"No person is your friend who demands your silence, or denies your right to grow."

Alice Walker

Harry shifted slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position to sit in, so he could rest and hopefully relax enough to sleep. He hadn’t slept, not properly, in nearly a week. When awake, he sometimes saw things or heard things that he knew weren’t there and realised, in a lethargic, apathetic way, that he was slowly going mad.

The cupboard was far more cramped now than it had been when he was last locked in it. But then, when he was last locked in, he had been just shy of eleven years old, and his body had been painfully thin and short for his age. Now he was nearly sixteen and he had had another growth spurt in the past six months – he was certain he should still be undergoing the growth-spurt, but this past month was sure to have stunted it again, since what little food he had been allowed, was being conserved to keep him alive.

Shifting again in the near complete darkness, Harry tried to stretch out his legs, trying to will his muscles back to life after hours of inactivity. His arse had gone numb hours ago, his spine was aching and the muscles of his back and shoulders were twitching painfully, intermittently, letting him know his body didn’t like the treatment – especially after a few years of respite from the cupboard. Harry’s body was no longer used to the harsh treatment it had survived in his early years.

The boy sighed and leaned his head against the dusty wall, eyes taking in the little amount of light afforded by the crack under the door. It was slowly brightening, which meant he had spent another restless night, shifting and sighing, ruminating rather than sleeping. In little more than an hour, Petunia was going to bang on the door to wake him up and he would start a new day of House Elf duties. He absently wondered if she would feed him this time.

He didn’t think she would. Petunia had seemed even more ill tempered this summer and she had fed him only the barest minimum to keep him alive, allowing him a glass or two of water a day besides. It was a very hot summer this year and he was sure he would have burned out from dehydration by now if she hadn’t relented on that issue.

Harry shifted again, carefully shaking his legs and arms, attempting to stop the numbness, only to hiss sharply as they filled with pins-and-needles instead.

He supposed he ought to be more worried about the way his aunt and uncle were treating him this summer, but he couldn’t work up the energy to do so. All his energy seemed to have vanished along with Sirius, winking out of existence behind the veil like so much dry air. Nothing left of him but a dried out old husk, briefly animated by the sunlight to perform menial tasks, before being put away again come dusk, like the Golems he had read about in History Of Magic.

Harry’s eyes turned to the inverted stairs above him as he heard faint traces of movement upstairs. Petunia was up. Vernon would be about half an hour after her. Dudley would be woken up come lunchtime, by Petunia or even Harry, just in time to come down for the meal Harry would likely be cooking but not eating.

Reaching up with a limp hand, Harry slowly smoothed away the dust on the middle step and smiled to himself, as he wiped the cloying particles on the threadbare carpet beneath him.

‘Harry’s Room’

Those had been, if not ‘better’ days, then certainly simpler ones. His only dream then had been for someone to love him, or for his Aunt to show him some sort of affection. He hadn’t known true grief, then. He hadn’t known friendship, so didn’t know to miss it. He hadn’t known that he was different, or that he was famous. He had been simply ‘Harry,’ or ‘Boy,’ tirelessly working for his aunt, trudging to and from Primary school and sleeping on the cot in his tiny bedroom.

He turned his head away from the untidy scrawl on the stair and looked once again at the light coming in through the crack around the door. It was much brighter now; it was definitely morning and very soon he would be back to slaving his arse off for his relatives.

With a slight groan, he tried to stretch again, wincing slightly as bones and joints cracked sharply, the motion bringing a slight measure of relief to his cramped muscles. Mere moments later, he heard Petunia’s footfalls on the steps above him. He followed her movement with his eyes and didn’t even blink when she banged loudly on the door.

“Up!” The bolt slid open with a sharp ‘snick!’

Harry sighed and rubbed his eyes and then the bridge of his nose. With a slight start he ran his fingertips gently over his nose again. Either Vernon had broken his nose at some point without him realising, and it had healed wrong – or Harry’s nose was slightly different. With a blink into the darkness, Harry sluggishly decided he would investigate in the bathroom mirror later.

He put his glasses on and fumbled the door open. The morning sunlight hit his eyes and nearly blinded him, causing him to flinch and shrink back for a moment, trying to adjust. Petunia wouldn’t have that, though; she grabbed his upper arm and dragged him out, her bony fingers surprisingly claw-like as they gripped him, undoubtedly causing bruises.

She dumped him unceremoniously in the centre of the kitchen and folded her arms, “Vernon wants bacon and eggs, this morning, Boy. So hop to it!”

Harry stumbled to his feet and set to work, ignoring the slight hunger cramps as he did so.

Someone (and due to the finesse of the magic used, he guessed it had been Lily Evans-Potter as few could equal her touch with Charms), had tampered with his memories. Since the previous summer, Severus had been slowly regaining snippets of memories, memories that he believed he had no right to; memories that had revealed startling information; memories that, once they began to return full force, pushed him into despair.

They had started out fairly innocuously with extra memories of Lily and himself, revealing a far deeper relationship than even the close friendship they had shared in their pre and early teens. The memories told him they had indeed made up after the ‘mudblood’ incident rather than parting ways forever, as he had believed. They had stayed firm friends even into young adulthood – even after she married Potter. Though the friendship had been secret, of a necessity.

Throughout the past year, he had utilised Albus’ and his own Pensieves, in an attempt to sort his way through the confusion, looking for clues as to why these memories had been locked away. His rage at young Potter’s intrusion had been grossly exaggerated by his internal reactions to his confusion, his shock at the invasion of his privacy, his horror at the boy perhaps having seen evidence of the returning memories or his attachment to Lily. He had overreacted, to be sure, but only regretted it when the boy lost what little trust they had between them and Black fell to his doom behind the veil. It was a needless death, and a bitter loss. Mostly because he would have liked to have dealt the mutt his own revenge, but had now lost that chance.

His returning memories had begun to reveal even stranger things towards the end of the school year. James Potter and he hadn’t hated each other, by the time Lily wed the man. In fact, if the memories were correct – and he could find no evidence that they were not – he and Potter had had a friendship nearly as close as the one he shared with Lily.

“The common Witch or Wizard fails to appreciate that the Dark Art’s do not consist solely of negative or destructive spells!” Severus lightly slapped the surface of the table between them. It was an old argument that he and James had indulged in more than once, and almost always over a glass of wine in the cramped front room at Spinners End.

“I appreciate that, but without the current categorisation, there would be far more accidents – perhaps far more deliberate destructive actions - than we currently deal with.” James shook his head with an amused smile, “As it stands, I prefer the current ease, it makes an Auror’s life far less difficult.”

Severus snorted, “Ah yes. Less paper-work. Far be it for me to tell the Ministry that ‘less paper-work’ is a less than viable means of categorisation.”

“You know what I mean, Severus. I understand that the Dark Art’s are made of shades of grey, but when it comes to magic that uses blood or souls or harm in any fashion, the Ministry is immovable.”

Severus could only thank Lily for the way in which these memories were revealed – because they were slow and gradual, he had had time to come to terms with them, rather than lose his mind as it tried to integrate and reconcile the lost information to his current mindset. Since the beginning of summer, after the little hellions had disappeared for the next two months, Severus had given himself time to think and reflect.

This meant he spent the first three days of summer in his private lab, working on re-stocking the Medi-ward’s Potion Supplies for Poppy. The work was tedious and he had done it so often he could do it with his eyes closed if he so chose. While his body worked on muscle memory, his mind was allowed to drift – which was precisely why he did it.

It helped that he was a superb Occlumens. As each new memory was unlocked, he carefully filed it away in the correct place, allowing his mind to absorb it before inspecting it in any detail. Now, after almost a year of carefully filing, sorting and inspecting the memories, he took time to reflect on the whole. He could now look on these memories without the pangs of rage or guilt that had troubled him at first; he could now think about his friendship with James Potter without feeling the lingering hatred he had held within himself for nearly sixteen years, and without the confusion the memories had first evoked.

He could no longer think of his hatred for the Potter Boy without misgivings. Though he could at least assuage the guilt of his treatment of the Boy for the past five years, with the thought that Potter was as arrogant and spoiled as he had always believed him. That, at least, would not change. Despite his now remembered close friendship with the parents, the child still deserved to be put in his place and he did not regret too many of his past actions.

Occasionally, however, the things he had seen in the Potter boy’s memories during Occlumency training niggled at him. He hadn’t seen much, but what he had seen had been tinged with fear and loneliness. He didn’t dwell on it, though, preferring to continue with his dislike of the boy, and maintain his silent and distant protection, rather than seeking a more open role in the boy’s life.

The memories that began coming through after the students left, were a little more disturbing. He had remembered Lily and James coming to him for help with their desire for a child. He began to remember making potion after potion for the both of them to take, in repeated and futile attempts to allow them to conceive.  He repeatedly saw Lily’s green eyes, watching him, pleading with him, full of longing, sorrow and despair.

Six weeks into the holiday, Severus joined the few staff still residing at Hogwarts over the holidays for breakfast. He went unwillingly, of course, but he was under strict – yet kindly meant – orders from Albus to attend at least one meal with the staff a day, during the summer. The memories, while enlightening, had done little to affect his personality, or his mood.

The table was smaller since it had to accommodate fewer people, and the only chair currently left was situated next to Rubeus Hagrid. Severus scowled, but sat down. In an attempt to alleviate the migraine threatening to set in, he pinched the bridge of his nose. Further memories had assaulted him almost every twenty minutes since waking. It was beginning to wear him down, and he could find no explanation for the sudden increase.

Grunting in response to the chorus of greetings, Severus poured himself a strong black coffee, hoping to wake himself up. In lieu of actually talking to anyone, he busied himself sipping the coffee and buttering some toast.

Halfway through the mug, the conversation around him finally penetrated.

“Aye, she’s an intelligent bird. No doubt about that.” Severus rolled his eyes, Minerva was feeding titbits to a snowy owl that looked suspiciously like Potter’s. “Have you wrapped the present yet, Hagrid?”

“Yeh! Got it righ’ ‘ere! ‘Arry’ll love it!” Hagrid handed the roughly wrapped parcel over to the Scotswoman and she attached it to the owl’s leg. Albus gave him a twinkling glance as he sneered at the display. Teachers sending presents to students! Even if it was The Brat Who Lived To Annoy Him, it stilled grated against his ideals as a teacher.

Pomona and Poppy both cooed at the bird, further disgusting him. He poured himself another mug of coffee; maybe he would die of caffeine overdose before they started praising the Brat himself?

Too late.  He closed his eyes in consternation as the table erupted in conversation about Harry Bloody Potter. Before he could get dragged into it with them, Severus abruptly stood up and left the room with all due haste, taking his coffee with him.

In the blessed silence of his own quarters, another memory assaulted him. He faltered and clutched the wall in support, as the visual and audio overwhelmed his senses for a moment. Well. At least now he knew something he had done resulted in Lily’s pregnancy. Her grinning face and dancing eyes swam before his own for a split second.

“We did it, Severus! We’re pregnant!” Lily fairly danced across his hearth rug, throwing her arms around his neck. He was so astonished at her sudden appearance through his Floo, it took him a second to respond. With a small smile of his own, he wrapped his arms around the smaller figure, hugging her tightly.

“I’m glad for you, Lily.” The young woman took a step back, her small hands still clutching his upper arms, a smile of delight lighting her whole face. He gently stroked her hair out of her eyes and pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead. “Truly.”

“Severus, you know we couldn’t have done it without you. Thank-you. So much.”

With a shuddering breath, Severus chucked back the last of his coffee and slowly sank into his favourite arm-chair. The migraine set in and he closed his eyes.

***

Harry stared silently at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Other than the bags under his eyes and the yellowing bruise covering most of the left side of his face, he looked much the same as always.  Slowly, gently, he ran his fingertips over his nose again. He couldn’t see it, but there it was – a slight kink to his nose that he’d never felt before. Closing his eyes, he continued the investigation, hesitantly caressing his face, cataloguing the differences he found.

A slightly sharper jaw-line, somewhat higher cheeks, thinner eyebrows and thinner lips all joined the slight kink in his nose. But when he opened his eyes, he could see none of it. Something damned weird was going on. Staring at himself, he realised he had, indeed, continued growing. He was nearly as tall as Ron now despite the lack of nutrition. His shoulders were a little broader and if he didn’t know better, he would say his hands felt more delicate, his fingers longer and more slender. Which was, of course, impossible.

With a snort of confusion, Harry stepped away from the mirror and picked up his cleaning supplies, getting back to the work his aunt had set him. Nothing out of the ordinary, he cleaned the bathroom every day – often having to scrape off any mess Dudley had deliberately left for him. Except that today, it was a little harder to move. Due to his extreme tiredness this morning, Harry had slightly over-cooked Vernon’s breakfast. Vernon had responded by knocking him to the ground and applying his foot to Harry’s torso for a moment or three.

He should have expected it, really, and tried harder to concentrate on what he was doing. But the beating hadn’t been too bad – he had suffered worse – so, once Vernon had left for work, Harry had simply climbed silently to his feet and cleared up, Petunia’s gimlet gaze on him all the while.

After Dudley had come down and eaten the Full English Breakfast Harry had cooked for him, Petunia had order him upstairs to clean the bathroom and once done, he would have to hoover the floors of every room in the house.  

He worked slowly, the pain, tiredness and general lethargy preventing him from working any faster. He also avoided the mirror, attempting to put the confusion to the back of his mind. It took him far longer than usual to get even close to finishing the small room, so long in fact, that Petunia shouted up at him to get a move on before banging the door open herself.

“Stop dawdling, Boy! Get this room finished in the next five minutes, or you will have no dinner!”

Harry sighed as she left, stomping down the stairs.

At least tonight, if she didn’t feed him, he would have something from his friends to look forward to. It was a third night tonight, so he would be allowed to await Hedwig before being locked in the cupboard, and she would undoubtedly provide food of some sort. Simple fear kept Petunia from touching anything Hedwig delivered, and Vernon and Dudley were always in bed long before his owl arrived, so his letters were always delivered. Petunia allowed him to respond, so long as she read the letters first. He couldn’t have sent word to his friends even if he had wanted to.

He finished the bathroom and trudged downstairs to put the cleaning products away and retrieve the hoover. He had considered sending word a few times early on in the holidays, but the lack of sleep and food had dulled his senses somewhat, leaving him unable to slip in hints that Petunia would miss. One of the things she was good at was noticing things no-one wanted her to. Since then, he had resigned himself to his situation.

Harry was finished most of his chores by the time Vernon returned from work, but he received a clout anyway. Dudley was still out with his friends, so Harry had only to cook for his aunt and uncle, though in his current state, even that simple chore was taxing. The scents of pasta and sauce made his mouth water and his stomach grumbled alarmingly. Yet, with Petunia hovering, he couldn’t steal anything.

He sat at the tiny kitchen table as Vernon and Petunia ate in the dining room, with a small bowl of plain pasta from the left-overs; he had managed to slip a little more pasta in than was needed and Petunia had relented, allowing him to eat it. He ate slowly, hoping his stomach wouldn’t rebel at the unaccustomed food and force him to throw it all back up again.  It was a possibility, though; he’d learned how the body reacted to starvation at an early age.

Taking a napkin, he put his own leftovers in a carefully folded parcel and stashed it in the cupboard for later, managing to do it before the Dursleys finished their own meal. Thankfully, when they finished, he was left to his own devices in the kitchen. Petunia only quietly ordered him to tidy up and then get on with his chores. Then she and Vernon disappeared into the living-room where he could hear Vernon pouring himself a glass of whisky.

He was sitting in the cupboard, with the door propped slightly open for light, when the phone-call came. Petunia stepped into the hall and answered; Harry pulled the door a bit more closed and watched.

“Speaking. How may I help you?”

Harry watched as her eyes widened almost comically.

“Dudders? Are you certain? Absolutely certain?”

She gasped slightly, one bony hand rising and resting against her chest.

“O-of course! Thank-you for informing me, Officer.”

Officer? Harry’s eyebrows rose in shock as Petunia put the phone down and stood silently for a moment.  A second later, she took a deep breath and strode back into the living-room. In a fit of self preservation, Harry pulled the door completely closed, hoping they would forget about him.

“WHAT?” Vernon’s voice resounded through the house. Harry moved quietly further into the cupboard, tucking his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. Sounded like Dudley had done something stupid, from the way Vernon’s voice carried.

He jumped as heavy footsteps made their way into the hall, moved to the front door and paused. A moment later the front door slammed and Harry relaxed slightly. He heard nothing else for a long time.

***

Severus sat, a glass of wine in his hand, watching the clock over his hearth. The object was muggle in nature, one of the few muggle objects he had actually kept from his childhood, ostensibly because it told the actual time. In about fifteen minutes, Potter would officially have turned sixteen and, as far as he knew, would be removed from his relatives and taken to The Burrow for the remainder of the summer.

Further memories had been assaulting him all day, effectively rendering him unable to work or to even relax. In a fit of pique, he had completely given up, poured himself some wine and spent the entire afternoon sitting in his favourite armchair, watching the flames or the clock in an increasingly foul mood. He had a fair idea, now, that the last of the memories would arrive by midnight. He wasn’t looking forward to them and felt more than a little trepidation at the prospect, which did nothing to lift his spirits.

Knowing Lily, and after reviewing the memories that had so far been returned to him, he knew the last would be at the very least, shocking. Hence the wine.

Severus was not a great drinker, much preferring to be in control of his mental faculties at all times, but occasionally, if he was becoming too maudlin, or the nightmares struck harder than usual, he would sip at a glass of red in an attempt to calm down and thus aid his sleep.

So he was sitting, staring at the clock, awaiting the end to his months of mental torture.  

The clock struck 11:50 and another memory seeped into his conscious mind.

“Severus?” Lily’s eyes searched his face, “Severus, we’ve tried everything else. Please?”

Severus swept the hair from his eyes and let his face fall into his palms. He didn’t want to do this. It was too dangerous, for all of them, not to mention ethically ambiguous. Even if James consented, he knew he would be unable to look the man in the eye for a long time afterward, if ever again.

Gentle fingers pried his hands away and he found his gaze caught by the sad, green gaze of the only woman he had ever loved.

“I won’t force you into this, Severus. I can only ask.” Her eyes dropped. “All I can do is ask...”

For a long, silent moment, he studied his friend. He watched the firelight dance in her hair as she turned to look at him. Eventually, he took her hands in his own and with a gentle sigh, he consented.

Damn! Severus rubbed his temples, eyes closed against the light of the room. Merlin! Just what had the three of them done, to get Lily pregnant?

With a growl at himself and the memory block Lily had performed, Severus threw himself back into the chair. After a moment, he opened his eyes and began once again glaring at the clock. With a sip of his wine, he mentally assessed the various potions that worked on fertility. There were more than a hundred, each working in different situations. He discounted two thirds of the list with a snort, since most of them were for certain illnesses or for homosexual couples, and began to assess the last third.

As the clock began to strike midnight, he had whittled the list down to a dozen, perhaps less, but it no longer mattered. As the 31st of July began, as Harry officially became sixteen years old, the last of Lily Evans-Potter’s blocks dissolved and he remembered everything.

“Merlin... Lily, what did we do?” Severus rubbed at his eyes. “My son. He is my son. Oh, Merlin.”

He felt drained, his eyes itched and he simply wanted to sleep. He needed to figure out how to deal with this revelation. He needed to figure out how he would keep it from the Dark Lord. He needed to talk to Albus.

Failing that, he needed to talk with Minerva.

Carefully, deliberately, he placed his half filled glass on the table and stood. He went immediately to his personal store and quaffed a simple, yet foul tasting, sobriety potion. Things became much clearer, far more quickly than he would have liked.

With a sudden, cathartic motion, he spun and the potion vial smashed into the fireplace with a resounding crash. “Damn it all, Lily!”

***

Harry jerked awake as the front door slammed shut.

“Vernon?” Petunia’s voice wobbled alarmingly. Harry shifted slightly, hoping, still, that they would continue to ignore him. What time was it? There was no way he could know – he only hoped Hedwig didn’t arrive while Vernon was still up.

“Bailed him out. Little scoundrel. To bed with you, Dudley.”

There was a strain to Vernon’s voice that Harry didn’t like the sound of.

Dudley moved noisily up the staircase and slammed his bedroom door as Vernon and Petunia retreated to the kitchen. Harry listened quietly to the sound of their voices. Vernon sounded very, very angry, though he couldn’t make out any actual words. He tensed as Vernon’s voice rose, and he made out some words. “Burglary!” “Breaking!” “Arrested!” “Court!”

He couldn’t help the smile that claimed his lips. Obviously, Dudley and his mates had been caught red handed by the Cops. Couldn’t have happened to a better gang, he thought ruefully.

Suddenly, the Grandmother clock in the hall began to strike. He counted along with it. Crap. Midnight. Vernon was still up and Hedwig would arrive at any moment. As the last strike rang out, Harry blinked. Something...weird had just happened. His body felt lighter, somehow, like some weight had been lifted from his shoulders – a weight he had never known was there.

He sat straighter, trying to see his hands in the gloom. Too dark. Yet he could see a faint glow, netting his skin – when he looked up, he could see a similar net over the entire interior of the cupboard. He blinked and it was all gone, not even leaving after images.

Weird.

Not good. Obviously, something magical had just happened to him, and he had no idea what it was or what it would do. He didn’t even know if it had been something Dumbledore had set up, or something Voldemort had done. The former confused him, the latter worried him. He sat back and stopped thinking about it. Whatever it was, there wasn’t anything he could do about it right now anyway.

The voices in the kitchen were raised again. Sounded like Petunia, this time. Harry tuned out for the next few minutes, allowing his world to go grey. A squawk roused him and Vernon’s voice startled him, “BOY!”

A mere second later and the door was thrown open and a large, beefy hand grabbed him by the left wrist, twisting it so viciously that Harry yelped as the bones were squeezed together. Vernon pulled him forcefully out of the cupboard and dragged him into the kitchen, throwing him to the floor. Harry was so weak, tired and startled, that he failed to stop his fall and cracked his head on the tiled floor. His vision went briefly white, but he flinched when he caught Vernon’s bulk leaning over him.

“That bloody bird of yours! Control it or I will kill it!”

Harry looked around and up, spotting Hedwig sitting on the top of one of the highest cupboards, her feathers ruffled. Favouring his aching wrist, he climbed slowly to his feet, finally realising that Petunia was sitting in one of the small chairs watching him. Her eyes were red rimmed and she was clutching the front of her blouse.

Harry flinched as Vernon continued to stare at him, but he moved forward and coaxed Hedwig down to his arm. She clicked her beak at him, ruffling her feathers, but stayed calm. “I have to reply.” Harry didn’t look Vernon in the eye, but kept his head lowered.

Vernon grumped, but motioned him to sit at the table. Harry pulled the letter to himself and Hedwig sat on his shoulder – he glanced around and noticed a lumpy package sitting on the side, near the sink. He quickly opened and scanned the letter.

There was a short, sharp clout to the back of his head; Harry was knocked forward over the table, but he caught himself. Vernon growled at him, “Hurry up, Boy.”

Hands shaking, Harry smoothed out the parchment. It was a simple missive from the Weasley’s, wishing him a happy birthday and letting him know that Hermione and her parents were staying at The Burrow for the rest of the summer. It sounded nice, he wished he was there. With his relatives both staring at him, Harry quickly penned a reply, trying to sound as natural as he could.

Once done, he handed the letter to Hedwig, “Please take this to The Burrow, to Ron? Thanks, Hedwig. Stay there tomorrow, get some sleep.” He stroked her feathers gently as he carried her to the window. He lifted her out and with a chirrup, she began her flight.

Harry picked up the package and turned. Petunia had her head resting on her hand, face hidden, free hand still clutching at her chest; Vernon took another swipe at him. Harry dodged and edged out of the room and into his cupboard.

It was a long time before the Dursleys went to bed and once again, Harry didn’t sleep.

When Vernon and Petunia had finally gone to bed, Harry pushed the cupboard door open slightly to let in the moonlight and took out the parcel to inspect it. A small note attached to it, in the twins’ handwriting; although he could never tell which one wrote what – told him to hold it in his hands and recite the Marauders’ motto. With a quirk of his brows, Harry did so.

“I solemnly swear I am up to no good.”

With nary a sound, the parcel grew and grew, until it was hard to hold up in his weakened state. He allowed it to fall to his lap, where it slowed down and settled at a respectable pillow sized package. With a smile, he unwrapped it, carefully folding the paper and storing it in the corner of the cupboard, the snaking string wound into a neat roll and placed on top.

He was left with five packages, of various sizes, three with an envelope attached. He picked up the one from Ron first, instantly identifying his handwriting; as he unfolded the letter, a chocolate frog card fell into his lap. He picked it up curiously and flipped it over. With a startled gasp, he nearly dropped it again.

‘Harry James Potter.

1980 - Present

Boy Who Lived – Vanquisher of You Know Who – Amateur Quidditch Star

Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, is currently attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He is well known for his prowess in Defence Against the Dark Arts and his talent as a Parselmouth, the only Light Wizard in living memory who speaks the tongue. Harry began his Quidditch career as the youngest Seeker in a hundred years, playing on the Gryffindor House Team at only 11, he won the Triwizard Tournament at the age of 14 and defeated The Dark Lord when a year old; he is expected to go on to do great things.’

Great. Just what he needed, another reason for people to hate him. Amusingly, his portrait was hiding behind the frame – it looked to be a photograph taken during the Triwizard Tournament, so it was more than a little out of date.  With a sigh, he put the thing to one side and read the letter, holding it up so the moonlight hit it. Not the best of light to read by, but it would do and more importantly, it wouldn’t bring the Dursleys’ wrath down upon him.

Harry,

Happy Birthday, mate! Hope you like the present!

I hope this summer isn’t going too bad for you. I can’t say much – you know how it is. You should see Mione’s parents though – they’re so Muggle! But at least Dad keeps them busy!

I found this card in my latest box – bloody weird, right? I couldn’t believe it when I saw it – your face on a card! Just imagine the Creevey brothers when they find out! I’ll bet you’re going to be a hot commodity in the Common Rooms this year! Well, maybe not Slytherin!

Let me know if you need anything and I can’t wait to see you again! Ginny and the twins are driving me nuts!

Ron.

Harry put the letter aside with a smile – that was Ron all over, and it was uplifting to read. He pulled Ron’s gift towards him and carefully unwrapped it. A box of chocolate frogs – he opened one and nibbled it, setting the Morgana card aside – and a new pair of Quidditch gloves.

After admiring them, he pulled Hermione’s gift over and opened it, placing her much neater wrappings on the pile. A book on Occlumency. Well, she must have been tired of being subtle about it all. There was a sharp pang in his chest as he flipped the book open. After skimming a few pages, he put the book aside and opened her letter.

Dear Harry,

Many Happy Returns!

I hope you like the present; when I saw it, I just felt you would like a copy – maybe it will help you sleep?

As you know, my parents and I are staying with Ron this summer. They say ‘hi’ by the way and wish you a Happy Birthday. It’s quite strange to spend all summer in the Magical world, instead of going home. Mum and Dad are loving it, though, and Mr. Weasley is taking the time to learn all he can from them.

I know you can’t be having much fun there, but be patient; we’ll have you out soon enough. Professor Dumbledore mentioned that you could spend the rest of the summer here with us, so we look forward to seeing you soon.

Sleep well, and try not to worry.

Love,

Hermione.

And that was Hermione all over – admonishing him and comforting him both at once. He slipped her letter between the pages of her gift and pulled Hagrid’s gift over. It was lumpy and very badly wrapped, but it brought a smile to his lips; Hagrid’s presents were always fun.

As he opened it, he wasn’t disappointed. A sketchbook and watercolour set, complete with pencils and paintbrushes, an eraser and a small book about how to use watercolours! His friend had remembered – Hagrid had found him, a few months ago, sitting in a nook on his own, doodling  on some spare parchment. They had talked for a while about Harry wishing he could draw more and maybe learn how to paint. It had been one of his few quiet moments, before everything went even further into Hell – before his fateful trip into Snape’s Pensieve, before Umbridge had taken over the school, long before Sirius...

Harry rubbed at his eyes angrily and carefully placed the art set to one side, he intended to use it at the first opportunity. There were two parcels left – one wrapped in odd looking paper and he recognised the other as a care package from the Weasleys. He opened the care package and dug in to find a sealed bottle of pumpkin juice. He drank down half of it in one go, enjoying the flavour and the refreshing feel of slaking his thirst.

After taking a moment to collect himself, he pulled the last gift over and looked at the unfamiliar handwriting of the letter before actually reading it.

Harry,

I remembered it was your birthday, so I made something for you.

Don’t feel bad about the Ministry; it wasn’t your fault. You did your best and that’s all anyone can ask of you. If you ever want to talk, I want you to know I’m available.

Have a good summer. See you at Hogwarts. (And watch out for the Snarfblatts – they’re out this time of year.)

Luna.

He hadn’t expected anything from Luna, the strange, quiet girl he had only recently befriended. But it was nice. Even in written form, she managed to make him smile at her unique way of thinking. Snarfblatts? He supposed he’d ask her about them when they saw each other again.

‘It wasn’t your fault. ’ Strangely, he found he believed it when Luna said it.

He felt so guilty for Sirius’ death, knowing it was his fault; for not checking the mirror, for not going to Snape for help, for all number of things that he could have done, instead of haring off to the Ministry with only a bunch of half-trained wizards as back-up. But... Luna’s simple words sparked something within him. He sighed and shook his head. When he opened her gift, it turned out to be a scarf, hand-made and of so many pieces of material, in varying shades of green, blue and brown, that he lost count. It was beautiful, yet not at all feminine – he knew he could wear this, come the colder weather, and feel perfectly comfortable doing so.

It was an interesting gift from an interesting girl. Luna’s distracted smile and long, honey-blond hair passed through his mind, causing him to smile. He carefully folded the scarf and put it on top of the care package, keeping it from the dusty floor. Something about the hand-made gift made it feel even more special, even though his upbringing had ensured he already felt any gift was something to treasure.

Harry sat back, with his shoulder-blades pressed to the wall, nibbling another chocolate frog. It wouldn’t be too much longer before Petunia was up again and he knew he wouldn’t sleep. So, with the door angled just right for maximum light, he opened the book Hermione had sent him and began to read, working around the way the text swam slightly – a strange new symptom he put down to tiredness, but wasn’t sure.

He was a quarter way into the book when he heard Petunia get up. He moved everything quickly and quietly to the far side of the cupboard, covered the small pile with his tatty blanket and pulled the door fully closed. While he waited, he sipped the last of the bottle of pumpkin juice and nibbled a small slice of fruitcake. Mrs Weasley, in her infinite wisdom, had placed a preserving charm on the care package. Thankfully, if he ate sparingly and kept it hidden, the food should last until he was picked up.

A few minutes later, Petunia descended the stairs, pausing for a moment at the bottom. Harry was ready when she banged the door, “Up, Boy!” He climbed to his feet and slowly followed her into the kitchen, shaking his legs between steps, trying to wake them up.

“Vernon’s taking the day off today, so you are to make two Full English’s  - and be careful about it! No burning the bacon today!”

Petunia glared at him as she poured herself some fresh tea and took one of the chairs at the small table. She was looking a little peaky this morning, almost grey and she was clutching at her chest again. With a worried frown, Harry quickly set about cooking the meal, thankfully without his stomach growling. He would have to remember to thank Mrs Weasley as often as possible when he got to The Burrow.

As Vernon and Dudley were eating their meal half an hour later, Harry hid in the bathroom and performed a quick all over flannel wash, wiping away as much of the daily accumulated grime as he could. Petunia had a habit of making his day worse if he wasn’t at least presentable. He stared at himself in the mirror again after cleaning his teeth. Yesterday’s clout had added another bruise to his face, this time on the right, and there was a little cut on the back of his head, where he had landed wrong in the kitchen. It was sore and tender, to the touch and had been caked in dried blood before he rinsed his hair in the sink. The bruising on his torso was a mess – mottled blues, purples, greens and yellows. He didn’t think anything was broken, he could breathe perfectly fine, but it still looked frightening, especially over his protruding ribs.

With a tired sigh, he pulled the grey and threadbare sweater over his head. It was baggy, hanging low over his hips, like all of Dudley’s hand-me-downs; the neckline would have been obscene on a girl. Once he was clean and dressed, he looked himself in the eyes again, watching his reflection tiredly.

“Happy Birthday to me,” he whispered, staring hard at his face. There. He could see something now. The kink in his nose was becoming visible. He ran his fingertips over it – it was even more obvious to the touch, following a much harder line than was visible at the moment. He ran his fingers up and down his nose wonderingly. Something moved behind him and he spun around, startled out of his contemplation.

Nothing. Nothing there. He had seen movement in the mirror, but there was nothing there. Before Petunia had cause to yell at him again, Harry scurried from the bathroom, intent on ignoring this latest symptom of weirdness and getting on with his chores.

She found something anyway.

Harry trudged in from the back garden, toeing his shoes off on the matt so as not to track mud everywhere. He had spent the early morning hours weeding the flowerbeds at Petunia’s bidding. He didn’t mind the work so much, but it was very tiring, especially on little food and no sleep.

“YOU! You little FREAK!” Before he even knew what happened, he was on the floor, a stinging pain blossoming on his cheek, shocking him so much he didn’t even cry out.

Petunia stood over him, one hand clutching the front of her loose blouse, the other balled into a fist. She was grey-skinned and looked a little clammy, her eyes were red rimmed and bloodshot – she looked angrier, even, than Vernon had sounded last night.

Harry smoothed a hand over his cheek, his skin still smarting at the strength behind the slap. It would surely bruise.

“If you hadn’t been dumped here, this never would have happened! My Dudley is a good boy!”

He didn’t know how to react, so he chose what seemed like the safest route and simply agreed with her. “Y-yes, Aunt Petunia.”

Petunia’s nostrils flared and she darted forward, grabbing him by the hair and pulling him to his feet. His vision greyed out for a moment as the pain flashed through him and then she was screaming at him again, this time right in his face.

 “I never should have taken you in! You bring nothing but danger to this house! This family!” Harry wobbled as she slapped him again, only her grip keeping on his feet.

“Petunia?”

Harry looked up at Vernon, standing in the doorway, a confused expression on his face as he took in the scene. Merlin, he must look so pathetic, cowed by a bony woman with next to no meat on her. Petunia grabbed him by the hair again, dragging him round, presenting him to Vernon.

“This filth! It’s the Freak’s fault!” She shook him and he yelped as hair pulled free in her grip. “Dudders would never have gone that way without the boy here!”

Harry slumped to the floor as his aunt dropped him, clutching his head, rubbing the sore spot where she had pulled his hair out. Something was seriously wrong with his aunt – she never acted like this. She was a slave driver, certainly, and barely fed him – but she was passive aggressive in her actions – she never struck him, she left that to Vernon!

“We should never have taken him in!” A foot connected with his ribs and he curled up as something gave way inside. It suddenly hurt to breathe.

“Petunia?” There was a pause, followed by a scuffing sound. “Petunia!”

Harry looked up, forcing his eyes to focus. Vernon was holding his aunt. She was choking, clutching at her throat with one hand, grasping at her chest with the other. Her skin had gone grey and her veins stood out clearly. Vernon lowered her to the floor as she coughed, wheezed and clutched at her chest.

“He’s ...killed me..!” She gasped, her eyes wide and staring at him. “I’m ...dying!”

“Dudley! Call an ambulance! NOW!” Vernon roared in a panic, his face going pale and Harry could hear his cousin scrambling for the phone.

As he watched, Petunia went white and limp, her eyes rolled back. Heart attack, he realised absently. She was having a heart attack. Shaking, he managed to pull himself into a sitting position, where he curled up and hugged his knees to his aching chest, back pressed against one of the lower cupboards.  

In numb silence, he watched as Vernon and Dudley panicked.

With a groan and a muttered curse at the world in general, Severus awoke.

For a moment, there was blissful ignorance. It was another summer day at Hogwarts, and he would spend it working on his experiments. Perhaps he would join the remaining staff for lunch and then work late into the night on his experiments again. It promised to be a good day. Only, there was something niggling at him.

He opened his eyes and stared at the deep purple canopy above him. Lily and her bloody machinations! The girl could have given Albus a run for his galleons!

With another groan, he passed a hand over his face and sat up.  Blindly, he felt for and found his wand, pulled it out from under the pillow and muttered Tempus, cracking one eye open to see the resulting information.

Eleven! Bloody hell!

He was wide awake in an instant and clambering to his feet. Another curse rent the air as he pulled on his enveloping dressing gown and made his way to the small kitchen all staff apartments were equipped with.

“Coffee. Coffee. Where’s the bloody coffee when I need it?”

He was soon sitting at the small table, drinking his way through a large mug of unsweetened black coffee, waiting for it to kick in as he flipped the Daily Prophet open. There was rarely anything interesting to read, but he liked to keep abreast of the situation in the wider world.

Fudge was being an idiot again – though at least he was now admitting to the Dark Lord’s return, unlike last year, when he had been a complete – Severus managed to censor his own thoughts and turned the page.

The front page was filled with outbreaks of violence around the country. Inside pages held advice from various columnists on how to protect oneself and one’s family. There were reports of random Dementor attacks. He sneered at yet another wanted poster for Black. There were plenty of job advertisements and pages of reader’s letters – most calling on Potter to save them.

He sneered again at one particularly vehement letter, calling Potter ‘The Chosen One’ and speaking of him as if he were Merlin reincarnated. Bloody hell.

Severus allowed his face to fall into his palms, groaning as he did. He couldn’t get away from Potter this morning, however much he tried. He did not want to think about it! He wasn’t sure he even wanted to be a father – and he certainly wasn’t sure he wanted to play father to the bloody Golden Boy!

Whatever his newly revived memories told him, that was then, this was now. He was a different man!

His life was careening out of control. He felt like throwing himself off the Astronomy tower, and leaving the mess for Albus to clear up.

With a scowl and a grunt, Severus hauled himself to his feet and went to shower and dress, forcing all thoughts of Potter and fatherhood to the back of his mind.

He felt marginally more comfortable with clean hair and fresh clothing. He eyed the clock above his hearth and decided to join the others for lunch.

As he entered the hall, he blinked, quirking an eyebrow at the sight met his eyes; unusually, only Poppy and Hagrid were seated at the small table. “Albus and Minerva?” he queried as he sat down, pulling another mug of coffee to himself. He had wanted to ask Albus for a private conversation after lunch.

“Called to the Ministry for something urgent. Couldn’t say what it was, I’m afraid.” Poppy shrugged her shoulders as she sipped her tea. He knew already that Filius and Pomona had both left for their respective holidays – they always did at this time of year. Albus and Minerva’s absence worried him though. Both Headmaster and Deputy-Headmistress absent at once? The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Yeh don’ think it were ‘Arry, do yer?” Hagrid couldn’t keep the worry from his voice or face, even if he tried. Severus scowled as he chose a sandwich from the platters in front of him. “Why would you think that? Though I suppose the boy is a magnet for trouble.”

“But tha’s what I mean. He ‘ad Dementor’s after ‘im last year!” Hagrid looked so sad and worried as he said this that even Severus found himself empathising with the man.

“I’m sure he’s fine, Hagrid dear. Albus and Minerva probably only had to deal with some administrative duties. They’ll be back before we know it.”

Poppy managed to calm Hagrid enough that they could all resume eating. Looking slightly ill at ease, as if she wanted to take the conversation anywhere else but Potter, Poppy addressed him.

“Have you replenished much of the medical stores yet?”

Severus quirked an eyebrow at the woman. “Yes. You will not want for most of the basics, come September. I have only a few of the more intricate potions to work on.”

Poppy nodded distractedly. Severus allowed his mind to wander as she and Hagrid began to discuss the need for extra security this year. With the Dementors and other Dark Creatures on the loose, Hagrid had offered his expertise concerning Magical Creatures as a means of protection for the school. Though without Albus here to add his thoughts and make determinations, the discussion didn’t cover much ground.

Severus sipped his third coffee of the day, eyes fixed on the ceiling, left un-enchanted over the summer period, above them, contemplating the Headmaster’s absence. Well, he supposed he would simply have to wait to have that discussion about Potter and his newfound relationship to the boy. He would have to ask the House Elves to notify him when Albus and Minerva returned.

 When he had drained his mug and cleared his plate, he stood, inclining his head in the direction of his co-workers, “Good day to you.” With their good wishes following him, he left the hall, intent on returning to his rooms. He still had a lot of thinking to do.

Even when he was working on a complex potion, he couldn’t get the boy out of his head. The potion itself was a rather distracting shade of green that was all too reminiscent of the eyes the boy shared with Lily. Stirring eight figure eights, anti-clockwise, Severus couldn’t help but think of the enthusiasm Lily had shown while they had concocted that final potion, the potion that resulted in their son. Stirring again in the opposite direction, he recalled the newborn – already with a mop of pure black hair, but his mother’s eyes. Even then, they had been able to see the resemblances.

Severus snorted inelegantly, dropping in the required amount of caper buds to render the potion effective, though foul. He understood the reasons behind the charm placed on the child, but even now, he couldn’t help but wonder if James had required it out of shame, however much he loved his son. Recalling the charm, he realised the thing must have begun fading by now – if so, then Potter was probably very confused.  Lily had likely set the two charms to end at the same date – her son’s sixteenth birthday.

As Severus reached for the next ingredient, his left arm throbbed sharply. He hissed between his teeth, hurriedly placing the potion under a stasis spell and clutching his left forearm. He staggered backward a few steps, until he came to rest against the wall. Not a summoning – the Dark Lord was simply letting his followers know he was there and that he was up to something. He wouldn’t find out what, until the next actual summons.

With quick steps, Severus hurried to his private stores and downed a pain reliever. He sighed as the pain lessened to more manageable levels.

“Severus!”

He spun, startled by the call. Albus was in his Floo – which could only mean this was an emergency fire-call.

“Albus?” He stalked to the hearth and knelt.

“Severus, you must go to 4 Privet Drive – something is wrong with the wards! Find Harry, protect him if you must!”

Severus’ heart skipped a beat, “I believe The Dark Lord knows, he may have sent Death Eaters – I will leave immediately.”

Harry was in shock, he had to be. He was completely numb. He hadn’t even reacted when Vernon bodily picked him up and threw him in the cupboard as the ambulance pulled into the drive.

He lay where he had fallen, staring at nothing, thinking nothing. At what he guessed was an hour after they had left, he had felt the wards go down. They had crumpled like a crisp packet in an oven and simply vanished.

Since that moment, he had known Aunt Petunia was dead.

Chalk up another person he had killed. He was getting quite a list for himself now. Mum and Dad. Cedric. Sirius. Petunia. Hadn’t he heard somewhere that after three kills you were officially classified a Serial Killer? Maybe he’d go on a wanted list. They’d hunt him down like they had Sirius, before he’d killed him.

He had been lying there for what felt like an hour, maybe more, since the wards fell. There wasn’t a sound in the house, only his laboured breathing. Until the silence was broken by the sharp crack of Apparition and a short blast of magic brought the door crashing down.

Harry blinked, held his breath. Order members, maybe?

Rough voices muttered to one another, before three sets of footsteps slowly made their way up the stairs. Not Order members then, which probably left only Death Eaters. Order Member’s would have called out instantly, making sure he was alright after the wards had fallen.   

Harry sat up and pushed the door open slightly, listening to the intruders. They hadn’t made themselves known, so he was instantly suspicious. Carefully, silently, he stole into the kitchen and grabbed a large knife from the rack. Without his wand, which was locked in his trunk upstairs, he was going to have to improvise. That meant Muggle style defence, if he could get his body to co-operate. Luckily, Petunia had kept her knives razor sharp – despite rarely ever using them herself.

 A single set of footsteps came back down the stairs again. Harry dashed behind the kitchen door and waited, legs trembling. He wasn’t sure he could do this – with a wand, it was so much easier; you were here, the enemy was over there, whatever happened to them was far away, all you did was throw words and light at them. This was more...real somehow.

The footsteps went into the living-room first. He listened as furniture was moved around, as if they were looking for him behind the sofa. Then the Death Eater entered the dining room – but a quick glance would suffice there, as the bare table and chairs would offer no hiding places. A moment later, the footsteps paused outside the cupboard door. Harry could hear quiet breathing and tried to hold his own breath, feeling the sweat break out on his body, his heart racing.

He closed his eyes briefly, wishing he had his wand, or anyone’s wand. When he opened them again, that faint netting of magic was back – he could see it, partially covering the places he had been working particularly hard the past few days. The sink, the cooker and even small trails of it over the floor, where he had walked, the chair where he had sat to eat dinner and write his reply letters.

He ignored it as the footsteps made their way to the kitchen door. Gripping the knife tightly, holding his breath, Harry waited. A figure stepped into the room, thankfully facing away from him – it was dressed in enveloping black robes, hood drawn low over the head; it was definitely a Death Eater. Surprisingly, Harry could see the same net laced over the figure, intricate webs of pure magic from head to toe, concentrated more thickly on the head, chest and right hand.

As the Death Eater began to turn in his direction, Harry reacted instinctively. The knife flashed in the stark midday light, before it found the throat – slicing through layers of cloth, into flesh, tearing the artery and oesophagus. The mask slipped off his face at the force of the blow and Harry looked into the eyes of a man he didn’t know. For a second, nothing happened; they stood staring at one another in shock, then the man clamped his right hand to his throat and reached for him with the left, murder in his expression – but Harry danced backwards, bringing the knife up again, slashing at the groping hand.

He didn’t know what to do! The Death Eater was still coming after him! They both slipped in the blood on the tile floor, and the man caught his ankle as they fell. Harry struggled wildly, catching the man in the face, wrenching the hand that had been trying to stop the blood gushing from the wound. A keening noise rent the air as Harry watched the man die; he didn’t realise it was his own voice until the hand holding his ankle relaxed, the grip suddenly releasing, the accusing eyes going blank as they stared at him.

Blinking in shock and terrified to his core, Harry watched as the web of magic netting the man faded and disappeared. Now he could see only the fainter nets of protective or vanity magic on the clothing.

A thump from upstairs kicked Harry out of his shock and spurred him to his feet. He slipped in the blood, socks soaked in the cooling fluid, not noticing that he was almost drenched in it. Footsteps sounded on the stairs.

“Oh god, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. Help me. Help me!” Harry whispered in a low monotone to the world, to anyone who would listen, as he scrambled from the kitchen into the living-room. Trying not to hyperventilate, he crouched behind the over-turned sofa. Realising the knife was slippery in his tight grip, he absently wiped his hands and the implement on the carpet, the low, pleading monotone never ceasing.

“Merlin! Someone’s butchered Holdstock!”

Harry fought to calm his breathing. If he could get to the front door, he could run. They didn’t know the neighbourhood the way he did, he could lose them in the alleys, maybe hide in the small woodland off the park. He only had to make it to the front door.

“Potter! We know you’re in here!” Harry flinched, but didn’t move. How had they known where he was? The Death Eater’s were in the doorway, he knew – he could see their shadows on the wall. He didn’t have a wand! He hadn’t grabbed the man’s wand! He was so stupid!

“Come out little boy!” Scuffling, muttered whispering and then one set of steps coming into the room. “The Dark Lord would like an audience with you, Potter.”

He barely made out a second voice, still in the hall, “Yeah, and I’d like to see how he did that to Holdstock.”

Legs, swathed in black robes, came into view. Without even deciding what he was going to do, Harry slashed, cutting and stabbing through both Achilles Tendons – with a guttural scream and a heavy thud, the second Death Eater hit the floor. As the man, still screeching, rolled away from him, Harry tried to scramble past. A curse, thrown by the third Death Eater he’d all but forgotten, missed by inches and he dodged behind the armchair, still pleading and cursing under his breath.

“Help me!” The fallen Death Eater whined between breaths, “Brooks, get that little shit and help me!”

“I’m trying!” Another curse ricocheted off the bookcase behind Harry, showering him in splinters and paper. “Reducto!” The armchair blew to pieces, throwing debris and dust throughout the room, and with a cry of intermingled fear and rage, Harry lunged through the cloud and barrelled into the third Death Eater, knife plunging into the man’s chest with a sickening crunch, all his weight and force behind it.

Again, the mask fell away as they careened into the wall, and a hysterical part of Harry’s mind gibbered about the strength of the Death Eaters’ Sticking Charms. This man was older, the face deeply lined. He didn’t recognise him. For a number of seconds, the man gaped at him, his face going white, his eyes wide and unseeing. They slipped slowly to the floor and Brooks didn’t move, the network of magic that had covered him fading into nothingness.

In the stunned silence, even the last Death Eater didn’t make a noise. Harry blinked out of his shock, and grabbed the fallen wand. As he turned, the last Death Eater stared at him with white-faced terror even as he held both his torn ankles, trying to stem the bleeding.

“Stupefy,” he whispered. The man slumped, hands releasing the wounds.

Harry dropped the wand from loose, bloody fingers, turned and slowly, silently, made his way to the cupboard. In silence, he climbed inside, pulled the door closed behind himself and sat, hugging his knees to his chest.

The house was deceptively quiet.

Severus scanned the area, eyes lighting instantly upon the open front door. It wasn’t wide, but just enough to be noticed. This boded ill. Already he could tell that the wards were gone – they’d either been broken, or someone had removed them, although he couldn’t have explained how that was possible.

He stalked up the drive, wand at the ready and quietly pushed the door open.

Blood. Everywhere. It was on the walls, on the floor – even some on the ceiling. Bloody footprints could clearly be seen, passing between the kitchen right ahead of him at the end of the hall, and what he guessed was the living-room to his right.

Nose wrinkled, senses on edge, Severus crept in. He looked first into the living-room. What he saw stopped his breath. The whole room looked like a war zone, with furniture over-turned and blood coating nearly every surface. Brooks and Carey, both obviously dead, were lying in pools of their own blood. Carey appeared to have bled out from the ankles – Severus noted the sliced ankles on both feet. Brooks still had a kitchen blade protruding from his chest – a smear of blood down the wall told him the man had been standing when it impaled him.

Fear began to prickle at him. Had the boy survived this? He turned and stepped back into the hall, made his way to the kitchen. More blood, more over-turned furniture. This time, Holdstock lying in a pool of his own blood, his throat inexpertly slashed and torn. Arterial spray was clear on the walls and ceiling, and the smears on the floor looked like the hand and footprints of a struggling teenager.

Severus stood in shock. Potter had managed to kill three fully grown Death Eaters, with what looked like nothing more than a kitchen blade! The boy must have been terrified out of his mind, yet he had managed it.

With a start, he finally heard the wheezing, choked breathing coming from the hall. He left the body where it was and followed the sounds. Severus’ eyebrows rose as he realised it was coming from the tiny cupboard under the stairs. Carefully, so as not to startle the boy, he opened the door.

Potter was indeed in there, but he was hardly recognisable, caked as he was in blood from head to toe, a fresh gash on his right cheek, bruises marring his features. He was so thin he looked anorexic. Severus couldn’t fathom the changed appearance under the blood.

“Potter.” Nothing; the boy continued to rock and stare at the wall. “Potter!” Not even a flinch.

In consternation, Severus tried to see what the boy was staring at. The words ‘Harry’s Room’ were scrawled in childish handwriting on the inverted staircase. Further shocked, he looked about, finally taking in the cupboard for what it was.

In one corner of the cramped space, he could see a moth eaten pillow, in the other, a pile covered by a skimpy, threadbare blanket. The walls held childish drawings and scraps of Christmas and birthday wrapping paper. Even the carpet, now blood-soaked, looked like an ancient cut-off than anything else, obviously put in as an afterthought.

It was the boy’s bedroom and from the writing on the step, it had been for some time. For Merlin’s sake, they had kept his son in a cupboard!

With a quick flick of his wand and muttered Quiesco, Severus spelled the boy to sleep. He levitated him out of the cupboard with a Mobilicorpus and after a moment’s thought muttered, “Accio Harry Potter’s possessions!”

A trunk and birdcage – he recognised both items – came down from an upstairs room, and the small pile he had seen carefully stashed in the far corner of the cupboard joined them. Nothing else came. He quickly worked his way through the protection and anti-theft wards on the trunk and carefully placed the stash – it appeared to consist of birthday presents and a small amount of food – inside. He replaced the wards and then looked about. He would have to inform Albus of what had happened here – though full details would have to wait until Potter awoke.

There would likely be an Auror investigation.

With a growl, Severus clutched Potter to his chest, shrank the trunk and birdcage and placed them in his pockets and then Apparated the hell out of the place, heading for the one place he knew would be safe.

With a sharp crack, Severus alighted in the front room of his own safe house. Shifting his weight, he swung the boy’s legs up and settled them in the crook of his left arm, leaving Potter’s head resting on his chest as his right arm tightened around the boy’s thin torso. Disregarding the blood being smeared all over his robes, he stalked through the house, up the stairs and into the spare room.

His parents’ house at Spinner’s End was small, cramped even, but at least it was unknown, well protected and kept under the Fidelius Charm, with Albus Dumbledore as the Secret-Keeper. He could keep Potter safe here until the next course of action was decided upon.

He gently placed the boy on the bed and took out the trunk and birdcage, placing them at the foot of the four-poster before muttering ‘Finite Incantatum’ to undo the shrinking charm. With another flick of his wand, he banished Potter’s blood soaked clothing, leaving the boy in only his underwear. His shock rose further as he took in the mottled bruising covering the skeletal torso. Surely these couldn’t all have resulted from the Death Eater attack? He bit back the shock a moment later and hastily examined the child for broken bones.

Brusque fingers discovered three cracked ribs, a fractured collar bone and broken wrist. The bruises were too numerous to count, but they were layered and some were obviously weeks older than others. The handprint wrapped around the boy’s left wrist was particularly vivid. Potter was also sporting a number of scrapes and scratches on his hands, neck, face and head – where he found what looked like a day old wound that may have caused a concussion. The scrapes and scratches looked to have been caused by the blown up arm-chair he had seen in the living-room. All the wounds would need cleaning before he applied any healing – magical or otherwise.

Placing a warming charm over the bed, he stepped out to the small bathroom and after quickly shucking off his blood soaked outer robe and washed his hands before digging out the antiseptic and cotton swabs. Setting the supplies on the bedside table, Severus found parchment and a self-inking quill. He penned a short note to Albus, explaining where he and Potter were, what he had seen, and asking the man to arrive as soon as possible.

“Bolly!” A crack and a small House Elf appeared, dressed in a neat, plain pillowcase, large eyes a bright golden in colour. “Yes, Master Snape, Sir?”

“Take this immediately to Headmaster Dumbledore – give it to his hand only. Make sure absolutely no one knows you are there, or that you are giving anything to Albus. Secrecy is imperative in this situation.” He handed the sealed parchment over. “Now go.”

Bolly nodded gravely and disappeared.

Severus immediately moved to Potter’s side, sitting on the edge of the bed.   He removed all traces of blood and dirt from the boy’s skin with a small flick of his wand and a light incantation.

He began to cleanse the gash on the child’s face – hopefully it wouldn’t scar, for though it was large, passing from right temple in a jagged line down to his chin, it was clean and neat. As the stinging liquid began to come back only slightly pink, indicating all foreign matter had been removed, Severus moved on to the lesser wounds. He silently catalogued each new wound as he promised himself Potter would be far safer and better looked after for the rest of the summer, even if he had to take the boy in himself. He would ensure that Potter was protected.

Severus was not gentle as he worked, and Potter often stirred, moaned or frowned in his sleep, but it had to be done. Eventually, all wounds were clean, and he began to rub a skin bonding cream into the larger wounds, before dressing them and then rubbed in a cure-all bruise salve where it was needed. A particularly large dressing was needed for the partially healed wound on the back of the boy’s skull. He sat in silence, using a complex medical charm to reset the bones in Potter’s wrist; it took a great deal of concentration, and as he was not a trained medic, it was harder work than he had anticipated. He performed the same spell on the collar bone – though it went a little quicker with the lesser fracture. He bound the wrist tightly, to prevent further damage and then wrapped the child’s ribs.

After a moment’s rest, he dug out some Skele-Gro and spelled it directly into Potter’s stomach using a common medical charm, so it could begin working on the various cracked or broken bones without disturbing Potter’s sleep.

With all obvious ills cared for, Severus cast a diagnostic charm. It confirmed what he already knew; it showed there was indeed a slight concussion and revealed Potter had been inadequately fed and watered for many weeks. He would have to rectify that, once the boy awoke. Shutting the charm off, he covered the thin body with a thick blanket, cast another warming charm, and then made his way downstairs to the tiny kitchen at the rear of the house.

In silence, Severus opened a bottle of his best red wine, poured himself a large glass and made his way into the cramped front-room. He collapsed into the old arm-chair and tipped a large amount of the wine into his mouth, swallowing convulsively. He closed his eyes, rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed.

Finally, now that Potter was safe, clean and cared for, he allowed himself to think. Eyes glaring unseeing at the rows upon rows of books that covered every wall of the small room, Severus frowned in contemplation.

Obviously, the Blood Wards had failed, which meant that Petunia had either allowed the Death Eaters in (unlikely, as she knew very well what a Death Eater was and what they were capable of) or she was dead. The latter option made the more logical sense. Unfortunately, Petunia’s own son was too far removed from Potter to hold the Wards in her place, so Potter could never return to Privet Drive. Not that he would have allowed it in any case, considering the state he had just found the boy in, not to mention the ‘room’ he had been kept in. Even if the wards had not failed, he would never have sent the boy back there.

With a growl of frustration, Severus passed a hand over his face, roughly rubbing his eyes with thumb and forefinger. He took another gulp of wine. Bloody Potter! The boy was a mass of contradictions! At Hogwarts, he was so arrogant and foolhardy that Severus had been certain of his ‘spoilt brat’ assumption. Now it turned out he was wrong – so very wrong, in fact, that he was undergoing an unwelcome, yet unstoppable paradigm shift. And the boy had obviously been abused from an early age; he had either missed or ignored the signs – as had all the staff.

Severus had the uncomfortable feeling that he had simply ignored them, preferring to nurse his dislike of anything Potter, because in retrospect the signs were certainly there – especially in the way the boy completely failed to trust any adult. Hagrid didn’t count, the buffoon was far too childlike, particularly for a man in his fifties. Black also didn’t count – after twelve years in Azkaban, his mind had been closer to that of an adolescent, closer to the way Potter and his friends thought and behaved, than any true adult. He wasn’t sure of the Werewolf, he seemed to have gained some modicum of trust from the boy, though gauging precisely how far that trust would go was not something he wished to contemplate.

With a frown, he came to the realisation that Potter didn’t completely trust Albus, either. With a slight smirk, he found he approved of that particular lack of trust. The man was a manipulative old coot at the best of times; a healthy mistrust of him was a sure way to keep as much control of one’s own life as one could.

With another gulp, he considered asking Minerva about the boy, but knew she wouldn’t have seen anything out of the ordinary. While she was a good friend and a good teacher, the woman had a disturbing blindness to problems any larger than passing the OWLs and NEWTs, or physical injury that would prevent Quidditch play that was frustrating in the extreme. However, though she may not have noticed anything wrong with the child before, she would keep a sharp eye on him once informed of the situation. If needs must, he would demand it of her.

The thoughts brought to mind one of his recently modified memories. Before the blocks had crumbled, he had remembered Lily simply asking him to protect her son. Until the memory returned, he had had no idea he was actually under an Unbreakable Vow – though it explained his actions over the years.

“Promise me, Severus. Promise me you will keep him safe.”

With both his friends giving him piercing looks, an obvious melancholy clouding both sets of normally bright eyes, Severus could not refuse. With the autumn wind rattling the old panes of Spinner’s End, Severus swore a Wizard’s Oath.

“I promise. On my Honour as a Slytherin, as your friend,  I will protect Harry for as long as I am able.”

James stepped forward and they clasped hands. “I know the charm should keep us safe. But we needed your word, for our peace of mind.”

Holding a sleeping Harry in one arm, cradled against her hip, Lily stepped forward and lifted her wand.

It had been less than two weeks after making the vow that Lily had modified his memories, for all their sakes. With some venom, he considered what the implications could have been, had he been made aware of Potter’s situation before regaining his memories. He could have died! He had had little regard for the boy’s life outside of Hogwarts; a simple word from Albus and he would have ignored it as the rest of the staff apparently did. Such action would have resulted in his death.

Throwing back the last of the wine, Severus found himself wondering how the hell Potter had managed to kill three Death Eaters. Three adult wizards! He summoned the bottle from the kitchen and poured himself another glass. Carey, at least, appeared to have died of blood loss, rather than being outright killed. But that still left two adult wizards, fully trained in the Dark Arts no less. Though it had to be admitted that Brooks had not been the most intelligent of men – nor the youngest.

Sipping the wine more carefully this time, Severus couldn’t help the spark of pride that caught in his chest as he contemplated the acts the boy had committed in self-defence. Thankfully, the boy appeared to be growing up, accepting his situation. Perhaps he could be trained.

Severus scowled viciously.  He refused to become maudlin. Furthermore, he refused to get emotional. He forced his mind elsewhere, immediately settling on the repercussions of the past day.

The only true problem he could conceive of was the Ministry. That fool, Fudge, would leap at the chance to use this circumstance against the boy. Though, perhaps the populace would have a few things to say about it, if he attempted anything underhanded. Knowing what those three particular Death Eaters had likely been up to over the past year, when the Aurors checked their wands, they would find numerous illegal spells and their DNA would be connected with at least three murders, as well as a dozen or more rapes.

He closed his eyes and dropped his head onto the backrest. Potter’s face swam into his mind and he startled. Blinking, he glared at the ceiling. He had been too distracted earlier, but yes, the charm was beginning to fade. Potter’s nose was visibly more like his own. Not in the least bit crooked – Potter hadn’t had his broken numerous times – nor as long, but the resemblance was there. Soon, the boy would begin showing further changes. It was disconcerting, to say the very least, but it backed up the memories, proved the child was indeed his.

It also presented another problem. The change would be slow, but it would soon be noticeable – and seeing as no-one had seen Potter since June, the change would be remarkable come September. They would need to think of something to cover the change, or explain it, although the idea of continuing to hide their relationship was beginning to become unpalatable. Potter was indeed his, and he could now no longer ignore that fact. Severus was a rather possessive man, and his possessive streak was likely to surface sooner rather than later as the idea of the child being his began to settle into his mind.

Severus shifted as the fireplace crackled loudly. A sharp surge in the wards warned him that someone was about to come through the Floo. Knowing who it was, he didn’t move.

A moment later, Albus stepped through, dripping green flames from his expansive sleeves. “Severus, my boy. Is the situation so bad?” The Headmaster nodded toward the wine, eyes sparkling with subdued mirth.

Severus sneered, “It couldn’t get much worse, you old coot. I take it you received my note?”

Albus carefully settled himself on the sofa, arranging his flowing robes comfortably. “I did. The Aurors are at the house as we speak. Order Members, all. I made sure of that.” He paused briefly. “How is Harry?”

With a snort, Severus gripped the bridge of his nose again, eyes squeezed closed. “He was almost catatonic when I found him.” He looked up and caught the Headmaster’s gaze. “He was far more injured than the fight warranted. Either his relatives have been abusing him, or someone we do not know about has been using him as a punching bag.”

The shock on Albus’ face looked genuine enough, but he had to ask.  With a low growl and watching Albus’ expression intently, he did just that. “Did you know, Albus?”

Sorrow enveloped the older wizard. “No. I had not the faintest idea.” He sighed, “Of course, I knew Petunia took him in most unwillingly, but I assure you, I had no inkling that...”

As Albus trailed off, Severus interrupted with: “Of course, you had no idea that the boy’s relatives hated him so much they would keep him in a cupboard, starve him and beat him to within an inch of his life!”

Albus appeared frail at that moment, old and weak. Severus ignored it, knowing it for the manipulative game it was. “You placed him in that home, Headmaster. You knew they didn’t want him. Yet, instead of finding more suitable accommodation, you left him there.” He glared at the elder wizard. “And do not give me any of that rot about the wards. The blood wards were good, but others could have been used.”

Albus dropped the weary old man look and instead met him eye to eye. There was a fierceness there that Severus rarely saw, but he did not back down. After a moment, Albus nodded slightly. Not an admission of guilt, exactly, but an acceptance of Severus’ words, an acceptance of his right to say them.

“As you know, Arabella kept a close eye on what was happening at Privet Drive – she reported nothing out of the ordinary.” Severus recognised the excuse for what it was – an attempt to distance himself from the discovery, laying the blame elsewhere.

Leaning over, black eyes still locked on blue, Severus carefully placed the glass of wine on the small coffee table. “However, it appears they have been mistreating the boy for some time. He was almost unrecognisable when I found him. I have done what I can to heal his numerous injuries.” He paused a second. “I would not be surprised if they have been treating him like this since early childhood.”

Albus broke eye contact. “Is he awake yet?”

Severus shook his head, allowing the situation to settle for now. “I spelled him asleep for the journey here. By now, he is sleeping naturally. I felt it best to let him. By all appearances, I do not believe he has been sleeping half so much as he ought.”

Albus nodded, a look of concern on his features. He seemed to come to a decision. “I shall update the wards on the house for now. Continue your work, Severus. I will not leave until I have spoken to Harry.”

Severus quirked an eyebrow, but nodded his acquiescence. Potter would sleep through the rest of the day, perhaps waking late tomorrow; he was not currently needed and he did still have a lot of work to complete. With a nod to the Headmaster, Severus climbed to his feet and made his way to his bedroom.

As he passed the spare room, he glanced briefly in on Potter. The boy was sleeping deeply, frown lines marring his forehead. With a snort at his foolishly sentimental attitude, Severus turned away and sought his own room to change out of the remainder of his ruined clothing.

Harry awoke suddenly, silently, still reeling from the blood filled nightmares. It took him a long time to realise he was lying in a bed rather than his cupboard, but when he did, he relaxed marginally. Without moving his body, he opened his eyes a crack and took in what he could see of the room. With his glasses gone, that wasn’t much.

It appeared he was in a four-poster bed, which at least meant he was in the Wizarding world. It was entirely unfamiliar though, hung with deep green curtains currently cinched back with gold ropes. The wall that he could see looked like it had been decorated in the seventies.

With a frown, he turned his head and looked out into the room itself. It was small, terribly so, with room only for the bed, a wardrobe, a small desk and a chair. Harry was slightly startled to realise someone was sitting in that chair – or, lounging. It looked like they were asleep. Seeing the black robes, he at first thought it was a Death Eater and panic began to rise in his chest, but when he squinted slightly, he realised it was actually Professor Snape.

Of all the people he would have expected to find sitting by his bedside, Snape was very nearly the last on his list!

With a slight huff, Harry rolled onto his side and stared at the man, considering him. He had a vague recollection of Snape finding him in his cupboard. Which meant, more than anything, that Snape now knew. But it also meant he must have been the one to heal all the injuries he had been living with for weeks. His wrist, ribs and collarbone ached horribly, but for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel half-dead.

Considering the strength of emotion, the real hatred and disgust that had been thrown his way in fifth year by this man, on top of the previous four years of vitriol, Harry was utterly confused by Snape’s actions and continued presence. He closed his eyes with a sigh.

With the deceptive slowness of such things, the memories of what had transpired at Privet Drive began to seep into his consciousness.  The fear came first – in the relative luxury of a comfortable bed, without the adrenaline that had made it easier at the time, Harry began to relive the true extent of the terror he had faced. He sucked in a silent, sobbing breath and curled up, squeezing his eyes closed. As he tried to force the fear away, exactly what he had done came back to him.

There had been so much blood! It had been everywhere – on the floor, on the walls, the ceiling and the furniture. He heard again the sickening, tearing sound of blade slicing through flesh. The sickening crunch of the blade sinking into the man’s chest reverberated through his mind. Squelching breaths, wet thuds, and pained screams rang in his ears.

The glint of light on the blade as he swung it at the man’s neck. Kicking him in the face to make him let go. Struggling to get away, but slipping in the warm sticky fluid spreading across the tiles. Lifeless eyes staring at him, accusingly.

Alone. They had left him alone! He had had to defend himself, because his relatives had left him there alone! No one had come to save him. No one.

Ohgod – he couldn’t stand this. He curled up tighter, gripping his hair in white-knuckled fists, breathing in great, gulping fits and starts.

“Harry?”

Harry shook his head, flinched away from the voice. Alone. He was alone. There was no one to save him. He always had to save himself. There was never anyone else to save him.

A hand on his shoulder startled him into action. In a second, he was across the bed, over the trunk and into the space between wardrobe and wall, staring wildly at whatever had dared to touch him,  threaten him.

Chest wracked by silent sobs, face wet with tears, Harry looked into the shocked face of a vibrantly dressed smudge that could only be Professor Dumbledore. Snape was standing no more than a foot behind the Headmaster. He could barely make out the looks of shock that both men wore – Dumbledore’s tinged with sorrow, Snape’s, strangely, tinged with understanding.

Dumbledore stepped around the bed and moved a little closer, but Harry shrank further into the corner, shaking his head and hugging himself. Dumbledore would ask him what had happened, he would want him to explain! Snape would sneer at him, berate him for being so stupid as to let his wand be locked away... for not taking the first Death Eater’s wand when he dropped it... for simply being Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived! He couldn’t face either of them.

But Dumbledore simply sank slowly to his knees a few feet away and gave him what looked like a sad smile. Snape hadn’t moved, but his face looked blank.

“Harry, can you hear me?”

Blinking, Harry nodded hesitantly.

“Good, child, good.” A lingering pause, “Do you know me?”

Again, Harry nodded, roughly wiping his face.

“You are safe here, Harry. You are in a safe house, protected by numerous wards and the Fidelius Charm. You have been asleep for nigh on twenty-four hours.” Another pause. “Do you understand?”

Slowly, Harry nodded. It meant he was safe here, at least for now. Tucking the cuff of the overlarge, unfamiliar pyjama top over his hand, he attempted to wipe away the tears still trailing down his face. Why wouldn’t they stop?

“Won’t you come back to bed, child? I daresay it is more comfortable than that corner.”

Harry considered this. He felt a little safer with his back covered like this, but it wasn’t particularly comfortable. Nodding slightly, he slowly got to his feet. Professor Dumbledore followed and stepped back, clearing room for Harry to reach the bed unimpeded.

Watching the two men warily, Harry skirted the bed-frame and slithered onto the mattress. He gathered the duvet around himself and sat with his back pressed to the wall. He wiped his face again, giving Dumbledore an assessing look.

“Well now!” Harry flinched at the loud statement and with a flourish, Dumbledore transfigured a second, more comfortable looking chair into the cramped room and sat down. Snape, after hesitating briefly, followed suit. Harry simply watched them both in silence, occasionally rubbing at his eyes.

“Now, firstly, Harry, I need to ascertain your physical state. Are you feeling well?”

Harry blinked and shifted slightly, testing his body. He nodded slowly, but lifted his left wrist into view and rubbed at it. He opened his mouth to tell them all was fine, even though his wrist ached, but the words wouldn’t go past his throat. He closed his mouth instead, allowing the words to settle against his teeth.

“Headmaster...” Harry watched in mild fascination as a number of expressions crossed Snape’s usually impassive face. Professor Dumbledore nodded, frowning slightly.

Sounding concerned once again, Dumbledore leaned forward slightly, “Harry, may I ask you something?”

Pulling his hands back under the duvet, Harry nodded, taking a deep breath. He really didn’t want to answer any questions right now, but he knew Dumbledore needed to know what had happened.

Feeling the gazes of both Professors on him, Harry kept his eyes on the mattress as Dumbledore spoke.

“Are you able to speak?” The Headmaster’s voice was very soft, causing Harry to look up at him.

He tried to answer, he really did, but the words wouldn’t come, they simply lodged in his throat and stayed there; his mouth opened once, twice and then closed firmly. More tears slid down his cheeks as he shook his head.

“I am not entirely surprised at this reaction, Severus. Many a child has gone mute after such... horrific incidents. Some after far less.” Albus sighed, “It is a wonder the child has not reacted in similar fashion before now.”

Severus had retreated to the front room with Albus, after they had made sure the boy was tucked in and had taken a half draught of Dreamless Sleep. It was already late afternoon, so Potter would likely sleep through ‘til morning, when Severus hoped he would be more in control of himself and his ability to react to this new problem.  He had never been faced with a mute child before – shy children, certainly, uncommunicative, yes. But actual mutism? This was new and entirely unexpected – even if Albus did say it was fairly common in such circumstances.

He ran a hand over his face, “Will he speak again?”

Albus nodded, “With the correct help, he will speak again sooner or later. This mutism is in reaction to a trauma. It is therefore slightly different to traditional Selective Mutism. He will be silent for perhaps a month – maybe less, maybe more. It depends on how the situation is handled.” The elder man sighed, “Though he may be more prone to its return from now on.”

Brilliant. The Boy Wonder was liable to return to speechlessness at the drop of a hat! Just what they needed. Potter was essentially a marked man! Death Eaters, the Dark Lord, Dark creatures – all were after him, all could make an appearance at any moment! An inability to speak at any given moment would be an unforgivable liability.

To make matters worse, the child’s instinctive reaction to an adult approaching him, touching him in a moment of distress! Severus felt dismayed by the revelation. It spoke volumes about the deeply ingrained mistrust Harry felt, even of those who were supposedly there to protect him. It also spoke volumes about the levels of conditioning Harry had been put through over his relatively short life. No child, especially not a child like Potter, should have to live the kind of life that they reacted in such a way to a perceived threat.

He met Albus’ gaze and knew his thoughts were abundantly clear to the man. There was no twinkle, not even subdued, to his blue eyes as he said; “I will ask Poppy to provide us with material on the subject.” That simple statement had Severus feeling thoroughly chastened for some unidentifiable reason.  

“We may need to allow her into the house to speak to Harry.”

Severus scowled at the declaration but nodded in reluctant agreement. He disliked the idea of having yet another person knowing about his safe house, but he could see the necessity.

“As it stands, I do believe Harry’s owl will arrive shortly. If she brings letters with her, see if you can persuade Mr. Potter to reply to them? It may help him in the long run, to find at least some small form of communication.”

He nodded as Albus stood, following suit as the elder wizard pulled a small snuff-box filled with Floo Powder from one of his many large pockets. “I am needed at Hogwarts. I will return tomorrow afternoon and bring news of how the investigation progresses.”

He couldn’t help but scowl at mention of the investigation. “Albus, if Fudge gets word of this...”

Dumbledore nodded as he took a pinch of Floo Powder. “Of course, my boy. I will endeavour to keep it from him for as long as it is within my power to do so. When he does – well, we shall cross that bridge when we come to it.”

The Floo Powder shimmered in the air as he threw it down, calling out his destination as he did. A moment later, Albus Dumbledore had gone. Severus sank back into his armchair and rubbed his temples. After a few moments of blissful silence, Severus sighed.

“Bolly!”

A crack signalled the Elf’s appearance, “Yes, Master Snape, sir! How can Bolly be helping?”

He opened his eyes and looked down into the eager face of his little helper. “Check the provisions for me. Note down exactly what we have and report back to me as soon as you are done.”

“Yes sir! At once, sir!” The Elf disappeared again, despite the kitchen being only a few rooms away.

He sat up a little. “Mozo!”

Another crack resounded through the room and his second House Elf appeared, this one female and wearing a patterned pillow-case rather than a plain one like Bolly’s. “How can Mozo help, Master Snape, sir?”

“Keep an eye on the boy for me, inform me when he awakens.” After a pause, he added, “If he does happen to have a nightmare, let me know.”

Mozo nodded and disappeared.

With that sorted, Severus stood and made his way to the kitchen. Bolly was standing in the larder, a ring-bound muggle notepad in one hand, a quill in the other as he catalogued the provisions. He looked over his shoulder as Severus stepped into the room. “I is nearly done, Master Snape!”

He simply nodded and looked at the shelving above the little creature’s head. Nothing particularly appetizing jumped out at him, so he simply grabbed a tin of Muggle tomato soup.  As he set it to boil on the stove, Bolly presented himself. “I has completed the provisions list, Master Snape, sir!”

“Thank you Bolly. Please keep Mozo company for now.” The Elf nodded happily and disappeared.

He checked the list distractedly. There wasn’t much at all, and what there was mostly consisted of Muggle non-perishables, almost entirely consisting of tinned or dried goods. With a sneer, he decided he would send Mozo out later with a list and some galleons.

As he stirred the soup and contemplated what to put on the shopping list, there came an insistent tapping at the window before him. He looked up, only to come face to face with the bloody snowy owl the staff had been cooing over at the breakfast table not two days ago. “Hedwig, I presume?”

The owl clicked her beak together, ruffling her feathers. He quirked an eyebrow and opened the window wide enough for her to slip through. She alighted on the back of one of the chairs at the tiny kitchen table, bright eyes watching him. He left the window open to allow the air to circulate; after days of muggy weather, the kitchen needed it. “Your master is asleep upstairs.”

The bird chirruped at him and he glared at it over his shoulder. “Make any mess and I will lock you in your birdcage for the rest of the summer.”

Hedwig screeched at him, batting her wings a few times to get her point across. “Alright, alright! Damn bird.”

He dug into the larder and pulled out a small bag of owl feed. Pulling out one of his more damaged bowls, he poured some in and set it floating at just the right height for her to comfortably eat.

Sitting down with his own meal, Severus glared at the creature. It was known amongst the staff that she was a remarkably intelligent creature, even compared to the school bred owls – it probably had something to do with precisely whom she was the familiar of. As far as Severus could tell, Potter loved rarely, but when he did he gave that love whole heartedly and it affected how his magic interacted with others – particularly lesser beings. From all appearances, Hedwig had not gone unchanged, gaining several abilities not normally attributed to owls. That fact could prove useful in future, so he filed it away for later reference.

To calm himself, Severus turned his mind to his experiments. As he was finishing his meagre meal, Mozo appeared with a sharp crack. “Master Snape, sir! Little Master has woken up!”

Of course Potter would awaken already. The boy had no concept of following the rules while awake, it had been a false hope to believe him capable of doing so in his sleep. Any normal person, after a half dose of Dreamless Sleep would still be out of it right now.

“I will be there directly. Bolly!” The Elf appeared next to Mozo, “Both of you please give the house a going over, make it suitable for an invalid teenager. Perhaps a small bowl of soup for the boy as well.”

As he passed her, he lifted his forearm and Hedwig clambered on, perching herself quite happily.

Harry lay in silence, listening to the sound of Snape’s voice coming from below. The man sounded tired, though not angry – which was unexpected. Professor Dumbledore had told him, before he had slept, that this was Snape’s home and that he would be staying here for a little while.

He had been surprised by the two House Elves sitting together by the door; what he had seen of the house seemed rather Muggle, especially the bathroom, but he supposed appearances could be deceiving. As soon as he had moved, the female Elf had vanished, followed shortly by the apparently male Elf.

Avoiding his left wrist, Harry levered himself up into a sitting position as he heard footsteps ascend the stairs. A moment later, Snape stepped into the doorway. Harry smiled broadly as he recognised Hedwig perched on the Professor’s arm. With a loud squawk, she swooped down and alighted on the headboard beside his head where she proceeded to groom his messy hair, chirping lightly all the while.

Quietly, Snape seated himself in the rickety chair; Harry ignored him in favour of petting his familiar.

“She arrived not too long ago. Apparently she can overcome even the Fidelius Charm’s protection, when she wishes to find you.”

Harry nodded; Hedwig had always struck him as intelligent.

“Potter.”

Harry flinched.

“Potter, look at me, if you would.”

Harry shrugged and turned, allowing his eye to lock on Snape’s.

Snape nodded as if pleased with him, which was surprising enough that he instantly paid attention. “The Headmaster has gone to cover his duties at Hogwarts and find out what he can concerning the Auror Investigation.”

Harry scowled and twisted his fingers in the duvet. At the time, he truly hadn’t thought about the consequences of fighting, killing, the Death Eaters. It wasn’t really something that came to mind when you thought you were about to be killed or kidnapped and dragged before Voldemort.

One of the House Elves reappeared, holding a tray, balancing a bowl of soup and spoon on it.

“Soup for the Little Master, Master Snape, sir!”

Snape took the tray, “Thank-you, Bolly. You may go.”

With a happy squeak, Bolly did so. Harry looked at the Potions Professor uncertainly as the man brought the tray over and settled it on his lap.

“Soup only, for now. We will see if you can stomach more in a day or two.”

Harry picked up the spoon and managed a weak smile in thanks.

For a moment, silence wrapped around them and for some reason, Harry actually felt perfectly comfortable with it. Maybe it had something to do with Snape not berating him or sneering? Maybe it had something to do with the way Snape was acting, well, human at the moment.

“Professor Dumbledore suggested you try replying to any mail you may have received. However, your bird didn’t bring anything with her.”

Harry stared at the man for a moment. Snape simply raised an eyebrow at him, black eyes emotionless.

Harry blinked and nodded. He could reply to the birthday letters once he was done eating. Though the prospect of telling Ron and Hermione about everything... No. The idea didn’t appeal to him. Though writing to Luna did, even if only to thank her for the unexpected gift.

“Have you any letters, Potter?”

Harry nodded and pointed at his trunk. He caught the slight roll of the man’s eyes, but really, he was only surprised Snape was leaving it at that. He had been expecting him to start yelling at any moment.

Instead, the man stood and after checking for permission (and wasn’t that surprising?) he opened the trunk and moved things around in search of the letters. Harry continued to slowly eat the soup, watching as the professor searched. After a few minutes, Snape stood, with a pile of parchment in his hand, which he then held up, “Are these the ones?”

Harry squinted, then held a hand out. Snape rolled his eyes again and handed the pile over.

Rifling through the pile, Harry found the three he needed, pulled them out and handed the rest back. Snape replaced the letters and made his way to the door. “I will have Bolly bring up spare parchment, ink and quills. Try not to abuse the privilege.” He paused. “I am going to send Mozo out for provisions. If there is anything you would like added to the list, please provide Bolly with it within the next hour.”

Harry watched as the man swept from the doorway, black robes flying impressively in his wake.

Dear Luna,

Thanks for the present, it’s great and I bet it’ll keep me warm when winter rolls around! I’m keeping it safe until I need it. What did you make it from? I didn’t know you were into crafts.

Thank you for your kind words; somehow, I can believe it wasn’t entirely my fault when you say it – but I have to accept that I was wrong, that I didn’t think things through as well as I should have. It’s hard to think about what happened at the Ministry; I understand now that I put you all in so much danger, when I should have stopped and thought. I’ve promised myself that I won’t act so rashly again.

Thank you for the offer, as well. I’m going to take you up on it now, I hope you don’t mind. First though, before I start, I’d like to let you know that I’m fine and safe – just in case the Daily Prophet has run another stupid story about me.

Although, there is one thing wrong with me – I can’t talk. I mean – I really can’t talk. I’ve tried – but somehow, the words get stuck in my throat and stay there. I don’t know why, and my Host’s haven’t been able to tell me much, just something about a trauma and it being a recognised reaction.

Anyway, that’s what I want to talk about. The ‘trauma.’ What happened was that on the night of my birthday, my aunt passed away and while my relatives were at the hospital, Death Eater’s came to the house. I had to fight them; they were going to take me to Him. I think I killed them, but I don’t really remember much of it.

Luckily, I’m mostly well; one of my hosts patched me up and I’m getting better, but the parts I do remember, I can’t get them out of my mind and sometimes I freak out.

Merlin, I sound ridiculous, don’t I? Sorry.

My hosts have warned me to expect an Auror investigation. I’m not sure what to think about it. I have a feeling that Fudge will do everything he can to get me locked up in Azkaban or something. Even if he doesn’t, the Prophet will have a heyday over it all and I don’t think I can take having my life spread all over its pages again. I hate sounding like I’m whining, but I’m sick of it. I just want to live a quiet life – you know?

Anyway. So, if you see anything in the paper about the attack, just be assured I’m ok.

Sorry I sort of unloaded on you. I don’t think I’m going to get out much this summer, keep me amused with what you do in your holiday? I’d like to hear about it, if that’s alright with you?

In friendship,

HP

Harry chewed the end of the quill Snape had loaned him and re-read the letter. He thought Snape would approve of the ‘hosts’ things, rather than telling Luna who he was actually staying with. He was unsure, though, whether sending this letter was even the right thing to do. He liked Luna, admired her, but he wasn’t sure if she liked him well enough to put up with his whingeing.

Harry also wasn’t sure how he felt about having told Luna far more in this letter, than he had told Ron and Hermione in the letter he had written to them. He just felt more comfortable opening up a little to Luna than he did to his two closest friends right now. Maybe it had something to do with having put them through so much already? Or not wanting to disappoint them? He couldn’t be sure, all he knew was that he didn’t want them to know that he couldn’t talk, but he didn’t so much mind Luna knowing.

“Would Master Harry be liking me to take that for him?”

Harry jumped in surprise at the squeaky voice. Standing next to the bed was one of the House Elves, the female one from the looks of the pillow-case and her eyes. He opened his mouth to respond, but after a pause, closed it again and gave her a quizzical look.

“Master Severus has asked Mozo and Bolly to take letters directly. This way, we is not risking owls being captured.” She nodded at him with a bright smile.

Harry blinked and resettled his glasses on his nose. Well, he hadn’t realised House Elves could take their Master’s mail for them as well - but the idea made sense, especially when he thought of Dobby and his attempts to ‘save’ him during his second year. Harry well knew that House Elf magic was apparently far more considerable than most Wizarding folk realised or cared even to think about.

After a brief pause, he smiled and nodded. Rooting around in the small pile of letters, he found a blank envelope, carefully folded the letter and placed it inside. Neatly addressing it, he handed the small pile of letters over and smiled again.

He’d written a single short note to Hermione and Ron, informing them that he was safe and well and to ignore the papers if they started printing crap about him again. He’d written something similar to Mr and Mrs Weasley, but had been unable to think of anything to say to Remus. His heart quailed at the very idea of writing to his friend. Instead, he had decided to leave any news of his health and wellbeing – or not – too Professor Dumbledore to pass on for him.

The Elf disappeared with a loud crack and with a quiet, almost silent sigh Harry leaned back into the pillows. The problem with being unable to talk, he had found, was that it left him with a lot of silence, which meant he had a lot more time to think. Mostly, he thought about the gut-wrenching terror that closed his throat every time he tried to speak – even when alone.

Even in the calming surroundings of what he now knew to be Snape’s personal safe house – and from Professor Dumbledore’s inferences and the way the place was decorated, he guessed it might be Snape’s family home, though he wasn’t entirely sure how that fit in with the pure blood ancestry his Professor certainly had – he still felt terrified at the prospect of speaking to anyone. Just the merest hint of Dumbledore or Snape or even one of the Elves beginning to ask a question, and he clammed up completely. He didn’t know how to deal with it all – on the one hand, it was a relief to not have to speak aloud the things he had seen, the way he had felt, the way he still felt. But on the other, he knew it was almost inevitable that he would have to answer eventually, and he was simply putting off something he felt sure he ought to just get over with.

Snape had left him alone for the most part, for which he was grateful, but which also left him more than a little puzzled. The Professor he knew was an acerbic, vitriolic man with little regard to the feelings of others and even less tact. This Snape confused the hell out of him. He was being, well, for want of a better word, nice. Harry didn’t really know how to react.

So, all of the alone time, the quiet time, coupled with Snape’s strange behaviour, was fraying his nerves somewhat.

To distract himself, he had pulled out his summer homework. He returned to it now, opening his Transfiguration text and continuing the essay he had started on the train home. Running a finger up and down the arch of his nose in an absent manner, he read through the required pages, taking occasional notes on a separate piece of parchment as he did.

That was how Dumbledore and Snape found him hours later. Halfway through his History of Magic essay, he was still absentmindedly running a finger over his nose as he read, trying to make head or tail of yet another Goblin War.

“Harry?”

He startled at the sound of the voice, before recognising it as Professor Dumbledore’s and calming down, sitting up a little to look at his visitors with a small smile.

Dumbledore took a seat in the only chair available, while Snape stayed in the doorway, his long arms crossed over his chest. Glancing briefly at him, Harry thought he looked even more sour than usual. Dumbledore, however, looked as calm as ever. He wondered what was wrong.

He gave the two professors an enquiring look, as he moved his homework to one side.

“Mr Potter. Harry.” Professor Dumbledore affected a soft tone and a warm smile which Harry was almost immediately wary of. He frowned a little in response and was surprised to note Snape smirking at him from behind the Headmaster.

“I have come with news from the Aurors – A preliminary investigation has resulted in identifying the men who – ah – allegedly attacked your relative’s home. They have been confirmed as Death Eaters, and indeed, wanted men.” The Headmaster paused, and Harry distrusted the twinkle he could see in his eyes. “For now, the investigation is being run by Order members – but it will become apparent soon enough who was at the centre of this... shall we say, debacle.”

Snape snorted and Harry glanced at him curiously, before the Headmaster caught his attention again with a clearing of his throat, “Yes. Well. To forestall any unwanted attention in your direction, I have asked Professor Snape to take you in for the remainder of the summer.”

Harry blinked, surprised. Surely Snape would prefer him turfed out? Catching his professor’s gaze, the man nodded very slightly; again Harry blinked in surprise.

“He has graciously agreed to my request. Now – as you know, Harry – this home is very secure. It is protected by numerous Wards, as well as the Fidelius Charm. You will be perfectly safe within its walls.” Dumbledore smiled at him warmly again and Harry found himself nodding. “There will no doubt be some ground rules for you to follow, and I expect you to do your best to comply with them. Is that understood, Harry?”

Opening his mouth to agree, Harry paused and then nodded. He hadn’t expected anything less.

“Splendid! I will feel much happier, knowing that you are under such commensurate care.” He paused, giving the room a bright smile, “Now. I shall leave you two boys alone, and I do believe Madam Pomfrey wishes to pay young Harry a visit.”

Harry caught Snape’s wince at ‘boys’ and stifled a smirk by covering his mouth. He flinched, just a little as Dumbledore patted him on the shoulder and watched as the elderly wizard left the room, giving Snape a similar pat, receiving a sneer in response.

A moment later, both men were gone and Harry relaxed, pulling his homework back to his lap.

A mere five minutes after the meddling old fool had left, Poppy appeared in his Floo. In the midst of contemplating Potter’s circumstances, Severus grunted and greeted her as politely as he could manage. “Poppy. The boy is upstairs. I’m sure you are in a great hurry to see him.”

The woman simply smiled at him, in the ‘I’m humouring you’ manner that she used on her particularly recalcitrant patients; the manner that always irritated him, as she, more often than not, utilized the same smile on him.

“Thank you, Severus. Albus tells me he was in a rather nasty scrape?” She dropped her large medical bag and clicked her fingers. It stopped a foot from the floor and floated idly beside her as she looked at him.

Frowning in annoyance, Severus nodded. Did Albus tell her nothing? Perhaps he hadn’t thought it safe to explain – which meant either Albus was worried about security at Hogwarts, or he wanted Severus and Harry to explain what had happened. He wouldn’t put the latter idea past the Headmaster and his machinations, though the former worried him somewhat.

Grunting again, he began to lead her through the house, “Mr Potter was attacked by three Death Eaters at his home in Little Whinging. He managed to survive, by the skin of his teeth no less, but sustained some injuries. Most were physical; though at least one, psychological.”

At Poppy’s enquiring noise, he continued, “The boy has been rendered mute.”

“Oh, my!”

He glanced over his shoulder at the Medi-Witch, frowning a little at her unguarded and rather loud response. He didn’t want the boy startled before they even reached his room! Surely the woman ought to know better. Poppy took the hint, a hand already over her mouth and they continued up the stairs in suppressive silence.

Much to the Potion Master’s amusement, Harry was reading his Potion’s assignment when Severus rapped his knuckles on the door-frame; the boy’s fingers were absently stroking the bridge of his nose. When the boy looked up at him, he smirked, quirking a brow, “As thrilling as it is to see you doing your Potion’s work, I’m afraid we must interrupt. Madam Pomfrey has arrived.” The boy gave him an embarrassed smile; he simply rolled his eyes, standing back to let Poppy through.

Severus stayed in the doorway as Poppy bustled into the small room, preferring to keep an eye on proceedings, rather than interfere. He didn’t fail to catch Harry’s look of stifled terror as Poppy asked him to disrobe, the boy’s green eyes widening almost comically. Yet another peculiar reaction that Severus filed away for later contemplation.

By this point, most of the bruising Harry had sported was fading, almost gone. Physically, he was doing well, and Poppy confirmed this with a smile and a flourish of her wand as she ended the diagnostic charms. Putting away her few supplies, she closed her bag, handed Harry a small vial and said, with a happy smile, “Everything’s going well, Harry dear – take a drop of this with a mug of cocoa before bedtime; it should help you sleep.”

Harry nodded, clutching the small vial like a lifeline and smiled at the Medi-Witch. Suppressing another derisive snort, Severus logged that away as well, making mental note to ready a supply of sleep aides.

“Now, as for your other problem; I hear Professor Dumbledore has already asked you to write to your friends?”

Severus watched intently as Harry drew back a little, but nodded, lips pressed firmly together. Obviously, it was not going to be a simple project, getting the boy to talk again.

“That’s good. Keep it up and I shall visit again later in the week, once you have completely healed. Professor Dumbledore has asked me to see if I can help, is that alright, Harry?” The woman was affecting a thoroughly motherly tone that grated on Severus’ nerves. Folding his arms over his chest, he turned a little, so he was looking out across the landing, rather than in at Harry and Poppy.

Apparently Harry had given his consent, as Poppy hummed happily before speaking again, “I’ll sort out dates for my visits. I will try to come round at the very least twice a week, so we can begin to work on your healing.”

Severus had to suppress another snort. As Poppy bustled back out of the room, he turned to look in at Harry. The boy was pulling his homework back to himself, one hand still wrapped tightly around the small vial. With a grunt, Severus knocked a knuckle on the door frame again. When Harry looked up, he said “I will return momentarily, Mr Potter.” Harry nodded, so he turned on his heel and followed the Medi-Witch down to his front room.

“Severus. There is something... more, going on with Harry than I expected.” Poppy had spoken as soon as he closed the door behind him. Severus simply folded his arms and nodded shortly, “Yes. I thought you may have noticed. I know precisely what has happened, Poppy. There is little need to worry.”

Poppy gave him a steady, assessing gaze, lips thinning as she thought. “The change is pronounced already, Severus. I suspect the only reason he has failed to notice, is that he sees himself in the mirror every day. It is so slight as to be unnoticeable in such situations...”

“I am more than aware. The situation is being well taken care of – however,” and here he paused, giving Poppy a stern look, not particularly wanting to disclose this information, “I am going to inform him today. He may wish to – discuss his feelings on the subject, the next time you visit.”

Poppy nodded grimly, “Are you aware of whom his true father..?”

Severus’ lips thinned at the question. She had misjudged, but only slightly. All for the good – if she didn’t grasp the truth of the situation, then it would take others the same way. “Yes. It was I who created a fertility potion for the couple, after all.” He held up a hand, forestalling her next barrage of questions. “It is a private matter, between myself and Lilly Potter-Evans. Now that I am aware of this, I will act accordingly. Until such time as it is providential for this information to be released, I ask that you keep your silence.”

Grimacing slightly, obviously intensely curious as to whom Harry’s ‘true father’ could possibly be, Poppy nevertheless nodded. “Alright, Severus. But if you know who it is, and he’s still alive, you have to let that person and Harry know. That boy is in need of all the family he can get... Does Albus know?”

“I suspect it. But I have not spoken to him about it yet.” He paused, contemplating the bookshelves, “Poppy, I ask that you not mention it to the Headmaster, for now at least.”

After a long pause, in which he grew unsettled as she studied him, Poppy finally nodded again. “Alright. But promise me you will talk to Harry about this, as soon as you can.”

Severus agreed readily enough and Poppy soon left. Severus found himself back in the kitchen, staring at the small, barren garden through the freshly gleaming window panes over the sink. He had to speak to Harry; in fact, he had told the boy he would return shortly. But he found himself unsure of how to address the subject.

Snorting at himself, Severus pushed away from the sink and made his way upstairs.

He found Harry writing furiously, parchment spread over his knees, Potions textbook open and surrounded by copious amounts of notes for the essay. He watched in silence for a moment, standing just outside the doorway. Something he had thought long-dead stirred in his chest and he sneered at himself.

Tapping the doorframe abruptly, he stepped into the room, “Potter. Harry...” Again, he found himself pausing as Harry looked up at him. To put the moment off a little further, he pulled the chair to a more comfortable position by the bed and sat down. He blinked slowly at the curious – and slightly worried – expression on the boys face.

“This is not easy for me to explain, Mr Potter. But I have come to the conclusion that you must be told.” Harry looked even more worried now, so he lifted a hand in a placating gesture, “For once in your life, you are not in trouble, I assure you.” He smirked a little at the flash of defiance in the boy’s eyes.

“I have noticed that you are aware of the difference in your appearance.” He tapped his own nose to illustrate and Harry looked shocked, instantly running his fingertips over the bridge of his own nose. Harry nodded a moment later, hand dropping to his lap as he chewed his bottom lip.

Placing his hands together on his knees, interlocking his fingers, Severus continued calmly, “The difference is becoming apparent because the Charm your mother placed on you is fading. Yes, Lily placed you under a form of concealment charm – it began to fade around the date of your birth. As did the charm she used to modify my memories about the situation.”

He waited for Harry to take this in, the shock and wonder clear in the teenagers face and expressive eyes. As soon as Harry nodded for him to continue, he inclined his head slightly. “It is a complicated matter. However, suffice to say, your mother and father and I were,” here he paused, searching for the right word, “Friends.”

Harry’s silent outburst would have been amusing in any other situation, but as it was, Severus did not feel like being harassed by the boy. “Settle down, Mr Potter!”

Immediately, Harry was sitting with his back against the wall, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees, glaring at him defiantly. “I understand that this is not easy news to take in. I have had a year to come to terms with this – in my case, Lily’s charm fell apart slowly, allowing me to remember the past bit by bit. It collapsed completely at midnight July 30th.”

Still, Harry glared at him. “It is the truth, however, and you must accept it. I helped your parents create the Potion of Three Souls, which was the turning point in their conceiving you.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation at Harry’s continued glare and growing agitated and angry, Severus continued bluntly, “The potion requires a third person, a third soul, to enable conception. Therefore you have a third parent. Hence your changing appearance, to reflect the third set of genes used to create you. As for whom, exactly, this third is, I am looking into the matter.”

He stood abruptly and left the room hastily. The brat had reacted atrociously to the mere suggestion of his parents being friends with the hated Potion’s Master. Severus thus did not want to go ahead and reveal that he was the third, that his genes were those now beginning to show in Harry’s features. It would become clear enough in time.

Snorting derisively, he went straight to his cellar laboratory, slamming and locking the door behind him.

As much as Harry admired and respected Madam Pomfrey, he had always found her a tad... overly mothering. For a young man who had never known his mother, who had spent many years wishing he had done, it was a strange thought. But there was just something about the way Madam Pomfrey talked to him and acted around him that struck as too much, too babying. He guessed it was more his own problem, than hers, though.

Whatever it was, Harry was distinctly relieved when the Medi-witch finally left. The vial clutched almost desperately in a tight fist, he pulled his homework back to himself. He had just begun to re-read his notes when a knocking resounded on the doorframe. He looked up, briefly catching Snape’s eye.

“I will return momentarily, Mr Potter.”

Harry nodded, a little perplexed. That sounded ominous. Shrugging a little, even though Snape had already turned in a flurry of dark robes, Harry bent back to his work, determined to do well, to get his summer work done for once. By the time Snape returned, he had made good progress and felt this essay, at last and for once, was going to get at the very least an ‘Acceptable’.

He looked up with a distracted smile, his quill pausing in its frantic scratching across parchment, as his Professor tapped on the doorframe again. Strangely, Snape paused, as if he was hesitating over something. The behaviour was so out of the norm for the man Harry knew, that he immediately paid attention, sitting straighter and gathering his notes and parchments into a neat pile, pushing everything to one side. Looked like there was going to be a serious discussion or something, and he didn’t think Snape would appreciate having only half of his attention.

Harry watched in subdued silence as Snape appeared to draw the moment out longer by pulling the chair over and positioning it carefully, twitching it this way and that until he was apparently satisfied. He was beginning to get a little suspicious now, beginning to worry about what it was Snape was here to talk to him about. He fidgeted, fingers curling into the duvet-cover a little.

As Snape finally settled and looked about ready to speak, Harry relaxed and paid attention. “This is not easy for me to explain, Mr Potter. But I have come to the conclusion that you must be told.” What? Had the Ministry already figured things out? Was he being ordered to appear at the Wizengamot again? Or was it worse than that? Had Voldemort enacted some terrible form of abuse on someone he knew?

“For once in your life, you are not in trouble, I assure you.” Harry scowled a little at Snape’s words, and his lifted, almost submissive hand-gesture. He wasn’t in trouble all that often. In fact, Harry knew at least two students in his year alone at Hogwarts who were in trouble more often than he was. Snape’s little smirk made him feel even more aggravated.

“I have noticed that you are aware of the difference in your appearance.” Harry blinked, more than a little shocked. He’d thought he was the only one; he’d been beginning to think he was going mad. As Snape tapped his own nose, Harry’s fingers alighted on the ‘new’ arch he knew was there, running gently over the alien feeling bump briefly.

Chewing his lip in frustration that he couldn’t exclaim over the strangeness, Harry nodded and let his hands fall back to his lap. He watched, a little agitated, as Snape placed his hands on his knees, his long, stained fingers interlocking and leaned forward, a little closer. “The difference is becoming apparent because the Charm your mother placed on you is fading.”

Harry gasped silently, staring at Snape in incredulity. His mother had placed a charm on him?

“Yes, Lily placed you under a form of concealment charm – it began to fade around the date of your birth. As did the charm she used to modify my memories about this.”

Harry leaned back a little, the shock clear on his features as he digested this news. A concealment charm? He couldn’t think of any reason why his mother would do that – at least... not any reason he wished to contemplate. And why the hell would Snape be in on it? Why would his mother need to modify Snape’s memories as well as Harry’s appearance? Suspicion blossoming in his heart, Harry did his best to conceal it and nodded slowly.

Snape inclined his head, his greasy hair falling forward, concealing his eyes for a brief moment. “It is a complicated matter. However, suffice to say, your mother and father and I were,” Harry waited with baited breath as the man paused, “Friends.”

His suspicions confirmed, Harry flew from intense scrutiny to rage in a split second. How could this man suggest what he was suggesting! That Lily had cheated on James with him! That he was his father! He tried to yell at the man that it was a malicious lie, that he was mistaken, that Voldemort, that anyone had played him for a fool! But his non-existent voice failed him again and he simply raged in silence.

“Settle down, Mr Potter!”

Shocked by the loud reaction, Snape’s voice ringing in his ears, Harry flung himself back against the wall and calmed slightly, wrapping his arms tightly around his knees, giving the man a sullen glare. His recent and gradual acceptance of this man as a respectable person had been somewhat eroded once more by this lie. He continued to glare as Snape began to talk once more.

“I understand that this is not easy news to take in.” That was an understatement!

“I have had a year to come to terms with this – in my case, Lily’s charm fell apart slowly, allowing me to remember the past bit by bit. It collapsed completely at midnight July 30th.”

Still, Harry glared at him, not understanding why Snape was belabouring the point. Why didn’t the man just come out and say it? Lay it on the line; tell him outright that he had slept with his mother? That he was Harry’s true father?

“It is the truth, however, and you must accept it. I helped your parents create the Potion of Three Souls, which was the turning point in their conceiving you.”

Harry blinked, his anger dissipating somewhat. What? Now he really didn’t understand. Snape had made a potion for his parents? So he hadn’t..? Still glaring, even now, though mostly out of confusion, mostly at the way Snape refused to clarify himself, Harry watched as the man pinched the bridge of his nose in apparent exasperation. The man looked angry and strangely, upset.

“The potion requires a third person, a third soul, to enable conception. Therefore you have a third parent. Hence your changing appearance, to reflect the third set of genes used to create you. As for whom, exactly, this third is, I am looking into the matter.”

Harry didn’t even have time to let this register, before Snape was suddenly on his feet and leaving his room. Seconds later he heard a door downstairs slam. Harry sat in silence, his ears ringing, not sure what to think. He had a third parent? How was that even possible? Oh, he knew about fertility potions, to help couples conceive. He even knew about the potions same-sex couples could use – the male couples needed a surrogate, of course – but a three way conception?

He shook his head and rubbed his face. This didn’t make any sense! And Snape’s reaction... He rubbed his eyes – he had the feeling the man thought Harry was angry at the prospect of a friendship between him and his parents. But that hadn’t been it at all. He would have to explain himself as soon as he could.

Maybe it had been Sirius? Harry well remembered how close Sirius had been to his father – the idea of being son to them both made his heart swell. But that would also mean he had lost all three parents. And wouldn’t Sirius have told him? Wouldn’t Remus?

No. However much he liked the idea, Harry realised Sirius couldn’t be the third. He had the wrong nose, for a start. Harry lay on his bed, staring at nothing and gently, repeatedly, running his fingertips over the still mostly hidden arch to his nose.

Why hadn’t Dumbledore told him about this? Surely he’d have known, the most powerful Wizard alive today? Or had Lily kept it secret, even from him? Maybe Dumbledore had known, and simply kept it to himself? If so, why would he do that? Harry frowned. That was something else he would have to ask the Headmaster about later.

A small noise by the door had him glancing over and he smiled at the sight of Mozo standing there looking apprehensive, a letter held in her hands. He waved and motioned for her to come in.

“This is being a letter for Master Harry Potter,” she said, holding the letter out for him. He took it gladly and when she didn’t leave, he looked at her again.

“Mozo is worried about Master Severus. He is not himself.” Harry nodded understandingly, watching her fingers as they wound together, an agitated, worried gesture. He supposed Snape’s mood was his fault. He held up a finger and rolled, grabbing a piece of parchment and his quill. Thinking briefly, he began to scribble a short note.

Professor Snape,

I’m sorry I reacted so badly. I thought you were going to tell me my mother had an affair. I couldn’t accept that, not ever. Thank you for telling me about the potion and my parents.

H. Potter

He folded and tore the parchment, then handed the slip to Mozo with a smile and a nod. He pointed at the name the note was addressed to. Hopefully she would know to take it to Snape for him. The little house elf grinned at him, “Mozo is thanking you, Master Harry! Mozo will be taking this to Master Severus right away!”

Harry grinned and nodded again, happy that Mozo was happy. Hopefully, the note would help to calm Snape down somewhat. If not, then at least he tried, right?

When the house elf was gone, he rolled onto his back and looked at the letter. The curly, pretty, multi-coloured handwriting told him immediately that this was a reply from Luna and he sat up, breaking the seal and opening the parchment eagerly. A small parcel fell into his lap, but he left it for now.

Dear Harry,

I was surprised to hear from you so soon. That was very nice.

I’m very glad you liked my present. I made it with you in mind, every piece of cloth and every stitch was added while I sang a protection charm into it. I made it from scraps and cut-offs from previous projects, and even a piece of one of my cloaks. It will keep you safe, as well as warm. I have always been into hand crafts, ever since my mother first introduced me when I was very young. Making things for my friends and family is a lovely way to remember her, I feel.

Harry, you have to accept that you were only fifteen, a teenager and acting out of love and fear. We all of us never think rationally in such circumstances, I fear even an adult may have made some mistakes in a similar situation. Maybe we were in danger, but we chose to be there, we chose to join you. We all believe in you and what you can do, what you represent. We are your friends; we would go through anything with or for you. Never forget that, Harry. Remember, too, that you can come to any of us with your problems, your plans. We will help you, if you let us. Even if it is to talk you out of doing something so rash.

Harry, I will never mind it when you need to talk to me. That is why I offered, after all. I am very happy that you have decided to trust me; that you are able to open up to me. I promise to tell no-one, I promise I will always keep your secrets.

You were right, Harry. The Daily Prophet has run a story. It is not flattering. I will simply say that the author’s are waxing lyrical about your disappearance. The death of your aunt has been reported and speculated upon.

I am so glad that you are not harmed, Harry. To fight three DE’s alone? You must have been terrified – I am not surprised that you have lost your voice. It is not in the least bit ridiculous that you have bad moments, Harry; it is natural after such a shock. You have nothing to apologise for – and if you want to talk about what happened, about how you are feeling, remember that I am here and will not judge.

I do not think you are whining. I understand that your life has been hard, that you are pulled to and fro repeatedly, if not by the press, then by The Dark Lord and even Professor Dumbledore. You are only sixteen, not yet even an adult in the eyes of the Wizarding World, and you have been through so much already; too much, really. If I could, I would offer you the means to live quietly, if only for a short time.

Until I find a way to help you find some peace, I will do what I can to keep you amused for the summer. Remember you can write to me about anything, Harry. I will always respond as soon as I can and I will never judge. I understand your need to talk, let me be your sounding-board.

So far, this summer, my father and I have travelled all over the Lake District. We are hunting the Saurdroma and though we haven’t found one, we have found signs and tracks. It is all very exciting! We plan to continue our search a little further south. I’m keeping photographic records of where we go and what we do and really, I am simply enjoying spending time with my father. I do not get to see him often enough during the school year.

When I have developed the latest photos, I will send you some copies. I think I will send a postcard and maybe some local trinkets, too.

I made the present last night, while I contemplated this letter and watched my father cook dinner. I sang some protection into it while I worked – wear it always and it will keep you from harm. I hope you like it – I used local shells and local leather to make it.

I will write again soon and tell you more about what I am up to. Please, try to keep your spirits up, and talk to me if you need to.

Until my next letter,

Luna.

Harry smiled. He was surprised at the length of Luna’s letter, but he supposed he shouldn’t be. The girl had always had a surprisingly deep and thoughtful personality, behind the dreamy countenance. It was more than nice to read her thoughts on everything he had told her. Reassuring. Especially that someone other than Ron and Hermione understood him, what his life could be like.

Luna’s insistence that she wanted to provide him with the peace he so desperately craved struck a chord in him. He found he wanted to take her up on that offer, even more so than her offer of being a shoulder to lean on.

Picking up the small package now, he un-wrapped it and tipped a hand-made bracelet into his palm. It was tightly braided and knotted leather cord, with small shells dotted strategically throughout.

He liked it immediately. With very little trouble, he had it securely around his right wrist and decided it suited him perfectly, it just looked right. He didn’t think he would have any problems wearing it.

Blinking, he stared at the bracelet in wonder. A tight net of magic had appeared, winding around, through and inside the leather and shells, each knot glimmering brightly. He lifted his wrist in wonder, staring at the glowing net. Luna really had cast a protection charm on the object; he could see it, clear as day.

Then, suddenly, the net vanished again. He blinked, rubbing his eyes. Something weird was going on, besides the concealment charm. Something he had a feeling he would need to talk to someone about.