It felt so good to have a friend.

Harry had never had friends. Even if his tattered, baggy clothes and unkempt appearance hadn't been enough to repel his classmates, Dudley and his band of merry thugs was enough to ensure that Harry sat alone, ate alone, and walked around at recess alone. The only things Dudley didn't take away from Harry were left purely by accident.

But Dudley was too fat to join the army, so he was at home watching the telly while Harry fought Hitler. There was no playground here, and no one to take away Harry's best friend, the young man he was now fighting beside. Harry couldn't see him and didn't know his name, but could sense the presence close by, and instinct told him they were closer than brothers.

"I'd like to kill them all." It was Uncle Vernon's voice, exactly as it had sounded when he'd castigated the main rival to Grunnings during that botched deal last year. And They were coming, for sure and certain, any second around that line of shrubs. Their malevolence was palpable even from where Harry crouched, gripping his weapon tighter and bemoaning being shoved into battle with no training. He scanned his memory

God don't let it be like Malmédy

for exactly how he was supposed to work the artillery. They could have at least told him that. He could test it now and give away his location, or wait until They rounded the corner and risk fumbling around when he couldn't afford to waste time. The tension mounted until Harry just couldn't stand the waiting any longer.

There was a huge outcrop of rocks behind them, so Harry grabbed the unseen presence's arm and jumped. For a split second he thought maybe he wouldn't be able to jump high enough; somehow, whenever he was escaping danger like this, he often landed short and had to resort to playing Statues so that whatever was chasing him would hopefully lose sight of his fleeing form.

Harry's solar plexus wrenched as he realised he'd made it . . . but was now alone. He tried to turn around to go back and find his friend, but couldn't. Why couldn't he turn around? Even Lot's wife turned around, though she never did anything else again. Turn, please turn! Harry ordered himself frantically. It was no use; he felt as if he were gued to the side of the world, and couldn't turn around even to see the smooth edge or whatever it was Reepicheep found there.

The battle sounds had ceased, however, and as Harry's vision cleared, he could see a kitchen. Not the kitchen at Privet Drive or even Mrs. Figg's kitchen. Right. It was his friend's kitchen, and he was here to tell that soldier's mother that her son had been killed. There was fruit on the table, and Harry's mouth watered at the sight of grapefruit. He hadn't tasted luscious ripe grapefruit since back near Easter. But the woman at the table was staring at him, so Harry hurried to an explanation.

Rather than call his erstwhile companion "your son," Harry decided to come up with a name; any name. Edward. Simple enough. And maybe he'd gotten lucky, because Edward's mother didn’t seem confused when Harry referred to her son that way.

"Edward was my best friend, ma'am, a very brave soldier . . ." Harry's voice droned on inanely even as he noticed the snake undulating across the kitchen floor. It reached the cabinets, but instead of stopping, just continued up the side and then over the edge into the sink. Harry had grown hot with fear and stopped talking in favour of watching the snake, but there was no protest from the woman he'd been talking to. Perhaps she'd left to be alone in her grief, or to ask her husband if he'd ever heard of an Edward.

Alone in the kitchen, the snake long gone, Harry suddenly remembered how he'd left school at lunchtime to go join the fighting, but he'd gotten carried away and time had gone too fast. He was going to be late for maths! Harry could have cried with relief to find himself in front of his school without delay. He ran around to the side and tried to push open the door near the lower-level lavatories. He could hide in the supply cupboard there; he often did that when Dudley used to chase him around

and now I'm hiding from the Germans if that isn't just ridiculous

the playground. But the doors wouldn't budge. Oh, of course; it was Saturday. Well, he could just fly to Privet Drive, then. Hadn't he just been home for breakfast that morning? The army let you come home for breakfast sometimes.

But when Harry turned, he saw the battle had caught up with him. His stomach grew heavy with dread at the sight of the German soldiers advancing, their faces twisted into evil leers, and he heard their guns start popping. The bullets pinged on the bricks behind him, and Harry felt a piece of brick hit him in the back of the head. Everywhere he looked, there were more and more soldiers, and the gunfire kept booming louder and faster. Harry closed his eyes in surrender, sinking down to the pavement and pressing his cheek against the rough gravel. It worked; the guns stopped. But within seconds he tensed as he was grabbed roughly and yanked up from the ground. Harry thought frantically that he'd rather have died quickly from being shot because he knew what was going to happen as the hands pressed against his ribs they were going to tickle him —

"Wake up, Potter! I don't have all morning!"

Harry cracked one eye open. In a split second, what had just made perfect sense was now perfectly ridiculous. The war was over forty years ago, for heaven's sake. And who ever heard of hiding from the Germans in a primary school supply cupboard? Obviously that BBC programme he'd seen on the telly at Mrs. Figg's had messed with his head. No, he wasn't about to be tortured as a prisoner of war. But from Snape's expression, he wasn't going to get a hug, either.

"I've been calling you and banging on the door!" The man was shouting at him in an exasperated voice, shaking Harry furiously at each word. Harry cringed under the sheets. "Didn't I tell you I have to go to work this morning? If you want breakfast, Potter, you'd better be downstairs inside of five minutes." Snape let go of Harry and stormed out the bedroom door. The staircase rattled as he headed downstairs, and Harry's heart eventually slowed down from the staccato beat that being wrenched out of his sleep had induced.

Half sitting in the twisted sheets, Harry tried to collect his thoughts. Scenes from his astral peregrinations still flashed before his eyes, but they were fading fast. He glanced around in confusion at the unfamiliar room; where . . . ? Oh, yes, he was at that man Snape's house. Because his relatives had gone to Dis — well, that was one thing he'd gotten right in his sleep, anyway. Dudley wasn't there to tease him anymore.

Snape had said five minutes, and he'd already wasted plenty. Grabbing his glasses off the bedside table, Harry slid off the edge of the bed, trying not to lose his grip on the slick sheets as his feet felt around for the floor. Who makes a bed that high? he thought. He scampered for the bureau where he'd stored his few clothes and dressed in the same trousers he'd worn the day before plus a clean shirt. Harry retrieved his shoes and fumbled with them for an awkward moment, stumbling into the bureau while trying to get them on and bruising his hip on the corner of the drawer. Biting his lip to stifle a yell, Harry gave a final yank on the left shoe, then rushed downstairs.

Snape was sitting at the table, calmly eating a bowl of porridge. His eyes narrowed when he saw Harry come through the door. "Couldn't you at least try to comb your hair?" he asked snidely.

"You said five minutes," Harry protested, climbing up onto the same chair he'd taken the night before. There was a glass of milk at his place, and he took a gulp. Fighting the jerries had really made him thirsty.

"And that's another matter," Snape retorted. "I won't be getting you up every morning, and you won't be sleeping 'til noon, either. I expect you dressed and combed and at this table by seven."

"I'm sorry," Harry offered contritely. "I always woke up early at my old house because I'd hear everyone coming downstairs. Do you think I could have an alarm clock?" Dudley had one — why, Harry couldn't imagine, because he never moved until Aunt Petunia lured him out with a strip of bacon — and it was set to a pop station. Harry had always thought it would be nice to wake up to that. Uncle Vernon's alarm was one of the old-fashioned kind that rang loud enough to shatter glass . . . but whatever Snape gave him would be fine. Harry hoped he hadn't sounded demanding, like Dudley.

Snape looked like he didn't know what to say. "Erm . . . yes, you can have a clock, Potter. I reckon you can't be expected to know it's time to get up. Just so long as you understand that I'm on a schedule and you will be, too." Just then, Noddy came in with Harry's porridge and set it in front of him. "Eat quickly, now. I have to show you the lessons you'll be doing today before I leave," said Snape.

Harry nodded and tucked into the food in front of him. It was no problem to hurry; he often had to eat fast in order to save his food from Dudley's appetite. Soon enough, the bowl was empty, as was his milk glass.

"I certainly didn't mean stuff your face like a pig," Snape said. "Come." Harry, his face burning, followed the man into the library. Once inside, he looked around in amazement. The room, which had been so dusty and forlorn the day before, was now . . . well, it was still rather forlorn, but at least the dust was gone. He wouldn't get dirty sitting on the sofa now. The dark, heavy curtains were now tied back, although they were so high off the ground that Harry could only see blue sky beyond.

Snape was leading him toward a big mahogany desk in the corner, where several books were piled up. He paused when he reached it and waited for Harry to catch up. "I've marked pages in here that you'll study today," Snape told him, tapping his long, bony finger on the stack. He opened the top drawer and took out . . . a feather?

It's a quill pen! Harry thought with excitement. He'd always wanted to use a quill pen. Once he'd found a crow feather in the schoolyard and tried to shove the inkstick from his biro into it. All he'd managed to do was splatter ink all over his desk and shirt, which didn't go over well, either with his teacher or with Aunt Petunia when he got home.

Snape laid the quill down on the desk alongside an inkwell and some paper. The paper, too, was different; it was thick and the colour of heavy cream, with edges that curled up slightly. Harry couldn't wait to try out the quill pen on that smooth paper.

"After you've read the marked passages, then you can answer these questions," Snape continued, setting down a piece of parchment with lines of elegant script on it, "and write a twelve-inch essay on the founders of Hogwarts."

"Can I go outside when I'm done?" Harry asked him, looking wistfully at the sky visible through the closed window.

Snape paused for a moment, considering. "You may," he said finally, "if you stay very close to the house and tell Noddy when you'll be back." Harry nodded eagerly; he wanted to go outside and see what the neighbourhood looked like. It was the most peculiar feeling, being inside a house but not having any idea where it was or even what it looked like from the outside.

"Noddy will give you lunch at twelve o' clock," his guardian went on, pulling a gold watch on a chain from his robes and glancing at it as he started for the door, "and I will be home at four. Make sure you clean up the library when you're done, and behave yourself," he finished. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," Harry answered, following Snape into the parlour where the fireplace was.

"See that you obey me, then," Snape ordered, taking some of that powder and tossing it on the flames. "Hogwarts!" he called . . . and was gone.

Harry stared into the fire, which had resumed its normal colour, for several moments before making his way back to the library. He again looked with longing at the window, but doing schoolwork for a while wouldn't be so bad, he reasoned. The books did look somewhat interesting, and they must be about magic, or some of them. Besides, it was Monday, and he'd have been in school regardless.

Harry slid the top book off the stack and read the title: Hogwarts, A History. There were little tabs of paper sticking up from its pages, and by checking the marked pages, Harry saw that he was expected to read the first two chapters, Introduction and The Founding Four. At least he'd learn something about the school his parents apparently had attended, although Harry thought the author could have come up with a better title. He looked through the rest of the books: Magical Herbology, Basic Potions, and History of Magic.

Magical people seem to be short on imagination, he thought, sighing as he took up the book on Hogwarts and began to read.

"Hogwarts is an institution steeped in centuries of magical history, the beginnings of which . . ."

It was an hour later before Harry had finished the first two chapters. He laid down the book — on top of the dictionary he'd taken down, an action necessitated by the dry language of the text — and stretched, then thought about the essay he was supposed to write. Twelve inches? Harry thought. What was that supposed to mean? Often, in class, students would ask Mrs. Labelle how long their essays should be, and she always answered, "As long as a string." Twelve inches made a little more sense than that, although Harry thought "pages" would have done better. He opened the desk drawer and surveyed its contents; there were several pencils, erasers, unopened bottles of ink, extra quills, scissors, and there! A twelve-inch ruler. Harry took it out and placed it on the paper, marking the beginning and end of the foot-long implement.

Does the title count? he thought. And what if I just write big? Best not to test his new guardian, though. But what was he to write, exactly? All Snape had said was "an essay on the founders of Hogwarts." Well, he would just summarise the chapter . . . That settled, Harry started in.

Another hour passed before Harry finished, and he was proud that the essay was another six inches longer than Snape had asked, not even including the title. Maybe if he did a good job, Snape would let him make some potions. He eagerly picked up the Basic Potions text.

Harry became so absorbed in his work that it seemed like no time before the assignments were finished, and he was astounded to look at the clock and see the hour hand pointing to one. His stomach, which had been silent up until then, let out a fierce growl of protest. Harry leapt up from the desk, laid his final piece of parchment on the stack, and pushed his chair in. He was absolutely ravenous, and felt so free now that he could eat and go outside to play with a clear conscience. I'll take that over school any day, he thought with a smile.

The kitchen was empty; Harry wondered where Noddy was. He didn't like to disturb the elf if he was working, but he was hesitant to take any food for himself. Aunt Petunia became absolutely furious whenever he took food without asking. So he walked around for a few minutes, glancing in the downstairs rooms and calling softly, "Noddy?"

There was no answer, and he didn't see the little creature anywhere. Well, he'd just have a look in the icebox, anyway. Harry frowned as he touched the handle; it was so quiet. Was it really working? He opened the door, and a blast of cool air hit him. Yes, it worked. He looked inside and saw bread and cheese; he lifted the lid off a tureen and saw soup inside. He could heat that up, anyway. He often had to help cook at home, although Aunt Petunia said he burned things too often.

Harry stood up and stepped back from the icebox, intending to turn on the stove. He jumped in surprise, however, when the icebox door suddenly slammed closed, grazing his shoulder on the way. Noddy was standing behind the door, glaring at him.

"You is not touching master's food!" Noddy spat vehemently, and Harry shrank back. The elf sounded so angry.

He tried to explain. "I didn't want to bother you, so — "

"Ungrateful brat, thinking he deserves to be treated like a little prince," the aged Noddy interrupted. "Master Snape is taking him in when no one else is, and he is doing nothing to show his gratitude."

Harry's face burned. "I didn't ask for this to happen," he said, angry tears pricking his eyes. "It's not my fault all my family died."

"It isn't being Master Snape's fault, neither," Noddy snapped. "Nor mine."

Harry gave up and turned to leave the room, wanting away from this creature that obviously hated him. He didn't know what to do now. His schoolwork was finished, and the thought of remaining in the house with Noddy made him afraid. And he was so hungry. Harry decided to read in the garden; that way he'd be away from the elf, and possibly the book would take his mind off his cramping stomach.

After choosing a book at random in the library, Harry paused on his way out the door. Snape had said he should always tell Noddy when he was going out, but Harry balked at the thought of talking to him again. He could hear the elf banging around in the kitchen. Finally, he opened the front door, then shouted, "I'll be in the garden until Snape gets back, Noddy!" before quickly stepping outside and pulling the door to behind him.

Harry walked around the house until he found the small back garden. It was a garden in the academic sense, anyway; it had a little bench and a trellis, with strawlike branches scattered around to indicate that plants had once grown there. There was a back door, but so much ivy had grown over it that it was all but impossible to see. Harry brushed a great deal of dirt and twigs off the bench and sat down to read.

It was a long, wretched afternoon. Harry tried to focus on his book, but his stomach hurt and he was afraid of the house-elf. What would it be like to be left alone with Noddy every day? Was he supposed to go without lunch all the time?

Dusk fell, and still Snape wasn't home. Or at least, he hadn't yelled at Harry to come inside if he was. Finally, though, his guardian's black robes swished around the corner and stopped in front of Harry's bench. Harry closed his book and looked up at Snape's tired face, hoping it was time to eat.

Snape rubbed at his temples. "I had to stay late at school, owing to two of my students earning themselves detentions," he explained. "Noddy says the two of you have already eaten."

Harry opened and then closed his mouth, not knowing what to say. Should he tell Snape what Noddy had done, and that he hadn't eaten since breakfast? Not on your life; he'll never believe you. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon never believed a word you said. But Harry was so hungry . . . still, accusing Noddy could only lead to a row. So he nodded his head, agreeing, and at the same time sentencing himself to a night without food.

Snape sighed. "Such a day. I'm having a cup of tea; do you want one as well?"

"Yes, please," Harry replied automatically. When Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia took tea in the evenings, they usually had biscuits or leftover pudding with it. Maybe Snape would let him have something to eat, too. He was so hungry right now he could have eaten the petrified plant remains. Without salt.

He took the seat Snape indicated at the little tea table. Within minutes, the man carried in the tea service, steam rising from the pot, and poured two cups. Harry felt disappointed when Snape sat down without bringing anything else. But he eagerly picked up the steaming cup and let it warm his hands. It was good tea, after all, and the hot, sweet cup should probably settle his stomach. Harry reached over and took the tiny lid off the sugar bowl. He was about to level off the little spoon when Snape grabbed it, making him jump as the rough fingers squeezed his to take the spoon away.

"You don't put sugar in oolong tea, Potter," he snapped, dumping the sugar back in the bowl and slamming the lid back on. Harry slowly retracted his hand, his face burning. Why had Snape brought the sugar, then? He again wrapped both hands around his cup to steady their shaking, and took a sip too early, burning his tongue. Harry didn't really want the tea anymore, but he blew on it so as to finish it quickly and get away from Snape.

"Where are the assignments I gave you?" Snape inquired after a moment.

"I . . . I left them on the desk," Harry answered.

"Did you have any trouble?"

"No, sir. Er, a little with Herbology," Harry amended. "I don't understand why some herbs have to be picked at a certain time of the day, or when the moon is full." The book had only used very simple words, relying heavily on illustrations, which after having to look up most of the words in Hogwarts: A History was actually more of an annoyance than a relief. Like his schoolbooks, the one on Herbology didn't feel the need to explain much. "I can see if they're just not growing at some other time, but otherwise why does it matter?"

Snape paused reflectively, then answered, "Magical plants gather their energy from the environment, and a great deal is given them by the sun and moon. If the moon is waning, their power becomes weaker, which is why many plants are picked at the full moon. Dawn is the best time for most herbs, because the moon has just disappeared in favour of the sun, lending it a bit of each's power, do you see?"

Harry nodded; that actually made sense. "Yes, sir."

"You also have to remember that no magical herb or especially wood from trees must be taken without the tree's or plant's express permission," Snape continued.

"Er, pardon?" Harry said in confusion.

Snape looked at him fixedly. "Trees and plants are living beings, Potter. How would you like it if someone came along and tore your arm off to use in a potion?"

Harry blinked in surprise. He had never thought of trees that way. "Erm, how do I ask its permission, sir?" he asked.

"You summon the spirit of the being, explain your need, and wait for a sign. If your request is sincere, often the branch or sprig of plant you need will fall to the ground naturally," Snape told him, "or you'll feel a pull toward a certain one. But if you take without asking, your potion will never work the way it is supposed to. In fact, herbs taken by force are often the key components of Dark brews."

Harry mulled this thought over in his mind as he took a final swallow of his tea. Snape stood and began clearing the tea table. "It's bedtime, Potter. I've left an alarm clock on your bedside table, and I expect you dressed and at the table for breakfast promptly at seven tomorrow."

"Yes, sir," Harry replied, eager to get into bed and sleep away the stress of the day.

Ten minutes later, Harry was upstairs brushing his teeth when he suddenly heard furious footsteps on the stairs. He paused, toothbrush in hand, and almost fell off the little stool when Snape barged into the bathroom, his expression livid. "You lazy little brat. You lied to me!" Snape bellowed, grabbing Harry's arm and pulling him roughly off the stool. "You never even touched the books or parchment I left you! They haven't moved from where I put them! Did you think I wouldn't check?"

"I did," Harry whimpered; Snape's grip on his arm hurt. "I worked all morning, right up until one, and then I was going to make lunch when — "

"Noddy tells me that you played outside all morning and then ordered him to make you lunch! You do not order this household around, do you hear me?!" Snape shouted, shaking Harry with each of the last four words. The toothbrush fell out of Harry's sweaty hand and skittered across the tile floor.

Harry was petrified; Noddy had obviously hidden the work he'd done while Harry was outside. How could he convince Snape of that? His mouth was full of toothpaste, and when he tried to speak again, he only ended up swallowing a bit and coughed.

"SILENCE!" his guardian hissed, twisting Harry around so that he couldn't see the man's angry face anymore. Harry jumped as Snape's hand crashed down on his bottom, clothed only in the thin cotton tracksuit which had once been Dudley's. Smack! Smack! "I thought I made it perfectly clear" Smack! Smack! "that if you stay here, you are to follow my rules," Smack! Smack! "which do not involve you running wild like you did at your relatives'!" Smack! Smack! "The next time you disobey me, you won't be able to sit down again for a long time afterwards! Is that clear?" With that, Snape finished up with two more wallops to Harry's smarting backside. Smack! Smack!

"Yes!" Harry gasped, his voice choked with tears. His rear end was throbbing after Snape's assault, and he was still so confused after all that had happened.

"Go to bed," Snape ordered. "And don't test me further, Potter. I won't tolerate disobedience, and I especially won't tolerate lying." He strode from the room. Harry only had time to see Noddy's smirking face in the hallway before Snape slammed the bathroom door with a crash that made the mirror on the wall shiver in its frame.