yells had deafened us all equally – “

“ – and the littlies had heard us getting walloped – “

“ – so Ron figured we were even for the spider – “

“ – so there was no point in fighting further and we – “

“ – just made a game out of it.”

Snape was surprised by how philosophically the twins had accepted their smacking, though he reflected that, given their fondness for pranks, it was likely a routine occurrence.

“Boys, go let Harry know Professor Snape is waiting for him,” Molly instructed and the twins obligingly raced out. “They’re really getting too old to spank,” she said, reading Snape’s mind with an ease that startled the Occlumens, “but it was either that or bar them from going to Featherbee’s flying arena yesterday, and they would have been devastated to have missed a treat like that. I gave them the option, in fact, and they just ran down to get my wooden spoon.” She chuckled, remembering how George had presented the spoon with a flourish, while Fred bent over and wiggled his bum invitingly. A half-dozen swats later, their jollity had become rather forced, but they hadn’t objected once.

Their reentry to the living room, where the younger three were already engaged in cleaning duties, had been accomplished with a minimum of awkwardness. Fred and George had entered, moving stiffly and with their faces rather more flushed than usual. “I’m sorry, Ron,” George had offered immediately, for once fairly serious.

“Me too,” his twin had echoed.

“You okay?” Harry asked in concern. The Burrow was anything but soundproof, and those whacks had sounded awfully hard, to say nothing of the concomitant yelps. Of course, the twins were practically as tall as Molly now, but if the grimaces on their faces were anything to go by, the walloping had not been a token punishment.

Harry’s rear tingled in sympathy. It hadn’t been so long since his time at the Dursleys, and he well recalled how much even a few hard whacks could hurt. He felt a rush of love for his Da at the thought that he never had to worry about getting smacked like that again, not even if he had been the one to burn down the Christmas tree.

His Da wouldn’t let anyone else hit Harry, not Auntie Molly or Padfoot or anyone, and his own light swats were nothing to fear. Of course, Harry did fear disappointing his father, and he was very very glad that the twins had admitted it had been their spell which had led to the incineration of the tree. He’d been pretty certain that in the absence of that confession, Auntie Molly would have felt compelled to punish all the children equally, and while he knew she wouldn’t smack him, she would floo his Da. That would have meant an abrupt end to Harry ‘s visit, and though returning home to Hogwarts was hardly an onerous penalty, Harry had no desire to return in disgrace.

Having to clean up the living room alongside the Weasley children was only fair – after all, he and the others had made the mess in the first place – and being sent to bed right after supper wasn’t that awful a punishment either. He and Ron were sharing a room, and he suspected they’d just talk until they eventually fell asleep. Oh, Ron was complaining bitterly, but Harry knew it was just for show and that the redhead was just as relieved as he that the twins had accepted the bulk of the blame. After all, if they had all continued squabbling and really gotten Auntie Molly upset, she might have canceled tomorrow’s outing, and that was too horrible a scenario to contemplate.

“Yeah,” Ginny echoed his question to the twins. “Are you all right? Mum sounded pretty angry.”

“Our arses would say otherwise –“

“- but we’re all right,” they reassured the younger children.

“But we are sorry, Ron – “

“ – the spider thing really wasn’t funny.”

Ron chewed his lip for a minute then shrugged. “Show me your special Beater move when we’re at the arena tomorrow, and we’ll call it even,” he offered generously.

“You are still coming, right?” Ginny asked anxiously. The twins might be incredibly annoying, but they were still part of the family, and the trip to the arena wouldn’t be the same without them.

Fred rubbed his rear and groaned. “Why do you think we got the dreaded spoon?”

“It was that or stay home tomorrow, and we’d have taken two dozen swats apiece rather than miss the flying,” George explained, though he too let out a whimper as he gently massaged his smarting behind.

“How many did you get?” Ron asked curiously.

“Six each,” George sighed. “Enough to hurt like crazy today but still be fine for flying tomorrow.”

Ron scoffed. “You’ll be fine by dinner.”

“Oh, really? Just – “

“- you wait until you’ve felt – “

“ – the dreaded spoon, little brother.”

“Then you can tell us how long – “

“ – it lasts.”

Ron looked nonplused. “Really? But I mean, the spider thing wasn’t that bad.”

George just pointed to the charred stump in the corner of the room.

“Oh. Right.” Ron blushed.

“What else are we going to do at the arena tomorrow?” Ginny said eagerly. “Besides the Quidditch moves, I mean.”

And that was all it took. Animated discussions about the highly anticipated treat erased any lingering ill will, and in fact the trip to Featherbee’s was every bit as wonderful as the children had anticipated. There were helpful staff to coach Hermione and Neville, and so many non-flying activities that the children ran out of energy long before they had exhausted all the arena’s attractions. Harry and his friends had a wonderful time, and the older children did as well. Even Bill and Charlie found a surprising number of activities to enjoy, as well as plenty of attractive witches to chat up.

There was only one minor crisis when the twins, intoxicated by conversation with two pretty American teens, decided that impressing their new acquaintances took precendence over fair play. Ron, Harry, and Draco wanted to try the "Fly Through A Hurricane!" ride, in which you attempted to pilot your broom through a simulated windstorm, but the twins were blocking the ride's entrance, too occupied with their conversation to notice anyone else.

"Oi, George, Fred! Shove over. It's our turn!" Ron demanded, pushing at the nearest twin. He stepped back in surprise at the angry glares that were instantly turned his way.

"Children!" Fred said with an overly casual laugh as he turned back to the American girls. "Such little pests."

"Get lost," George snarled through gritted teeth before returning to the witches with a bright smile. "So - where were we?"

One of the girls, a blonde, giggled. "We were just saying how much we're enjoying our trip here."

"We just love your accents," gushed the other. "Say something for us!"

"Well, we think your accents are rather cute too," Fred said, trying to drop his voice into a deeper register.

"Silly! We don't have an accent!" one told him, batting playfully at his arm.

"So, erm, where do you go to school? We go to Hogwarts - best in Europe, you know," George offered, flexing his shoulders and edging closer to the blonde.

"Oooooh. We've heard of that. It's in, like, a castle, isn't it?" They squealed in excitement at the twins' nods. "That's so cool! What's it like? Do you have lots of ghosts?"

"Oh, sure," Fred said carelessly. "You practically can't go down the hall without walking through a few. And we've got poltergeists too."

"We only have one old ghost," the brunette pouted prettily. "She was killed in the Salem witch trials and she just complains about how much she misses her cat. She's no fun."

"So are you, like, twins or something?" the blonde asked, pointing from one to the other. "Because you, like, really look similar."

"We're twins," the boys said in unison, wiggling their eyebrows in an imitation of Sirius Black.

"Oooooooh! We're sisters too!" the girls squealed excitedly.

Ron, Harry, and Draco blinked at each other, nonplused by the exchange.

"Why are they talking funny?" Draco asked Ron.

"What do you mean?" Harry asked. "They're just talking normally."

"That's what I mean. Usually they interrupt each other and finish each other's sentences, but now they're talking like regular people."

Ron shrugged. "Must be the girls, I guess." The other two shared his look of disgust.

"Come on, George! Let us past!" Ron decided to try again. "I'll tell Mum," he whined, tugging at one brother's robe.

The twins didn't even glance at him, though the closer of the two caught his arm in a nasty, but discreet, pinch. Ron yelped and hastily withdrew.

The younger boys unhappily plodded back to the main floor, Ron blinking back tears as he rubbed his arm. "There's still plenty of other rides," Harry tried gamely to lift their spirits, but he too was disappointed.

"What's wrong, kids?" Percy and Jones, arm in arm, strolled up behind them. "You're looking pretty miserable for being in the middle of an amusement park."

Ron sniffled and Percy bent closer. "What happened to your arm?"

"One of your brothers hit him," Draco announced angrily. "And they're hogging the ride over there! Just because they want to impress some stupid slag- erm, some nice young ladies from America," he rapidly amended his words at the sight of Jones' expression. "Sorry!" he added for good measure.

"It was more a pinch than a hit," Harry clarified, "but it was really hard, and all we wanted to do was to go on the ride."

Percy scowled, but Jones patted his arm. "How about if I take on the twins while you fix up your brother here? Not that he really needs it - after taking on a troll, he's got to be made of pretty strong stuff, right?" she winked at Ron.

Ron perked up at her words, and his tears magically dried. Jones was right - it's not like the twins had ever faced down a troll! They were the babies, not him.

Jones strolled over to where the twins and the American sisters were still deep in conversation. "Oi, fellows - why don't you head over to the snack bar with the ladies?" she suggested amiably. "Let some of the firsties have a chance at the ride?"

Motivated by equal parts adolescent male bravado and testosterone-fuelled stupidity, the twins ignored this face-saving opportunity to withdraw. "Push off, Jones," Fred said, his success with the Americans making him disastrously overconfident. "We're not at school now - you can't tell us what to do."

"Does your school have prefects too?" George asked the Americans with a rather rude glance at Jones. "Ours are just awful - bossy and full of themselves."

Jones' eyes narrowed, but her voice remained even. "Did you know that Professor Snape classified this as a school outing? That means I'm authorized to use my prefect authority outside of Hogwarts."

George rolled his eyes, encouraged by the American girls' giggles. "Oooooh, 'prefect authority'. I'm shaking in my shoes!"

"Go snog Percy, Jones - we're busy here. We'll move when we bloody well want to," Fred declared grandly, carried away by the Americans' admiring glances. Both twins turned their backs to her in an unmistakable gesture of defiance and disrespect.

Jones didn't bother to reply. She just drew her wand and gave it a flick while murmuring a spell, then walked away.

"Is she gone yet?" Fred whispered to George.

George sneaked a quick look over his shoulder. "She's walking back to Percy and the kids," he whispered in tones of ineffable relief, and the two exchanged a look of triumph. They had vanquished Jones! This would make them legends at Hogwarts!

"So, erm, how long are you in England for?" George asked hopefully.

"Yeah, maybe we could get together and - hic!" Fred jerked with an unexpected hiccup and was flustered when the Americans stared at him in amazement then burst into loud laughter. He turned to his brother, only to find George gazing at him in dismay.

"You're bright blue!" George hissed at him, and Fred looked down, realizing that he had, in fact, turned a particularly fluorescent shade of blue.

"What the -" Fred spun to stare after Jones, then at a hic! from behind him, he turned back to find a bright green George staring miserably down at himself. The American girls were leaning against the wall, shrieking with glee.

"Well," Fred struggled to smile, "it could have been worse. For Jones, this isn't such a bad - hic!" Worriedly, he looked down, but to his surprise he found that he was restored to normal. He sighed in relief. For Jones that was indeed a very gentle warning.

Seeing him returned to normal, the Americans' giggles began to resolve. "Did it hurt?" the blonde asked curiously. "You looked really funny!"

"Nah," Fred said with what he hoped was a devil-may-care laugh. "All in good fun."

The Americans began to burble on about some sightseeing they had done, and Fred listened politely at first, but then became aware of a nagging itch on his bum. He squirmed as discreetly as he could, but the itch just worsened. And worsened. "Erm, George, I think we need to go to the loo," he said, signaling frantically to his brother.

George gave him an annoyed look. "If you need to go, then go already," he hissed. "I'm busy talking!" He smilingly turned back to the brunette. "You were saying that you really liked the Tower?"

"Sure! All those jewels? And the ghosts were so... ghostly!" she shuddered dramatically, and George's eyes snapped to her chest.

"I - erm - " He was saved having to think of a reply by a hic! And then he too was back to his normal color. "There!" he beamed. "That's better! Now, how about Harrod's? Have you been there? The magical wing, I mean."

Fred, now dancing from foot to foot, waited and sure enough, within about 10 seconds, George's animated conversation dimmed and a look of distraction appeared on his face. Then a horrified expression of understanding dawned and he looked frantically at his brother. "Erm, we've got to go!" he blurted. "Be right back!"

Leaving the surprised girls behind, the twins ran for the nearest loo, both hands clutched to their bums. Once inside the thankfully empty toilet, they tore down their trousers and pants, only to discover there was nothing visible on their backsides. "But it itches!" Fred wailed, scratching madly.

"It's worse than dragon pox," George agreed mournfully, scratching and wiggling in his turn.

"What - hic! - are we gonna do? I mean, we can't go out in public scratching at our arses like this!" Fred said, then paused. "Hey. It's gone."

"Yeah, but now you're yellow." George's gloom was unrelieved as he kept scratching at the infernal itching that still tormented him.

Fred paled as much as his brightly colored complexion would allow. "You don't suppose we're just going to keep on like this, cycling between being some ridiculous color or clawing at our arses?"

George just looked at him. "This is - hic! - Jones, remember?"

Fred groaned. And hiccuped.

Eventually, they were forced to leave the sanctuary of the toilet by an influx of older boys who greeted their appearance with sniggers and coarse remarks. The twins fled, unhappily reflecting on how unpleasant it felt to be run off by bullies who were older than you. They tried to find an inconspicuous corner, but their flashing colors and socially unacceptable scratching guaranteed that they attracted unwanted attention.

"Mummy! Look at those funny boys! Are they clowns?" one four year old piped shrilly, pointing at them.

"They're scratching themselves like the monkeys in the zoo!" Another urchin observed loudly.

The twins cast agonized looks over the rapidly gathering crowd, but if they had hoped for fraternal solidarity, they were sadly disappointed. Charlie and Bill were helpless with laughter, while Harry and his friends were howling in delight. Percy looked insufferably smug and Jones - oh, Merlin, no! - Jones had a camera.

A wordless glance passed between them, and then the twins were darting through the crowd and falling on their knees before Jones. "Please, please," they begged, abasing themselves before her. "We apologize!"

Jones smiled brightly and glanced at the clock. "You lasted 23 minutes. That's pretty good," she complimented them, then turned to the rest of the party. "Well, fellows, what do you think? Should I release them or do you think they deserve a little longer as the center of attention? After all," she nudged the twins with the toe of her boot, "you do like being noticed, right?"

"Oh, please, Jones," Fred pleaded, one hand snaking back to scrub at his buttocks. "We're sorry."

"We bow to your greater evilness and cunning," George - now a solid fuschia - groveled abjectly.

"I do think they've learned their lesson," Bill managed to gasp. "I've never seen them quite this cowed before."

"Oh, all right," she yawned, then leaned over to meet their wide eyed gaze. "But this is just a taste of what I've got in store for you the next time you provoke me. Got it?" she told them icily.

"Yes, Jones," they squeaked, nodding frantically.

And a second later they were back to normal.

The twins sighed in relief, sagging to the ground in limp puddles. The crowd quickly dispersed, now that the show was over, and Harry and his friends happily headed off to the hurricane ride. A sympathetic Charlie bundled the twins off to the snack bar for restorative milkshakes, and there they met a group of French schoolgirls from a witches' lycee outside Orleans. The twins promptly forgot the American sisters and with the resilience of youth spent the rest of the day practicing their French.

By the end of the day, all grudges were long forgotten and the entire party agreed the day had been a huge success. “This was the best present ever,” Ron told Harry. “Your Da is brilliant.”

“I’m going to ask my father for this for my birthday,” Draco announced, then frowned. “But he’ll probably make me invite people like Crabbe and Goyle and Parkinson.”

“I’ll ask my Da for this for my birthday too,” Harry said comfortingly. “So we’ll all be together again in July anyway.”

“Hey, we have the same birthday, right?” Neville exclaimed. “So maybe we could have a double party here!” He grinned. “My gran will be proud of me when she sees how much my flying has improved.”

-##-

“… So you see, Severus, you’re quite the hero among the children,” Molly smiled as she finished the story. To her immense satisfaction, she had managed to surprise a laugh out of Snape with the story of Jones' treatment of the twins, though he had quickly pretended it had merely been a cough.

"I am pleased that Miss Jones was able to compel appropriate behavior," he observed, feeling quite smug that, even vastly outnumbered by Gryffindors, his snakes had still held their own.

"Oh, that she did," Molly agreed, her eyes dancing. "The poor boys' behinds were so marked from all their frantic scratching that they could barely sit down to dinner that night. It's a good thing I had a large tub of healing balm. And I rather imagine they'll think twice about risking much mischief next term." Both adults paused, wistfully contemplating the prospect of an entire term free of the twins' more egregious pranks.

“Da!” Harry yelled in delight, bursting into the room. He grabbed his guardian around the neck in a hug. “I missed you!”

Snape fought off the stranglehold. “Yes, yes, compose yourself, young man!” he scolded, even as he pulled the boy close to his side.

Harry was, unsurprisingly after a week among Weasleys, wholly unsquelched. “Did you miss me?” he demanded.

“What do you think?” his guardian grumbled. “Would I miss such a noisy, messy, naughty child?”

Harry grinned. “Yes!”

Snape huffed and muttered to himself, but everyone noted that he didn’t actually disagree.

Then they had taken their leave of the Weasleys, with as many hugs and goodbyes as if it would be years before they would next see each other, and Harry and his professor winked away via portkey.

To Snape’s disgust there were nearly as many hugs and exclamations of delight when they arrived at Black’s, not to mention extra Christmas presents that he and Lupin had “forgotten” to send to Hogwarts.

The visit was actually quite tame, compared to Snape’s dark imaginings. Black refrained from orgies or other debaucherie and seemed quite content merely to spend hours with Harry, roughhousing or playing or showing him all the local sites that might be of interest to an 11 year old. Lupin usually joined them, but occasionally remained behind to keep the Potion Master company. Snape did not find it necessary to supervise Black every second, but he did insist on knowing exactly where Harry would be going and what he would be doing. To his surprise, Black made no demur at this restriction, and Snape could only assume that Lupin had sternly ordered the mutt to be on his best behavior in the hopes of proving that they could be trusted to entertain Harry on their own.

Still, while Snape had been pleasantly surprised at how well both men tolerated his presence, he was completely astonished when Sirius broached the subject of a double date one evening.

“Don’t you think Harry is a bit young?” Snape said forbiddingly.

“Da!” Harry laughed, nearly choking on his dinner. “Don’t be so silly. I’m not going.”

Before he could register either his annoyance at being called “silly” or his disappointment that Black and Lupin remained untroubled by Harry’s calling him “Da”, Snape was flabbergasted to hear Black say, “I’m asking you, Snape. I have a date for you and everything. Come on. It’ll be fun.”

Snape eyed him suspiciously. There had to be a trap. “Why would you invite me?” he demanded. “Take the werewolf.”

Lupin sighed at his use of the term but made no other complaint. “Severus, it’s only two days to the full moon. I can’t go.”

“Besides, I didn’t get this girl for Moony. I picked her for you,” Sirius argued. “Come on.”

“What’s wrong with her?” he inquired distrustfully.

“Nothing!” Sirius yelled in exasperation. “Snape, for Merlin’s sake! It’s just a date. Why are you making such a big deal about it?”

“And what is Harry to be doing when we are out on this date?”

“I’ll stay here with Moony,” Harry answered. “Or we might go see a Muggle movie. Neither of us has ever gone, but Hermione owled me about a really cool one called –“

“Snape! Come on – he’ll be fine. You’ll have some fun, meet a good looking bird, maybe get – “ Sirius caught himself with a glance at Harry. “Erm, have a good conversation, I mean.”

“Why would you want to double date?” Snape was still wary.

“Well, this witch that I’m seeing has her sister visiting from Basel, and she asked me if I could find her a date –“

“Hmf,” Snape said sourly.

“But I saw pictures of the sister! She’s gorgeous, with dark hair and – “ Sirius again broke off abruptly. “Ah, well, she’s what you might call pleasantly shaped.”

“You mean she’s got big ti– “ Harry began unwisely.

“HARRY JAMES POTTER!” Snape and Lupin both thundered at him while Sirius broke into hysterical laughter.

“He’s his father’s son all right!” Sirius choked out.

“You are to speak of witches with respect, young man!” Snape scolded him sharply.

“I didn’t even say anything!” Harry protested, seeing his chances of dessert that night rapidly vanishing.

“But you were about to,” Snape pointed out, unmollified.

Harry grumpily stared at his plate. “Fine,” he huffed. “Be that way, mean ol’…”

Lupin hastily intervened before further indiscretions could occur. “So, Severus, will you be going or not?”

Snape paused, thinking. It had been an appallingly long time since his last date, with a witch to whom Lucius Malfoy had introduced him. The best thing about her, as he recalled, was that she was slightly less insane than Bellatrix LeStrange. He saw Harry stealing a sidelong glance at him, still too cross to show his interest, but too curious not to care.

“I suppose I could go,” he said, elaborately casual. “As a favor to the mutt, I mean.”

“Great!” Sirius clapped his hands together in delight. “We pick them up in an hour!”

“Tonight!” Snape squawked. “You didn’t say it was tonight! What am I supposed to wear? What –“

“Merlin’s shorts, Snape, stop acting like a girl. You look fine,” Sirius waved a hand dismissively.

Snape glared at him as he hurriedly left the table. Harry brightened up at his departure and looked hopefully at the cake sitting on the counter. “May I please have my pudding now?”

“Before your da returns and says you can’t?” Remus asked drily. But he took pity on Harry’s pleading expression and cut him a large slice.

One hour later, Snape fidgeted nervously behind Black as the other man knocked briskly on a door. He must have been insane to agree to come along. This was Black, for Merlin’s sake! How could he have been so stupid as to assume the man was sincere. The witch in question probably had a squint and a hunchback and a personality like a basilisk. That would be exactly the kind of joke Black would find hilarious, and the best part was that he had gotten Snape to come along of his own free will. He would never live this down.

He took a step back, in preparation for Apparating away, but before he could, the door opened and a tall blonde witch with big blue eyes peered out. “Oooooooh, Siri! I’ve missed you soooooooo much!” she squealed, then proved her claim by grabbing Black in a manner that Snape found frankly pornographic.

He struggled to tear his eyes away so he could make his escape, but the pair’s activities were… hypnotic.

“Oh for pity’s sake, Ursi! Either get a room or I’ll douse you both with Aguamenti!” An exasperated voice snapped from behind the blonde.

“Er, ah, er…” Sirius gasped dazedly as he came up for air, but then managed to recall his manners. “Ah, Ursula Zeeman, may I present Professor Severus Snape?”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” the blonde cooed, fluttering her eyelashes at a distinctly unnerved Snape. “And this is my sister Hildy.”

“Brunhilde.” The adamant voice spoke again from the house’s interior.

Ursi pouted prettily, but agreed, “Brunhilde.”

A brisk shove in Ursula’s back finally prompted her to move aside, and a tall, dark haired, and curvaceous witch stepped into view. “It’s a shocking name,” Brunhilde said calmly, “but trying to hide the truth simply makes it worse. I take it you are Sirius Black?” She held out her hand to Sirius who gallantly kissed it.

To Snape’s surprise, Brunhilde appeared immune to Black’s charm. “I’ve read your interviews with interest,” she told him drily. “Shall I assume that my sister is one of the women whose talents with chocolate you find so impressive?”

Black – to Severus’ eternal delight – blushed to the tips of his ears and stammered like a schoolboy. Burnhilde regarded him steadily, then shook her head. “Oh, Ursi. What would Papa say?”

“I don’t care!” her sister retorted. “But Mama would say he’s dreamy!” And she took Black’s hand in a proprietary grip.

“Professor Snape?” Brunhilde held out her hand again, and Snape, with a gulp he hoped went unnoticed, gingerly shook it.

“My pleasure, Madame,” he replied stiffly.

Sirius smiled hopefully. “Well, er, let’s go. I have reservations for us at the Rothschilde restaurant and then we’re headed to the local production of The Magic Flute – the magical version, of course.”

“Oooooooh, Siri!” Snape suspected that those two words represented a significant chunk of Ursula’s vocabulary, and he was heartened to see Brunhilde roll her eyes in disdain.

Sirius and Ursula walked ahead of the other two. Ursula’s robes were… unusually well-fitted, providing Snape with a view that was quite distracting. He averted his eyes and tried desperately to come up with a suitable topic of conversation. “Erm, are you visiting your sister for long?” he finally managed.

“A few weeks,” Brunhilde replied. “She’s a silly cow, but there’s no malice in her. Ursi just decided at an early age it was easier to use her looks than her mind. I think her brain went on holiday shortly thereafter and never saw the need to return.”

Snape blinked. Such devastating candor was… rather like something he would say. “Ah. Well. Yes…”

To be fair, while Brunhilde did not ooze “sex kitten” the way her sister did, she was still extremely attractive in her own right, and more than capable of relying on her own appearance to get through life. Snape wondered what had made this sister decide against such a course of action, but even his stunted social skills knew that would be an unwise question to ask. “Erm, I take it you hadn’t had the opportunity to meet Sirius before tonight?”

“Not really, though he and my sister have been joined at the hip – or another nearby body part – for the last month or so. I’m sure it won’t last much longer; Ursi’s flings never do, but he seems nice enough.”

“Mm.” Snape decided it was safer not to comment. “Then you’ve not been on double dates with them before?”

Brunhilde quirked an eyebrow at him, a move that reminded him of someone, though he couldn’t recall whom. “Do I look like a slut to you?”

Snape choked and stumbled. Brunhilde caught him by the arm and dragged him upright, then thumped him on the back. “Oh, come on then. It wasn’t that hard a question.”

“I – Madame – You – “ Snape trailed off, utterly shaken. He began to wish he’d stayed at the Weasleys after all. At least he could speak to Molly in a coherent fashion. This woman was not only breathtakingly attractive, she was intelligent and brutally candid, a combination which seemed to short-circuit his brain.

Brunhilde took pity on him. “I only meant that Ursi and I don’t share the same taste in men, and with all due respect to your friend, he doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who has too many intellectual friends.”

Snape snorted despite himself. This witch obviously had Black well-pegged! “Then why did you agree to come on this date?” he asked, curious despite himself.

“Ursi likes to double date, so she kept bugging Sirius to find a man I’d go out with. He must have come up with every wizard within a fifty mile radius, but I couldn’t be bothered. Then Ursi said that Sirius claimed he knew Severus Snape, youngest Potion Master in a century, and I became interested,” Brunhilde said matter-of-factly. Snape choked again. “Of course, knowing Ursi, I wasn’t about to take the claim at face value. I figured Sirius was more than capable of finding some hedge row apothecary and trying to foist him off as a Potion Master if he thought he could get away with it. So I did some research and confirmed that the two of you had been in the same class at Hogwarts. It seemed possible that you would actually show up, so I told Ursi I’d come along.”

“And would you care to examine me on potion related questions to ensure I am who I’m purported to be?” Snape asked in amusement, too stunned by events to take offense.

She regarded him steadily for a moment. “What would happen if I used star anise in place of wormswood while brewing Veritaserum?”

He returned the look. “Absolutely nothing, since neither ingredient is used in that potion.”

“Who perfected the long term storage of Wolfsbane?”

Snape blinked. “The long term storage of Wolfsbane has been perfected? According to whom?”

Brunhilde grinned and took his arm. “You pass. Besides, you look exactly like your picture.”

“My picture?” he echoed in astonishment.

“Well, sure. Ursi showed me the one of you with Harry Potter.”

“The one of Harry and – What picture is that?” Snape asked blankly.

She shrugged. “I’m not sure when it was taken, but it’s awfully cute. You’re both sleeping and Harry’s snuggled up in your arms. Sirius keeps a copy in his wallet, and he let Ursi borrow it to prove he knew you. He said he got it from your former headmaster.”

And while Snape was still processing this revelation, she calmly continued, “But enough about that. What do you think of Seidelhoff’s latest claim that using a copper cauldron can stabilize the brewing of the Draught of the Living Death sufficiently to enable mass production? Do you think such a feat – if independently confirmed – could be the first step in weaponization of the potion?”

Snape opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “Who – who are you?” he finally gasped.

“Brunhilde Zeeman, senior editor, Potions Weekly, European Edition,” she said calmly, offering her hand again.

Snape blinked rapidly. Gorgeous. Smart. Acerbic. Potions expert. Perhaps Black really was trying to make up for his past behavior.

And even better, while social small talk frightened him nearly as much as a Dementor, when it came to potions, his confidence was unshakeable. He took a deep breath and felt his nervousness melt away. “Well, Madame Zeeman,” he said, tucking her arm into his elbow and continuing to stroll after Sirius and Ursula, “I suppose if Seidelhoff could be trusted to know the difference between a copper cauldron and a pewter one, his theory might be intriguing, but as he has the brewing skills of a blast ended skrewt, it’s somewhat difficult to believe he can successfully concoct the Draught of Living Death, let alone modify it.”

“Ah, but he’s been working with Ramirez for the last three months,” she countered swiftly.

“My dear woman, he could have been working with Salazar Slytherin for the last three months and his brewing skills would still have to improve to be considered execrable!” Snape retorted impatiently.

“So you don’t believe that Ethlegren’s postulate can be disproven?”

“By Seidelhoff, with or without Ramirez’s assistance? Absolutely not!”

“But what about –“

Their animated argument continued through dinner and the opera. Sirius and Ursula initially attempted to turn the conversation to less contentious topics, but they quickly realized that the two were extremely happy exchanging insults and abstruse references, and they left them to it.

The end of the evening came as a surprise to Snape. He had been thoroughly enjoying the repartee with Brunhilde, and he was rather dismayed when Sirius finally began tugging on his arm. “Come on, Snape. We need to get back to Harry and Remus. It’s not fair to leave Remus alone all night with Harry. Not right now.”

Snape caught the veiled reference to the rapidly approaching full moon. While Lupin wouldn’t transform for another 36 hours, he tended to become extremely fatigued and distracted as the time approached, and it was neither safe nor fair to leave him alone for an extended period of time. Not when his charge was a curious 11 year old who was also the target of Death Eaters. “Yes,” he agreed regretfully. “Ah, erm, thank you for a lovely evening, Madame Zeeman,” he said, his awkwardness returning as he sought to make his farewell to Brunhilde.

“It was my pleasure, Potion Master Snape,” she replied gravely, but the twinkle in her eye rivaled Albus’.

“Er, perhaps I could see you again?” he asked hopefully.

She gave him a genuine smile. “I’d like that. And perhaps next time we won’t need to be accompanied by the traveling snogfest?” she suggested, glancing over to where Ursi was giving Sirius a very passionate good night kiss.

“Erm, yes,” he coughed, redfaced. He hastily looked away from the groping hands and wished he could cast a Muffliato to silence the loud groaning and moaning.

“I had a very nice time,” Brunhilde continued. And suddenly her hand was on the back of his neck and her lips were coming up to meet his own and… Snape’s world disappeared in a blaze of lights and sensation.

When he came back to himself, it was to find Sirius’ arm around his shoulder, propelling his stumbling feet down the boulevard. “Urgle. Glip,” he gasped to Black.

“Yeah, they’re some kissers, those Zeeman girls,” Sirius agreed happily, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. “So you liked her, right?”

“Smlpff. Grxnl.” Snape’s eyes were still slightly crossed.

Black grinned. “Happy Christmas, Snape.”

Harry threw himself down on his bed with a happy sigh. As much fun as he’d had with Ron and the Weasleys, not to mention Padfoot and Moony, he was still very happy to be back at Hogwarts, in his own bedroom, with his da puttering away in his potions lab. He could tell that his da was very happy to be home too, though he was pretty sure he’d had a good time in Switzerland with Brunhilde. His da had gone out with her several more times after Sirius had first introduced them, and Harry had even tagged along once or twice. He liked Brunhilde – she didn’t treat him like a kid; she took his questions seriously, and she also didn’t seem interested in keeping his da all to herself. And he could tell that his da liked talking with her – and looking at her, though Harry had learned better than to point that out!

Still, Brunhilde had made it clear that she was very busy with her work in Basel, and she had a 9 year old godson there, Jonah, whom she obviously adored. She had suggested that maybe Harry and his da might like to visit her and Jonah sometime, and Harry was looking forward to it – that was perhaps the one thing he had missed while visiting Padfoot and Moony: having other kids to play with. Unfortunately, Jonah and his family were off visiting the dragons in Romania over the holidays, or Brunhilde promised he would have floo’d over. Still, it was nice to think that Harry might have a built-in playmate next time he visited his godfather… Not that Sirius didn’t qualify as an oversized playmate himself!

While Harry knew his da liked Brunhilde, Harry didn’t think Snape really minded that she was so obviously busy with her own life and not interested – at least right now – in spending lots of time together. He knew Snape had a lot to do too, what with his teaching and his House and thinking up ways to defeat Voldesnort. Harry relaxed on his bed, staring up at the canopy and wondering if the new term would be as exciting as the last.

“Oooooooh, Master Harry Potter Sir!” A pop by his right ear made him start, and he jerked up to see an unfamiliar house elf standing by his bed and wringing his hands.

Harry looked at the elf curiously. He didn’t think he’d met this one before, and it looked distinctly different from the average Hogwarts house elf. To start with, it was dressed in a ragged towel, and it was scrawny to the point of emaciation. “Er, hello?” he offered uncertainly.

“Master Harry Potter Sir said hello!” it squeaked in rapture, then instantly banged its head on the ground, badly startling Harry.

“Oi! Don’t do that!” Harry yelped, hopping out of bed and trying to restrain it. “Don’t hurt yourself!”

“Oh, Master Harry Potter Sir is a good master. Master Harry Potter Sir is kind and good, even to wicked, wicked house elves like Dobby.”

“Dobby? Is that your name?” Harry asked, hopelessly lost.

“Master Harry Potter Sir wants to know Dobby’s name!” The house elf’s eyes were shiny with tears. “Good Master Harry Potter Sir!”

“Erm, thanks, I guess. Um… can I help you?” Harry began to wish his guardian would appear in the doorway.

“No, no, Master Harry Potter Sir! It is Dobby who is here to help you. Master Harry Potter Sir must be leaving Hogwarts right away! Yes, Master Harry Potter Sir must not be staying here.”

“What? But I live here!” Harry protested.

“No no no! It is too dangerous! Bad things will happen soon and – No no no! Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!” The elf yanked at its own ears in a frenzy of self-loathing. “Mustn’t tell! Mustn’t tell secrets!”

“Dobby! Wait! Quit it! Stop!” Harry grabbed the frantic little thing. “Stop it! What danger? You mean for me?”

“Master Harry Potter Sir must leave Hogwarts! Master Harry Potter Sir must promise Dobby he will go away!”

Go away from Hogwarts? Like back to the Dursleys? Harry set his jaw. “I won’t,” he declared firmly. “I live here now, an’ I’m not leaving.”

Dobby gave him an anguished look. “But if Master Harry Potter Sir will not leave on his own, then Dobby will have to make him leave. No! No! Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby to threaten good, kind Master Harry Potter Sir!” And again the odd elf began to bang his head against the stone floor.

Now thoroughly unnerved, Harry ran for the door. He wasn’t sure if the elf meant him harm or was just completely doolally, but either way, he was pretty sure that his Da would have his hide if he didn’t seek help. To his relief, the elf was too busy punishing himself to try and prevent his escape.

“Da!” Harry dashed into the Potions lab, startling Snape and causing him to drop a vial of frog toes.

“Harry James Potter! What have I told you about running around like a bansh-“ Snape’s angry scolding abruptly halted as Harry darted around him as if for protection. Instantly his wand was in his hand and pointed at the door while his other held Harry close to his side.

“What is it?” he demanded tightly, when no obvious threat burst into the room in pursuit of the child.

“A house elf!” Harry exclaimed.

Snape fought not to bring his wand down across the brat’s backside. A house elf! The little monster ran in here as if the hounds of hell were after him, scaring him half to death, wasting valuable potions ingredients, all because one of the bloody house elves was being a bit too doting in its attention? “You –“ he started off furiously.

“No, no!” Harry shook his head, realizing the conclusion Snape had reached. “It’s not a normal house elf. This one was crazy! It kept banging its head on the ground like it hated talking to me and it wanted to send me back to the Dursleys and it threatened me!”

Snape blinked. A house elf threatening a wizarding child? That was practically unheard of. Spoiling the little beggars, yes. Threatening them? Hardly. “Are you sure it was a house elf?” he asked, once again raising his wand defensively.

“It looked like one an’ it sounded like one,” Harry said doubtfully, and despite his concern, Snape was pleased by this very Slytherin answer. Very good, my little snake, he thought. You are beginning to look behind the outward appearance that fools all the Gryffindors.

Snape led the way back to Harry’s bedroom, where nothing indicated that a house elf had ever been there. Snape cast several spells, but he was unable to find anything except evidence that a house elf had been in the room at some point – but since the school elves tidied his quarters, that was to be expected. He sat Harry down on the bed and turned a stern eye on the boy. “Was there really a strange house elf here?” he asked, frowning. “It wasn’t a dream, or maybe an imaginary elf from a game that you were playing?”

Harry gave him an outraged glare. “I’m not a baby!” he retorted indignantly. “I didn’t make this up for attention!”

“Hmmmmm,” Snape’s tone remained skeptical, but he didn’t press the issue. “Well, he’s gone now, so I wouldn’t worry about it.” He turned to go, then gestured impatiently to the boy. “Come along. You can clean up the frog toes you made me spill, and then I think some ingredient preparation will keep your mind off deranged house elves.”

Harry huffed as if greatly put upon, but since he didn’t really mind spending time with his guardian in the lab, he obediently followed the tall man, and the ensuing tasks quickly distracted him from the odd house elf’s visit.

Despite his outward calm, Snape was less dismissive of the event. A peculiarly acting house elf could hardly be good news. He determined to keep his eyes open for any unexplained phenomena in the new term.

“Da,” Harry spoke up unexpectedly as the two were busy grinding dried yew berries. “Are the Weasleys, y’know, normal?”

Snape bit back his instinctive, insulting response and glanced down at the boy. Where was this coming from? “What do you mean by ‘normal’?” he temporized

Harry frowned down at his mortar and pestle, as if he found the grinding very difficult. It had been really interesting to spend time with the Weasleys, though it had made him think a lot about the Dursleys and how different they were. Harry didn’t think it was just the difference between Muggle and Wizarding families either. Padfoot and Moony were great fun, but time with them was more like time with friends. The only rules really came from his da, and Harry rather suspected that Padfoot would have been all too willing to break a few if Moony hadn’t given him a Look every time he started to hint at it.

But the Weasleys had been a real family, with rules and punishments and presents and stuff, and it had indelibly brought home to Harry that not all families behaved as the Dursleys did. While Snape had told him over and over that his relatives were repulsive creatures, Harry hadn’t really understood just how differently his upbringing had been from Ron’s until he spent the holidays with the Weasleys.

“Harry?” Snape prompted, a frown appearing at the boy’s silence.

“Erm, Auntie Molly told you that we sorta got into trouble, yeah?” Harry asked, appearing to change the subject.

“If you are referring to the incinceration of the Weasleys’ Christmas tree, yes, I heard about it. Or was there some other event that you’d like to share with me?”

Harry glanced quickly up at his da and was relieved to see the man’s eyebrow was quirked at him sardonically. Good. That meant he wasn’t mad. “No,” he assured him hastily. “That was it. Uh, did Auntie Molly tell you that the twins started it? An’ that they were the ones who incendio’d the tree and cut the sofa in half?”

Snape blinked. “They cut the sofa in half?”

“Well, yeah, but Bill fixed that pretty quickly, so I don’t think Auntie Molly even noticed,” Harry admitted.

“I was aware that the twins were held primarily responsible for the event,” Snape nodded, deciding it was better to ignore the sofa issue entirely.

Harry went back to grinding the berries. “When it all happened, an’ Auntie Molly first came into the room, d’you know what she said?”

“The mind boggles,” Snape replied drily.

Harry looked up at him. “She said, ‘Who did this?’” He waited, as if he had just said something momentous.

Snape scowled. He didn’t like the feeling that there was something he was missing. “And what about that surprises you?” he demanded. “The lack of profanity?”

Harry shook his head impatiently. “No. She asked. Don’t you see? She didn’t automatically think it was me!”

Ah. Snape realized anew what life at the Dursleys must have been like for Harry. “I see.”

Harry nodded. “An’ when the twins told her it was mostly their fault, d’you know what she did then?”

Snape considered his answer carefully. He now had an idea where Harry was headed with this. “I understand they were punished… physically.”

Harry looked at him soberly. “She whacked them on their bums with a wooden spoon. Pretty hard too.”

“You are aware that will never happen to you?” Snape asked quickly. Had the punishment frightened the boy?

“Yeah,” Harry nodded. “But…”

“What?”

“Auntie Molly didn’t hit them as hard or as long as Uncle Vernon used to hit me. An’ I never burned down the Christmas tree or did anything as bad as that.”

Snape suppressed a sigh and laid down his tools. “That is because your Muggle relatives were inhumane and uncaring. Molly Weasley’s punishment of the twins, while undoubtedly unpleasant for them to experience and perhaps a bit frightening for you to witness, was nevertheless infinitely more appropriate than how those Muggles treated you.”

Harry kept his eyes on the yew berries he was crushing to a powder. “My uncle – and my aunt – used to hit me really hard,” he said quietly. “Even when I was a lot younger. It really hurt.”

“I know,” Snape said softly, watching the boy. What in Merlin’s name was he supposed to do or say?

“They said I deserved it.”

“And that was a lie!” Snape spat. His rage overtook him and he swooped down on the small boy beside him, tilting his chin up so he could see his eyes. “You did nothing to deserve such treatment. Nothing you could have done would have merited the treatment you received at their hands.”

Harry blinked back tears. “It wasn’t just that they hit me. I mean, they didn’t do it that often, but even when I was being good, I still had to do all the chores an’ stuff, while Dudley didn’t do anything. An’ if I did get in trouble, I didn’t get fed an’ I got extra chores an’ the Dursleys were mad for like forever. But at the Burrow, after the twins got whacked, they just came back to be with the rest of us. They weren’t locked in a cupboard. They didn’t even have to clean more of the living room than anyone else. An’ they got dinner that night, an’ pudding even. So did the rest of us, an’ we were being punished too. But even when we got sent to bed early, we still got hugged an’ kissed good night, an’ we were allowed to get out of bed to use the loo if we needed to, an’ no one had to do more chores than anyone else…” Harry broke off, the tears spilling over. “Why did my relatives hate me so much?” he wailed. “I really tried to be good, I did!”

Snape cursed under his breath even as he found his arms full of weeping, snotty little boy. Dear Wizarding Parent Monthly, he mentally penned, Why is it that children insist on taking responsibility for things which are wholly beyond their control, such as the depraved indifference of their caregivers, yet are wholly incapable of being responsible for such simple tasks as cleaning their teeth or picking up after themselves?

He spelled the lab stool into a more comfortable chair and settled the child on his lap. Merlin, if Albus or Minerva happened upon this scene, he’d never hear the end of it! Once the boy’s tears had finally slowed, he poked the brat to get his attention. When the wet, green eyes met his own, he asked, “Harry, what do you think would happen if I had gone to your house and cast a glamour on you and your cousin, making each of you look like the other?”

Harry blinked in confusion. “Huh?”

“What would have happened? Would your aunt and uncle have accepted their son’s behavior if it was done by someone with your face? Would they have been pleased with their son’s apparently turning over a new leaf and leaving his bratty ways behind when you – wearing your cousin’s visage – continued cooking and cleaning?”

“N-no. They probably would have killed Dudley when he acted his normal way an’ they would’ve tried to get me to stop doing chores.” Bewildered, Harry gazed at his da. Why was he asking such a silly question?

“Then don’t you see, silly child?” Snape scolded. “Their treatment of you had nothing to do with how you acted. You did everything they asked of you and they still treated you badly. It had nothing to do with you. They were reacting to what they thought you were, not who you really are, and therefore nothing you could have done would have helped. The fault lies with their own disgusting natures, not with what you did or didn’t do. They may have felt pressured to accept you into their home after your parents died, but that in no way excuses their treatment of you.”

Harry sniffled. His da always explained everything so well. “It – it wasn’t my fault?” he whispered. “Not even when I did – “ he cast a nervous look upwards “- freaky stuff?”

Snape rolled his eyes. “Harry James Potter, that ‘freaky stuff’ was entirely out of your control, and punishing a child for things they cannot control is never justified. Do you understand me, young man?”

Harry nodded and burrowed against his father’s chest.

“Good. Because the next time you suggest that it was your fault and not those horrible Muggles’, you will owe me 100 lines of ‘I do not control other people.’”

Despite himself, Harry giggled. “That sounds like something ol’ Voldesnort should write.”

Snape quirked his eyebrow. “Shall we make it ‘I am not responsible for other people’s abysmal behavior?”

Harry pouted. “No! That’s longer!”

Sitting the boy up, Snape conjured a warm flannel and wiped Harry’s face free of snot and tears, despite the boy’s loud protests. “Back to work with you, Mr Potter. I believe I said ground yew berries, not powdered. You will remain at this work bench until you do as you are told.”

“Daaaaaaa,” Harry groaned. “I’m hungry! It’s already been like four hours! Isn’t it time for dinner yet?”

“It’s been more like forty minutes, you impossible brat, and as I recall it was you who disturbed me with your tales of deranged house elves. Finish the yew berries and you may have a snack.”

There were no further visits from house elves, insane or otherwise, over the next twenty-four hours, and then the rest of the student body returned to Hogwarts. Harry was at the front door to greet his friends. “Harry!” Ron yelled as if they hadn’t seen each other in months, grabbing the dark haired boy and pummeling him in excitement.

“How was Switzerland?” Hermione asked Harry, impatiently pushing Ron away.

“Wicked! Sirius took me everywhere, and Moony an’ I saw that movie you told us about, and –“

“Oi, Harry!” Seamus and Dean greeted him with a couple of whacks on the shoulder. “Gonna do any flying in the Great Hall tonight?”

Harry grinned. “Nah. But I get to go back to living in the Tower with you guys!”

“That’s great!” Dean exclaimed.

“Oi, where’s Draco?” Harry asked, looking for the blond.

“We don’t know,” Neville replied worriedly, approaching with Crabbe and Goyle alongside. “Have you heard from him since Featherbee’s? We looked but couldn’t find him on the train”

“That’s because my father came to see the Headmaster and brought me with him,” Draco explained, sauntering up. “There was no reason to go on the train with all the riff-raff,” he added, giving Ron a disdainful look.

“Oh yeah?” Ron demanded.

“Yeah!” Draco retorted, and Hermione rolled her eyes as the two fell joyously into a shoving match.

“Draco! You’ll tear your robes!” Pansy Parkinson screeched, hurrying up and pulling the Slytherin away from Ron.

Draco gave her an unfriendly glance as his roughhousing was so rudely interrupted. “Who asked you, Pansy?” he snapped.

“Ooooh, Draco’s got a girlfriend!” Ron sang out happily.

“Shut it!” Draco snapped, shoving Ron again. But before hostilities (however eagerly anticipated by their participants) could again break out, Hermione snapped her fingers at Goyle and Crabbe, and the two behemoths obligingly stepped between the would-be combatants.

“I don’t want to be late for the Welcoming Feast,” she told the boys sharply.

Draco glared, affronted, but Ron was, as usual, happily distracted by the prospect of food. “Okay,” he said agreeably.

“So what did you do for New Year’s, Draco?” Harry asked as they entered the Great Hall. Most of the other students were still exchanging greetings or settling their familiars, so they were the first into the large chamber.

“The Malfoys had a big masquerade ball,” Pansy interrupted quickly. “All the best people were there,” she said pointedly, looking around at the Gryffindors.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Yeah, and my father made me dance with her,” he told Harry in tones of utter disgust. Even Ron looked sympathetic. “I’ve had nightmares for weeks.”

Pansy huffed in outrage. “I’m telling your father! We’ll see what he thinks of your manners!”

“So tell,” Draco snapped. “But then I’ll tell Professor Snape that you got a Housemate in trouble.”

Pansy paled at the thought of their Head’s reaction to this violation of the Slytherin code. “Fine. See if I care,” she managed to snap, then flounced away.

Draco stuck his tongue out at her departing back, and Ron and the other boys laughed loudly.

Hermione, after a moment of indecision, hurried after Pansy. She certainly didn’t like the girl, but there were times when some sort of sisterly support was needed, and she was certain that Pansy had heard and been hurt by the boys’ unkind laughter.

“Pansy, wait!” she called. “Are you okay? Boys are just so immature,” she offered consolingly, reaching the other girl’s side.

“They don’t bother me in the least,” Pansy said stiffly, though her trembling lip suggested otherwise. “Who cares about some stupid boys?”

“I bet you had a really nice dress for the ball,” Hermione prompted, and the Slytherin’s face lit up.

“Ooooh, yes! It was green and – what’s that?” Pansy said, her eye abruptly caught by an object on the nearby table.

Hermione looked on as Pansy snatched up the book. “It looks like someone’s diary,” she answered. “They probably put it down and forgot it when they saw a friend arrive. Give it to me.”

Pansy’s face darkened suspiciously, and she hugged the book to her chest. “Why should I?” she demanded.

Patiently Hermione pointed to the banner just behind the table. “This is the Gryffindor table. It probably belongs to someone in my House. I’ll give it to Professor McGonagall.”

“This isn’t the Gryffindor table anymore,” Pansy retorted. “Just because it’s closest to the Gryffindor banner doesn’t mean anything. People sit wherever they want now.”

“Well, yes,” Hermion was forced to admit the truth in the other girl’s words. “But it’s still more likely to belong –“

“No, it’s not! You just want it because you’re bossy and want to claim any reward! Well, you can’t have it. I found it, and I’m keeping it. If someone in your House reports a lost book, then you just have your Head of House talk to my Head of House!” Pansy snapped, spinning away and stalking out of the Hall.

Hermione rolled her eyes. That would teach her to be nice to Parkinson. She rejoined the boys, now loudly reliving their visit to Featherbee’s, complete with Jones’ treatment of the twins.

The Great Hall was noisier than usual that night, as the students excitedly shared their holiday adventures, but finally the Headmaster was able to quiet them down. “Welcome back to another term,” he said warmly. “I am certain it will be full of many exciting adventures in learning!”

Farther down the staff table, Snape rolled his eyes at the man’s incorrigible optimism. “Adventures”, yes. “In learning”, doubtful.

“As you all know, last term we suffered the unexpected loss of our DADA instructor,” Albus continued. Snape muffled a snort of derision. Well, yes, that was one way of describing what had happened – “unexpected loss” indeed! “Alas, it can be very difficult to find qualified instructors midway through the school year, so we are very fortunate that the Minister of Magic himself has assisted us.”

Snape’s attention, like that of most of the students, focused sharply. Fudge had a hand in the appointment of the new DADA instructor? Snape frowned. That surely meant that Lucius Malfoy had had a say in the matter – Fudge had barely enough wit to change his socks without seeking advice. But what could this mean? Snape hadn’t really paid much attention to the DADA issue; he knew Dumbledore wouldn’t offer it to him – not when he had his own Potions classes as well as his House and Harry to look after. Come to think of it, though, it was a little odd for Albus not to have mentioned anything before now.

Severus glanced over at Minerva, but she was looking as surprised and wary as he felt. Obviously then Minerva hadn’t been involved in selecting whomever this new faculty member might be. Considering Albus’ past appointments, that was not good news.

Snape frowned. He was confident it wouldn’t be Black or Lupin. While offering Black a position at the school would be very much in keeping with Albus’ determination to keep Harry at Hogwarts and defuse what he feared was Black’s plan for wresting custody of the boy, neither the mutt nor the werewolf would have been stupid enough to keep the information from Severus. Well, the werewolf wouldn’t be stupid enough. The mutt might very well think it would be a hilarious surprise, but he lacked the self-control to keep from sharing the plan with Harry, and Snape was confident that Harry would not have been able to keep that news a secret from him.

So. If it wasn’t one of the remaining Marauders, then who? Albus was quite correct: qualified DADA instructors should all have had jobs for the entire school year. Even idiots and charlatans like Gilderoy Lockhart or Emmanuelle Throckmorton could hardly drop everything and take up a teaching post with little warning. If nothing else, it would promote the wrong image for them to be perceived as so available.

Snape frowned again. If Fudge were involved, perhaps that suggested some civil servant was to be seconded to the school for the remainder of the school year? Hmmmm – perhaps some newly retired Auror or one on desk duty due to an injury? Snape began to feel a bit optimistic. Mad-Eye Moody would be a brilliant choice. Particularly now that he appeared less convinced of Snape’s Death Eater loyalties, it would be reassuring to have someone so paranoid lurking around the castle and ensuring that Voldemort hadn’t managed to sneak in again. Moody’s membership in the Order meant that Dumbledore would have no issues with accepting him, and after the previous term’s events, Snape could understand why Fudge (and Bones) might wish to have an observer from the Ministry and MLE present at Hogwarts. Yes, it all made sense. And having such an experienced Auror teaching the children could only be to the good. Snape nodded to himself. This could be very useful, particularly if he could get Moody to give Harry some extra Defense lessons. That would nicely complement his dueling lessons with Flitwick… But Albus was still talking.

“I am sure you will join me in welcoming Minister Fudge’s personal appointment to the Hogwarts staff, and our new DADA instructor, Professor Dolores Umbridge.” Albus nodded to the far end of the table from Snape and began to clap.

Students and faculty followed the Headmaster’s lead and applauded as a short, toad-like woman, dressed entirely in pink, rose to her feet. Snape’s stern self-control enabled him to bite back the furious oaths that were his initial reaction, though one glance at Minerva proved she too was less than impressed by this appointment.

“Now,” the Headmaster continued, “although the third floor corridor is no longer off-limits, I must caution all students that –“

The small, squat woman interrupted. “Thank you, Headmaster, for those kind words of welcome. Each new headmaster or professor brings something new to Hogwarts, but progress for the sake of progress must be discouraged. Let us preserve what must be preserved and prune practices that ought to be prohibited! Children, as your new DADA instructor, I promise that you will all leave Hogwarts with a good understanding of the theory behind Defense Against the Dark Arts. We will not waste time worrying about nonsensical fantasies or sensationalistic threats, and there will be none of those dangerous lab practicals. No, a theoretical knowledge is more than sufficient to get you through your examinations. After all, so long as you have studied the theory hard enough, there is no reason why you should not be able to perform the spells in the highly unlikely event that you ever face a practitioner of the Dark Arts.”

Snape was both gratified and insulted at the way everyone – student and faculty alike – glanced at him when Umbridge mentioned “a practitioner of the Dark Arts”. He glowered menacingly, and the gazes were hastily averted.

“Ah. Yes. Well.” It was almost worth losing Moody as DADA instructor to see Albus so nonplused. Snape enjoyed the moment while Dumbledore clearly struggled to decide how best to respond both to the witch’s unexpected wresting away of the floor and the outright idiocy of her statements.

“You cannot seriously be suggesting that in your classes, students will not have the opportunity to practice spells under supervision,” McGonagall snapped, leaning forward over her plate and fixing the other witch with a fearsome scowl.

To Snape’s mingled alarm and admiration, the other witch was unfazed. “Given how incredibly implausible it is that any witch or wizard will ever need to employ Defense Against the Dark Arts spells, I see no need to waste precious class time in practicing them. Even most Aurors go their entire career without encountering an Unforgiveable,” Umbridge added airily.

The absolute inaccuracy of the statement, coupled with the speaker’s tone of complete certainty, rendered McGonagall speechless for a moment.

Dumbledore, still looking uncharacteristically flustered, seized the opportunity to intervene. “I am certain we will all find your teaching style most interesting, Dolores,” he said quickly. “And now, let the Feast begin!” He hastily seated himself and the appearance of the serving platters prevented further debate.

“Albus! Are you insane!” Minerva demanded, grasping him by the sleeve. “Who is that fool? What in Merlin’s name is she doing here?”

Albus sighed. “Now, now, Minerva. Dolores’ ideas are perhaps a touch uninformed,” he said delicately, “but she had the good grace to accede to the Minister’s request and assume this teaching position on very short notice. I’m certain she’ll come around in time.”

Minerva snorted loudly, but forebore from further argument. On her other side, Snape was not nearly so reticent. “Headmaster, I understand why Madame Umbridge –“ he refused to award such a cretin the title “Professor” “- would seek to curry favor with the Minister by undertaking this job, but why did you agree to it?”

Dumbledore sighed. “Please, my boy, give her a chance. I looked everywhere for an instructor, but none were to be found. I approached the Ministry hoping we might be able to borrow an Auror, but when the Minister responded by providing Madame Umbridge, I was in no position to refuse.”

“And her qualifications?” Snape asked forbiddingly, his tone making it abundantly plain that he doubted she had any.

“Not perhaps any that are directly relevant,” Dumbledore admitted, “but she has had a very distinguished career in the Ministry, and that may be of interest and utility to the students who are interested in following such a path themselves. And the curriculum is fixed – any competent witch or wizard can demonstrate the majority of spells.”

“I shall immediately instruct my prefects to set up study groups,” Snape responded acidly. “At least my younger snakes can benefit from the experience of the older ones.”

“I do hope you’ll give her a chance, my boy,” Albus said, and his voice had a note of steel in it. “I’m sure you can recall how uncomfortable you were during your first term teaching.”

Snape subsided, grumbling to himself. “I was never incompetent,” he muttered rebelliously.

“At least it’s not for the whole year,” McGonagall sighed in his ear. “Would you like to create some inter-House study groups? I can have my prefects contact yours.”

Snape nodded. “Perhaps an informal Defense Club would be a good idea. I imagine the NEWTS and OWLS students would be most interested in such a thing.”

Both turned morosely to their meals, the students’ happy chatter swirling around them.

Next morning, the term got off to an inauspicious start. Shortly before classes began, Harry flew into their quarters and began ransacking his room. “What on earth are you doing?” Snape demanded, coming to the door of the boy’s bedroom.

“I can’t find my homework!” Harry yelled from where he was half-under the bed. “Have you seen it down here? It’s gone! All the professors are gonna be furious at me!”

“This is what happens when you don't maintain an orderly room,” Snape scolded. “Why didn’t you put it in your bookbag?”

“I did!” Harry protested, emerging from under the bed. “I know I did, but it’s not there now. I checked my whole trunk and around my bed in the Tower an’ everything.”

Snape’s brows drew together. This was uncomfortably reminiscent of some of his childhood experiences. “Could your roommates have chosen to destroy or hide your work?” he asked suspiciously, remembering all too many days when exactly that had happened to him.

Harry stared at him in frank astonishment. “Why would they do that?”

Snape relaxed a bit; apparently Harry did not have the troubles with his Housemates that he himself had experienced. “Perhaps as a prank?”

Harry shook his head adamantly. “No, they were all helpin’ me look. I mean, Ron’s my best mate, an’ Neville just wouldn’t do something like that, an’ it’s not like Seamus or Dean are mad at me.” Harry grimaced. “Dudley used to rip up my homework all the time, so I used to hide it, but it’s never ever been a problem here. I just don’t know where it could be!” he finished with a wail, and Snape realized just how close to tears the boy was.

“Calm yourself,” he ordered brusquely, but the hand that reached out to rest on the boy’s shoulder was gentle. Harry sniffled and stopped rushing around. “There is one benefit to having a faculty member for your guardian. I am well aware of all your homework assignments and that you completed them, since I required you to submit them to me for review. I will write a note for you for each of your teachers, and while they may still choose to penalize you for your carelessness in misplacing your work,” he overrode the boy’s protests, “they are likely to give you at least partial credit for having done it.”

Harry drooped, but he knew it was the best he could hope for. “You think I’ll still get punished?” he asked unhappily.

“You can certainly expect a detention in Potions,” his guardian told him sternly. “Perhaps an evening spent recreating your essay will help remind you to be more organized.”

“But that’s not fair,” Harry argued hotly. “You saw me do it! You even read it!”

“The assignment is not only to complete the work, but to hand it in on its due date so that it can be evaluated. You therefore did not complete the assignment in full, and you will be punished for it.”

Harry gave his father an angry look. “ ‘S not fair!”

“Any more cheek from you, Mr Potter, and I will reconsider writing a note to your other professors,” Snape warned, and Harry unwillingly subsided.

Most of the other teachers that day were – unsurprisingly – more forgiving than Professor Snape, though most did require Harry to visit them during office hours so they could orally examine him on the material. Between his guardian’s attesting to his having done the work and his obvious familiarity with the material, though, he avoided any additional detentions. Even the one he did receive wasn’t that awful – Snape insisted he spend the first half tidying his ransacked room, but he then relented and rather than having Harry rewrite his old essay, something Harry regarded as equivalent to writing lines, he assigned a new one. The new topic was rather interesting, and Harry nearly forgot to sulk as he left the detention.

Still, he told himself, it wasn’t really fair that he did extra, just because he lost his homework. A little voice inside him argued that his teachers had to have heard that one before, but he retorted that this time they knew it was true. He supposed his da had a point about him being supposed to hand it in, but Harry was more in the mood to feel annoyed about it than to concede any possibility of validity to his father’s argument.

It’s not like he had tried to lose the homework or even that he had been particularly careless with it. He distinctly remembered placing it into his schoolbag… but then it had vanished. He bit his lip. There was no way Dudley was around, but what could have happened to the work? Hermione had suggested that maybe he had taken it out somewhere to double-check it, and Ron had laughed hysterically at that idea, much to Hermione’s annoyance. Ron had taken a more laidback approach, arguing that “Don’t worry, mate. It’s bound to turn up. Probably right after your detention.” Harry huffed. It was all right for Ron to be so relaxed about it. It wasn’t his homework that had mysteriously vanished.

Harry sighed. He was probably making a big deal out of nothing. Maybe the papers had slipped out of his bag while he was moving his things up to the Tower. Or Peeves might have nicked them when he wasn’t looking. Or… in a magical castle, there were plenty of options. Harry just hoped nothing else went missing.

The next day was Harry’s first DADA class, and despite Snape’s note and Harry’s offer to be quizzed on the material, Professor Umbridge loudly tsked at him and ordered him to the front of the room. Then, as Harry squirmed with humiliation, she informed the class, with saccharine sweetness, that she was not only assigning Harry a double essay as punishment, but she was also taking off twenty points from Gryffindor. The rest of the students were wide eyed at this draconian penalty, and Harry had to bite his tongue to keep from yelling in outrage as she spent the next fifteen minutes alternately scolding him for laziness in not doing his work and pointing out to the rest of the class that she would not tolerate lying children. It was as if she were going out of his way to make Harry look bad in front of the other students, and Harry was crimson with mortification at being so publicly belittled.

Happily, she went in for such overkill that her plan backfired, and rather than giving Harry scornful looks, the rest of the class was overt in their sympathy when he was finally permitted to take his seat.

“Um-bitch!” Ron whispered as Harry slunk into his chair, fighting an intense desire to bury his head in his arms.

“What a toad,” Draco muttered on his other side. Hermione gave him a look of sympathy over her shoulder, and Harry began to feel a little better.

That night, he indignantly regaled his father with the story, but to his annoyance, Snape merely observed – with his usual coolness – that Harry could have expected that a new professor was likely to start her teaching career by making an example out of the first few students who misbehaved.

“But I didn’t misbehave,” Harry argued. “I didn’t even talk back to her. Even when she called me a liar and said I had obviously not bothered to do the work at all. She said I was lazy, and I was just lucky that she couldn’t send me to Filch to be caned!”

Snape’s eyes narrowed dangerously, but his voice remained even. “Unlike your other professors, Madame Umbridge does not know you, and pleading lost homework is a common ploy of lazy children. What is more, as a new professor, she naturally was relying upon your homework to give her an understanding of your level of competence. I suggest you attempt to redeem yourself with your essay.”

Harry resigned himself to following his da’s advice and headed to the Slytherin Common Room to study with his friends. Behind him, Snape hexed half the living room furniture to splinters. How dare that reptilian creature doubt his son’s word – not to mention the note he himself had written!

The next few weeks brought no thawing of relations between Harry and his new professor. If anything, Umbridge seemed intent on making Harry look as ridiculous and ignorant as possible, and she called on him with ever more pedantic questions. In the meantime, he – along with the other students – was rapidly finding DADA classes to be every bit as boring as Binns’ History of Magic. Umbridge refused even to demonstrate the spells, and most days merely had them either read their textbook or recopy pages from it.

She also played favorites so blatantly that the students were taken aback. She gushed over Draco and a few other students who had relatives in high Ministry positions and was nauseatingly unctuous to those whose families were wealthy or politically powerful. She was coldly dismissive towards Muggleborn students and any others with no connections to the rich and famous of the Wizarding world. Harry was the only exception to this rule.

“Merlin, Malfoy, is your robe soggy from all the sucking up Umbitch did to you in there?” Ron demanded as they walked along the corridor, leaving the DADA classroom behind them. The redhead was still smarting from a snide comment the professor had made about “families who will insist upon breeding despite having neither the finances nor the wit to do so”.

Draco shuddered. “You think I like having her lips imprinted on my arse, Weasley? I leave class wanting to climb into a hot shower. I mean, smarming up to a first year? How pathetic is that?” He sneered. “My father always says that there’s nothing more pitiful than people who bend over to kiss your feet when you don’t even have a stick to threaten them with. Spineless slugs – they deserve to be stepped on.”

“Nice, Draco. Are you planning to grow up to be a jackbooted fascist like your father?” Hermione demanded.

Draco blinked. He wasn’t sure what a ‘jackbooted fascist’ was – something Muggle, presumably – but the sense was clear from Hermione’s tone. “Now you’re defending her, Granger? You think she’s worth it?”

“I never said that,” Hermione retorted, tight lipped, as she marched down the corridor.

“Brainless scum like her are why we need a strong leader,” Draco continued, clearly quoting his father. “People like us need to keep people like her in their place.”

Hermione stopped and looked him right in the eye. “People like us, Draco?” she asked pointedly. “You’d let a Muggleborn into your little elite circle?”

The Slytherin had the grace to blush. “I never said anything about only purebloods being smart enough to govern,” he protested, a bit weakly.

“Doesn’t your father?” she pressed, while the others watched with interest.

“Just because I think my father’s right about some things doesn’t mean I agree with him on everything,” Draco said, giving a guilty look around as if Lucius might suddenly loom out of the shadows. “People like Umbridge need to be told what to think. Look what happens when they’re let into positions of authority.”

Hermione couldn’t argue with that, so she shrugged and started walking again. “She really is a dreadful teacher,” she agreed – Hermione’s ultimate epithet. “She doesn’t even try to help us learn the material, and she says some awful things.”

“How come she hates you so much?” Ron nudged Harry. “You’d think she’d be sucking up to you as much as Draco. I mean, yeah, his father’s good friends with the Minister, but you’re The Boy Who Lived.”

Harry shrugged. “I dunno. She’s just hated me since the first class.”

By the third week of classes, all of the Heads of Houses had heard loud complaints about the new professor. She was unfair, outrageously harsh in her punishments, and contributed nothing to the students’ education. Those who would be taking their OWLS and NEWTS were particularly upset, and impromptu study groups had sprung up everywhere to compliment the ones the Heads had organized.

Although Harry didn’t complain about Umbridge after that first night, her treatment of him did not go unremarked. Gryffindors and Slytherins alike reported how nasty Umbridge was to him to their respective Heads of House, who met to discuss the “Umbridge Situation”.

“Harry has not mentioned anything to me; has he spoken to you?” Minerva asked in concern, stirring her tea with rather more agitation that was her usual.

Snape shook his head, his features more than normally severe. “Not a word. But I have heard stories from other students. She seems to delight in pointing out his shortcomings.”

“Nor is he the only one, though he does seem to receive an unusually large dose of her vitriol. Many other students – in Filus’ and Pomona’s Houses as well – have been humiliated and mocked for no good reason.”

“While others are lavishly praised despite a similar lack of justification,” Snape nodded. “Draco Malfoy, Susan Bones, Cho Chang, Marcus Flint, Cedric Diggory, Germaine Scrimgeour…”

“All of whom have relatives with money or power or both,” Minerva pointed out. “I suppose we now know how that horrible woman achieved success at the Ministry.”

“Does she have any supporters? Even Trelawney has a few students every year who worship the ground she walks upon.”

McGonagall smirked. “Hardly. Even Hermione Granger thinks she’s horrid.”

“Miss Granger?” Snape’s eyebrows rose.

“Indeed. It appears that early last week Miss Granger asked That Woman about a counter to Duro. You will recall that the children witnessed its use against Poppy in the Infirmary.” Snape nodded warily. Minerva took a sip of tea and continued the story with uncharacteristic animation. “That Woman told Miss Granger to stop wasting class time by mentioning archaic spells that none of them would ever see, and further chastised her for being a mediocre little witch who tried to make herself look bright by bringing up irrelevant trivia.”

Snape’s eyebrows were now at record height. Whatever issues he might have with Hermione’s annoying habits, no one in their right mind could call the child mediocre. The young witch was already showing signs of being one of the smartest Hogwarts students in a century. “How did Miss Granger take the rebuke?”

“As you might imagine,” McGonagall’s tone was dry, “two of my other lions chose to intervene before Miss Granger could say anything.”

Snape rolled his eyes. “Weasley and Potter.”

“Mm. They pointed out that all three of them had in fact seen the spell used, and Mr Weasley used the opportunity to enumerate several of Professor Umbridge’s scholastic failings.”

“That could not have ended well.”

“No. A total of sixty points was subtracted from my House, and Mr Weasley received a week of detention with Mr Filch. I suspect that That Woman suggested to Argus that he might reprise a few of the older punishments, but I intervened and Mr Weasely is serving his detention with me. Harry received an extra essay for his effrontery in contradicting That Woman, and Hermione – “ Minerva paused dramatically “- received a zero for the day, and half-off all her scores for the entire week.”

Snape nearly dropped his teacup. “For asking a question?” He could only imagine the girl’s reaction to having her marks lowered so capriciously. Even he had never done anything that vicious. “Was she distraught?”

“I rather expected her to be,” Minerva admitted, “but it appears your Miss Jones has had quite the influence on her. Miss Granger decided to get angry instead.”

“Hmmm.” Snape forbore mentioning that Davidella Jones would not only get angry; she’d also get even. No point in alerting McGonagall to something she might feel compelled to prevent. If Hermione Granger chose to turn her impressive intellect to exacting revenge upon the Pink Toad, Severus Snape had no intention of getting in her way.

“What are we going to do, Severus? In addition to everything else, she really is a horrendous teacher. Even Quirrel was better at communicating basic Defense concepts.”

Snape glared at his tea, but was compelled to answer, “We must wait. Surely she will overreach herself, and then we will be able to remove her. But for now… we wait.”

McGonagall sighed. She knew intellectually that Snape was right, but her protective streak had been roused, and though her animagus form was a mere tabby cat, her devotion to her students was truly leonine. Her instincts called for bloody revenge, but if even a former Death Eater was urging patience… She sighed again and forced her usual stern demeanor to assert itself. She was the Deputy Headmistress, after all. It was unseemly for her to be having fantasies about staking Umbrige out for the Acromantulas. Just because That Woman was interfering with the scholastic career of untold numbers of students, making a travesty of the teaching profession… Minerva ruthlessly squelched that line of thought. Wait and watch. That’s what she had to do. She imagined her feline form sitting beside a mouse hole, waiting for a pink, toadlike mouse to emerge, and that mental image soothed her sufficiently to allow her to take her leave.

It only took another two weeks for the crisis to unfold.

It began as Harry and his friends were unhappily heading to their DADA class. “I hate this class even more this term – an’ last term Voldesnort used to make my scar hurt!” Harry complained.

“Oi, you clumsy oaf! Watch it!” Draco abruptly yelled at Vince as the larger boy accidentally trod upon the hem of his robe.

“Oops,” Vince said sheepishly. “Sorry, Draco.”

Hermione peered at the hem. “Oh no, it’s ripped, Draco.”

The others waited, expecting Pansy to swoop down with her usual shrieks and smothering attention, but to their surprise, the girl didn’t appear. Draco looked around, half-relieved and half-offended. “Parkinson – I’ve got a problem here!” he said rather huffily, spotting the dark haired girl standing off by herself.

Pansy shrugged listlessly. “I’m sure you can fix it,” she said quietly, then ducked into the classroom before he could respond.

The other children stared after her. “What did you say to her?” Hermione demanded suspiciously. “Did you hurt her feelings again?”

“No!” Draco defended himself. “She’s been acting weird for a few weeks now. She’s all withdrawn and won’t talk to anyone. It’s been kinda nice actually, not having her around all the time, acting like we’re practically married.”

Hermione glanced worriedly after the girl, but then she was busy trying to repair Draco’s hem with a half-learned spell, while the rest of the boys hurried into the classroom so as to avoid attracting the ire of Professor Umbitch, as Ron had christened her.

Hermione finally managed to fix it, but when they entered the room – the last two to do so – Professor Umbridge fixed her with a disapproving eye. “Well, well, Miss Granger, I see your prodigious intelligence has yet to learn the intricacies of telling time. Ten points from Gryffindor for your tardiness.”

“She was helping me, Professor,” Draco spoke up, his chin tilted arrogantly. “And the bell’s not even rung yet.”

“Oh, isn’t that noble of you, Mr Malfoy?” the toadying little witch said admiringly. “Ten points to Slytherin for trying to protect an undeserving acquaintance.”

Draco glared at her. Calling a Slytherin “noble” was hardly a compliment, but it was clear that even with his intervention, Hermione was not about to be let off without punishment. Although he was seething at his inability to force Umbridge’s compliance, Draco gave Hermione a look that was as apologetic as a Malfoy could manage. The Gryffindor just shrugged wearily. She had expected no less from Umbridge.

“Today we shall have a quiz,” Umbridge announced happily, and the class groaned aloud. “If you studied pages 160-190 of your text, I’m sure you will do very well indeed.” She glanced around her desktop, her brows drawing together. “Where are my notes?”

At first the students paid little attention, as they were busy pulling parchment and quills from their own bags, but as Umbridge’s searching became increasingly frantic, their attention was caught.

“My notes!” the toad was exclaiming shrilly, looking under her collection of china kittens and lace doilies. “Where are my notes?”

“Uh, Draco,” Greg Goyle whispered loudly, “why doesn’t she just use an accio?”

Draco rolled his eyes. Even the class lummox was smarter than Umbitch. “Because she’s an –“

Before he could finish the sentence, Professor Umbridge – obviously inspired by Gregory’s question – shouted, “Accio Professor Umbridge’s test notes!”

To everyone’s astonishment, a scroll whisked out of Harry’s bookbag and flew to the witch’s outstretched hand. A moment of dead silence resulted, finally broken by Ron’s whispering, “Good prank, mate, but maybe not one of your smartest.”

Harry stared wildly at Ron, then at his bookbag, and then at the professor, who had a smile of immense satisfaction slowly spreading across her face. “Well, well, Mr Potter,” she said softly. “Now we all see you revealed as a liar and a cheat.”

“Professor!” Harry said, panicking, “I swear I didn’t take your notes. I never saw them before in my life!”

“Yes. They just magically appeared in your bookbag,” she smirked. “I wonder what the Headmaster will say about this. Your fame will not be able to shield you from a proper punishment this time.”

Harry gulped. If there was one person at Hogwarts he truly feared, it was the Headmaster. The man had put him with the Dursleys once; who was to say he wouldn’t do it again? While the old wizard always appeared pleasant and offered Harry a lolly whenever they met, Harry knew perfectly well that such behavior could mask a multitude of sins.

He must have heard Aunt Petunia tell Dudley, “Never take candy from strangers!” a million times, probably because she knew it would be a cold day in Hell when Dudley turned down a sweetie. Petunia had tried to convince Dudley of the dangers associated with candy-waving strangers with exceptionally graphic cautionary tales; these had the effect of convincing her nephew to avoid any and all strangers like the plague but did nothing to persuade her son. In the end, she resorted to bribes, promising Dudley that if he did as she instructed, she would give him twice as many lollies as the stranger had offered the instant he got home.

Unfortunately for his waistline, while Dudley wasn’t bright, he did have a certain animal cunning, especially where treats were concerned. For the next two years, Petunia was convinced that her Duddykins was the number one target of Britain’s pedophiles, as Dudley happily invented dozens of mythical strangers, all trying to lure him into their caravans with bags and bags of lollies. It was around that time that Harry had begun to realize just how stupid his relatives were.

As a result, and coupled with Dumbldore’s track record thus far, it would take more than a few lemon drops to convince Harry of the Headmaster’s kindly nature.

“Since Professor Dumbledore has seen fit to abolish corporal punishment – a sad misjudgment in my opinion – I believe the only appropriate penalty for cheaters is expulsion,” Umbridge purred, sounding like one of the kittens in the numerous pictures that hung on her classroom walls. “Dear me, how the mighty have fallen.”

Expulsion! The word rang in Harry’s ears. He clutched the desktop, feeling the blood drain from his face. Umbridge smiled even more maliciously at the child’s obvious terror.

“Oh, yes, Mr Potter. You have outdone yourself this time. I’m afraid this offense is too severe for mere points and detention. You will have to be removed from Hogwarts before you can contaminate the other students with your nasty little Muggle habits. I suppose this is what happens when you allow undesirables into institutions of higher wizardry education,” she sighed.

“Please, Professor. Really, I didn’t,” Harry begged. “I swear…”

Umbridge waved a dismissive hand. “Gather your things, Mr Potter, and remove yourself from my classroom. I will meet you at the Headmaster’s office after class is over. You have already taken enough time away from the other students who are here to learn the material, not to cheat and lie their way through life.”

As if in a dream, Harry blindly stuffed his things into his bookbag and stumbled out of the room, oblivious to the anxious looks of his friends. Expulsion! He would have to leave Hogwarts! Even if the Headmaster only suspended him for a while, he’d still have to go back to the Dursleys in the meantime, and suddenly Harry knew with an absolute cold certainty that he would do anything to avoid going back to Privet Drive.

It wasn’t just the smackings and the Harry-hunting and the chores and the stingy rations and the thin mattress, grudgingly given. It was the disdain and the dislike and the daily reminders that they all wished he’d never been born. It had been hard enough to bear when he knew no other life, but now… No. He couldn’t do it.

But what choice did he have? Once he was expelled, he would have to leave the school and his da – maybe forever – and the Headmaster would probably take him straight back to the Dursleys as if the last six months had never happened. After all, the Headmaster hadn’t wasted any time in removing those four expelled Ravenclaws from school grounds.

Harry tried to think, but it was hard when every instinct was screaming at him to get out, get away before the Headmaster caught him.

He didn’t have much money – a few galleons left over from the shopping trip Hagrid had taken him on – and even if he did, what could he do? No one was likely to rent a room to a kid his age, whether he tried the Muggle world or the Wizarding. He was stuck in the middle of Scotland, in a castle that the Headmaster must know intimately, with no means of escape. He could retrieve his broom, but in the winter weather he’d be frozen before he got ten miles.

He knew there was a Wizarding village nearby – he’d heard the older kids talk about it – but that wouldn’t be big enough to hide in. No, he needed to reach London. He’d heard about runaways living on their own there. Thanks to the Dursleys, he knew how to do a lot of things and could probably earn some money doing odd jobs. Certainly no one would be able to find him among all those millions of people.

But how to get there? He couldn’t just stroll aboard the Hogwarts Express – he didn’t even know if the train came to Hogwarts when it wasn’t picking up or delivering students for the holidays. Harry shook himself. He couldn’t stand here dithering. He was wasting time. The first thing he had to do was get away. He could hide in the Forbidden Forest until he figured how to get to London, and once there he’d be safe.

Harry ran up to his dormitory. He knew he’d need to pack lightly. There wasn’t much point in lugging many things along with him. Once he got to London, anything nice would probably be stolen. He dressed in his warmest clothes (including the jumper Auntie Molly had knitted for him) and pulled on the winter boots his da had bought him, sniffling at the thought of having to leave his da behind, along with the rest of the Wizarding world.

He put his few remaining Galleons in his pocket and scribbled a quick note to Ron to please look after Hedwig for him. Eventually maybe he’d find a way to send for her, but for now, it would be safer to leave her here. And Ron needed a new familiar, so it seemed only fair that he should get her. Then Harry tucked his favorite pictures of his parents and Professor Snape into his heaviest cloak, wishing it was a bit more Muggle in design, and tugged on a knit cap. He left his Gryffindor scarf behind. He guessed he wasn’t a Gryffindor anymore, or wouldn’t be as soon as Professor Umbridge talked to the Headmaster. He stuck his wand in its holster. He knew from stories about Hagrid that when you were expelled, they snapped your wand, and he wasn’t about to give up his without a fight.

He checked the time. Only about 15 more minutes of class. He needed to hurry if he was going to be safely within the Forest by the time the Headmaster started to search for him, but he knew he wouldn’t get far without food. He figured he’d be pretty safe if he sneaked into the kitchens and begged the house elves for some snacks. It wasn’t like the Headmaster was likely to ask their help in finding him.

####

Meanwhile, Ron was getting progressively more worried about Harry. The look of utter desolation on his mate’s face as he turned to leave the room had been frightening, even worse than the stark terror he’d shown when Umbitch first mentioned expulsion. He finally threw down his quill and waved his hand frantically. “Please, Professor, I need to go to the loo!” he blurted. “Really bad!”

Ignoring the professor’s disgusted look and the giggles from some of the class, Ron bolted from the room and hurried out to the corridor to find Harry. He thought the other boy might be hanging around nearby, hoping to plead his case further once class was over, but there was no sign of him. Ron chewed his lip. Where would Harry go? Ron knew that if it had been him in that position, he would have run straight to his brothers and parents, but would Harry? He was used to taking care of himself, not having adults fix things for him, and Ron had a sneaking suspicion that Harry hadn’t headed to the dungeons.

He couldn’t see Harry meekly heading up to the Headmaster’s office either, no matter what Umbitch had told him to do, but where would he go? Scared, alone, terrified of his upcoming punishment…? Ron decided to head to the Tower. If Harry wasn’t in their room, then he’d find his brothers. They’d know what to do.

Upon his arrival at the dormitory, Ron let out a curse that would likely have led to his introduction to the wooden spoon if his mother had heard him. Harry wasn’t there! He turned to go, intent upon seeking out the twins and Percy, when a piece of parchment on his bed caught his eye. He grabbed it and seconds later was streaking to the dungeons. There was no time to find his brothers – he needed his Uncle!

####

Snape was wearily contemplating suicide as he watched yet another class of fourth years mangle a simple potion. If the students weren’t ogling each other, they were ignoring his very clear instructions and doing their best to explode their cauldrons, themselves, and his dungeons.

Abruptly the door flew open and a red haired blur burst in. Students yelped in surprise and dropped ingredients and stirring rods at the intrusion, and Snape rose from his desk, determined to eviscerate the little wretch for his sheer effrontery.

“Uncle Sev!” Ron panted. “Read this!” He thrust a crumpled parchment at the Potion Master and, too surprised to object, Snape complied. An instant later he had evanesco’d every brewing potion in the classroom. “You’re dismissed!” he snapped over his shoulder as he rushed out the doorway, leaving behind an astonished class and a breathless first year.

Harry shoved the last of the food into his bookbag and slung the strap over his shoulder. He hadn’t wanted to raise the elves’ suspicions by asking for too much or for food that was obviously intended for something other than dormitory snacking, but he’d still gotten enough that – once he went back on his Dursely-era diet – it would last him for quite a while. He figured he’d hide out in the Forest until the initial search died down, and then figure out a way to get himself to the city. Hopefully it wouldn’t take more than a week or two.

He gulped as he remembered some of the stories the older kids told about the Forest, but then he reassured himself with Padfoot’s memories. Hadn’t his godfather and the others played in the Forest every full moon? How dangerous could it be? And everyone knew that there was no such thing as a spider as big as a car. The twins were just making them up to scare Ron. Harry remembered a nature program he had once overheard on the telly; it had said that wild animals are much more scared of you than you are of them, so unless you gave them a reason to attack, like trying to pet them or something stupid like that, they’d just leave you alone. That’s how Harry would handle the Forest creatures: he’d leave them alone, and they’d leave him alone.

Harry hurried along the hall. It couldn’t be that much longer to the end of class, and he needed to get away while the corridors were still deserted.

He had just reached the main doors and was pushing them open when they swung shut on him with a resounding bang. Harry jumped in surprise and alarm, but before he could try to open them again, he heard his name. “HARRY JAMES POTTER!” Snape shouted furiously, emerging from the stairwell.

Harry tensed to flee but at a quick spell from Snape, a blue tendril of magic coiled itself around him and then he was sailing backwards to meet his father. He was deposited, none too gently, on his feet, and then two hard hands descended on his shoulders. “What do you think you’re doing?” Snape demanded.

Harry gulped, keeping his head down. What was he supposed to say? If he told his da and the man believed him, he’d fight with the Headmaster and at the very least lose his job. Maybe the Headmaster could even do something worse, like having his da sent to Izkibibble! But what if his da didn’t believe him and thought he really was a dirty lying cheat? Then he might not interfere with the Headmaster’s plans to send Harry back to the Dursleys, and that was an even worse outcome. Harry didn’t think he could survive seeing his father’s countenance grow grim with disdain and condemnation.

“I - I’ve got to go,” he blurted, trying to pull free.

“Oh, no, young man. I think not.” The bell rang and Snape glanced around, then quickly pulled Harry into a nearby unused classroom. “Now. The full story, Mr Potter, and be quick about it.”

Harry still stood, mute, and Snape’s patience evaporated. “I see, you wish to play charades. Very well. Let’s see what we have here.” He pulled off Harry’s hat and relieved him of first his bookbag and then his cloak. “So. We have a naughty child who is dressed in his warmest clothes with – “ a quick glance in the satchel “ – a supply of food. Could you be… planning to run away?” he cooed sarcastically.

Harry gulped and managed a tiny nod.

“And where exactly were you planning to go, you idiot child?”

“I – I w’s gonna hide in the Forbidden Forest,” Hary admitted, his voice nothing but a whisper.

“WHAT!”

He recoiled at the sheer outrage in the man’s voice and cowered in fear despite himself.

Snape forced himself to calm down. From the moment he’d read Weasley’s note and realized Harry was planning to leave Hogwarts, he’d been frantic he wouldn’t find the boy in time. Catching him literally on the threshold of the castle had been bad enough, but then to realize that the little dunderhead had been planning to calmly stroll into the Forbidden Forest as if it weren't filled with hungry man-eating Dark creatures… His fingers itched to slap some sense into the boy, but he took several deep breaths instead. “And why,” he finally was composed enough to ask, “did you feel this was necessary?”

Harry’s eyes filled with tears. He couldn’t tell his father! He couldn’t!

“Harry. You will tell me THIS INSTANT.” Snape’s tone left no room for refusal, and, choking with tears, Harry obeyed.

“ ‘M gonna be expelled an’ I din’t want to go back to the Dursleys, so I – I was gonna hide in the Forest an’ – an’ then run away to London,” Harry whimpered.

Snape blinked rapidly. There was just too much in that statement to process. Expelled? Returned to the Muggles? Run away? The Forest? London?

What in Merlin's name was going on? He’d last seen the boy at breakfast, and everything had been fine!

“Start at the beginning,” he commanded firmly.

Harry struggled to get his tears under control. What was wrong with him? He had to show more courage than this! How was he expecting to survive on the streets if he was such a crybaby? “P-Professor Umbridge,” he started, and Snape swallowed an oath. The Pink Toad! He should have known.

“What about Professor Umbridge?” he asked, forcing his voice to remain relatively calm. “Did she put the notion of expulsion into your head?”

Harry nodded miserably. “She said I cheated, an’ Professor Dumbledore would expel me for sure.”

Snape closed his eyes. He would strangle that woman with her own entrails. “Why did she say that you cheated?” he asked, opening his eyes and focusing his intense gaze on Harry.

“ ‘C-cause her test notes were in my bookbag. But I didn’t take them! I swear!” Harry protested tearfully, his tone frantic. “I wouldn’t! Even Ron thinks I did as a prank, but I didn’t! I didn’t even know we were having a test today! An’ I don’t know where she keeps her papers. I didn’t –“

Snape gestured the boy to silence. He had interrogated many students over the years and he knew sincerity when he heard it. Not that Harry would be the first child to make a foolish mistake, but he would never risk such a punishment, nor did he care enough about grades to want to cheat. It was very early in the term, so Harry was in no jeopardy of failing, and while Snape demanded that the child do his best, Harry knew full well he would not be punished for poor grades. So what possible motivation could he have to cheat? No, it was more likely that someone else was trying to make mischief for Harry… and had succeeded.

Not that that settled matters. “All right,” he interrupted the boy’s pleas to be believed. “But whatever Professor Umbridge may have said, why were you about to run away? Surely you don’t take anything that mor- person says at face value?”

Harry sniffled. At least his da hadn’t – yet – abandoned him in disgust. “You told me that Professor Dumbledore dealt with cheating,” he reminded Snape. “An’ Professor Umbridge said that it was too serious for points or detention, so since students don’t get whipped anymore, the Headmaster would expel me.”

“And the thought of having to leave Hogwarts was so distressing that you immediately made plans to leave Hogwarts?” Snape snapped.

“N-no. But if I couldn’t live here anymore, then I figured Professor Dumbledore would take me back to the Dursleys,” Harry’s voice trembled at the name, “an’ I’d rather live in the Forbidden Forest than with them.”

“Idiot child.” Snape scolded, tugging Harry out of his Weasley jumper. The boy’s face was flushed and at this rate he’d end up with heat stroke. All those layers of clothing were much too warm to wear inside the castle. “Even if you were expelled – which is about as likely as my taking up ballet and dancing the lead to Swan Lake in a white tutu,” he added acidly, managing to surprise a giggle out of Harry, “what on earth made you assume you’d be returned to the Dursleys? Do you not live with me?”

Harry stared at him. “But you live here. An’ if I had t’ leave Hogwarts then the Headmaster wouldn’t let me stay here. An’ I din’t want to make you lose your job or get the Headmaster mad at you.”

“You foolish little boy,” Snape snapped, gesturing a chair over and sinking into it. This had all happened because Harry didn’t want to cause trouble for him? “Do you imagine that having Albus Dumbledore angry with me is the worst thing that has ever happened in my life? First off, even if you were expelled, you would merely live with me here while I arranged for private tutoring. If the Headmaster objected,” he continued, raising a finger to stop Harry’s protests, “then we would move to one of my family homes.”

Harry stared at him. “You mean, you have a house? Of your own?”

“Several,” Snape retorted. “Foolish child.”

Harry blinked. “Y’ mean you’d be willing to leave? But – but what about your job?”

“I am a Potion Master, you ridiculous brat. Do you really imagine I need this job? That I cannot support myself – and you – in perfectly acceptable style through my work with potions?”

Harry was nearly speechless. “R-really?”

Snape used one finger to shut the boy’s dropped jaw. “Yes. And if for whatever reason I had a problem – which I would not – then you could stay temporarily with the Weasleys or your godfather or… Do you see how nonsensically you have behaved, you foolish, foolish child?”

Harry gulped. “B-but I din’t want to get anyone else in trouble with the Headmaster.”

Snape frowned. He had, he admitted to himself, utilized Albus as a bit of a bogeyman in the past, using Harry’s obvious wariness of the man’s past actions to help inspire good behavior, and now the ruse had backfired spectacularly. It was one thing for Harry not to follow the Headmaster blindly. It was another thing for him to fear the wizard more than Voldemort.

Though, to be fair, Dumbledore had – unwittingly or not – harmed Harry at least as much as the Dark Lord. Voldemort had murdered Harry’s parents and unsuccessfully attempted to kill him as well. It had been Albus Dumbledore who had placed Harry into the abusive hands of the Dursleys, prevented any and all attempts to check on him for a decade, and (at best) did nothing when his godfather was unjustly imprisoned. Perhaps Harry’s concern wasn’t all that far-fetched. Still, it could not be allowed to continue.

“Potter, the Headmaster has… made mistakes, but he is not an evil or uncaring man,” he said slowly. “He loves you dearly, that much I know, even if he has made disastrous decisions with regards to your welfare. You need not fear him.”

Harry looked unconvinced, but his panicked expression was slowly dying. He stepped closer to his da. “Are you sure he won’t send me back?” he asked nervously.

“To the Durselys?” Snape inquired. He managed not to smirk as he thought of the shuddering wrecks currently inhabiting Privet Drive. He almost wished he could see their reaction if Harry abruptly returned. They’d probably shriek and hide under the beds. They did that rather a lot these days. “No. Under no circumstance will you be returned to Privet Drive. It is no longer even a remote possibility. You will be fostered with the Longbottoms or Grangers before that would happen, and as I have already indicated, there is a long line of people who would take you before even that became necessary. But you will not, under any circumstances, return to the care of the Dursleys.”

“Or Aunt Marge?” Harry pressed.

“Any of the Durselys,” Snape amended. “I give you my word.”

Harry shuddered as an enormous weight of fear and tension left his body. His da had promised, and his da didn’t lie. Sometimes he told Harry things that he wished weren’t true, like how Volauvent had killed his parents, but he had never, ever lied to Harry. For the first time since that awful DADA class, Harry began to feel safe.

So of course he burst into tears.

Several minutes later, he managed to get himself under control. He was sitting on his da’s knee and he was – again – getting snot and tears all over his da’s robes, but his da didn’t seem to mind. Harry tried to mop up some of the mess, and a handkerchief was pressed into his hands. “Do you need my help to blow?” his da asked, rather snarkily.

Harry honked and blew. He couldn’t really blame his da. He was nearly 12, for Merlin’s sake! And look at him, bawling like a toddler. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

Snape stifled a sigh at the miserable child in his lap. He needed to curb that sharp tongue of his, even if his best robes were now liberally smeared with disgusting body fluids. It was hardly Harry’s fault – he had been terrorized by that Pink Toad Bitch Witch From Hell. “It is all right, Mr Potter. You have had an atrocious day. Marcus Flint would have been reduced to tears in your place.”

Harry had to giggle at the mental image of big, burly Flint blubbering on Professor Snape’s lap. For one thing, he was as tall as the professor, so his da would practically disappear underneath the muscular student.

Snape noted the watery smile with satisfaction. Ha. I’ve still got it. “Are you feeling better?”

Harry took a deep breath and nodded. “I’m not gonna be sent to the Dursleys,” he said firmly, though his eyes quickly sought Snape’s for reassurance.

“That is correct. You need never worry about that again.”

Harry nodded his understanding, and Snape felt his body relax even further. A moment of silence passed, then, “Da?”

“Yes?”

“I was kinda stupid today, yeah?”

“Yes. Perhaps you can enumerate the examples for me?”

Harry looked up at him sheepishly. “Well, I believed Umbitch – erm, I mean Professor Umbridge… An’ I tried to run away… An’ – uh – I was gonna hide in the Forbidden Forest.”

“And?” Snape demanded.

Harry thought hard. “Erm… I lied to the elves to get food?”

Snape scowled at him. “No, you dunderheaded brat. Your biggest mistake today was that you were in trouble and you did not come to me. You thought that you were supposed to protect me, when it is the parent who protects the child, not the other way around. You forgot all the many adults who love you and who will protect and take care of you. You tried to take care of everything all by yourself, which is both unnecessary and ill-advised. At eleven, you do not have the necessary resources to look after yourself properly. Did you not ask me to assume that role? How am I supposed to safeguard your welfare if you do not tell me when something is wrong, silly child?”

Oh. Harry squirmed at the recitation. It was both awful and wonderful at the same time. Awful because it made Harry seem like such a nitwit. Wonderful because he had never, ever, in his whole life felt as safe as he did just then.

“ “M sorry,” he said, snuggling closer to his dad and trying to prevent the grin of sheer happiness from spreading all over his face.

Another few moments of quiet passed, and Harry thought some more about what his da had said. “Da?” he said, rather more tentatively.

“Yes?” Snape sighed. All this emotion was going to give him a migraine. Wasn’t the boy recovered yet?

“Are you gonna… Erm, that is, did I…” Frustrated at his own incoherence, Harry just gave up. “You’re gonna whack me, right?” he asked bluntly.

“I am?” Snape echoed before he could stop himself. It was the Pink Toad on whom he really wanted to vent his wrath, but as he recalled how blithely Harry had proposed to camp out in the Forbidden Forest, he could feel his blood pressure rise. Perhaps a few sharp smacks to the brat’s behind would not be a bad idea. On the other hand, the Toad had already frightened Harry half to death and that was probably enough punishment for such a sensitive child.

He snarled to himself. That witch was going to pay…

Harry shifted uneasily on his da’s lap. He had disobeyed the rule about not going into the Forbidden Forest – or he’d been prepared to disobey it, anyway. And running away like that, when they didn’t even know where Voldemold was, would have been pretty dangerous… In fact his whole plan was, Harry now realized, pretty stupid, and he remembered what his da said about stupidity always being punished. He sighed. He had definitely earned himself a smacking, regardless of whatever else he got for the alleged cheating.

He glanced at his da. Yup, he looked pretty fierce. Resignedly, Harry slid off his da’s lap, then draped himself over the man’s knee. Not that his da had ever whacked him in that position before, generally just turning him around to give him a light slap, but Harry knew he had really earned this smacking. The troll and the rememberall and even the football at the Weasleys had sort of been accidents, but this time he’d deliberately set out to break the rules. This time, he deserved every whack, though he suspected his da wouldn’t be able to be too hard on him. The man really hated to give spankings, and Harry felt bad for being dumb enough to earn one, forcing his da to have to deliver it.

Still, if they were going to face the Headmaster, it was important to show that his da didn’t let him get away with any naughtiness, and maybe his having a sore bum would convince the Headmaster that Harry had been suitably punished for the cheating offense. “ ‘M ready,” he said encouragingly. “Three whacks, yeah? For stupidity an’ endangerin’ myself an’ for disobedience.”

Snape had been paralyzed with shock when the brat had abruptly laid himself across his knee. What in Merlin’s name was he supposed to do now? And three swats? Where had that come from? Hadn’t he promised the boy a maximum of two?

On the other hand, Harry could hardly make his expectations more clear, and the books did say to follow the child’s lead, where appropriate. Snape glared down at the waiting trouser seat. Why was it always him who had to be the awful, stern disciplinarian?

Of course, painting Albus in that light was what had gotten him into this trouble in the first place, and it was apparent from Harry’s expectant look that he didn’t really fear Snape’s punishments… He gritted his teeth and raised his hand. Think about the boy wandering in the Forbidden Forest. Think about Harry alone on the streets of London. Think about Harry freezing to death in a snowdrift.

That did it. His fury at the child who had caused him such terror came flooding back, and he managed a very respectable whack to Harry’s backside.

“Ouch!” the brat said obligingly.

A second smack, equally as hard, fell briskly on the same spot, and Harry’s reaction, while not yet in the Weasleys’ league, nevertheless made it clear that he had wholly abandoned the “hold still and no yelling” rule that his uncle had laid down.

Snape faltered, uncertain as to whether to deliver a third, but Harry showed no signs of rising, though he was squirming a bit. Snape waited a moment, then laid one more crisp slap on the wiggling bum.

“Ow!” Harry greeted the final spank with a yelp, his hands immediately reaching back to grab his smarting behind.

Harry grimaced as his hands gingerly tried to soothe his outraged bottom. His histrionics weren’t merely for show; this time his da hadn’t just tapped him. While none of the swats had been as hard as the smack he’d gotten for flying in the Great Hall, that punishment had been a single wallop. This time his da had administered three sharp swats, and though it came nowhere near an Uncle Vernon – or even, he suspected, an Auntie Molly – whacking, his rear still stung.

He pouted a bit as he rubbed, but then an encouraging thought occurred to him. If the Headmaster wanted proof that his da had properly punished him, he’d have it. Harry was pretty sure that three pink handprints currently adorned his bum.

Snape gave the boy a moment before hoisting him to his feet. He cast an anxious glance over Harry’s face, but the boy was dry eyed. “Those were hard!” the brat informed him, but the man could detect neither reproach nor distress in the tone. If anything, the boy sounded faintly admiring and a bit relieved.

“See that you recall it the next time you contemplate such a dunderheaded stunt,” Snape managed to snap, though he fingered the vial of healing potion he kept in his pocket as he watched Harry shift uncomfortably from foot to foot, wincing a bit.

“I will,” Harry promised. He paused for a moment, then: “C'n we go to the Headmaster’s office now?”

His father had (for a change) used a bit of force while smacking his backside, but Harry now possessed – thanks to his da’s close attention to his dietary habits – significantly more padding on that part of his anatomy than he’d had upon his arrival to Hogwarts. As a result, the effects of the spanking were unlikely to last more than a few minutes, and Harry wanted to arrive at the Headmaster’s while proof of his punishment was still evident, just in case Professor Umbridge had a better understanding of the Headmaster's character than his da did.

His da was so nice that he probably thought the best of most people, but Harry wasn’t so sure. Still, if he showed up with his bum reddened (well, a little pinkened anyway), maybe the Headmaster would decide not to pursue other, harsher penalties for the cheating incident. Harry really didn’t want to get his da into trouble, and he knew Snape would defy the Headmaster rather than make Harry submit to any severe punishment.

“Perhaps we should wait until later,” Snape said, frowning. “I think you need a chance to rest after your… chastisement.” He didn’t want Harry to feel overwhelmed. He’d just had an emotional outburst in reaction to the morning’s terror, and immediately thereafter he had been soundly smacked. Surely the child should have a few hours to compose himself before dealing with the accusation of cheating.

“No, please, Da! I really want to get it over with,” Harry pleaded, and in the end Snape acquiesced.

He led the way to the Headmaster’s office. Dumbledore must have expected them, for Snape had time to do nothing but glare at the gargoyle before it jumped aside. He started up the staircase, only to realize that Harry was lagging behind, a frightened look on his face. He firmly took the boy by the shoulder. They were here to get it over with, and that’s what they would do.

They entered the office to find Dumbledore and Umbridge there. “Headmaster,” Snape said formally, merely nodding at Umbridge. As much as he would have liked to wring her neck right then and there, he suspected Albus would interfere.

That was all right. He would deal with The Pink Toad later. Right now he needed to focus on convincing Harry of the headmaster's kindly nature.

“Ah, Severus. And Harry! There you are, my boy. I understand there was some excitement in your class this morning.”

Harry hung back. He knew his da had said not to worry, but he still felt his stomach lurch with dread. Umbridge was standing there smirking at him, as if she and the Headmaster had already agreed on his expulsion. Professor Dumbledore was sitting behind the desk, the half-smile he always wore on his lips. He looked like a kindly old grandfather, but Harry wasn’t fooled. This was the man who had sent him to the Dursleys and left him there like an unwanted package for ten long years. This was the man who had watched them drag Sirius away without so much as a trial. He swallowed hard. “Y’sir,” he whispered.

Unconsciously, his hand went to his still-tingling rear and gave it a careful rub. Umbridge’s eye followed the movement, and her face lit up in a satisfied smile. She glanced rather dismissively at Dumbledore. “Well, whatever your opinion may be, Headmaster, it’s obvious there are other professors in the school who feel as I do.” She beamed at Snape before turning a nasty smile on Harry. “Mr Potter, I can see that you have been appropriately punished for your actions. A good swishing perhaps?”

Harry had no idea what she was talking about, but he wasn’t about to argue with a faculty member in front of the headmaster. He ducked his head and mumbled something which Umbridge blithely took as agreement. “I am so happy to find like-minded members of the faculty, Professor Snape,” she simpered, heading for the door. “I’m sure that between us we can enforce standards of proper behavior here.”

Snape managed not to cast an Unforgiveable as she fluttered her eyelashes at him then exited the room. He turned back to where Harry was still studying the floor and rubbing his backside while Albus watched him sadly.

“While I am sure you did not in fact use a cane,” Albus said to the Potion Master, his voice heavy with disappointment, “I’m nevertheless dismayed that you found it necessary to punish Harry in such a fashion. It is true that cheating is a despicable offense, but young boys often do foolish things.”

Harry’s heart sped up. Did the headmaster just say that he was upset that his da didn’t use a cane on him? He edged closer to Snape, just in case the headmaster decided to hex him the way Remus said some Wizarding parents did.

Snape noticed Harry’s movement and sighed. Obviously his earlier words hadn’t been enough to convince the brat. “Headmaster, Potter was not punished for cheating, because despite what that b–“ he remembered the boy’s presence in the nick of time “ – witch may have told you, he did not cheat.”

Harry moved closer still. Ooooh, here it came. The headmaster wasn’t going to like being told he was wrong. He sneaked a look. Yup. The headmaster was frowning.

“But if that is true, Severus, then why is it apparent that Harry is… uncomfortable?”

“He was not punished for the erroneous charge of cheating, Headmaster, but he did receive a smacking for intending to risk his life with a disobedient and foolish plan to run away, first to camp in the Forbidden Forest and then to live rough on the streets of London.”

Harry colored. Okay, it sounded really stupid if you phrased it like that.

Albus opened and closed his mouth a few times before he managed to ask, “To live in – and then to go to – but why? Why would Harry want to do such a thing?” Abruptly his eyebrows drew together in a fearsome frown. “Was he that frightened of your reaction, Severus?”

Snape took a deep breath. This was not going to be pleasant: Albus was going to be devastated. “No, Headmaster. He was that frightened of your reaction. Professor Umbridge convinced him that you would expel him based on those ludicrous charges, and he feared that once you had done that, you would return him to the Dursleys. He preferred to face acromantulas and pederasts than to return to that household.”

And now Snape saw what he had never even imagined. The great and wise and all-knowing Albus Dumbledore was absolutely gobsmacked. “Harry feared ME?” he demanded, his hands disbelievingly coming up to point at his own chest.

In response, Severus just glanced down at the boy who was now more or less hiding behind him. Harry’s body languge spoke volumes.

Albus’ gaze darted wildly around the room, from the dishes of lemon drops to his shelves of fascinating gizmos to Fawkes regarding him sadly from his perch. It was as if he were trying to reassure himself that he, Albus Dumbledore, acclaimed wizard and well-known doting old coot, could not possibly be thought of as a scary and cruel tyrant. Didn’t students come to him to avoid punishment and scoldings? How could Harry Potter, the child he most loved and worried about, possibly fear him?

“But why would he?” he finally managed to make his voice work. “Did you say something to –“ Dumbledore broke off and flushed. “I apologize. That was uncalled for.”

Snape inclined his head, silently accepting the apology. “Headmaster, the boy is not a dunce. He is well aware that you were responsible for his placement after his parents were killed, and that hardly gave him reason to trust your judgment. Hearing how the Wizengamot, under your leadership, declined to become involved when his godfather was unjustly accused of mass murder further eroded any confidence in your beneficence.” He put one hand on the boy’s shoulder and gently drew him forward. “Professor Umbridge built upon that fear by promising that you would expel him for cheating. Not unreasonably, he assumed this meant that you would return him to his pre-Hogwarts home – the home you had chosen for him and left him in for all those years.”

Harry had resisted his da’s pull at first, but Snape would not be denied, and he was unwillingly guided from his place of refuge to stand in front of the Headmaster. He kept his eyes on the floor, the way Uncle Vernon always preferred, though he didn’t realize he had ducked his head and hunched his shoulders as if expecting a blow. The stance wasn’t lost on the two men, however, and Albus felt his heart splinter in pain. If he needed any further evidence that he had totally and horribly erred that fateful day in Godric’s Hollow, this was it.

“Harry.” Despite all his efforts, his voice broke.

Startled, Harry glanced up and was thunderstruck by what he saw. The Headmaster was crying! Big fat tears were rolling down his cheeks, and his eyes were the saddest Harry had ever seen. His whole expression was one of utter desolation and guilt.

Unconsciously, Harry straightened up and moved closer, transfixed by the sight. He’d never seen an adult weep before – certainly not over him. The Headmaster didn’t try to hide his tears, either. He just sat there and let the tears flow.

“Pr’fessor?” he asked wonderingly, taking a step nearer the desk. “Are you all right?”

Albus’ voice cracked as he replied. “No, Harry. I have only now realized how grievously my foolish decisions have harmed you. I am so very, very sorry.”

Harry squirmed a bit. He didn’t want to cause anyone such distress. “It’s okay,” he offered, moving around the desk and tentatively patting the elderly wizard’s shoulder. “I’m all right now.”

Dumbledore closed his eyes in pain. “You show me a kindness I do not deserve, Harry. I have caused you such suffering over the years – all because in my arrogance, I was convinced I knew better than anyone else. I was so certain I was right, I never bothered to check. I had decided what would be best for you, and I would not let anyone tell me otherwise.” He opened his eyes and directed a pleading look at Harry. “I do not expect you to forgive me, child, now or ever, but can you please try to believe me when I tell you that I truly thought I was doing the right thing? That I was giving you the best, most happy home I possibly could?”

The naked anguish on the man’s face was impossible to miss, as was his patent sincerity. Harry swallowed hard against the lump in his throat and nodded.

“Harry, your parents loved you so much… I loved you so much. I wanted you to stay the happy baby I knew. I thought that there could be no better place for you than with family. You were such a beautiful, friendly baby – I never imagined that everyone else wouldn’t love you as much as I did…I was such a fool, Harry. Such an old fool. Only seeing what I wanted to see.” Albus finally broke down and sobbed, burying his face in his hands.

“Pr’fessor, don’t cry,” Harry begged, patting Dumbledore on the back. “Please don’t cry! I’m okay, honest!” He sent a frantic glance over to his da, and Snape – desperately wishing he were anywhere else, even Umbridge’s bathtub – came forward to help.

“Albus, please try to control yourself,” he said awkwardly, stationing himself at the wizard’s other shoulder and emulating Harry’s comforting pats. “You are upsetting Potter.” He fumbled in his robe, desperately hoping that, in addition to the healing potion, he also had a calming draught in his pocket.

He summoned a house elf and ordered tea, then added a large dollop of calming draught to the cup before handing it to Albus. By then, the Headmaster had managed to regain his composure and was smiling weakly at a still-worried Harry, who remained at his side.

“Thank you, my boys. I truly do not deserve your compassion,” he said softly. “I have failed you both so terribly.”

“Erm, well, we could just pretend to start over,” Harry offered, hating to see anyone as dreadfully unhappy as the Headmaster clearly was. “I mean, you won’t do it again, right?”

Snape muffled a snort – Typical Gryffindor! – while Albus smiled at the boy. “No, my boy, that I won’t. I rather think Professor Snape will hex me to pieces if I were ever even to think of such a thing.”

“So you won’t send me back to the Dursleys?” Harry asked, just to be certain. “Not ever?”

Dumbledore smiled and shook his head. “Not ever, Harry. You will never again see them, unless you choose to do so. I give you my Wizard’s Oath that I shall never send you back there.”

Harry relaxed and blew out his breath in a whoosh. “Good!”

“Do you remember that your professor made me promise him that same thing on the very first night he brought you here?”

Harry blinked. “He did? Y’mean that first night I had detention with him?”

Albus nodded, ignoring Snape’s scowl. “Yes. After he learned of your relatives’ treatment and brought you here, he said to me, ‘I assure you that, blood wards or no, he will not be returning there again.’ He would never have permitted you to be returned to the Dursleys. Not by me or anyone else.”

Harry glanced back at his da. He didn’t recall that, but to be fair, a lot of that night was kind of a blur. He’d been in such pain, even before the knock on the head, that he wasn’t really paying a lot of attention. Wow! That proved that even before he had agreed to be Harry’s guardian, Professor Snape was already looking after him.

“I hate to intrude upon such a nauseating stroll down Memory Lane,” Snape said forbiddingly, “but we still have the issue of Madame Umbridge’s charges to address.”

“Oh, yes.” Albus looked pensive. “Harry, do you know how your teacher’s notes ended up in your satchel?”

Harry shook his head vehemently. “It wasn’t me!”

“That wasn’t the question,” Snape scolded. “No one is doubting your veracity, foolish boy, we are trying to solve the mystery of how the scroll was placed there. If you didn’t do it, then who had access?”

“Oh.” Harry relaxed again and thought hard. “I dunno, Da. I mean, we were all walking together. I guess someone could’ve slipped it into my bag before we got into class, but how would they have had the notes then? An’ I don’t see how they could’ve done it after we got to class. My bag was right next to me at the desk. I would’ve seen someone reaching into it or levitatin’ a scroll to it.”

“And yet they were placed there somehow.” Snape’s frown deepened. This was sounding less like a schoolyard prank and more like a serious threat against Harry.

Albus patted the boy gently on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Harry. We will discover the truth. In the meantime, try not to let Professor Umbridge upset you. After all, whoever tricked you tricked her as well, but I suspect she is less willing to admit her error.”

Harry scowled, looking remarkably like Snape. “Y’mean, she’s still gonna go around saying I’m a cheat?”

Dumbledore sighed. “I will speak with her and tell her that the matter was explained to my satisfaction, but I imagine she will remain unconvinced. After all, Harry, she does not know you personally, and you must admit the evidence was rather incriminating.”

“I guess,” Harry agreed reluctantly. “But I’m not gonna be punished, am I?” he added anxiously as the thought struck him.

“No,” the Headmaster assured him firmly. “I will inform Professor Umbridge that the matter is closed.”

“Okay.” Harry figured it was the best he could do. Umbitch would doubtless go on making snotty comments about him in class, but she would have done that no matter what. At least he had learned he didn’t have to fear the Headmaster, and he now knew to go to his da when he was in trouble – no matter what kind.

“Would you like a lemon drop, Harry?” Dumbledore invited. Snape rolled his eyes; obviously the Headmaster was feeling better.

“D’you have any chocolate?” Harry asked hopefully, then squeaked as his father’s hand clipped him lightly on the bum.

“Manners, Mr Potter!” Snape scolded.

Albus laughed. “Now, Severus, it is perfectly all right for Harry to express a preference. Just because I like lemon drops doesn’t mean everyone else does.” Snape snorted as Albus searched through his desk drawers. “Now where is that box of frogs…? Ah, here we go.”

Harry happily accepted a chocolate frog, avoiding his da’s gimlet gaze.

“No pudding tonight,” Snape ordered sternly.

Harry nodded agreeably. “That’s okay. It’s rhubarb crumble tonight,” he explained to the Headmaster, wrinkling his nose.

Albus wrinkled his in return. “Oh dear. I don’t really care for rhubarb either. Perhaps we should see what else we can find in my desk.”

Snape glowered as the two candy-lovers happily explored Albus’ stash. He knew trouble when he saw it.

Following what Albus referred to as a “little snack” and Snape considered “a sugar binge”, a happily stuffed Harry was sent back to class.

“Oh, Severus, I have been such a fool,” Albus said mournfully, his shoulders slumping. “What I have done to you and Harry...”

Snape squirmed uncomfortably. It was one thing to have Harry weep all over his robes, but he really didn’t think he could stand Albus doing the same thing. “The boy will be fine, Albus. I will see to it,” he said quickly, so desperate to head off another tearful breakdown that he didn’t realize quite how much he was giving away about his own emotional attachment.

Dumbledore wiped his eyes and twinkled at him. “That I can well believe, my boy.”

Snape rolled his eyes. “Now then,” he said firmly, getting down to business, “about Madame Umbridge. Surely this episode demonstrates her complete unsuitability –“

“Now, Severus, this was not precisely her fault.”

“What!” Snape barely managed to avoid shouting at the old idiot. “She terrorized Har- Potter to the point where he was running away in a blind panic! She –“

“She had excellent reason to believe him guilty of attempted cheating,” Albus pointed out gently. “She is a new instructor, and perhaps that is why she feels she must establish herself as a stern disciplinarian. With time, I am confident that she’ll learn that such tactics are inefficient, but for now we must be sensitive to her understandable insecurities.”

“Insecurities!” Snape scoffed. “She’s too stupid to be insecure. That would require a degree of insight and self-awareness wholly absent in that cretinous toad!”

Dumbledore hid a smile. “There is a rather unfortunate resemblance,” he admitted, “but that is all the more reason we should be tolerant. I am certain that the students have also noticed the resemblance and that perhaps gives Dolores even more reason to be somewhat strict with them.”

“Albus, you are being deliberately obtuse! That witch has no business teaching children! She threatened Potter with expulsion!”

Albus raised his eyebrows. “And you have threatened students with evisceration,” he pointed out.

Snape couldn’t precisely argue with that. “She openly states her support of corporal punishment!”

Albus stroked his beard and wisely forbore from pointing out that Snape had just administered corporal punishment, choosing instead to focus on a more distant event. “Hmmmm. I seem to recall a certain Head of House voicing similar opinions after a prank last year involving showers and paint…”

“She torments Potter in class,” Snape argued, growing desperate. “She plays favorites and –“

Dumbledore merely looked at him, and Snape blushed. “Well, yes, I suppose that some other faculty have been less than fully impartial at times, but her excesses are –“

“Severus, I can hardly dismiss Dolores for doing nothing more than certain other faculty have done and, frankly, are well known outside Hogwarts for doing,” Dumbledore said firmly, giving him a pointed look. “How could I possibly explain that to the Minister?”

“Fudge is an idiot!”

“He is also the duly elected Minster of Magic and a person I see no value in antagonizing needlessly. He recommended Dolores for the post, and dismissing her without cause would be an insult to him. She may not – yet – have impressed us with her teaching style, but neither has she done any real harm.”

“And if her vicious remarks had actually driven Harry into the Forest, would you still be so convinced as to her harmless nature?”

“Now, Severus, as I said before, Dolores is just as much of a victim in this as is Harry. She was tricked as well.”

“Oh? We should be worried about that moronic cow? Was she about to run off to the Forbidden Forest?” Snape demanded. “What injury did she suffer from this ‘trick’?”

“Severus,” Dumbledore was adamant, “I am aware that Dolores is having a difficult adjustment period, but you are letting your personal opinion of her cloud your judgment. While she was perhaps more harsh with Harry than she needed to be, all she did was order him from class and tell him to meet her in my office. That is hardly grounds for dismissal. It was Harry’s own fears – fully understandable though they were – that nearly turned today’s misunderstanding into a tragedy. I cannot blame an inexperienced teacher for not anticipating that a student would react in a wholly unexpected way. Surely even you were taken unawares by Harry’s decision to bolt?”

Unwillingly, Severus nodded.

“Then I do not see how we can blame Dolores for being unaware of the potential effect of her words.” Albus’ tone, though kind, was final.

Snape glowered. “So she gets off without so much as a warning, while Harry was smacked and traumatized?”

Albus sighed. “It does seem unfair, but as you yourself pointed out, Harry was smacked for his foolish plan, not for having Dolores’ notes in his bag. It is hardly appropriate to blame her for Harry’s own recklessness.”

Snape ground his teeth, but he could see that the headmaster was going to prove intransigent on this point. He spun on his heel and stalked for the door, pausing only long enough to fling his parting shot over his shoulder: “I’m telling Minerva!”

The sound of Albus’ pained “Oh, dear” made him feel quite a bit better as he stomped down to the dungeons.

##

“Harry!” Ron and the others greeted him with open relief as he rejoined them in time for their next class.

“Are you okay? What did the Headmaster say? Did your da find you? You’re not really expelled, are you?” Questions flew thick and fast, and Harry had to grin at how worried his friends had obviously been on his behalf.

“No, I’m not expelled – they believed me when I said I didn’t do it, even as a prank,” he explained. “And my da caught me before I left,” he said to Ron, who heaved a sigh of relief. “An’ yeah, I got whacked for bein’ dumb enough to think about running away,” he added, forestalling his best mate’s next question.

“Merlin, Potter, do you think you can make it through a single term without getting walloped?” Draco said, shaking his head. “At least the rest of us don’t have to worry about getting clouted when we’re at school. It must be awful having your guardian right here at Hogwarts, watching everything you do.”

“Well, it’s not all bad,” Harry said consideringly. “There are plenty of times when it’s nice to have him around. An’ I only get smacked when I deserve it. My da’s really good about that.”

“Yeah? Then you’re lucky,” Draco said shortly. The others exchanged glances, but no one pressed the Slytherin.

“But, Harry,” Hermione – as usual – brought them back on topic. “If you didn’t take the notes, then how did they get in your bag?”

Harry looked grim. “I don’t know, but if I find out who did it, they’re gonna be sorry!”

Hermione nodded, but Ron still looked a bit dubious, as did several of the other children. Nobody openly disputed Harry’s story, but it was clear that more than a few doubted his word, and given the circumstantial evidence against him, it was hard to blame them.

##

Snape made good on his threat to Dumbledore and told McGonagall what had happened. Like him, she was furious with That Woman, but grudgingly agreed that Albus had a point. To Snape's great relief, McGonagall was polite enough to refrain from saying “I told you so” and pointing out how his own past excesses were now making it harder for them to remove the Pink Toad.

In truth, Minerva had found it difficult to keep a straight face as Severus indignantly described Umbridge’s behavior towards Harry as well as his outrage at Albus’ refusal to sack her. It was not unlike many of the conversations she herself had had with Albus, only in those Severus had been the teacher under discussion. Still, the entire event served to further heighten her determination to ensure that Umbridge was no longer in a position to harm her little lions.

What Snape didn’t tell McGonagall was his growing conviction that someone was out to get Harry. He hadn’t given much thought to the missing homework – it was all too easy to blame such things on an 11 year old boy’s natural state of disorganization – but when that occurrence was coupled with the test notes, it began to look as though someone were trying, and succeeding, to make Harry’s time at Hogwarts very uncomfortable indeed. A campaign to discredit a child sounded ridiculous, but this was no ordinary child. Harry was The Boy Who Lived and, intentionally or not, he held a very special place in Wizarding society. Snape could understand why there would be people – including very powerful people – who might want to blacken Harry’s reputation for reasons of their own.

He vowed to keep an even closer eye on the brat, and he asked Hagrid to tighten security on the grounds as well. It was clear that this person, whomever he or she was, had access to the school, but Snape was not yet convinced it was a student or staff member. It was possible someone was sneaking in for brief periods, just long enough to set some plan in motion. As he had expected, upon hearing that Harry might be in jeopardy, Hagrid immediately leapt into action and swore to step up his patrols. That was reassuring – the giant was no genius, but he was well aware of what happened at and around the school, and if anyone could prevent trespassers, he could.

Snape debated having the mutt and wolf come over to help keep an eye on Harry, but decided in the end that it was an unwarranted risk. Sirius was still a loose cannon, and Remus would likely have to spend more time keeping him out of trouble than guarding Harry. If things grew any worse though, that remained a possibility.

##

It took a few days for all the gossip about the test questions to die down. Dumbledore had clearly spoken to Umbridge, because she reluctantly allowed Harry to return to her class, but she lost no opportunity to make snide, cutting remarks which led the rest of the class to believe that the headmaster, though convinced of Harry’s guilt, nevertheless let him off because of his standing as The Boy Who Lived.

Harry managed to hold his tongue, but he could see that her deadly venom was slowly beginning to affect his classmates. No one actually came out and accused him of using his special status to get out of trouble, but he noticed that there were a lot more sidelong looks at his scar than there had been before. Even Ron, to his annoyance, seemed to think that Harry was just being modest, and he kept pestering Harry to tell him how he had managed the trick. The twins also appeared to believe it had been a prank, and their grinning at him and referring to him as “our apprentice” just convinced more of the student body that maybe Umbridge was right.

Harry sighed. He didn’t understand why the other students acted jealous. Of him? What did they have to be jealous about? He was an orphan – although he did now have a great da – and Voldesnort and his band of Death Eaters wanted him dead. Was that something to envy? And since the term began, he’d been alternately getting into trouble with his professors for things he didn’t do, like losing his homework or stealing notes, and being criticized by his peers for getting away with stuff and being given special treatment. It was all so mixed up!

At least his friends were sticking by him, though the others’ disapproving looks and whispers were beginning to grate on his nerves, and Umbridge’s constant, petty harassment didn’t help. All told, it created a great deal of strain on the boy, and when the mysterious enemy struck again, it proved too much for him.

Dinner time at Hogwarts, as at most schools, was eagerly anticipated by the ravenous students, and there was often an initial rush into the room once the doors opened for mealtime. That evening, the first students into the room (including – naturally – Ron) halted in sheer amazement at the empty space in front of them.

“Where’re all the tables an’ chairs?” yelped Ron.

The students, now joined by several equally startled faculty, stared around them as if expecting the furniture to materialize in front of them.

“Look!” Finally someone’s gaze strayed upwards, and soon a forest of hands pointing at the ceiling directed everyone else’s attention there.

Stuck to the ceiling, as if gravity had suddenly reversed itself, were the missing tables and chairs, assembled in a particular pattern.

That was the point at which Harry, fresh from a dueling lesson with Flitwick, arrived on the scene. He was startled when the Weasley twins, joined by several others, greeted his entrance with loud applause, and equally bewildered at the looks of impatience or disgust directed at him by other students.

“Here’s the little egomaniac,” one girl from Ravenclaw commented loudly to her friends. “You’d think he’d eventually get tired of drawing attention to himself.”

“I guess it’s easy to pull off pranks if you know you won’t get punished for them,” a Hufflepuff said enviously. “Must be nice to be The Boy Who Lived!”

“Merlin, Harry – are you trying to lose us points? Umbridge is right about you,” an upper year Gryffindor snapped. “You don’t care about anyone but yourself.”

Harry was bewildered by the comments, until he too happened to look up. There on the ceiling, the missing furniture spelled out “HARRY P” with the remaining tables and chairs organized around it in a frame. His mouth dropped open.

“Harry, that’s pretty funny,” Neville admitted. "But I still think some of the professors might get upset."

“Potter, Potter, Potter! Don’t you even know enough never to sign your own name to a prank?” Draco asked, bemoaning such Gryffindor foolishness. “You should have spelled ‘RON W IS KING’!”

“Oi! I heard that!” Ron said indignantly. “I think he should have put ‘DRACO IS A GIT’!”

“I didn’t do it!” Harry protested, staring wildly from one to the next. “It wasn’t me!”

The boys just laughed. “Sure, Harry! Sure!”

Hermione looked at him doubtfully, but at least she didn’t immediately dismiss his words. “Harry, if you didn’t, then who did? And why put your name up there?”

“I don’t know, ‘Mione,” Harry protested, “but it wasn’t me!”

“Little show off!” Another Ravenclaw sniffed, and several students, including some other Gryffindors, noisily agreed.

“I DIDN’T DO IT!” Harry yelled at them, finally losing his temper. “YOU BLOODY –“

“That will be quite enough, Mr Potter!” Professor McGonagall appeared at his side and took him by the collar. “I suggest you refrain from getting yourself in more trouble than you already are.”

“But –“ Harry’s protests were interrupted by the Headmaster’s arrival. “My, my. It appears that someone has chosen to redecorate,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “While the new arrangement is quite original, it does pose a few logistical problems, so I think we had best return things to their usual places.” He waved his wand, and the students watched expectantly, but nothing happened.

Dumbledore exchanged a startled look with McGonagall, then wove a more complicated pattern with his wand. There was a moment when it looked as if the furniture would remain recalcitrant, but an extra, commanding gesture from the headmaster sent the tables and chairs gently drifting earthward.

McGonagall gave Harry a piercing look, then said, “Come with me, Mr Potter.” As her hand remained on his collar, Harry really had no choice in the matter, but the smirks and jeering looks that were directed to him on his way out made his ears burn and his blood boil.

His Head of House escorted him firmly to her office, closed the door behind them, pointed to a chair in front of her desk, and said, “Now then –“ and those two little, innocent words destroyed what little self-control he still possessed.

Days of remaining silent despite Umbridge’s sly digs, of ignoring the gibes of other students, of allowing the rumor of his cheating to circulate unchallenged finally boiled over, and all his anger and frustration about the injustice of it all exploded. He was confident that he was about to be – again – scolded and punished for something he hadn’t done, just like he had been at his old school whenever Dudley set him up or blamed him for mischief he himself had done. Just like then, Harry knew he had no way of proving his innocence, but while in the past, he could do nothing but keep his mouth shut and suffer through the punishment for fear of his relatives, this time his newly unleashed temper rebelled. If he were going to be punished anyway, he might as well do something to earn it!

“IT’S NOT FAIR!” he screamed, startling McGonagall. “I ALWAYS GET BLAMED FOR SHITE THAT I HAVEN’T DONE! IT’S NOT FAIR! WHY IS IT ALWAYS ME? I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING!”

“Mr Pot-“ McGonagall attempted to interrupt, but Harry was in no mood to listen.

“JUST SHUT IT! I HATE THIS! NO ONE EVER BELIEVES ME! UMBITCH KEEPS CALLING ME NAMES AND MAKING STUFF UP AND NO ONE SAYS THAT SHE’S FULL OF SHITE, BUT THE SECOND I TRY TO SAY THAT I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING, I’M JUST TOLD TO BLOODY WELL BELT UP. WELL, YOU JUST BELT UP FOR A CHANGE!”

McGonagall blinked. In all her years in education, she had never been told to “belt up”. She forced down a wholly inappropriate grin. Harry did look rather cute when he foamed and shouted like this. Sort of a cross between James at his most impossible and a ranting Severus. Oh, and look, now he was waving his arms around. Sirius used to do that all the time. McGonagall felt quite nostalgic and misty-eyed watching the latest generation of Potters scream and gesticulate.

It took another few minutes for Harry’s tantrum to finally run its course, but when it did, and he slowly sputtered to a halt, exhausted and hoarse, he abruptly realized what he had been saying and to whom. Oh, Professor McGonagall was going to kill him.

Feeling rather sheepish, he hesitantly raised his eyes to meet hers, and instantly felt even more childish. While he had ranted on, she had seated herself comfortably at her desk, summoned a teapot, and was simply sitting there, waiting for him to finish. “Are you done?” she asked calmly, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes’m,” Harry croaked. He felt about three inches tall, small and grubby and foolish.

“Here.” She held out a glass of ice water to soothe his raw throat, and her concern for his welfare only made him feel worse.

“ ‘M sorry,” he whispered as he took the glass and gratefully sipped it, feeling the coldness sliding down his abused throat.

“Am I to take it from your outburst that you have been the victim of a smear campaign on the part of That Woman?” At Harry’s look of confusion, McGonagall clarified. “Professor Umbi- Umbridge?” She hastily took a sip of tea to cover her lapse. She had nearly said “Umbitch” and that would never do.

Harry shrugged uncomfortably. Now that his tantrum was spent, he wished he could just sink through the floor and forget what he’d said. What had he said anyway? He vaguely remembered screaming about it being unfair and – uh oh – he had probably called her ‘Umbitch’ and – oh, no. Merlin, please, no. He couldn’t have been that stupid! Surely he hadn’t told Professor McGonagall of all people to “belt up”! “ ‘M really sorry,” he said again, staring at his toes. “I don’t know why I said all those things. I’ve never ever done something like this before.”

A shadow passed across McGonagall’s face. “Well, Mr Potter, perhaps that is why you did,” she said, forcing her voice to remain brisk.

She had had a few chats with Severus – not to mention Molly Weasley – about what Harry had shared of his homelife at the Dursleys, and after several decades as a teacher, she was not unfamiliar with child and adolescent psychology. Harry was making an amazing recovery from all those years of neglect and harsh treatment, but it would be foolish not to expect him to have occasional outbursts. Throwing a tantrum was one way of testing his limits, his safety, and his newfound ability to express anger. It was clear that Harry had learned how to control his emotions in the face of great provocation. Now it was time for him to learn how – and when – to express them.

Harry frowned in confusion. Huh? What did Professor McGonagall mean by that? And why wasn’t she mad and yelling at him? Or taking away a zillion points and giving him detention until next Christmas?

“Now. You said something about Professor Umbridge telling lies and that the other students were beginning to believe her?”

Harry squirmed. He really didn’t want to talk about this. He would just sound like a whinging baby. But his Head of House was waiting. “Erm, well, yeah. I mean she says stuff about how I think I’m better than everyone ‘cause I’m The Boy Who Lived and I feel like rules are for other people but I don’t have to follow them, and the Headmaster can’t do anything ‘cause of me being, y’know, The Boy Who Lived, and just some other stuff like that.”

“And the other students believe her?”

“Not at first they didn’t, but now… she just keeps saying it and saying it, and after a while you just start believing what you’ve heard a thousand times.” Harry reflected sadly that he had certainly believed Uncle Vernon when he kept calling him “freak”. Maybe he shouldn’t be so hard on the other kids…

“I see.” McGonagall’s voice sounded awfully angry, and Harry winced as he caught sight of her pursed lips. Oooooh, he was in for it!

“Mr Potter, I wish you had come to me – or your guardian – with this sooner, but I am glad to finally learn the extent of the problem. In the meantime, however, we still have your atrocious behavior to address.”

Harry gulped. “Yes’m.”

She pointed sternly to a corner of the room, and Harry’s eyes widened. No! She couldn’t mean –