Dudley was actually too excited to eat? Harry couldn't believe it, either. He kept sneaking glances at his cousin, as well as at the untouched food on his plate, wondering if maybe it was some optical illusion. Dudley Dursley was never without his appetite.

And Harry didn't really understand why his cousin was so excited, either. Yes, for his birthday, his parents — Harry's aunt and uncle — were taking him to Disneyland in Orlando. Harry, who was not to accompany them, would have given his eyeteeth to go along. But Dudley always got everything he wanted, usually before he even wanted it, and so was rarely excited at the prospect of anything.

Harry shrugged and continued with his eggs. Maybe if Dudley really didn't finish his breakfast, Harry could eat it instead. But he wasn't counting on it. He had never seen one crumb left on his cousin's plate. Usually, Dudley was on his third or fourth helping when Harry was still blowing on his third or fourth mouthful.

Dudley may have been ready to wet himself in his anxiety to get going that morning, but Harry was somewhat less than aroused. After all, he wasn't invited. Not that it was anything new. Every year, on Dudley's birthday, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon dropped Harry off at old Mrs. Figg's over on Magnolia Crescent, where he watched the telly and listened to her talk about her cats all day while his cousin (sometimes accompanied by his friends) got chauffeured anywhere he wanted to go. This was Friday; this year, Harry would be staying at Mrs. Figg's for the whole week. He would leave her house for school every day until the next Monday, and the Dursleys would be home by the time school broke up. Dudley, of course, didn't have to go to school on Monday. Today, school was closed for some kind of teachers' meeting, otherwise Harry would already be there.

Aunt Petunia, a thin, nervous woman, was fluttering about the kitchen, muttering to herself. "I put the passports out so they'd be right here, and now I don't know where . . . Boy, what did you do with the passports?" she snapped, turning on him. Harry held up both hands and shook his head, but he was chewing and couldn't answer. She glared at him before resuming her search. In one sense, Harry thought it would be hysterical if they couldn't find the passports and had to stay home. However, even at seven years old, Harry knew that life was a lot easier when the Dursleys were happy, particularly Dudley. Revenge did not serve him well.

Petunia gave a gasp of relief when she spotted the passports on top of the microwave, and Harry got Dudley to finish his breakfast by reaching for a piece of the bacon on his plate. Dudley would have eaten ground glass had Harry expressed an interest in doing so himself — and he had contemplated pulling that particular stunt one or two times while locked away in his cupboard, after Dudley had gotten him in trouble for something, nothing, or both — and Harry had learned how to apply such tricks of reverse psychology at a very young age. He was probably the world's youngest therapist.

Too soon, the car was loaded and the Dursleys were ready to go. Somehow, the luggage had been packed in so tightly that there was only room for one passenger in the back. It was decided that Harry could walk down the road to Mrs. Figg's house, which didn't bother him very much, as it meant he'd be rid of his relatives' presence all that much sooner. They drove away without a backward glance, although Dudley stuck his tongue out at Harry as the car was backing down the driveway ahead of him. Harry hoisted his duffel bag of clothing up onto his shoulder and set off for the cattery where he was to spend his week.

Sunday afternoon, in the dungeons of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, twenty-seven-year-old Severus Snape was busy at his desk, catching up on paperwork. Severus, whose robes were black to match his mood, hair, and eyes so dark brown they might as well be black, was enjoying his solitude in the dark dungeon. Ebenezer Scrooge liked darkness because it was cheap, as are all things common; Severus Snape liked it because it was dear, hard to come by. He was not amused, then, to see his fireplace suddenly blaze green and reveal the head of Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster.

"Severus, I know it's a bad time to disturb you, particularly with exams imminent, but something of grave importance has occurred. Would you be able to come to my office for a moment?"

"Would you be able to catch me if I ran?" Severus muttered under his breath. The Potions master sighed, but he wasn't entirely loath to leave off correcting his third-year students' essays. Sometimes he got so tired of marking things wrong that he skipped over the less glaring errors. Pausing for whatever Dumbledore wanted would mean he'd be raring to go with the red ink whenever the headmaster was through with him. "I'll be up directly, Albus," he promised, and the head disappeared, the flames returning to their normal colour.

Capping his bottle of red ink, Severus stretched his arms over his head and flexed his fingers, which were cramped from all the corrections he'd been making. He let out his breath with a whoosh and headed over to the fireplace. Throwing some Floo powder over the crackling fire, he gave the simple order, "Headmaster!" Stepping into the green glow, Severus braced himself for the whirling journey upstairs.

Dumbledore was waiting at a safe distance when Severus stumbled out of the grate, ash sifting off his billowing robes. He gave his Potions master a smile before pointing to one of the chairs in front of his window. Severus saw the man's lips forming a "W" and hastily cut him off. "No, Albus, I would not care for a lemon drop, thank you."

"Ah. Well, you won't mind if I help myself, then," Dumbledore rejoined cheerfully, placing a small enameled dish of the yellow sweets in his lap.

Like I care, thought Severus, drumming his fingers impatiently on the arm of the chair. But he hadn't long to wait; the headmaster got straight to the point.

"You remember, Severus, how nearly six years ago we placed Harry Potter" — at the sound of the name, Severus grimaced — "in the care of his aunt and uncle in Surrey. Arabella Figg has just informed me that they were killed while, ah . . ." Dumbledore's brow furrowed as he tried to recall Arabella's explanation. ". . . rolling on a coast, I believe."

"Potter is dead?" Severus asked in disbelief. His hands stilled. Surely the headmaster was mistaken.

"Oh, no, don't misunderstand, Severus; the boy is alive. His relatives went on holiday and left him with Arabella."

Severus relaxed. Not that he cared for the brat one whit, of course. But . . . Harry was Lily's son, after all.

Dumbledore steepled his fingers, the sweets forgotten momentarily. "We hardly saw this one coming, and it's a delicate situation. His aunt, as his only living relative, was the only one who could offer blood protection pursuant to Lily's sacrifice," the old man continued, "and at this point, anywhere we send young Harry, he'll be vulnerable."

"Well, what difference does it make, then?" snapped Severus. "Any Wizarding family would be happy enough to adopt the little brat, regardless of the dangers."

"It would hardly be fair to Lily, who gave her life for the child, to let him be raised by people who were only interested in the fame it would bring them," Dumbledore said severely. "You did promise to do all you could to protect him once we knew she'd fallen to Voldemort." Severus heard the unspoken words as clearly as if the old wizard had said them aloud. After you betrayed her . . .

"Well, then, what do you suggest?" he asked in exasperation. "You always know best what's to be done; I don't know why you even ask my advice." He half rose from his chair as if ready to leave.

"I'm not asking your advice, Severus. I'm asking you to become Harry's guardian."

Snape slowly sank down into the chair. "Albus, it's May, not December, so I don't know what kind of mulled mead you've been imbibing, but I beg you to think about what you're saying for a moment."

Dumbledore's gaze over his half-moon spectacles remained steady. "You are the most capable wizard I know. You will be well able to protect Harry from anyone who may wish him harm."

"I am not raising James Potter's spawn!" Severus had leapt from his seat and was now shouting in the old man's face. "If I wanted children . . . I don't want children. But that one? Absolutely not. James left him behind, just like he always left his messes behind for others to clean up, and I'm not picking up the pieces." He turned and stormed for the office door.

"He had some help, I think," Albus rejoined in a deadly calm voice. Snape froze, his hand dropping from the doorknob. "It was even requested of the Dark Lord that he spare the woman while showing no mercy to the man. They both died protecting their son, yet you place all the blame on James." Dumbledore slowly walked over until he was standing next to Severus, who still stared at the door, refusing to meet his gaze. "Normally, fraternisation with such kind would land the accused in Azkaban. Need I remind you why you were spared?"

Severus ground his teeth. "To protect Lily's child when he should come to Hogwarts," he admitted.

"To protect him, full stop. And he needs protection now, not in four years when he shall start school," Albus corrected. "Perhaps I've been too subtle by wording this as a request."

Severus slowly turned to face the old man. Albus Dumbledore may be getting on in years, even according to wizards' longer life spans, and perhaps he wasn't prone to raising his voice or making threats. He wasn't even doing so now, really. But Severus understood perfectly that he wasn't being offered a choice, nor was Dumbledore going to appear calm much longer unless he acquiesced immediately.

"All right," he said in a low voice. "I will take the br — the boy in. But," and here Snape wasn't planning on giving an inch, "I shall raise him as I see fit. That does not include pampering the spoiled Boy Who Lived. He'll be treated like any other child, and that includes discipline if he needs it. And I'm certain he will." He waited for the headmaster's response.

Albus smiled, and Severus relaxed slightly. "I certainly wouldn't want him pampered, nor spoiled by too much recognisance of his circumstances. However," — the spectacled eyes once more darkened — "if I suspect that young Harry is being actually mistreated . . . I will not be so forgiving twice."

"Where is he now?" asked Snape, to avoid direct rejoinder.

The headmaster stepped back, and the atmosphere cleared once again. "Still at Arabella's," he said easily. "You'll be taking him home to Spinner's End, I presume?"

Severus hadn't really thought about it. "I . . . what about teaching? Exams? O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s?" he asked, feeling a mounting frustration building. Could Potter have chosen a worse time to impose upon him?

"I see no reason why young Harry can't stay at your house while classes are in session," Dumbledore suggested. "I'm sure that Professors Flitwick or McGonagall would be more than happy to keep an eye on your students while they're testing, and Professor Sinistra could oversee Slytherin House in the evenings." He crossed to his desk and sat down. "There's such a short time until end of term. We'll have plenty of opportunities to make plans for next year."

Snape had to hand it to Albus; he always had a head for details. "Is it wise, though, to leave a seven-year-old alone all day?" he asked.

"I'm sure Harry will be perfectly safe," the headmaster smiled. "You still engage the house-elf . . . Noddy, I believe?" Severus . . . nodded. "House-elves are very trustworthy. He'll keep Harry safe, I have no doubt."

I meant will he tear my house to shreds? Snape inwardly rolled his eyes. Trust Albus not to care a whit for him or his possessions. He pulled out his watch and checked the time. Almost three p.m. "I'll bring him home and be back in the morning," he sighed. "If the little beast doesn't prevent it somehow."

"Thank you." The two words held a much deeper meaning than normal.

Severus nodded curtly at the old man before taking more Floo powder and saying, "Arabella Figg's!" Once again, he disappeared in a flash of green flame.

"Why is he dressed like that?" Harry whispered to Mrs. Figg. He was mesmerised by the ominous appearance of the man who'd just stepped out of the fireplace, of all things.

She smiled at him and answered, "Those are wizard robes, Harry. He's a wizard."

Harry was stunned. "A real wizard? Like Merlin?" He pictured the animated blue-robed old man from The Sword in the Stone with the pointy hat, and tried to reconcile that image with the man in the room. "He looks more like a vampire."

Mrs. Figg threw back her head and laughed, earning a disapproving glare from Snape. "Harry Potter, Severus Snape," she introduced, still chuckling. Harry nodded at the vampiric presence, but Snape did not reciprocate. Instead, he sat in the chair opposite the ones they occupied, staring so pointedly that Harry became uncomfortable and looked away. Finally, the man called Snape spoke to Mrs. Figg.

"I've just come from Albus's office," he said, "where he informed me that Potter's relatives had passed away."

"Oh, yes," she replied, squeezing Harry's shoulder and clucking her tongue. "It was terrible, just terrible. Apparently no one was paying attention to the weight limit on the roller coaster, and the wheels just went —"

"And as such," Snape interrupted, rolling his eyes, "the boy is now once again left on our hands." He glared at Harry, who felt guilty when he heard the situation put into that light. "What do you suppose we'll have to do for you now, Potter?"

"I dunno," Harry mumbled, scuffing the toe of his trainer on the floor. "I guess I'll get put in an orphanage."

"Well, there is one other option," Snape told him. "The headmaster of the school where I teach thinks it would be a good idea for you to come and live with me. So that I can protect you." His upper lip curled in a sneer. "I felt that it was a poor arrangement, and I assure you that I have infinitely better things to do with my time and houseroom. If you come to live with me, I won't put up with any nonsense, you just remember that."

Harry felt his stomach clench. Here was another adult that thought he was nothing but a nuisance. Mrs. Figg, strangely, spoke up on his behalf; he'd have thought she'd feel the same. "Now, Severus, Harry isn't any trouble." But the man wasn't finished; he waved off her protests.

"I'm not about to spoil you rotten as your family would," he continued, "no matter who your parents were or how famous you think you are."

Harry looked up eagerly, focusing on the message behind the words and disregarding the tone they were delivered in. "You knew my parents? What were they like? My aunt and uncle never talked about them, except they said my mum was a freak and my father was good for nothing. Aunt Petunia said I should have died with them when the car crashed."

Snape looked a little taken aback. "Your parents didn't die in a car crash, Potter," he said slowly. "They were killed by . . . your mother wasn't a freak, she was a witch. Didn't you know that much?"

Harry shot to his feet and drew himself up to his full height — which, granted, only brought him up to Snape's chest, though the man was still sitting — and his emerald-green eyes were flashing. "Don't you call my mother names!" he shouted.

Snape stood, too, and towered menacingly over him. "Sit down, Potter. Your mother was a witch because she could do magic; it's not an insult." Harry didn't move. "Sit down," Snape repeated, taking Harry's shoulder and pushing him back down on his chair. "In the future, you will address me as 'sir,' is that understood?" he ordered.

Harry nodded, gritting his teeth. "Yes, sir," he mumbled.

"Good. Now . . . you'll be staying at my house, in the care of my servant, until the school term is ended."

Harry had to ask. "What about school . . . sir? My school?"

Severus waved him off. "I hardly think you'll suffer from missing a week of Muggle school." Harry didn't understand that word, but missing school sounded wicked enough. "I'll come home in the evenings, and when summer holiday starts, I'll be there all the time. You will follow the rules I set you, is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," Harry muttered.

"Good." Snape stood up, Harry and Mrs. Figg following suit. "Come, Potter. We'll stop by the house and get your things."

Harry hesitated. Dudley had so many toys. This Snape man had no way of knowing whose things were whose, and he'd never guess Harry slept in the cupboard. He might not even especially care. He would probably think it odd, in fact, if Harry claimed that he had all his possessions in the duffel bag beside him. Harry could easily claim that Dudley's second bedroom was his, take a few of Dudley's toys and books, and put them in his bag without anyone being the wiser.

But the Snape man was shifting impatiently, glaring at him. He didn't want to go all the way back to the house if it was going to make his new guardian irritable. Besides, Harry was feeling so tired and empty. He really just didn't care about Dudley's toys. He didn't even care that Dudley was dead. He didn't care, period. "I have everything here, sir," he said quietly, pointing to the bag by the sofa.

Snape looked momentarily surprised, but then his eyes narrowed. "We'll not be coming back, Potter. Hear this, I'm not running errands hither and yon for you. If you leave your things behind, they're gone."

Harry was incensed by this; he'd been trying to make things easier for Snape. "These are all my things, sir," he repeated with a slight edge. "Everything else belongs to Dudley."

"As you wish." Snape dismissed him with a wave of his hand. "Arabella, I thank you for your hospitality. We'll be leaving now."

"Of course," Mrs. Figg rejoined, and she hobbled over to Harry, running her wrinkled hands through his hair. "Goodbye, love. I hope you'll come back to visit," she said, giving him a kiss on the top of his head. She'd never been so nice to him before.

Harry murmured a goodbye and looked to Snape for what he should do next. The dark-eyed man walked over to the fireplace, and with his wand he lit the dormant logs until a fire blazed merrily. He then took down a pot from the mantel. He reached in and removed what looked like a handful of ash, which he threw into the flames, saying in a loud voice, "Spinner's End!" He turned back and beckoned to Harry, who hesitated. Snape impatiently grabbed his arm and pushed him toward the fireplace. "Hurry up, Potter. I haven't all day." Taking a deep breath, Harry squeezed his eyes shut and stepped into the fire.

Harry thought the Snape man could have given him some warning, at least. He was totally unprepared for the way the fireplace grabbed him and spun him around like a trailer in a tornado. He knew no better than to open his mouth and call for help, only to find himself practically choking to death when thick ash coated his throat.

It was a blessed relief to feel cool air on his face, but Harry couldn't catch himself in time to avoid stumbling onto the rough stones of the hearth. The duffel bag went flying out into the room, landing on its side in a shower of dirt and grime. Harry tried to get up, but his head spun madly, so he stayed on his hands and knees, taking big gulps of air and trying not to throw up.

Suddenly, something slammed into him from behind with enough force that Harry went sprawling over onto the hardwood floor, bumping his head slightly. His hands scraped the stones first, and Harry's eyes smarted with tears.

"Stupid boy," came that man's voice from behind him. Harry felt his shirt tightening around his chest as the man grabbed a handful of it right at his back, digging in his fingernails. Harry yelped in protest as he was bodily hauled to his feet and shaken. "Don't you have enough sense to get out of the way?" Snape hissed at him.

"I was . . . I couldn't stand up," Harry protested weakly. His hands burned, his head throbbed, and he could feel where Snape's fingers had pinched his back. Snape let go, driving him back a bit in doing so. Harry straightened his sweatshirt, pressing his aching palms against it. His guardian's face was twisted in anger, so Harry looked away, focusing on the room they were in. It was a very dark parlour . . . the shades were down, but really, Harry saw that the room itself was dark. Dark paneling, dark mahogany furniture with dark upholstery. Dark shades, even. Everything was covered with a thick layer of dust.

"Not exactly Buckingham Palace, but then I don't bring home what your uncle undoubtedly does," Snape said bitterly. Harry flushed; he hadn't meant to make the man feel that way.

"I could clean it up for you," he offered, but received only a glare for his efforts.

"If you can hold your water a little longer, I'll have my servant do it," Snape contradicted him. "I do hope we can move fast enough for you."

"That's not what I meant," Harry protested, but Snape wasn't interested.

"Can't you just be quiet?" he asked in a frustrated tone. Harry fell silent, and Snape headed for the hallway, impatiently beckoning him to follow. "I'll be making us our tea while Noddy gets your bedroom ready. I want you out of both our ways until we eat. Do you like to read?" he asked, stopping suddenly next to a closed door.

"Erm . . . yes, sir," Harry answered. It wasn't a lie, exactly. He didn't hate to read, and sometimes it was fun, if he had the right kind of book. But he didn't have his nose buried in one all the time like Carly Welles at school did. He wondered who Noddy was; probably the servant, unless Snape was being sarcastic about that.

Snape opened the door, and Harry was impressed to see a library full of leather-bound books. Like the parlour, it was dark and dusty, but there was a comfortable-looking sofa near the dormant fireplace. Snape walked over to the window and pulled the heavy curtains aside, flooding the room with sunshine. "Find a book you like and sit quietly until I call you for tea, then," he ordered Harry.

"Yes, sir." After Harry was fully in the room, he heard Snape close the door behind him. He stared all around him, wondering what kinds of books Snape had. He wandered over to one of the shelves and began scanning for something that looked interesting. Some were boring, with titles he didn't even understand. Others looked like they might crumble if he picked them up. Finally, he selected one called The Tales of Beedle the Bard and looked dubiously at the sofa. It looked comfortable, yes, but also very dusty. Well, a little dust never hurt anyone. Harry gingerly climbed up onto the cushions and snuggled back against the arm, opening his book to a story called Babbity Rabbity and Her Cackling Stump. Soon, he forgot where he was and why he was there, and it was a full hour and a half later before he came to the last page of the last tale.

Harry left the clutches of the story like a diver surfacing from the deep sea. He stretched and yawned, noting that the light had changed considerably; it must be near sunset. Harry was just wondering if he should choose another book when he heard footsteps in the hall. The door flew open to reveal his guardian, whom Harry had begun to think of in his mind as Death from the story The Tale of the Three Brothers.

"Tea, Potter," Snape drawled. Harry nodded and slid off the sofa, still clutching the book. Snape's eyes narrowed. "For Merlin's sake, you're filthy!" he exclaimed impatiently. Harry cringed a bit as the man advanced on him, and he looked down at his clothes. Quite a bit of dust had rubbed off on them; he couldn't deny that. But they were Dudley's old hand-me-downs and full of holes anyway. It wasn't like he'd ruined a sport shirt and trousers.

Snape turned him around and began roughly brushing the dust off him. "Why didn't you just sit in the fireplace, if it came to this? Only you could get filthy as a pig reading a book indoors!" he complained.

"Where was I supposed to sit?" Harry cried in frustration. "You told me to find something to read and not bother you, and I did! Was I supposed to stand the whole time?" This man was as unreasonable as his aunt and uncle . . . but a little scarier.

Snape glowered at him, but all he said was, "Watch your attitude, young man. I am amazed that you could at least keep quiet for as long as you did." He turned and strode toward the door. "Come for tea."

Harry sighed and followed Snape to the small kitchen. Someone had been at work cleaning it, obviously, as it didn't have the same neglected look as the rest of the house. The table was set for two, with an ancient-looking teapot and cups in the center. A smaller plate at each place held two slices of dark brown bread. Harry looked sideways at Snape, wondering which place was his.

"Sit by the window, Potter," Snape ordered, reaching into an old-fashioned icebox and pulling out a bottle of milk. Harry obeyed, looking around for the other kitchen appliances. Aunt Petunia had a microwave, dishwasher, food processor, and trash compacter. The basin here was the old freestanding kind, so Harry could see that there was no disposal, and all the counters were bare. Strangest of all was the fact that although the milk bottle had a slight frosty film over it from the cold of the icebox, Harry could not hear the appliance running.

Snape sat opposite him and poured himself a cup of tea, then one for Harry. When Harry saw him take a piece of bread, he tentatively reached for his own. He was very hungry; all Mrs. Figg had made for his lunch was a chicken sandwich, as she'd been distracted writing a letter to someone about the death of Harry's relatives. Harry now wondered if the letter had been to the Snape man, and if so, how it had gotten to him so quickly. Then again, anyone who could travel by fireplace had to be able to send letters faster than the usual post.

The door from what he assumed was the pantry opened, and Harry's jaw dropped when the oddest creature he had ever seen walked into the room bearing two steaming bowls of soup. It looked a lot like the gnome that Aunt Petunia had bought for the garden — very short, maybe two feet high, but with long, floppy ears. Harry stared as it placed the soup in front of him and Snape.

"This is Noddy, my house-elf," Snape made introductions. "And this is Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived," he finished with a slight edge to his voice. Noddy had eyes as big as tennis balls, and they held Harry's gaze so steadily that he was rather unnerved.

"Erm, hello," he said, holding out his hand hesitantly. Noddy looked at the hand the way he might look at a square egg or something equally aberrant, but didn't take it.

"Is Master wanting anything else?" he addressed Snape.

"That will be all, Noddy," Snape dismissed the elf. Noddy gave a little bow and went back into the pantry.

Harry picked up his spoon and stirred the soup. He never liked to eat it until it had cooled a bit, in case he burned his tongue and had to feel the soreness in his mouth for several days. He took the remaining piece of bread and dipped it into the soup, tasting it that way. It was a bit bland; he reckoned the Snape man didn't cook much for himself. He wasn't wearing a wedding ring, and probably ate at school like Harry's teachers did.

"Erm . . . sir?" Harry asked tentatively.

"I'd appreciate it if you'd eat and not talk, Potter," Snape answered him. After a moment, though, he sighed. "What is it?"

"Well . . . I was hoping you could tell me about my mum."

Was it Harry's imagination, or did the man's face soften one tiny bit? "What about her?"

"Everything!" Harry said eagerly. "Aunt Petunia never would tell me anything about her or my dad. Just that they d — but you said they didn't die in a car crash. So what happened? And what did they look like? Where did —"

"One at a time, please."

"Right, well . . . you said my mum could do magic."

Snape looked at Harry oddly, as if he couldn't figure him out. "Are you being deliberately foolish, Potter, or do you mean to tell me that your aunt never said anything as to that?"

"I told you, sir; she never would talk about my parents. Except, well, sometimes when she was cross, she or my uncle, they'd say I should have died with them." Snape's mouth tightened a bit. "In the car, that is."

There was a pause while Snape lifted his teacup and took a long draught. He twisted the cup in his hands for a moment and looked as though he were deep in thought. Finally, he began with, "Well, I suppose it's no real surprise. I knew your aunt when we were children, and she never did like magic. Not many do who haven't the ability, when it comes to that." He smirked. "Some children are born with magical powers, Potter. Your mother was, your father was," — at the mention of Harry's father, Snape's expression darkened — "and you were."

"I'm magic?" Harry whispered.

"Indeed. You are a wizard. Come, surely you must have known you were different from the other children."

Harry thought about it as he played with his soup. Of course he was different — he had always wondered why he did such odd things. Shrinking that sweater of Dudley's, and the time his hair grew back overnight. Finding himself on the roof that day Dudley was chasing him . . .

"So why did I always get in trouble for things?" Harry asked, suddenly frustrated. "If Aunt Petunia knew I was magic, why did she act like I could have helped it?"

Snape sighed. "I don't know what 'things' you're referring to, Potter; perhaps you deserved to get in trouble. But often, non-magical parents or guardians don't understand magic well enough to realise that children often can't help sudden outbursts."

"I never did those things on purpose," Harry murmured.

"Usually it happens when you're particularly distressed or angry," Snape answered him. "It's expected when you're young. After you get your wand and leave for Hogwarts, however, you'll be held accountable for uncontrolled magic."

"What's Hogwarts?" Harry wanted to know. What a funny name . . .

Snape rolled his eyes, and Harry wished he hadn't asked. "Sorry," he muttered. His aunt and uncle hated questions, too.

His guardian gave him an appraising look. "Well, you would ask," he finally said. "Hogwarts is the school for young witches and wizards. It's where you'll go when you'd normally head for secondary school." He took another sip of tea. "I teach Potions there."

"What kinds of potions do you make?" Harry asked excitedly. He was thinking of Dudley's chemistry set, which made more in the way of foul smells than anything else but still looked like fun.

"There are many kinds," Snape rejoined, and Harry could see that he enjoyed the subject. "Some are medicinal, like the Blood-Replenishing Potion; others are used for disguise and deception, like Polyjuice; there are even potions for sleep or to calm anxiety." He scowled. "Students often don't appreciate how much work and skill go into the preparation of brews. They assume that because they don't get to wave their wands around and chant spells, the subject has no merit."

Harry was intrigued by Snape's explanation, but thought that if he was as short with his students as he was with Harry, it was no surprise that they didn't like the class. He shuddered at the thought of being taught by such a man — would anything ever be done well enough for Snape?

"Now is a good time to explain a few things about your stay here," Snape interrupted his thoughts. "I still have to finish out the year teaching, so on the weekdays, starting tomorrow, I'll be leaving after an early breakfast and won't be back until four or four-thirty. I may have taken you out of school, but you won't be idling away the rest of the term, nor the summer, at that. I'll have books for you when I get home tomorrow, and will set some lessons for you to finish every day."

"Can you teach me Potions?" Harry asked eagerly.

Snape considered this for a moment. "Perhaps when the term is over, you may watch me as I brew this summer, if you keep quiet and don't interfere. I suppose it's never too early for you to learn, and I certainly don't want you to end up like one of those insufferable first years that melt their cauldrons because they have absolutely no idea what they're doing.

"As to right now," Snape continued, "Noddy is not a slave. He'll use magic to give the house its first cleaning, but you'll have regular chores afterward. For one thing, you'll be responsible for your own room and bathroom. And I believe I'll put you in charge of the library, as well. Make sure no books are left out, and dust everything regularly. You're not going to play all day, every day, as you undoubtedly did at your aunt and uncle's. I may have little choice in caring for you, but if you're going to remain here, I expect you to do your share."

"How do you know what I did at their house? I had plenty of chores!" Harry exclaimed.

"Did those mean people have you making your own bed, Potter?" Snape asked him mockingly. "Merlin, how did you stand such abuse?"

Harry's eyes smarted. He knew better than to answer back; Snape obviously didn't want to listen to him. So he kept silent, miserably stirring his soup. He wasn't hungry anymore.

"It appears our food isn't good enough for the famous Boy Who Lived," Snape sneered. Harry jumped as the man grabbed his bowl from in front of him and slammed it into the sink. His heart was pounding, wondering if Snape would shout again. "I'll show you where you'll be sleeping, and I want you to wash up and go to bed. That can't be too much to ask." Harry followed him upstairs, his ears hot and his stomach churning. This man obviously couldn't stand him, but Harry didn't know what he could say to make things better.

Snape opened a door near the end of the hall, and Harry followed him into a large room. It was as dark as the downstairs, but it had a big bed, a wardrobe, and a bureau, plus a large, soft chair in the corner. Like the kitchen, everything was clean. Snape watched as Harry hesitated in the doorway. "Unpack your things and put that bag in the closet," he ordered.

As Snape went past him to get out the door, Harry looked at him in amazement. "I get the whole room to myself?" he asked.

Snape rounded on him, frightening Harry enough that he took a step back. "I don't find your sarcasm one bit funny," he snapped angrily.

"I — " Harry began, but he was cut off.

"Just go to bed, Potter." Snape slammed the door, and Harry heard his angry footsteps clicking on down the hall.

Harry slowly unpacked his few clothes; they all fit in one drawer of the bureau. He pulled off his shoes and placed them neatly in the closet. The duffel bag he stowed on the shelf in the wardrobe, a huge monstrosity like he'd always imagined the one that led to Narnia looked like. But of course, when he reached out, his fingers scraped solid wood right away.

There was an extra door, which puzzled him — opening it, Harry saw a little bathroom that had also been meticulously scrubbed. The tub stood on clawed feet, and the shower head rose straight from the floor; the shower curtain was attached to a ring that hung from the ceiling. He couldn't believe that he actually had his own bathroom and wouldn't have to share with Dudley anymore. While Harry was usually the first one up, Dudley raised such a fuss if he didn't get first shot at the hot water that Harry had to take his shower second. His cold shower, usually.

Harry took his toothbrush, toothpaste, and comb into the bathroom, setting them on the small vanity. The mirror was too high for him to reach without standing on a little wooden stool that stowed under the sink. Harry brushed his teeth and washed his face — he had a stack of clean towels, and if the Snape man hadn't sounded as if he hated Harry more than the Dursleys, even, Harry would have felt totally content.

Well, it must have been hard for Snape to suddenly get handed a seven-year-old, after all, Harry reasoned as he changed into Dudley's old shirt and sweats that he used as pyjamas. He reckoned the Dursleys had felt the same — he only wished they had been just a little kinder. It wasn't the huge amount of chores or watching Dudley eat up all the sweets. It wasn't even the way Dudley got masses of new toys and all Harry got for holidays were Dudley's hand-me-down clothes. It was how they loathed his presence and always made him feel that he was really horrid and worthless. No one, in his memory, had ever hugged him or said they loved him. Not once.

The bed was very high, and Harry had to climb up the rungs of the footboard to get into it. He hoped he wouldn't fall out in his sleep — he'd probably break something if he did. The sheets were old but clean, and Harry sighed with pleasure, stretching his arms and legs out as far as they could go. Even Dudley's bed wasn't this big, and while the mattress was kind of hard, it was like sleeping on clouds after the floor of his cupboard. Harry relished being able to turn over without hitting the walls or the cupboard door.

Maybe Snape was just tired, or snappish because he had to go back to work tomorrow. Uncle Vernon was usually at his worst on Sunday nights . . . well, so was Dudley, when it came to that. Harry really didn't care what day it was; school wasn't much better or worse than Privet Drive for him. Only Aunt Petunia seemed to look forward to Monday, when she had peace and quiet for almost seven hours while Harry and Dudley were at school. Well, tomorrow he could explore the house . . . and the garden, too. Or find a book to read. It would be pleasant to have the house to himself, even with Noddy there. Harry curled into a fetal position, tucking his hands between his knees, and drifted off to sleep.

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.

As an awkward, outcast primary school student sitting in a succession of hot, stifling classrooms, Severus Snape had learnt, out of necessity, to detach from his surroundings. Once books and paper were out on desktops and some dunderhead teacher had settled into her interminable drone for the day, Severus would paste what he hoped was an interested expression on his face and then cut his mind loose like a kite in the wind.

Among his pet fantasies – second only to winning the pools and moving into his own house until he was old enough for Hogwarts – was The Great Dragon Escape. This particular daydream began with an enormous winged dragon appearing suddenly in the sky beyond the classroom window and landing with some ceremony in the play yard outside. The story had gone through innumerable iterations and drafts until he could, within seconds, lose himself completely in it.

The first student to notice the dragon's approach was always Ev Simmons, a particularly whingy little imp that invariably ended up in Severus's class every year. When he cried out – which noise the students at first always mistook for the fire alarm, such was the octave Ev tended to reach when in distress – there was a general stampede and overturning of desks as everyone rushed over to the window bank. As the chorus of did-you-evers and where-did-it-come-froms went on, Severus merely sat back at his desk, arms crossed and a smile of pure anticipation on his countenance.

With one breath from the huge creature, the big oak tree right by the school was set afire. Amid the earsplitting shriek of the alarms, the entire student body rushed outside. Which was typical of idiots like these, of course, Severus always thought. They ran right towards the danger instead of staying inside where they were safe. The girls, who'd screamed all the way out, didn't stop even when they reached the yard, because girls had to be dramatic. The boys all tried to look tough, hoping it would be remembered that they'd kept their cool under fire. Severus, ignoring the teachers yelling after him to come back here right now, young man, took hold of Lily's arm and began to lead her toward the beast. "Your chariot awaits, Milady," he told her with a grin.

"Severus, don't! We'll be killed!" Lily shrieked, pulling back against his grip on her. She'd been one of the few girls not screaming hysterically, but actually approaching a dragon was quite another issue.

"You'll be safe with me, Lily-flower," Severus replied grandly, guiding her ever closer to the massive creature, whose every breath caused a jet of steam to escape its nostrils. Ferocious though the dragon appeared, it only watched patiently as the two children approached, and even crouched to allow them to mount its back, bending one muscular arm where the dragonian equivalent of an elbow would be so as to provide a natural step.

Severus helped Lily climb up the dragon's heaving sides, then took his place in back of her, her shoulder blades delicate as birds' wings pressed against his chest. With a flex of its huge, knotted muscles, the beast lifted off, and all of a sudden, the ground was rushing away from them with ever-increasing speed. The students swarmed about below like so many ants, the school they'd fled the size of a candy bar from this height, the burning tree merely a firefly that couldn't wait for nightfall. It was never clear what their destination was; just getting away from that horrid school with its cadre of idiot students and faculty was enough.

The vision usually ended there, Severus and Lily escaping together, heading off into the sunset. The reality, of course, would not have been quite so romantic. Dragon breeding in England was illegal even in those days, and even if one should have decided to flee Romania and come rescue Severus, he could hardly have expected to carry Lily off – and to where? His castle in Spain? – and have her abandon family and friends in favour of an uncertain future with her eight- or nine-year-old saviour. So the dragon vision, like the one where he came into a huge fortune, was confined to schooltime fantasy.

When he'd first started the dragon story, Severus had seen himself standing by the dragon's side and reading off the names of several select students to accompany him. Everyone would be waiting with bated breath to hear their name called, and when he stopped, there would be a chorus of groans and the weeping would start, possibly even pleading from those who'd been particularly vile bullies toward Severus. In that version of the fantasy, it was sweet revenge to deny them access to his friend the dragon. But he quickly realised that there just weren't that many people he didn't loathe entirely. So it was always Lily alone who accompanied him.

When he'd joined the Death Eaters at sixteen, Severus couldn't help but think that he finally had the means to play the Dragon Game for real . . . only this time, instead of missing out on a dragon ride, his enemies would be tortured and killed. His desire for revenge had only grown more cruel and ruthless over the years, and losing Lily was the last straw. Severus, whose dragon dreams had, upon reaching Hogwarts, been replaced by ones where Potter and his Marauder mates were expelled and forced into exile, suddenly found that it was no longer enough. Nothing but Potter's death would satisfy him now.

And he'd gotten his wish, hadn't he? Unfortunately, it's said that the worst thing that can happen to someone is to have their wishes come true, and Severus would never again doubt the veracity of that statement. For Potter's death had, instead of yielding to Severus his beloved Lily, instead left him alone once again. Worse than alone, since her death had also dissolved his alliance with the Dark Lord. By necessity, of course, but also by choice. Without the Death Eaters, Severus truly had no one. And now, six years later, Potter had come back to haunt him yet again, in the form of a seven-year-old boy whose mission in life seemed to be to drive Severus to drink.

That morning, he had watched in barely-concealed disgust as Potter wolfed down his porridge like a pig at its trough. Nothing affected the little brat, did it? You'd think I'd been making him live on crab shells, Severus thought resentfully. "Stop it!" he snapped. The spoon clinked against the bowl one last time, and Potter sat staring at the remains of the porridge. He wants more, of course. Severus sighed before passing him a plate of toast. As the boy hesitantly took a slice, he couldn't resist adding snidely, "Can I have Noddy braise a bull for you? Or will this be enough?" The brat hadn't answered him, only sat sulking for the remainder of the meal.

After Severus had finished his own breakfast, he ordered Potter to follow him into the library. When he'd seen the clean sheets of parchment and neatly-stacked books, Snape had felt the vein in his temple begin to throb. Even after a night's sleep, the little brat's blatant disobedience, not to mention dishonesty, still made his blood pressure spike skyward whenever he thought of it, and the unsullied study materials only served to remind him. This was, perhaps, what made him speak so caustically to the seven-year-old.

"You will spend today making up the work that you should have completed yesterday," he began. "There will be no playing outside for you today, Potter. When you've finished, you'll stay in your room the rest of the day. You may bring some books upstairs, just don't leave your room until I get back. And heaven help you if I come home to find you've disobeyed me again, young man. You'll think what you got last night was nothing."

Before leaving, Severus approached Noddy in the kitchen. "Noddy, the boy is to stay inside for all of today; don't let him go out into the garden or leave his room after he's done with his schoolwork. And make sure he gets a plain lunch, no cake or anything afterwards. Just soup or a sandwich." Noddy didn't look too pleased at these orders, but Snape was beyond caring what the house-elf thought of his disciplinary measures. Potter had to learn to obey, and why the house-elf should sulk at being asked to inform on the boy was beyond him anyway.

It had been decided that Severus would not take his breakfast or dinner at Hogwarts anymore; Dumbledore felt that it was important for the brat to have "family meals." Personally, Severus wasn't entirely displeased with the arrangement; he had always loathed eating in the crowded Great Hall, and hated having to sit facing the student body. Even the most delicious meals tended to taste like sawdust, as his focus was more on eating neatly and avoiding even the slightest mess on his face. Pasta was the worst for that.

However, despite that extra cushion of time provided by not having to arrive for breakfast, setting Potter up for the day had caused Severus to run ten minutes late to morning classes, and being flustered put him in a particularly foul temper. Had the House point system been the stock market, the average drop that day would have sent the world economy into a tailspin. The House Cup championship, formerly in favour of the Hufflepuffs, was now anyone's guess.

Finally, lunchtime arrived. Severus plopped into his chair at the head table with an aggravated sigh and began piling his plate with chicken and rice. Still recovering from the stress of the morning, he couldn't help feeling satisfied when he imagined Potter back at Spinner's End, partaking of his plain lunch. This, of course, only caused yet another surge of annoyance as he remembered yesterday's events. Ordering my house-elf around, indeed, he thought angrily.

Severus could feel Dumbledore's eyes on him as he arranged his food on his plate. His teeth clenched as he realised that he was about to be interrogated, much like the day before. And this time, of course, he would have to tell the old man that he’d smacked the precious Boy Who Lived. Somehow, Severus doubted that Dumbledore would sympathise with his reasoning.

Finally, Severus laid down his fork with a sigh and turned to face the headmaster. "Yes, Albus?" he asked in rather a snide tone. If he was about to be debriefed, he wasn't going to make it easy.

"And how is your young charge settling in?" Dumbledore inquired, seemingly unaffected by Snape's tone.

"Oh, smashingly," Severus replied bitterly. "Making himself right at home, as I had a feeling he would."

Dumbledore frowned at Snape's tone. "Is something wrong, Severus? Has Harry been misbehaving?"

"He's James Potter's son, Albus. That's all. Arrogant, lazy, and disrespectful." Severus stabbed angrily at a piece of chicken and jammed the whole of it into his mouth at once, hoping to forestall the inevitable conversation.

Albus and Minerva exchanged a look, and out of the corner of his eye, Snape saw the Transfiguration mistress give a barely perceptible roll of her eyes before starting back on her food. Albus, for his part, merely looked appraisingly at Severus over the rim of his goblet as he took a long draught.

Finally, the old man spoke. "After classes today, come and see me in my office, Severus. We'll discuss this then."

Even ten years after he'd ceased to attend Hogwarts as a student, the old man's summons had the effect of making Severus feel like a schoolboy sentenced to detention. His afternoon classes had gone no better than the morning, and more than one student made the decision that day not to continue Potions to the N.E.W.T. level, at least "so long as the classes are going to be taught by a total crackpot."

Taking his frustrations out on the students had at least alleviated the worst of Severus's nerves, so that he was relatively composed as he knocked on Dumbledore's study door promptly after his final class

(escaped)

let out for the day.

"Come in, Severus," the headmaster answered.

Severus entered the study and fell into a seat across from Dumbledore, who was, of course, at his desk, leaning comfortably back in his armchair. "Severus, why don't you tell me what Harry has done to make you so cross," the old man asked easily enough, though he didn't bother with pleasantries.

The lack of accusation in Dumbledore's tone immediately broke through Snape's defenses, which had been up since the moment he sat down to lunch that day. His body relaxed slightly as he began his story. "To begin with, he's nothing but a spoilt brat," Severus said in a rush. "He thinks everything should be run according to his wishes. That first night, when I showed him where he'd be sleeping? Well, it obviously didn't meet with his high standards, because he only mocked me. 'I get the whole room?'" Severus imitated a child's whinge.

Albus frowned at this, but Snape didn't stop. "Then, when I came home yesterday evening, I asked Potter if he'd finished the lessons I set him. He looked me right in the eye and said he had. After we had evening tea and I'd sent him to bed, I went into the library to correct his work, and what do you know? He'd never even touched the books or parchment. Everything was exactly as I'd left it that morning." Severus's hands curled into fists as he remembered that moment. At first, he thought that perhaps Potter had taken his finished work up to his bedroom for some reason; even having known James Potter as he did, Severus still couldn't believe that the boy would disobey so blatantly.

He'd found Noddy in the pantry, industriously arranging the shelves therein. "Noddy, please tell me Potter didn't spend all day outside playing," he snapped.

"Not the whole day, no, Master. He is in here around one o'clock wanting his lunch from Noddy, sir."

Snape's eyes narrowed. "His books and papers don't look disturbed. Did you ever see him working?"

"No, Master, I never saw him at work," Noddy answered promptly. Severus, with his deductions confirmed by Noddy's testimony, had raced upstairs in a rage. Potter, not surprisingly, had tried to lie again. That little brat wouldn't know the truth if it walked up wearing a nameplate.

"My house-elf confirmed that he hadn't been working, Albus. The boy is nothing but a manipulative liar," Severus finished.

"Don't you think you're being a bit too harsh, Severus?"

"Why do you automatically take his side?" Severus exclaimed, leaning forward and slamming his fist against the desk. His abrupt action immediately set the delicate magical instruments to rattling. "You haven't even met the little brat, and yet you just assume that I'm the one who's wrong!" He glared at the old man furiously.

"Now, Severus, don't get upset. I'm merely suggesting that perhaps young Harry didn't mean to cause such trouble. I highly doubt, in fact, that a seven-year-old could be quite so conniving as you make him sound."

"I suppose you think disobeying my instructions and then lying about the same are the actions of a bewildered, innocent babe, is that it?" Severus retorted.

"It seems rather odd to me that the boy would lie and claim he'd completed his work when, as you asseverate, nothing on the desk appeared to have been touched. Harry was at the end of year two in Muggle primary school; he's well aware that homework doesn't go on honour. What on Earth would make him think that you wouldn't ask to look over the work, if only to correct it?"

"All I know is that he looked me straight in the face and answered 'Yes' when I asked if he'd finished all his assignments, yet there was no evidence to show that he'd so much as cracked one book. If he isn't lying, then he's mentally disturbed," Severus replied, shrugging.

"When you came back and confronted him with your findings, what did Harry have to say?" Albus inquired, twirling a quill absently with his fingers.

Severus shifted in his seat. "He didn't say – that is, he again asserted that he had done all his work. He said . . ." The Potions master frowned, trying to remember. "He said he'd worked right up until lunchtime. Which brings me to yet another problem. According to Noddy, the br – the boy had first played outside all day, then ordered him to make lunch." Severus's eyes narrowed as his fury at Potter surged yet again. "Even you, Albus, cannot expect that my household shall be run on the orders of a seven-year-old, fame notwithstanding."

Albus frowned yet again, and Severus thought wryly that the old man probably expected exactly that. But when the headmaster spoke, his tone was more bemused than accusatory. "No, Severus, I'd hardly expect that. And yet . . . and yet I still have trouble believing that any child of that age could act maliciously. Perhaps Harry is merely having trouble adjusting to all the changes he's had to face in such a short time. Children are typically more adaptable than adults, but there are limits."

"Albus, with all due respect, this is hardly behaviour that falls into that category. If he were prone to tantrums or crying fits for no good reason, that I might excuse as nerves. But Potter gave no indication that he was at all disturbed; he simply did what he wanted and then lied to me anyway."

"Severus, I am also speaking with all due respect when I point out that you tend to be rather hard with your students. Harry is only seven, after all. Exactly how much work did you give him?"

"That isn't the point! I didn't punish him for failing to obey me and complete his work. He was punished for lying to my face!" Severus exclaimed before he thought.

Dumbledore's eyes narrowed, and Severus flinched back a bit. They had come to that, then. "Punished how, exactly?" the old man demanded of him in a suddenly cool tone.

"He . . . I smacked him." Severus didn't like Dumbledore's expression. "We discussed this beforehand, Albus."

"Yes, but I hardly expected you'd look for reasons to exercise your role of disciplinarian quite so quickly. How many times was he 'smacked', Severus?" Dumbledore's voice was flinty.

"Erm . . . ten. A reasonable punishment for lying, I should think," Severus answered, although he actually felt a twinge of sympathy for Potter at that moment. He would have liked, just then, to lie to the headmaster rather than face his wrath.

Dumbledore's expression relaxed slightly. "It isn't cruel, I suppose, although I would have looked for alternative methods of correction," he rejoined. "But why should he lie to you in the first place?" the headmaster continued in a reasoning tone. "As I've pointed out, he must have known he'd be caught."

"Well . . . now that I think on it, Potter did ask me about something in one of the textbooks when we had tea in the evening," Severus answered slowly. "So . . . I imagine he looked at the work I left and got discouraged, but was too embarrassed to say so." With the situation suddenly put in that light, Severus actually felt rather ashamed, but he rushed to his own defence. "Of course, that's no excuse for his lying. But I'll temper his assignments from now on."

Dumbledore nodded. "You'll have to remember that you're dealing with a primary school student, and one who has only had a Muggle education thus far, Severus. I didn't object to spanking – smacking, as you put it – before, but I hope the incidents will be few and far between. You may not be prepared to tolerate dishonesty, but I certainly won't tolerate abuse," he added in a threatening tone.

Severus nodded, but Dumbledore wasn't finished. "I am curious to see him, though, and also to see how he behaves in your care. I believe I'll join you for dinner this evening, if that's acceptable."

As if he'll act the same with company there, Severus thought with another mental eyeroll. "Of course, Albus," he answered cordially. "I'll expect you about half past five, then."

Five minutes later, having safely traveled from Albus's office Floo to the one in his own parlour, Severus immediately went upstairs to Potter's room and opened the door without knocking. The boy, who'd been curled up in the corner chair, jumped about a foot when he entered, his book tumbling to the floor. Potter himself sat gripping the soft chair arms, his eyes flickering to Severus's face before settling on a spot about chest level. Severus could see a faint flush forming on the boy's face.

"Did you finish the work I left you?" Severus demanded without preamble.

Potter nodded, then got up and headed for his chest-of-drawers. From one of the top drawers, he extracted several sheets of parchment which, to Severus's relief, appeared to have a quantity of writing on them. The boy hesitantly approached him, holding out the papers.

Severus took the parchment from Potter's outstretched hand and glanced over the pages before looking back at his student, who was running his finger along the edge of the bureau. "Perhaps I was . . . rather harsh with you," he began. "I'm used to teaching slightly older children, and . . . I imagine the assignments were too much," he offered reluctantly.

The boy was now staring at him openmouthed, and Severus quickly became uncomfortable with those eyes on him, Lily's eyes under that messy mop of Potter hair and wire-rimmed glasses just like his father had worn. "Not that it excuses your behaviour, of course. If you couldn't complete the assignment, you should have told me you were having trouble. We could have worked something out. I will not tolerate dishonesty."

"Sorry," Potter whispered.

"Well, we'll talk about your assignments later. The headmaster of the school where I teach is coming over tonight for dinner, so I want you to change, and quickly." Severus strode to the wardrobe and opened the doors. Other than a few mothballs and a flat duffel bag, it was empty. He turned back to Potter. "Where are all your clothes?"

Potter pointed back at the chest, and Severus walked over and began rifling through the drawers. The top one yielded a few rolled pairs of socks and some ratty pants; the next revealed two pairs of rather well-worn trousers and two dingy t-shirts; the last held only a single rugby shirt which looked big enough to hold three Potters. "Where are the rest of your clothes?" Snape inquired of the boy, beginning to panic. What if Noddy was washing them? They'd never be done in time for Albus's arrival.

"There aren't any. That's all I have." At that point, Severus remembered the lone duffel bag that Potter had brought with him; the boy claimed he didn't have anything else to bring. At the time, Severus hadn't been too concerned with Potter's possessions, or lack thereof. Now, in light of their impending visitor, and considering what he'd seen of the brat's honesty (or, again, lack thereof), that incident took on a whole different meaning.

"A likely story," Severus sneered, feeling that vein in his temple start to throb again. "I suppose you reckoned if you only brought these rags, you'd get a while new wardrobe," he continued, his lips white with fury. He balled up the rugby shirt in his fist and threw it down into the drawer, which he slammed so hard that Potter winced and stepped back.

The little brat tried to protest. "I told you I didn't have any other clothes," he whinged, his voice wobbling as if he would start crying any second, much to Severus's disgust. "Aunt Petunia only ever gave me Dudley's old things, and he's a lot bigger than me."

"Your uncle, unless I've been sorely misled, has a very lucrative job, and you have been living in a very affluent Surrey neighbourhood," Severus shot back. "You expect me to believe that your aunt refused to provide you with decent clothes out of pure spite?" The boy didn't answer, just stared at his ratty shoes. New shoes, too, I imagine, or so he thinks, Severus thought furiously.

He was having a hard time holding onto his temper. The sight of the spoilt child was making him sick. Not too many orphans found themselves in such clover as Potter had living with his relatives. While Severus had never actually been to the Dursley home, all the houses in the neighbourhood were built exactly alike, including those on Wisteria Walk. Arabella Figg, who had married a very successful Muggle jeweler, had a lovely, luxuriant home, so it stood to reason that Number Four, Privet Drive was also. It was a far cry from Spinner's End, that much was certain.

"When I was growing up, there weren't any new clothes, Potter. You think what you have now is bad? How would you like to go to school in clothes that were so old-fashioned and ill-fitting that the other kids thought they were your mother's?" Severus's voice was rising as his anger spilled out. Whether the anger was actually caused by Harry, or whether it was left over from his childhood, was beside the point. "We couldn't even afford a working washing machine, you spoilt little brat! My mother had to wash our clothes in the kitchen sink! Even your play clothes are cleaner and better kept than my best clothes ever were!"

Potter's face was beginning to work, and Severus found that this annoyed him worse than anything. "Don't even think about tears, Potter; they're not going to get you off the hook." Potter scurried out of his way as Snape stormed toward the bedroom door. "I don't make the money that your uncle does, and the sooner you get used to that, the better off you'll be," he bellowed at the sulking child. "I'm going straight to your relatives' house to pick up the rest of your clothes. When the headmaster leaves tonight, you and I are going to have a serious talk about your lying."

It gave him great satisfaction to slam the bedroom door and block out the sight of James Potter's spoilt son. Severus trod heavily on the staircase and stomped back over to the fireplace in the parlour, angrily grabbing more Floo powder than was strictly necessary before snapping out, "Arabella Figg's!" As he stepped into the swirling green flames, Severus thought that even Dumbledore couldn't blame him for feeling furious this time.

It wasn't as if Harry had never been smacked before. Aunt Petunia was hardly a gentle woman, and her fuse was almost as short as his uncle's. When he was younger, especially in his toddler years, it was a common occurrence for his aunt to slap him. Mostly, though, she was loath to touch the 'freak,' preferring to banish him to his cupboard and out of her sight. Still, he was hardly a stranger to such treatment.

On the same token, Noddy's behaviour wasn't really much different than Dudley's. Dudley was always blaming Harry for everything – why, Harry could never be sure, because it wasn't as if Dudley ever got scolded for anything, anyway – and a large percentage of Harry's own punishments resulted from being falsely accused. Often, Dudley even went out of his way to get Harry in trouble. It had been that way as long as Harry could remember. His first conscious memory of his cousin, in fact, was Dudley screaming that Harry had stolen his toy truck . . . as Harry watched, bewildered, from clear across the parlour where he sat watching the telly, the item in question a good five metres from his chair.

Compared to being pummelled by Dudley and his friends, Snape's ten smacks hardly hurt at all. Even one or two of Aunt Petunia's hurt more than that. The sting faded almost immediately. By the time Harry had picked up his toothbrush with trembling hands, rinsed it off, and finished getting ready for bed, even the dull throbbing had dwindled dramatically. Still, he was a long time in falling asleep that night. While Harry didn't blub or anything, plenty of tears leaked out the sides of his eyes and dampened the pillow on either side of his head, and when he did finally drift into slumber, it was a fitful one filled with snatches of nightmares that had him waking in a cold sweat every time.

The Snape man scared him. Uncle Vernon could be intimidating, but mostly he was all bluster. Sometimes his rages were even a little funny, rather like a big, clumsy orangutan waving its arms around and shrieking its rage into the depths of the jungle. But Snape wasn't funny at all. He was so tall and . . . and menacing. And Harry hadn't known him long enough to be sure how his rages would end. There was just no telling what a man like that would do.

And Harry couldn't understand, either, what he'd done to make Noddy hate him so. There was simply no reason for it. He often made snide comments to Dudley, getting his own back in some small way. It wasn't clear who'd said what first, although Harry was fairly certain that the chicken-or-egg ambiguity made no real difference; Dudley would make his life miserable regardless. Noddy was a different story. Harry had had so little to do with Noddy before the lunchtime incident, and he felt he'd never been anything but nice to the little creature.

Harry meditated on this while he got ready for breakfast the next morning. His alarm had gone off promptly at half past six, but Harry may as well have never set it. He was already awake, after the night of short, fitful bouts of sleep. He kept seeing Noddy's smirk in each of his dreams while homework grew fangs and ate itself up and the Snape man ran after him with a huge, toothbrush-shaped stick.

Dressed in a pair of Dudley's old trousers and a cotton t-shirt with only two or three rips in it, Harry made his way downstairs to the kitchen. Snape was already at the table, glowering at Harry over the rim of his teacup. Harry kept his eyes lowered as he climbed up into his chair, and at first Snape said nothing at all as Harry began to eat.

And despite the tension in the air and Harry's twanging nerves, he knew he had best put away as much food as possible – there was no telling whether he'd get anything else today. Harry was well used to leaving the table still hungry, but at least he usually had a full meal at school every day. Aunt Petunia, who had originally packed bag lunches to save money, suddenly decided she didn't want to be bothered anymore, so she pre-purchased lunch tickets through the school each month. Harry, who prior to that had usually ended up with a cold cheese sandwich and a bruised apple, thought he must have died and gone to heaven, if heaven served tomato sauce on cardboard and called it pizza, with little squares of gelatin in a plastic dish topped with a climbing turret of whipped cream. But it was a hot meal, at least, and he usually felt full afterward.

It was much different on the weekends or during the hols, when Harry not only had no school lunch to look forward to, but was also more likely to annoy his aunt and uncle and get sent to his cupboard. Staying at Snape's was already shaping up to be something like a school holiday, except with quite a bit of school thrown in as well. Harry began to wonder just which celestial decision-maker he had offended so badly, and how he might go about appeasing that wrathful deity.

With every mouthful of porridge, Harry actually grew more and more hungry. It was such a relief to have something to eat that he began stuffing the contents of his bowl in his mouth eagerly, forgetting manners and appearances as he focused on gulping it down as quickly as possible.

"Stop it!" Harry jumped at the sudden bellow from Snape and lost his grip on the spoon, which rattled against his nearly-empty bowl for a moment before lying still. Harry's ears started to ring as he remembered the previous night, his toothbrush flying across the room as Snape grabbed him, and he grew suddenly afraid. Was he going to get smacked again? Harry stared at his bowl, hunching his shoulders slightly and hoping that Snape would leave him alone if he was quiet enough.

But Snape only sighed and grudgingly offered Harry the plate of toast. He hesitantly took a slice and began to nibble the edges, but the crumbs caught in his throat when Snape asked, quite sarcastically, "Can I have Noddy braise a bull for you? Or will this be enough?"

Harry wasn't sure what 'braze' meant or why anyone would eat a bull, but felt his ears growing hot at Snape's snide tone. He kept gnawing at the toast out of pure hunger, although he really didn't taste it. The slice of buttered bread was just so much sawdust as far as his tastebuds were concerned. It was shaping up to be another long, miserable day.

After breakfast, Snape ordered him into the library, where the same books, parchment, ink, and quills as yesterday were laid out on the desk waiting for him. "You will spend today making up the work that you should have completed yesterday," Snape growled at him. "There will be no playing outside for you today, Potter. When you've finished, you'll stay in your room the rest of the day. You may bring some books upstairs, just don't leave your room until I get back. And heaven help you if I come home to find you've disobeyed me again, young man. You'll think what you got last night was nothing." And then he was gone, and Harry was blessedly alone.

Harry sighed as he looked at the books piled on his desk. Well, this will at least be easier than yesterday, Harry thought. All I have to do is write everything I did over again. Only this time, he would be sure to carry the finished papers with him everywhere. Noddy would not be hiding them on him again.

It only took a couple of hours to finish the lessons. Harry found that it wasn't easy to remember exactly how he'd written his first essay, and it was irritating to be doing the same work a second time. But now, Harry was able to insert a few points he'd forgotten the first time around. Writing with a quill was hard work, and Harry was still trying to master the technique. Most sentences were still rife with smears and blots of ink, and it still got all over his fingers. But soon enough, Harry was able to cap the ink and blow on his final piece of parchment to dry it.

But what to do now? He didn't want to spend the whole day outside again. It was nice to be out in the fresh air, of course, but out there, Harry had no sense of time passing. Besides, hadn't Snape told him not to go outside? Right, he was to spend the day in his room . . . but he was allowed to take books with him, wasn't he? Harry chose three and, making sure to tuck his papers into the front cover of the largest book, retired to his room. He actually found that this was preferable to going outside. His room was like a cocoon where he could curl up and feel somewhat safe, even as Harry used the next few hours to sail for Lilliput, where he was subsequently convicted of high treason for falling out of favour with the King.

Promptly at noon, Harry's door crashed open without warning. Harry, who had not heard Noddy coming up the stairs, about jumped out of his skin at suddenly having the tiny creature barge into his room, carrying a tray of food. "Little Master's lunch is ready," Noddy spat at him, slamming the tray down on the blanket chest and glaring hatefully at Harry before leaving the room as noisily as he had arrived.

Harry didn't touch the tray for a long time, fearing some kind of trick on Noddy's part. Why would he suddenly serve Harry lunch after practically chasing him out of the kitchen the day before, then lying to Snape in order to get Harry punished? Finally, though, his stomach got the better of his fear, and Harry slipped out of his chair and crossed the room to the chest. The tray contained a shallow bowl of soup, a slice of plain bread, and a cup of tea. Harry nibbled around the edges of the bread, waiting for his insides to start clenching under the effects of some caustic poison. When several minutes had passed without him falling to the floor dead, Harry gave in and devoured his lunch, grateful for the two meals he'd had so far and wondering if he'd be pushing it to expect dinner, too.

Several hours later, Harry stood, uncertain, in the middle of his bedroom, wondering what he should do. His heart was crashing in his chest so rapidly that he could hardly think through the haze of pure panic.

Harry had been speechless when Snape . . . well, he didn't actually apologise, but as no one had ever cut Harry slack before, this was the next best thing. Of course, it hadn't lasted. Not five minutes had gone by before he was out of favour again, this time for 'lying' about the clothes he'd brought with him. Snape had been so angry . . . he wouldn't even listen while Harry tried to explain. And just how was Harry supposed to prove something like that?

Harry took a few deep breaths and tried to think. Snape had been gone about ten minutes already. Harry highly doubted that the impatient man would notice the cupboard under the stairs, open it, and recognise it as Harry's 'bedroom,' thus making it clear that his cousin had been the favourite – that was too much to hope for. But surely, when he saw that all the clothes upstairs were much too big for him . . . ?

Harry was still lost in thought when he heard voices downstairs. His heart started drumming in his chest, wondering if Snape was back already. Hesitantly, he crept into the hallway and peeked downstairs. He didn't see his guardian, but he did see Noddy speaking to an old man with long grey hair and a matching beard. When Mrs. Figg had told Harry that Snape was a wizard, Harry hadn't believed her – Snape looked more like a vampire, maybe Count Dracula. But this man . . . Harry was sure he must be a wizard. He looked exactly like every description Harry had ever read of Merlin, the most famous wizard of all time.

The man looked up just then, and Harry's eyes widened at being caught out of his room. But Merl – well, the old man didn't look angry. On the contrary, he seemed . . . amused. "Ah, young Harry Potter," he said, giving Harry a genuine smile. Harry couldn't remember the last time anyone had looked happy to see him, and he found himself instinctively smiling back.

"Yes, sir," he answered, not knowing what else to say. Feeling it to be rude, holding a conversation from this distance, Harry slowly walked down the stairs toward the visitor.

The man's eyes were twinkling as they looked at the approaching seven-year-old. "You look just like your father did," he told the little seven-year-old, whose face lit up when he heard those words.

"You knew my parents?" Harry asked eagerly, stopping only a couple of feet away.

"But of course. They went to Hogwarts, just as you will in a few years' time," Dumbledore answered. It must be Dumbledore, if he was from Hogwarts. "Both your father and mother were excellent students; Head Boy and Girl in their seventh year."

Harry's happy expression fell slightly, and he looked down at the floor. "I'm not so good at lessons," he whispered shamefully. "I'm always getting marks taken off."

The kindly old man shook his head, his pleasant expression never dimming in the slightest. "No matter, Harry. There was more to James and Lily than good grades, and I suspect you'll find magical studies far removed from what you are used to. If you knew that a certain spelling word, when spoken the right way, could turn water to wine, you could hardly forget it, now could you?"

"No, sir!" Harry shook his head emphatically. Why he would want to turn water into wine was anyone's guess, yet Harry felt a tug of excitement at the idea of being able to do magic. Any magic. And this man seemed to take it for granted that he could, even after Harry had admitted that he wasn't a great student.

"All we ask is that you try your hardest to learn all you can," Dumbledore continued. He suddenly reached out and touched Harry's cheek; Harry closed his eyes against the gentle caress. He couldn't remember the last time anyone had touched him like this. "I know that you – "

Harry never got to hear the end of Dumbledore's thought, because just then, the fireplace in the next room whooshed and Snape stepped into the parlour. Harry's stomach clenched in terror at the sight of his guardian, particularly when he saw the angry expression on Snape's face. He ducked his head, heart pounding, hoping he wouldn't get shouted at for leaving his room.

"Ah, Severus," Dumbledore greeted him, rocking back on his heels. "You're back."

"Indeed, Albus. It's been, what, an hour since we saw each other last? We have so much to catch up on," Snape answered sarcastically, staring at Harry the whole time. "You will have to excuse my young charge's appearance this evening," he continued, finally letting Harry out from under his gaze and looking at the headmaster. "Apparently, he thought he would get new clothes if he left his others behind. I am in no position to provide him with a new wardrobe, and his old raiments have, unfortunately, already been given away to charity."

Dumbledore frowned at this, and Harry felt a sinking sensation at the sight of the headmaster's expression. He gave the kind man a pleading look, not wanting Dumbledore to hate him. "Severus," Dumbledore began softly.

Snape shook his head. "We'll discuss this after dinner," he replied, with a pointed look at Harry. Dumbledore looked back and forth between the two for a moment, then slowly nodded.

"All right, Severus. As you wish. After dinner, then."

It was the first time in several days that Harry had managed to get three square meals, but he found he had little appetite, only managing to eat as much as he did for fear he would be punished again and wanting to get as much food as possible into his stomach before that happened. Dumbledore still spoke kindly to him, although Harry could not ask the questions that burned in his throat, not with Snape there, glaring angrily at him. He wondered how long it would be before he could ask Dumbledore more about his parents. Surely Harry wouldn’t have to wait until he went away to that school? Not three years? He didn't think he could stand it.

After dinner, Snape ordered him to clear the table while he and Dumbledore adjourned to the parlour and conferred in low tones. Harry, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, strained to hear their conversation as he washed dishes, standing on a chair in front of the huge sink. But despite the fact that the two adults were well within his sight, perhaps only five or so metres away, he could not hear a word they said.

Dumbledore had no sooner disappeared into the fireplace than Snape turned his cold gaze on Harry, who flinched at the menacing look in Snape's eyes. The dishes were wiped and put back in the cupboards, and Harry had returned his chair to the table. He played nervously with the edge of his shirt, waiting for the Snape man to speak.

Snape was absolutely livid, time having done nothing to soften his rage. "I knew you were lying to me, Potter – no one with half a brain would believe that those rags upstairs were all you had after six years in your aunt and uncle's care – but had I not seen the evidence with my own eyes, I wouldn't be able to believe just how blatantly deceitful you were."

"I – "

"I was there, Potter!" Snape shouted. "I stood in your bedroom, disgusting mess that it was, full of broken toys and fancy clothes with the tags still on them piled all around me."

"It isn't my b – "

"And on top of that, your aunt gave me quite the insider's view on just how much trouble your relatives had with you. Miss Dursley was incredibly relieved to learn that I had become your guardian, and I can see why," Snape said, his lip curling into a sneer. "Frankly, I don't even see that it's worth the effort to try and bring you up properly, but when I think of your mother's horror if she knew how you had turned out . . ." He snorted and shook his head. "Well. How lucky am I, then, having fallen heir to the boy who ran an entire family on his whim?"

Harry's eyes were beyond stinging; at the mention of his mother, the tears he had been trying so desperately to hold back suddenly began to fall, first one at a time, then finally slipping down his cheeks so fast that it was impossible to count how many there were. He took a deep, shuddering breath and hunched his shoulders, feeling as helpless listening to Snape's tirade as ever he had while his aunt and uncle bellowed at him over his latest offence.

Seeing his tears, Snape made a disgusted noise in his throat. "Don't even think for a second that you can get out of this by crying, Potter. I'll be giving you something to cry about in a moment, mark my words. Follow me." With that, he strode from the room. Harry felt the floorboards shaking with Snape's furious steps, and his chest constricted in nervous anticipation as he thought what the 'something to cry about' might be.

"Potter!"

"Sorry," Harry whimpered, even though he knew Snape wouldn't be able to hear him. He trotted after his guardian, following him upstairs to his own bedroom, where he stood awkwardly at the end of his bed, holding onto the bedpost as he watched Snape go through his drawers.

"Put these on. You’ll be going straight to bed after your punishment," Snape ordered, shoving Harry's night clothes into his hands. Harry was caught unprepared, and almost dropped the bundle of fabric. As Snape strode into his bathroom and began banging around in the medicine cabinet, Harry quickly changed into his worn pyjamas, folding his other clothes with shaking hands and putting them away in his bureau. He hovered outside the bathroom, wondering if he was supposed to get ready for bed, and what Snape could be doing in there. Seeing him in the doorway, Snape pointed to the wooden stool. "Step up," he ordered Harry.

Harry climbed warily onto the stool and balanced himself by gripping the cold, hard edges of the basin. His lower belly was pressed against the cold, also, making him shiver even before he saw the fresh bar of soap lying on its torn wax wrapper. He knew, then, what Snape had in mind; Aunt Petunia had punished Harry the same way on several occasions, the last being the time he'd called her that name he heard one year five girl call another on the playground. Harry's throat went dry at the thought of that bitter taste that seemed to linger days afterward, no matter how many times he brushed his teeth in between, or how many glasses of water he drank.

"Please," he started to protest, but Snape had already picked up the bar and turned on the tap. Harry watched as the soap began to glisten under the running water, then foam when Snape started to work at it with his fingers. His mouth puckered in anticipation of the vile substance that would soon fill it, and he trembled as he gripped the basin and tried not to cry. Finally, Snape turned off the water and ordered Harry to open his mouth. Harry obeyed mutely, though his body cringed, fearing what Snape would do to him if he disobeyed.

Snape's hands were rough as he worked the soap around the inside of Harry's mouth, leaving a thick film of the horrible stuff behind on his teeth, tongue, and the insides of his cheeks. Harry felt saliva flowing too fast into his mouth, and knew he'd have to be very careful not to swallow. It was probably less than a minute before Snape dropped the wet bar of soap on the wrapper and turned the tap back on, but to Harry it felt like hours as the wretched taste threatened to make him gag.

"Rinse," Snape ordered him, and Harry cupped his hands to hold as much water as he could before taking it into his mouth and swishing it around, trying to get as much soap out as he could. Too soon, though, Snape shut off the water and handed Harry a towel to dry his face with. As his guardian took his arm and dragged him over to the chair he'd sat reading in for the better part of the day, Harry's tongue still tasted plenty of soap as he ran it around the inside of his mouth. The taste was disgusting, but Harry quickly forgot that as Snape sat down and he realised, with a sickening lurch of his stomach, what was going to happen next.

Harry fought to control his panic as Snape, none too gently, maneuvered him over his lap. Neither his hands nor his feet reached the ground, and Snape's knees pressed uncomfortably into his stomach, effectively immobilising him. Harry whimpered as he felt two hard smacks across the seat of his sweats, and more followed quickly behind those as Snape began to lecture him. "The headmaster is not in favour of spanking, as a rule, Potter," Smack! Smack! Smack! "but even he agreed that deliberate lying is grounds for punishment." Smack! Smack! Smack!

Harry's teeth were clenched as he tried not to cry out, wondering how hard Snape would punish him this time. "I expect nothing less than the truth from you at all times, and you will obey the rules of this house whether you like it or not," Snape continued. Smack! Smack! Smack! "Neither of us has any choice about these living arrangements, but in my house, you will treat me with respect or suffer the consequences." Harry gave up and cried brokenly as Snape finished with several searing smacks that left Harry certain he wouldn't be able to sit down ever again. Finally, his punishment ended, and Snape unceremoniously deposited him on the high bed before switching off the lights, warning Harry to go straight to bed with no fussing, and slamming the bedroom door behind him as he left.

As Harry lay curled up under his blanket, tasting soap every time he sniffed back tears, he reflected on all the times he had wished for a new home, new guardians. He had never understood why his relatives hated him so much, and sometimes, when they were threatening to send him away to an orphanage where he couldn't sponge off their charity any longer, Harry had wanted to cry, "Then send me there! What are you waiting for?" It seemed to him that anywhere would be better than the cold, sterile house where he had spent the last six miserable years of his life.

Well, Harry had gotten his wish, hadn't he? Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, and Dudley were gone – he would never see them again, not in this lifetime, anyway. The house on Privet Drive would be sold, and a new family would move in. But in place of his frigid aunt and blustering uncle, Harry had gotten an angry, frustrated Snape who seemed ready to smack him at the drop of a hat, and a house-elf whose cooking and cleaning duties took a backseat to torturing Harry.

Snape, unbeknownst to him, had realised Harry's worst fears for him that evening. Deep down, in that part of his soul that his mother and father had imprinted with their unconditional love and adoration, Harry had somehow kept on believing that his relatives' aversion to him was their issue, not his. However, the repeated rejection by his new guardian threw a wrench into that theory, unconscious as it was, and Harry was left to wonder if he really was bad, incapable of being loved by anyone – even his parents, had they still been alive.

At that moment, Harry felt he would have given everything he had – which, admittedly, was no more than a jumble of ratty clothing and a tattered duffel bag – just to be back in his cupboard under the stairs at Number Four.

"Twice deosil, then once widdershins, Potter, not the other way around," Snape commanded.

Harry jumped, nearly dropping the heavy stirring paddle. He hadn't realised, when Snape asked him to stir the Blood-Replenishing Potion, how easy it would prove to become distracted by the swirling mixture. He'd been eager to help, feeling very like a sorcerer's apprentice as he followed Snape into the basement, where countless shelves of glass jars glittered in the firelight and a huge cauldron, big enough for Harry to curl up and sleep in, stood on a raised section of flooring in the centre of the room.

But so interesting were these surroundings, and so mesmerising was it to watch as the potion cycled through all possible (and some impossible) shades of purple and red, that Harry had trouble remembering the pattern he was supposed to be utilising while stirring the bubbling liquid. Sometimes he would catch himself going three or four times clockwise — deosil, Snape called it — and twice counterclockwise, or the other way around, or perhaps some new variation entirely.

"Focus, Potter! That is a vital and incredibly sensitive potion, not a cup of tea and milk!" his guardian barked.

"Yes, sir," Harry said, trying to regain his focus on the steaming potion. Staring at it was like staring at the sky with his head tilted backwards, where if he didn't look back down every now and again he'd probably fall flat on his bum. He didn't want to make Snape angry and get sent upstairs, because he really was excited to be learning about potion-making. The room itself was fascinating enough; it looked almost exactly like the one in Snow White where the witch had poisoned the apple and transformed herself into a hideous old hag. All it lacked was a human skull with an ebony-winged avian familiar perched atop.

The jars were intriguing simply by virtue of their sheer number, and in the flickering light they shone like a thousand lanterns. But the labels were the best part; Harry, while trying to keep watch over his potion, at the same time strained his eyes to read the elegant script on the front of each jar. Some of the names were indecipherable, at least from where he was standing. Others were confusing, like Gum Arabic and Verbena. Some managed to make him feel rather ill, such as Newt Testicles or Pulverised Bats' Wings. And then there were the jars that caused him to shiver — not unpleasantly, like when he'd used to sneak out to the Dursley kitchen at night for something to munch on and heard the floor creaking upstairs, but more like when the first notes of Beethoven's Symphony No. 5 began playing, or that look on Aslan's face when he stomped the witch into black smoke. Those jars were marked with names like Mummy Dust, Ashes of Atlantis, and Wolfsbane.

Harry tensed, his concentration broken, as he heard Snape's footsteps behind him. He clenched his teeth in anticipation of another scolding and tried valiantly to keep up the proper stirring pattern, but it was as though his hands were determined to get him in trouble. They kept trying to go in the wrong direction, so Harry had to yank the paddle back the other way several times.

Snape hovered over him for a moment before speaking. "That's enough of that," he said. "Now . . ." Harry stopped stirring and watched as Snape produced one of the glass jars. "This is a special, magical herb called begeta, which acts a bit like yeast. You use it when making potions that are designed to refill or replenish." He opened the jar and held it out to Harry. The begeta smelled horrible, kind of like mildew. "Take a pinch out," Snape instructed, "and sprinkle it in."

Harry reached out eagerly; Snape hadn't let him do anything but stir so far, and that was fun, but now he was going to add something, just like a real wizard! But before Harry's fingers could touch the odd substance, he hesitated. "What's wrong with you now, Potter?" Snape barked at him impatiently.

"How much is a pinch, sir? You said measurements have to be exact."

Harry tried not to look at Snape's face any more often than necessary, so he didn't have to see the expressions of anger and frustration that were frequently displayed there. The consequence of this was that he often didn't know his guardian's mood until he spoke. Such was the case this time, and Harry's neck and shoulders felt slightly less tense when Snape's voice softened. "This isn't an ingredient that needs to be measured exactly. You don't want too much, of course, but unless you literally grab a fistful, that shouldn't be a problem."

Harry tentatively reached back into the jar and pinched a small quantity of the herb, which felt like the little dried buds on the end of baby's breath, between his fingers. He held it over the cauldron, then looked to Snape for confirmation.

Snape nodded. "That's just enough. Go ahead and sprinkle it in, then give the whole mixture a few dozen stirs deosil." And as Harry obeyed, Snape surprised him by saying, "Master brewers develop an eye for quantity, usually over time. You might just have that knack."

Harry felt a surge of pride at his guardian's words, and his face heated up as he stirred the potion slowly for a few moments. "Was my mother good at Potions?" Harry asked before he thought. Snape looked up sharply from the table where he was working, his pestle suspended in midair. Harry, embarrassed, dropped his gaze to his feet, curling his toes up inside his shoes and hoping Snape would just ignore him. Since the moment he had realised that Snape and his mother had known each other, Harry had been aching to ask his guardian all about her. He had no pictures of his parents, nor any of their possessions, and all he knew from Aunt Petunia was that they were freaks who had died in a car crash, as freaks so often did.

Snape looked at Harry for a moment, then resumed his work with the pestle. "Yes, she was very good," he said in a low voice. There was a moment of silence, and then Snape added, "She had good instincts for it. I used to help her, but it wasn't very long before she didn't even need me."

"Then maybe . . . maybe someday, I'll be as good as she was?" Harry asked hopefully.

Snape sighed again and wiped his hands on a rag, then took out his wand and extinguished the fire under the Blood-Replenishing Potion. He ignored Harry's question, perhaps not realising that it was a question. "Fetch that cauldron lid over there so this can simmer," he ordered Harry, who scrambled to obey. The lid was almost as tall as he was when balancing on its edge, and carrying it, Harry felt like a warrior with a huge shield. Snape's house sure had a lot of opportunities for playing pretend. If only Noddy weren't there, he could play all kinds of games while Snape was away.

Snape set the heavy lid on top of the cauldron. "The heat the potion gained from being boiled will be trapped in by the lid, allowing the mixture to finish brewing," he explained to Harry. "That's enough for now. It's time to eat."

"Can I help you some more after tea?" Harry asked hopefully. As damp and scary as this room was, it was also exciting to be down there, pretending to be a powerful sorcerer working his secret magic. And Snape was different in this room. Sure, he got snappish sometimes — a lot, actually — and Harry was always afraid he'd make a huge mistake and earn himself another spanking. Still, it was obvious that Snape loved his potions, and he seemed to really enjoy sharing his vast knowledge of them. Sometimes, when he was explaining to Harry about the effects of heat, or how to hold the stirring paddle so the flat edge caught the current, his tone was almost reverent. There was powerful magic in studying this subject, and Harry couldn't wait until Snape started letting him do more than stir or add a pinch of begeta.

Consequently, his face fell when Snape shook his head. "No, Potter. The headmaster has requested two specific potions, and they require my full and complete attention. I can't be watching you at the same time."

Harry felt a pang of remorse when Snape mentioned the headmaster. He had hoped that he might meet the old man again so he could ask him about his mum and dad. But Dumbledore hadn't come back. It had been over a week since his visit. In that time, Harry had somehow managed to avoid being punished . . . well, there had been one night that Snape sent him to bed early, but as Harry had forgotten to dust the library that day, it didn't seem unreasonable. He didn't mind very much being punished for something he'd actually done, if only due to the fact that it was a new experience, and therefore somewhat interesting.

Besides, Harry really preferred to be alone in his room, if not alone in the library. In fact, the ideal situation was to cart an armload of books upstairs and devour them in relative comfort. He had taken to doing his lessons up there, as well, since Noddy only had Snape's room to tidy up every morning and spent the rest of the day downstairs.

Harry felt very sad as he remembered what Snape had told him during his punishment, that night when he'd visited Harry's old house and spoken with Aunt Marge. Snape had said that Dumbledore agreed with the punishment. The headmaster felt that spanking was appropriate for liars. Obviously, he thought Harry was a liar, and that was what made Harry sad. Now Dumbledore wouldn't want to come back and see him, and he wouldn't get to hear any more about his parents. And when he went to that school in a few years, as Snape said he would . . . well, it couldn't be a good thing to have the headmaster hate you. Not at all.

"Go upstairs and wash up, then change your clothes for tea," Snape told him as they ascended the rickety wooden basement steps to the kitchen. "We will eat in ten minutes."

"Yes, sir," Harry said, sniffing hungrily at the air. He hadn't realised just how hungry he had become while helping Snape downstairs. Despite the hypnotic effect of the potion he'd been stirring, Harry had been so engrossed in their activities that he'd actually forgotten to be hungry. That had never happened before.

Upstairs, Harry took off the battered robe that Snape had given him. It looked as though it had been shrunk to size the way his other clothes had, as the proportions were slightly off. It was also very well worn, which Harry liked, as it meant he didn't have to be hypervigilant about keeping it from getting soiled. He hung the robe in his wardrobe, then took a fresh shirt and trousers from his drawers and laid them on the bed. He would put them on as soon as he'd washed up in the bathroom.

It was a strange feeling, wearing new clothes without rips or tears. Stranger still was that they all fit. From the Dursleys', Snape had brought back a small box of clothing — clothing that he assumed to be Harry's, seeing as how it was found in the bedroom he thought to be Harry's as well. Harry was beyond arguing with Snape. That way lay trouble, every time. The fact that the clothes were too big for him didn't seem to matter; Snape just assumed they had been bought for Harry to 'grow into,' which explained why they all still had their tags attached.

Snape had not appeared to be carrying anything when he stepped out of the fireplace that night, but the next morning, he had surprised Harry by producing a tiny bundle from one of the hidden pockets in his voluminous robes. With a flick of his wand, the parcel had expanded to a good-sized shipping carton. Inside were various new clothes — Dudley's, Harry realised with a sinking heart. They wouldn't fit, and Snape would be angry again.

But that wasn't the case. "Miss Dursley had already disposed of everything in your chest of drawers," Snape drawled, giving Harry a distasteful look as if he'd somehow inconvenienced the man. "But these were piled in the wardrobe, no doubt for you to wear after you ripped your way through the others. I'll shrink them to size, and you'll begin wearing them here right away."

"Yes, sir," Harry whispered.

"Keep these other things around, but only to wear when you're doing something that might damage your good clothes," the man instructed him, shoving the ratty shirts and trousers together in the bottom drawer and slamming it shut. Perhaps he wasn't angry just then, but the noise still made Harry take a step back. The memory of his guardian's rage was still too fresh at that point, and loud noises looked like they were going to be a problem for some time yet.

Tea was delicious, consisting of roast beef, scalloped potatoes, and steamed green beans. Harry enjoyed every bite, and the atmosphere was surprisingly calm. He had found that Snape was easier to be around after he'd been working among his potions. Much more relaxed. Right then, he was reading a letter that Noddy had left propped up against his teacup. It wasn't the first letter that had arrived since Harry had come to live there, and yet he had never once seen a postman. Stranger still was the fact that none of the letters had any envelopes. But with such delicious food before him, Harry hardly cared how the letters came, or even if they came at all.

"Oh, joy cometh in the morning," Snape said suddenly, sounding exasperated. Harry looked up from his roast beef, apprehensive. He tried to think if he'd done anything that could have made Snape angry, but his mind came up blank. Still, he sat rigidly in his seat. Waiting.

Snape was a moment longer in finishing up the letter, but finally he sighed and folded it back into a rectangle. He looked suddenly much older and very tired as he pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed at his forehead. Harry didn't want to ask what the matter was and get snapped at, but he wished Snape would tell him so he wouldn't have to feel so nervous.

"It would appear that we will have a visitor soon," Snape finally announced, sounding less than pleased at the news. "An old . . . er, friend of mine, Lucius Malfoy, has a son your age. He came to stay for a fortnight last summer, and evidently Lucius plans on making it a habit." He looked like he wanted to say more, perhaps something rude about his 'friend,' but instead fell silent as he sipped at his tea meditatively.

"When is he coming?"

"Five days, right after school is dismissed for the holidays," Snape answered, looking irritated. "I, of course, am not entitled to any recovery time."

Harry had questions, of course. Where was this boy going to stay? Would Harry have to give up his room for the stranger?

Then there were questions that Snape could never answer — or, rather, that Harry could never ask. What was the boy like? Was he going to be just another Dudley, gorging himself on sweets and going out of his way to make Harry miserable? Would Noddy treat him with the same disgust and disdain that he'd shown so far to his master's obligatory ward? Snape seemed no more enthusiastic about his new visitor than he was over Harry. And if that were the case . . . could he and this unknown boy possibly become friends, allied as they were against the capricious adult who had been placed in reluctant charge of them?

Harry couldn't voice those concerns, and so he asked the one question he didn't care much about one way or the other. "What is his name?"

Snape gave him a tight smile. "His name is Draco."