Hours passed.

Five of them actually.

A woman walked past, her eyes shifting to him for a moment. Her steps slowed slightly and Harry smiled cheerfully at her, praying she didn’t stop. She was the fourth person to give him such a wary look, and it was starting to grate on his nerves. So what if he was sitting alone? He was waiting for his ride for goodness sakes. They were acting like he was two, not twelve.

Harry squirmed uncomfortably on the hard bench. The clock hanging above the ticket counter read 3:16pm. Uncle Vernon had been late last year too, though, he remembered. He frowned as he recalled his Uncle’s words when he had shown up four hours late the year before.

“If you thought I was going to get up early and drive all the way into London just to pick up the likes of you, you’ve got another thing coming, boy. You’re damn lucky I came at all! If I had my way, you’d be spending your summer at a work camp!”

Harry sighed and shifted again. His left leg had gone to sleep, so he stood and shook it a little to get the blood flowing. He wiggled his toes as the pins-and-needles sensation crept up his calf.

His stomach growled and he wished he’d bought something from the train. He’d been too depressed to eat much at breakfast, even though he knew it would be his last decent meal for the next few months. He couldn’t even buy a bag of crisps at the station kiosk as he had no muggle money on him. He had a galleon in his trunk, not that it would help him much.

He looked back over at the clock, then at the ticket desk. Suddenly an idea struck him. He jogged the few yards to the ticket window. The man behind the counter looked down at him “Where to?” he asked.

“Oh, no, nowhere, I’m sorry.” Harry stammered, then as politely as he could, asked “May I please borrow your phone book?” The man responded with a little murmur of consent and pulled the phone book off the shelf next to him. He slid it across the counter to the boy. Harry thanked him and pulled the heavy book to the side. After a quick look back at his trunk to make sure it was safe, he began flipping though the pages, soon stopping at the G’s. He drew his finger down the page, whispering each name as he reached it.

“Grady…Grallow…Grange…ah, Granger!” Harry frowned. There had to be over 60 Grangers listed! Exasperated, Harry let his head fall against the page. He had no idea what area Hermione lived in. That was the problem with owl post he thought dejectedly. No addresses, just a verbal command to your owl and off they went. He lifted his head and slammed the book closed with a dull thud. He returned it to the man in the ticket booth and walked slowly back to his seat.

He sat back down on the bench and ran his hands through his hair. Leaning back, he slouched so his legs dangled, and began to kick idly at his trunk.

000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

Harry glanced over at the clock for what seemed the hundredth time. 8:24pm and still no sign of Uncle Vernon. What if he didn’t get the owl? He thought to himself. Harry wouldn’t have been surprised if the owl delivering the letter was shooed away, or worse. His Uncle had hated owls with a passion ever since the flock of them had delivered his first letter from Hogwarts two years ago. Actually Uncle Vernon was about as fond of owls as he was of magic, and of Harry. In fact, if Uncle Vernon could erase three things from existence, it would likely be owls, magic, and Harry. Though likely not in that order, Harry mused. It would probably go Harry, then magic, then…

“Mr. Potter!”

The familiar sharp tone snapped Harry out of his thoughts, cutting through him like a hot knife through a flobberworm. He froze, cringing, unwilling to look up. Damn, damn, damn! Of all the people to find him like this, it had to be Snape.

“Mr. Potter. Though I am regrettably used to your atrocious manners, kindly attempt to show at least some decorum, and look at me when I am addressing you.”

Slowly, Harry’s eyes trailed across the floor, coming to rest on Snape’s shoes. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he dragged his eyes upwards until he met the man’s stern glare. He groaned inwardly. Oh this was just fabulous. How on earth was he going to explain sitting alone at this time of night?

“Um…” he started, not really knowing if he should tell Snape the truth or not. He could just imagine the look of amusement on his Professor’s face at the idea that Harry’s relatives couldn’t even be bothered to pick him up. He’d likely tell all his little Slytherins too, the nasty bastard.

“Um...” he repeated; his cheeks reddening as Snape rolled his eyes.

“Articulate indeed.” the man sneered. “Pray tell, why are you sitting without supervision at this hour of the evening?” Snape’s lip curled into a snarl. “Let me guess, your relative’s are driving the limousine up to the front door? Too good to drag your case a few yards are you Potter? But I imagine the Golden Boy expects his luggage to be carried for him, yes?” Snape folded his arms across his chest, smirking.

Harry exhaled noisily, trying not to let his Professor see the anger welling up in him. He had learned long ago that to show your emotions only made you more of a target, more open to being hurt. Uncle Vernon had made sure of that.

There was no way around it now. Snape was standing there like a vulture hovering over a carcass. He was going to have to tell the man the truth. He couldn’t sit here all night and he had no idea how to get to Surrey, or back to Hogwarts.

“I don’t think they’re coming.” he said softly.

“Speak up, Potter.” came the gruff reply. “You are speaking to a teacher, not whispering sweet nothings to one of your simpering fans.”

Harry angrily balled his hands into fists behind his back. Why did Snape have to be such a prat?

“I don’t think they’re coming, Sir.” he said a little more forcefully before breaking eye contact with his teacher and looking to the floor in embarrassment.

Snape sighed. It was the same sigh he used when Neville botched yet another potion or Hermione frantically waved her hand in answer to a question. It was Snape’s non-verbal way of saying you were a complete idiot, and that putting up with you was akin to torture. Harry knew that sigh well, having heard it numerous times during Potions class.

“Move, Potter.”

Harry looked up in confusion. “Sir?”

There was another sigh. “I said move, Mr. Potter. Surely you’re familiar with the English language? Or are you as abominable at English as you are at potion making?” the Professor said callously. “Collect your luggage and come with me. I’m taking you home.” And with that he began to stride away from Harry, who sat looking at his teacher with surprise.

“Go with you?” Harry muttered under his breath, his brow furrowing into a scowl. “I’d rather go with a Dementor.” But he scrambled to his feet anyway, and clutching the handle on his trunk, he began dragging it after Snape, who was already halfway across the terminal and heading into the men’s toilets.

Harry watched his teacher enter the facilities, and slowed to a stop. What was this, a bathroom break? Do vampires even use the bathroom? Harry snickered softly, and the apprehension he was feeling dissipated a little, but only for a moment. Going home to his relatives was bad enough, but being taken there by Snape was next to intolerable.

He turned and looked back towards the front door of the terminal just in case Uncle Vernon had arrived. He wasn’t sure if he’d be relieved or not to see his Uncle standing there. Harry pursed his lips in thought. What would be more hideous, spending the summer with Uncle Vernon or Professor Snape he wondered? Uncle Vernon would take the belt to him and make him work like a field mule, but Snape…hmm what would Snape do? Harry imagined being chained in a dark dungeon surrounded by bubbling cauldrons and being spoon fed revolting potions. He hadn’t a clue what Snape did with his summers, and he didn’t want to find out.

“Mr. Potter!” Harry whirled around to see his Professor standing in the bathroom doorway. “Are you completely unable to follow simple instructions? he snapped. “I said come with me. I did not say dawdle outside like an idiot!”

Harry didn’t move. “Into the bathroom, Sir?” he asked. There was no way he was going into a secluded area with Snape. He wasn’t the smartest person in the world, but he wasn’t that stupid.

Glaring, Snape took a few steps towards the boy, leaned into him and grabbed his arm so hard that Harry gave a little gasp. “Mr. Potter, my patience is fading rapidly.” Snape hissed, his voice a deadly whisper. “If you do not obey me this instant, you will be very sorry indeed.” His arm moved to take the handle of Harry’s trunk. At the sight of a hand moving toward him, Harry couldn’t help but flinch violently, pulling his arm out of the man’s grip and taking a jerky step back.

Harry’s eyes widened as he realized what had just happened. His eyes met the Professors and for a moment the two simply stared at each other, one in horror and the other in confusion. A second later Harry’s eyes were on the floor, his face crimson with embarrassment.

“Sorry.” Harry said his voice almost inaudible.

Snape regarded the boy for a moment before tipping the trunk onto its wheels. He looked back at Harry before he spoke in a voice that was slightly less cutting than before.

“Come.”

He pulled the trunk into the bathroom with Harry following behind. Harry’s nose wrinkled at the smell of bathroom salts and chemicals. Only one of the florescent lights in the ceiling was working, and it was flickering madly in the dimly lit room. It looked like something out of a horror movie.

Glancing at the door, Snape pulled his wand from within his robes and waved it at Harry’s trunk, muttering a spell. The trunk shuddered a little and then began to shrink down to the size of a matchbox. He reached down and picked it up, then along with his wand, deposited it back into the folds of his robes. Harry watched with interest, having never seen the spell performed before, though Hermione had brought a book on shrinking spells to the common room one day and insisted that they practice it. They managed to mutilate several innocent pairs of shoes before Hermione sheepishly returned the tome to the library.

Snape extended his hand to Harry who eyed it warily, making no move to take it.

“Mr. Potter, we are about to apparate to your home. You will need to be in bodily contact with me in order to make the journey possible.” Harry noticed he hadn’t spoken with his usual icy tone. He hadn’t believed it were possible, but Snape could almost sound like a normal human being when he wasn’t busy being a complete ass.

Slowly he reached out and took the Professor’s hand. He cringed slightly when Snape pulled him roughly to his side and draped his arm around Harry’s back. If there was one position Harry would never have thought himself in, this was it, being embraced by the man he hated most in the world. Actually, he didn’t hate him the absolute most; that honor went to his Uncle, but Snape was pretty close behind.

“Close your eyes.” the Professor warned. “The trip will be…unsettling.” Harry obeyed and suddenly there was a rushing sound in his ears and a horrible tugging feeling in his stomach. A terrible floating sensation struck him and he felt like he was falling, wind whipping his hair against his face, and he panicked, grabbing at Snape’s arm frantically.

Then as quickly as it began, it was over, and Harry found himself slamming to the ground on his knees, the wind knocked out of him. He bent his head to the grass and inhaled the earthy scent as he drew in a ragged breath, his fingers burrowing into the soft green blades. His stomach tightened and he begged himself not to throw up.

He could see Snape’s black shoes out of the corner of his eye, but the man made no move to assist him. After a few moments Harry shakily pushed himself to his feet. He took a deep breath and released it, glancing over at the Professor, who was staring at him in disapproval.

“Finished?” Snape asked snidely, and Harry gave a small nod, ignoring the sarcasm in the man’s voice. So much for Snape being human.

He looked around at the familiar homes that dotted Privet Drive. They had apparated into the dark alley a few houses down from the Dursley’s home. Harry didn’t think of it as his home. He knew better than that.

“Which one is it, Potter?” and Harry pointed to number four. As they walked toward the house Harry frowned. Why was it so dark? Not a single light was on, not even the porch light which Aunty Petunia never turned off as a security measure. Maybe they had gone to pick him up after all Harry thought, panicking. Oh God, there would be hell to pay if they arrived at the train station to discover he was missing. Then they’d come home and find him here and he’d have to explain how he arrived, and Uncle Vernon would go absolutely mental if he found out Harry had returned home by magical means.

Professor Snape glanced over at Harry, noticing the sudden change. The boy’s breathing had quickened and he fidgeted with his hands manically, lacing and unlacing his fingers, looking over his shoulder at the road as if expecting Voldemort himself to appear out of the darkness. He could feel the fear coming off the boy in waves. His brow knit slightly, what on earth was the idiot boy so scared of?

Turning back to the door he knocked loudly several times. Expecting no answer, and getting just that, he stepped over to the living room window and peered through the glass, but he could see nothing through the thick curtains.

Just then a man’s voice called out. “Oi! What are you up to?”

Harry jumped nervously and Snape stepped away from the window, turning towards the voice. The Dursley’s neighbor stood on his front porch wearing a yellow dressing gown. He looked at the pair suspiciously.

“I am delivering the Dursley’s nephew.” Snape stated, and the man looked over at Harry.

“You’ll be waiting a while then,” he replied. “They’ve gone on ‘oliday. Won’t be back for six weeks.”

Snape looked over at Harry who gave a confused shrug.

“I’m watching their place while they’re gone,” the man continued. “and they didn’t’ tell me about no nephew.”

“He resides in their home.” Snape retorted, growing annoyed. “They were expecting his return from school.”

The man shook his head. “I’ve lived ‘ere for 16 years, mate, and I’ve never seen no one else but Vernon, his missus, and their lad. Now you move on before I call the coppers!”

Snape bristled in anger at being referred to in such a slang term. Mate indeed! It was all he could do not to withdraw his wand and hex the man into next week. Instead, he turned swiftly and strode across the grass and down the sidewalk.

Harry followed, his head lowered in humiliation. He didn’t care that the Dursley’s had left. In fact, he was happier than he’d been in ages, knowing for the first time in years he wasn’t going to be locked up like an animal, half starved, and beaten mercilessly. It was Snape knowing that made him feel so ashamed.

He could just imagine the Professor gathering his Slytherins around the common room, telling them all how Harry’s relatives had ditched him for the summer while they relaxed in…..where had they gone anyway? Probably Disneyland Harry thought bitterly. Dudley was always going on about the place, and every time a travel advertisement came on TV he would whine about wanting to go and Aunt Petunia would call him her ‘little Dudders’ and tell him that they weren’t able to take a filthy little freak on vacation, and it was Harry’s fault they couldn’t’ go anywhere. Then Dudley would get his little friends together and Harry would end up bloody and beaten in the back yard.

It didn’t matter what it was. It was always Harry’s fault.

Harry didn’t realize he was lagging so far behind. Snape had already reached the alleyway, and had turned to watch the boy walk slowly after him. He studied him for a moment, and he caught a glimpse of his face. He looked so hopeless.

Snape thought back to the incident at the train station when Harry had pulled away from him so fearfully. It was obvious by his reaction that he’d been hit before. Over the years the man had seen many a Slytherin exhibit the same signs of abuse, though he never thought in a million lifetimes that Dumbledore’s Golden Boy would be a victim of mistreatment.

The boy stopped a few feet from him, his eyes meeting his teachers momentarily as the Professor reached to pull the boy against him once again.

Snape hadn’t been oblivious to Harry’s recent change in behaviour. He’d seen the boy in the Great Hall, pushing his food around his plate, staring at his uneaten fare with shoulders hunched in defeat. He’d noticed his absences from meals altogether, and his inability to concentrate in class. He looked like walking death, with pale skin and hollow eyes. He knew the signs of sleep deprivation, and Harry Potter was a classic illustration.

Normally he wouldn’t have given a second thought to the Boy Who Lived. His blind hatred of the boy’s Father was so strong that feeling anything other than contempt for James Potter’s son was next to impossible. He had been sure that McGonagall was dealing with whatever childish drama was playing out in the world of Gryffindor, but after what he had witnessed only minutes before, he wasn’t so sure.

He felt Harry’s small frame stiffen under his touch as he slipped his arm around the boy’s shoulders.

He would return with the boy to Hogwarts, and speak to Albus. Though it was highly irregular to allow a student to remain at the school during holidays without parental consent, it was unlikely that Harry’s family would have any objections, given the fact that they had all but abandoned him.

Snape muttered the apparition spell and with a small pop the two were gone.