London on a Wednesday afternoon was completely packed with families and people milling about everywhere, and Harry was feeling very claustrophobic.  Just like he had done in his child form in Amsterdam, he felt himself subconsciously leaning closer to his professor and hooking his fingers into the side pocket of Snape's jumper.  They had only been in the city for an hour, and gone to three specialty food stores, when Snape had decided that lunch would be next on their list of things to do.

Harry's stomach was rumbling as they stepped into the small French restaurant that Snape had told Harry about, and he sniffed the air contentedly as they were lead to their seats.  Plenty of delicious aromas invaded the air, and Harry couldn't wait to order.  The restaurant, called Incognico, was decorated in old wooden panels with crisp flowing tablecloths on the tables and stiff leather chairs, bright red material stretched over solid legs and shoulders of the seats.  The floor was another dense wood that contrasted perfectly with the cream coloured upper walls and the tin patterned ceiling. Harry looked around with a bit of awe, as the restaurant looked straight out of the art deco thirties, a time period he'd seen before in the history books at his old school, in the library where he'd hidden from Dudley at lunches.

Across the room, a sallow middle age woman watched with shrewd eyes as the two males entered the dining room and took their seats.  She took a sharp breath at seeing the boy, her features paling as she realized that it was not a doppelganger she was seeing. The dark featured man had a distinct old worldly look to him that suited the restaurant perfectly, strangely out of fashion but not in an embarrassing way, and his pale sharp face was unmistakable.  The little boy she would recognize anywhere, and he, while dressed smartly in a collared dress shirt and tie, looked well cared for.  It was disconcerting to see him looking so young again, but she'd never forget the sloppy hair and wild look in his eyes. She didn't remember him being that skinny, and figured whatever abhorrent trick had been used to make him look younger had exaggerated his scrawny figure.

She watched them sit down, the older man ordering wine for himself and the younger ordering chocolate milk, with an ever so subtle glance across the table as if asking for permission. A slight nod of the head, barely perceptible, was given and the boy ordered with a smile on his face.

The man shook out his napkin to place it on his lap, giving the boy a pointed eyebrow as he did so.  Though distracted by his gaze of the room, the boy shook out his own serviette and placed it over his lap.  They then sat forward and glanced over the menu, the man helping the boy with some of the French terms.  It was a rather expensive restaurant with refined menu choices and high reviews in all the right magazines, indeed, that was why her family was there, and even though the waiter was slightly skeptical of a small child patronizing the establishment, the older man seemed to think it was a perfectly acceptable place to bring the boy.  She didn't agree, having never wanted to take the runt anywhere so classy, and bristled at the fact that they were flaunting their unnaturalness and perfect manners in busy London, the man charming the waitress with his proper English like some sort of old relic. 

She'd hated him as a child, and resented him just as much as an adult.

The woman looked back to her own table, where her lunch companions were chattering on about some silly football match that had been on the telly earlier. Serviettes had been ignored, and both men had managed to spill some of the beer they had ordered.  She shook her head a little, and her eyes swept the room to study the other occupants of the restaurant.

Some ten minutes later the meals had arrived, and she ignored the way her table attacked their food with gusto.  Petunia had long ago given up on impressing to her son the important of eating slowly, letting him instead learn the consequences of heartburn and ulcers first hand like his father.   She turned away from them again, and her eyes settled on the two across the way.

The man appeared to have ordered a light open faced grill sandwich, and was currently attempting to have the boy try one of the olives that had arrived with his meal.  The boy, who had ordered a smaller sandwich, scrunched his face up at the offered olive. It was dropped on his plate anyway by the man with the glint in his eye, and Petunia noted that the boy waited until the man had started his lunch before he began eating his own.

She turned back to her table and saw that not only had Dudley sloppily almost finished his meal, but that he had just whistled to get the waitresses' attention, for another drink.  Vernon was skimming the headlines on the folded Times he'd left at the edge of the table, excited over some political announcement that was being made. Petunia pushed the salad on her plate around with her fork, annoyed that neither her husband nor son had shown much interest in conversation with her during the lunch.

Dudley, at least, had started talking once he had taken his fill of his meal.  Petunia spent a painful ten minutes attempting to converse about Dudley's summer, and what he did with his friends all day.  This was interrupted by Dudley ordering a large dessert for himself, and by Vernon interrogating his son about his boxing practice.  Petunia sighed and looked around again, seeing that the other two were ready for dessert as well. This time she could hear them, however, as some of the tables had been cleared out since they had started.

"Can I have something for dessert?"  Harry had asked, and Petunia was taken back by the politeness in the boy.  Vernon could only get him to be polite on basis of a threat, and it was strange to hear the lack of attitude in Harry's voice.

"May I, and no. We have a few more stops to make first."  The severe man stood from his chair and reached to put on his coat noticing the slight pout on Harry's lip.

"Keep that up and there will be no dessert whatsoever."  He said, with a pointed frown.

Harry slowly got to his feet, a silly innocent look on his face.

"Sorry, sir." He replied with a grin, following the man up to the front cashier. 

Petunia saw the older man place a hand on the back of Harry's head, tapping once very lightly, and she could have sworn she'd heard him say, "Good boy."

She looked back at her family, who were happily sated and probably wished nothing more but to relax the whole afternoon away.  She made up her mind, and decided that they needed to go out more, to more refined restaurants for the exposure and aclimization to the mannerisms of such establishments.  Wizards were supposed to be the uncultured awkward ones, not her family.

---

Harry was sitting at the small desk in his room, facing away from the window that was rattling quietly to him as the rain pounded against the glass.  He was working on his charms essays, as the rain prevented him from exploring their neighbourhood any further and he had to get the work done anyway.  He had just finished his third paragraph of his essay when he heard a knock downstairs, and spilled some of his ink as he jumped at the flash burn on his wrist.  The watch was almost uncomfortably hot, it's face an angry red colour and the numbers on the face twisting to form the words ‘stay hidden.' 

Harry immediately felt alert and maneuvered himself off the chair without moving it, slowly sliding his bare feet along the edge of his bed towards the door.  Through the open door and down the stairs, Harry heard Snape answer the door, and he immediately understood the watch's warning.  Narcissa Malfoy had come to visit, and by the sounds of it, she'd brought her sister along with her.

As quietly as he could, Harry drew his wand out of his jeans pocket and pointed it at the desk, righting his spilled ink and summoning one of the extendable ears he had in his bag from Fred.  As a secondary thought, Harry also draped his invisibility cloak over his head and slid slowly to the floor, careful not to make any sound as the small string on his extendable ear wriggled itself over to the banister and dropped down the stairs, picking up the conversation.

As Harry listened to the accusations being hurtled by Bellatrix downstairs, he counted slowly in the broken Dutch he'd learned from Jeroen and Emma to calm himself down. Harry wanted nothing more than to storm downstairs and, well he didn't know quite what he wanted to do to Bellatrix, but it would be something drastic.  He hated her, hated her more than the Malfoys combined and wanted to see her pay for Sirius' death, but Harry couldn't figure out what he'd do if he confronted her.  He'd barely been able to cast the cruciatus on her at the Ministry, and that was when he'd been flashing in anger.  He was silently seething now, knowing she was within reach for retribution, but also that it would do absolutely no good to either himself or Snape to storm down and do something drastic.

Snape's voice suddenly rose towards the stairs, and Harry listened in horror as he craftily played Bellatrix like the unbalanced psycho she was.  Snape remained very calm and almost sounded a mixture of bored and amused as Bellatrix was almost spitting her insults at him, and his answers seemed to only unsettle her further in their soundness.

Snape begun his explanation of how he'd managed to stay on Voldemort's good side, and Harry strained to not miss as word as he heard how almost proud Snape sounded to be serving Voldemort.  It made a shiver run through Harry to hear Snape's praise for his ‘master', a shiver that had nothing to do with the drafty damp air seeking him on the floor from the cracked hallway window.  Harry wondered to himself if he'd ever learn to lie that persuasively to anyone, and if Snape believed his own lies some times.

Harry suddenly caught Snape's credit to Bellatrix for killing Sirius, and started to feel physically sick.  Did Snape truly mean it?  Of course he must partially have, Snape hated Sirius and always had.  Even if Snape was just saying the words Bellatrix and Narcissa wanted to hear, there was some underlying truth in them.  Harry managed to listen to the rest of the conversation as if in autopilot, wondering if this manipulating Snape was part of the real one or if it really was a full act.

Downstairs, the wood on the office floor creaked in protest as Narcissa threw herself at Snape's mercy, begging him to make an unbreakable vow to help her son.  Harry could hear the half hidden disgust in his voice as he tried to shake her off, silkily informing her that Lucius and Draco had already visited to voice dissimilar concerns.  Narcissa wept as Snape denied her reassurance, instead confirming that it was likely punishment for Lucius failing to procure the prophecy.

Harry shuddered at that, remembering the pale arrogant boy that he'd met in Diagon Alley what seemed like a century ago, who was now facing a probable death sentence just like Harry.

"And what punish did he level upon you, dear Severus, when you handed him a prophecy that destroyed him for thirteen years?"  Bellatrix asked in a singsong voice, viciousness hiding just under the surface.   Harry nearly dropped his wand as he heard the question, and silently grasped for it to not give himself away.

"Are you insinuating that I was arrogant enough to tell him to attack the Potters? A nineteen year old junior death eater who merely had the good fortune of being in the right place at the right time? Oh Bellatrix, I fear your time in Azkaban has left you mentally...stunted."

Harry's eyes bugged out at the revelation and the mocking tone Snape used as he insulted Bellatrix. Either Snape was well versed with exactly how to push Bellatrix to get the reaction he wanted, or the man was slightly suicidal.  Bellatrix hissed, but Snape cut her off with a bored tone before she could hex him.

"I did not fancy any foolish theatrics and dramatic speeches, nor did I waste any time. After being escorted from the bar, I went directly to the Dark Lord to deliver the prophecy, and await my orders. As any good servant should have." 

Harry couldn't see downstairs, only hear the conversation, but he was fairly confident that Snape was probably looming in the office, standing next to his desk and glaring with distaste at both women.  Harry could hear a slight amount of disgust in Snape's voice, which though Bellatrix and Narcissa probably thought was aimed at them, sounded more to Harry like Snape was annoyed with his younger self.

"You blame Lucius too," Narcissa whimpered, "but Draco is just a boy."

"And a foolish one at that."  Snape confirmed.  "I will make a vow to help him, but I will not defy the Dark Lord and take over his task."

They must have moved closer to the hallway, because Bellatrix's gleeful cackle was rather loud and made Harry wince.

"See Cissy? He doesn't care if Draco dies."

"Of course I don't, dear Bella."  Snape purred, sounding more dangerous than usual. "But then, he is your actual nephew, and you do not either. By your earlier admission you'd sacrifice your own children to the Dark Lord."

The wind picked up outside and the draft coming into the hallway made Harry's hair on the back of his neck stand up, but he stayed frozen to his spot on the floor as the vow was spoken. The vow was exactly what Snape set it out to be, a very general promise to help Draco in his task, and to not stand in his way while Draco completed the mission.  Harry breathed a small sigh of relieve, realizing that none of the terms were specific enough to be a real danger to Snape.

He almost missed the last words Bellatrix hissed, just as she passed into the front hall. "If it were my son, Dumbledore would have been dead already."  She was talking to Narcissa, Harry thought, but he didn't hear anything else over the stuffing that appeared in his ears.  Colour drained from Harry's face and he bent a little at his waist, feeling like his stomach had been punched.  Snape slammed the door downstairs hard enough to rattle it in the doorframe, but Harry didn't react.

Dumbledore.  Some how in twenty minutes Harry's world had become twisted; two women had slithered into the house, one begging mercy, the other extracting suspicion; one man had concealed his true loyalties, and a murder had been planned.  The invisibility cloak dropped a bit around his shoulder as he thought about the conversation, and it kept slipping fractions as Harry shivered.  The task was about Dumbledore, but Snape had agreed too easily to help Draco, something didn't sit right.  Harry knew Snape felt too fondly about Dumbledore to coldly help with his murder and truly mean it.  He never even called the man by his first name, though he'd worked at Hogwarts for more than fifteen years, a sign of respect that Harry had noticed over his time at school.  Maybe Snape knew something that Narcissa didn't, something that would change the circumstance...

Something like inevitability.  The lights downstairs were flicked on and Harry heard Snape move from the front hallway to the kitchen, storming open the cupboard doors in the kitchen when he got there.  Dark shadows coming from the tiny ceiling light above his head drew darkness across his right hand, and Harry closed his eyes as he admitted to himself something he'd not thought about most of the summer.  He'd seen the blackened hand, and for some childish reason had accepted Dumbledore's reluctance to answer any questions regarding it as just a quirk of the headmaster, wanting to save the story for a better time.  And Harry, always believing his mentor to be invincible, had not questioned it further. 

Dumbledore must have had his hand cursed, and had refused to tell Harry anything about it.  Harry remembered Snape leaving that first weekend to the headmaster's office, panicked and packing potions with him.  A few days afterwards he'd made that bizarre comment that it was worse knowing someone was going to die, and not being able to do anything about it, a comment Harry didn't have context for until now.

Dumbledore was going to die.

Harry's arse had long gone numb, and the house had gone quiet. Whatever Snape was doing, Harry couldn't hear.  He slowly stood, rising up against the wood doorframe, and draped his cloak over his shoulders as he walked down the stairs.  The office was dark and the door slightly ajar, and Harry felt a slight dirty feeling wash over him as he passed through the room where Bellatrix was.  In the library there was a smile fire in the fireplace and one lamp burning in the corner, losing against the dark sky outside. 

Snape sat at the kitchen table with a bottle in front of him, a small glass beside the bottle that looked like it had been transfigured from an old cobalt potion vial.  A low candle was burning at the table, and on the stove was some left over stew that smelled rather unappetizing.  Harry walked over to his chair at the table, legs alternatively becoming solid and vanishing with the swish of his cloak.  He sat down heavily and gave the bottle a curious look.

"You heard."  Snape suddenly said, swilling the liquid in his glass.

"Every word."  Harry confirmed, staring unfocused at the glass.   They sat in silence for a few moments, the clock in the living room ticking unobtrusively.  Snape took another drink and Harry studied the homemade scribbled label of the bottle that read Magrathea. It wasn't alcohol; Harry could make out the scent of wet spring grass, mint, cloves, and the unmistakable sharp tang to a calming draught.

"What does this do?"  Harry lifted the bottle up as if to take a drink, but Snape pushed his glass forward instead.

"It's to put one's world to rights again."  Snape gave a nod, and Harry took a sip of the surprisingly pleasant tasting potion.  He felt it seep through his bloodstream like small anchors, giving him a more settled and heavier feeling, as if he was being held.

"He never told me it was you."  Harry mumbled, keeping his eyes down at the table.  "He told me about the prophecy, told me that Voldemort chose to mark me because of it. But he never told me it was you who heard the prophecy."

"Of course he didn't."  Snape replied, a touch of sarcasm in his voice. "Though I suppose one more reason to fuel your hatred wouldn't hurt."

"He hasn't told me a lot of things."  Harry said, placing his right hand on the table and tapping his fingers once. From the brief flicker of annoyance in Snape's eyes Harry could tell that he'd caught the meaning.

"I don't do comfort, Potter."  Snape ran his fingers through his hair, and Harry suddenly understood every day that Snape had spent at Hogwarts angry and bitter, shielding himself from the roles he played. Harry saw through the lie and nodded his head.

"I know."   Harry stood up and walked to the oven, taking the stew off the stove.  Whatever accusation, argument, or denial Harry had intended to make when he'd come downstairs had died on his lips when he saw Snape sitting at the table, looking a mixture between betrayed and resigned. The look had only been on Snape's face for a few seconds, schooled away into nonchalance as Harry had entered the room, but it was enough.

Harry fled back upstairs to his room and paced around the small area. His window was open, a chilled breeze cutting through the room, seeking to eradicate warmth that wasn't really there.  Anger started to course through Harry's veins as he replayed the visit in his mind, of how desperate Narcissa had been, how gleeful Bellatrix was in comparison.  And how Snape had agreed so readily - he must have known of Voldemort's intentions before hand, and Harry knew that if Snape had known, Dumbledore did too.  So where did that leave Harry?  He was only a pawn in this war, and the thought of being left to carry on the torch, as it were, with Dumbledore gone was very disconcerting.

After an hour of useless reading, Harry heard footfalls on the staircase. Harry moved to his door and opened it a little, making eye contact with Snape as the man passed.  Saying nothing, Harry saw him stride down the hall and open his bedroom door, giving Harry a tiny glance of solid wooden bedposts, dark blue bedding, thick dark curtains and shiny bell tops from an old fashioned muggle alarm clock that stood on what Harry assumed was a night table.  The door closed behind Snape, and Harry was left in the dark hallway, suddenly feeling very claustrophobic and with excess energy to burn.  Pulling one of Snape's knit jumpers out of the wardrobe and putting it on, Harry stuck his wand in his back pocket, shoved his sneakers on, and climbed up on his desk.  The window was large enough that with an extra shove Harry could open it with sufficient space to crawl through it, his foot passing over the watch that was sitting on his desktop next to the ledge.

Climbing down the slanted kitchen roof and down the trellis into the poison garden took a bit more co-ordination than Harry had expected, but in less than a few moments he was slipping the latch on the back garden door up, and sneaking out into the alley between the houses.  The walk was cold and the night very clear, allowing Harry the time to slip into his thoughts and organize the events of the night.  The rain had stopped an hour earlier, leaving a heavy peat scent around the air as Harry walked over the bridge that took him to his mother's old street.

Situations like this must have been what Snape had wanted Harry to think about for the adoption before making up his mind.  Snape was a death eater, there was no way getting around it, and he'd be one until the war was over one way or another.  There was no doubt that the way Snape had silkily interacted with Bellatrix Lestrange, of all people, had made Harry feel repulsed and nauseous, but that was his job as a spy -  to fraternize with the enemy.  Harry just wished that Snape wasn't always so bloody good at it.  However, from the broken annoyed look Snape had given him in the kitchen, it seemed that Snape was somewhat disgusted at his ability to convince them as well.   Harry instinctively walked back towards the park where Snape had found him, kicking a few old popcans along the way and ignoring the shouts and jeers from what sounded like a rowdy group of teens a block or two over.  He tried to keep to the shadows, blaming the cold wind for the moisture that was collecting in his eyes as he denied himself pre-emptive mourning for the headmaster.  Snape had mentioned Dumbledore having a year left which meant there was plenty of time for Harry to still learn everything needed for the war, and time to say his proper goodbye.  But Harry still felt cheated.

Harry turned a few corners, kicking the can the whole way, and wondering what stupid insignificant thing was causing the group of teenagers to make such a racket over.  That was always the case though, Harry knew.  No matter how destroyed he might feel at any given moment, there were always at least twenty other people who had not a single thought nor care for him and his problems.  Catching up to the can, Harry stomped on it furiously.  Why did he have to lose Dumbledore now?  And why had he never told Harry about the prophecy before?  Harry supposed that he probably would have destroyed Dumbledore's office further, but now that he'd had time to think it over, he knew that Snape had atoned for telling the prophecy.  Try as he might, Harry just couldn't muster up enough anger to scream at Snape for retelling half a prophecy about unnamed people he'd heard more than fifteen years earlier.  Harry remembered the blind loyalty he'd shown for Dumbledore in the Chamber of Secrets and knew that if he had been in Snape's shoes, he'd have shared the prophecy too.

"Hey look, new trash to the neighbourhood."

Harry's head shot up at the rough voice, his hand automatically reaching for his back pocket where his wand was hidden.  Apparently he'd found the group of loud teens; or rather they had found him.  Four boys, two muscular and thick headed, one skinny runt, and one short fat kid who probably was classified only as ‘stocky' on his academic reports to boost his confidence. One lanky girl was with them, long grungy hair that had been teased into dreadlocks a while ago and not been taken care of, giving her a ratty look that paired badly with her spaced out expression. Harry couldn't tell if she was drunk or possibly on drugs.

He stilled his hand over his wand, not withdrawing it, and kept his head steady.   The odds were not unfamiliar to Harry, and at least no one in the group was nearly as big as his cousin.  His stance automatically shifted to a fighting one, and he felt an imagined flashback to the Marauders of Hogwarts.

"Are you saying that you're old trash?"  Harry asked, his voice intoned in question but his look indicating he wasn't backing down.  Harry was a bundle of nervous energy he needed to work off, energy and anger he was all for misdirecting from Bellatrix.

"Listen up, arsehole.  You want to come through our park, you pay."  One of the muscular ones, which Harry had mentally named Popeye 1, stalked towards Harry in an attempt to intimidate him.  Harry, who had a flashback to a bloodthirsty basilisk hissing at him from above in a memory of what real fear was, stood his ground and even managed a sneer that would rival Snape's.

"I'll keep that in mind, Robin Hood. For now, kindly piss off."  Harry didn't want to be the one to have to turn his back on the group, but he was saved that uneasiness as bright white and blue lights flashed on them and the group of teens scrambled back, leaving Harry standing in the streetlamp of the park entrance.  Harry's eyes struggled to focus on the lights and he moved his hand, which was still hovering over his back pocket as if he had an itch, to quietly cover his wand.  Harry hoped to hell the wizard charms Snape had put on his trousers would keep the wand hidden, and waited for the doors of the car to open.

The police wasted no time in separating the groups when it became painfully apparent that the five other teens knew absolutely nothing about Harry and had been rounding in on him.   They'd been causing a ruckus and had thus been reported by several neighbours, drawing out the police presence to the normally quiet Stockport subneighbourhood.  After citing out a dire warning, the teens were told to disperse themselves, leaving Harry facing a graying cop with a funny moustache and a police cap that hadn't faded in with wash like the rest of his uniform.  His partner was a solid woman about the same height as her colleague; hair cropped rather short and brown eyes gazing suspiciously at Harry. She seemed to be the more dominant of the pair, and Harry wasn't surprised when she started asking pointed questions to ascertain Harry's presence out past eleven PM and in a foul mood at that.

---

"He's going to die. I couldn't just sit at home, so I left to take a walk."  Harry was sitting in the back seat of the car, feet propped up on the open door ledge as the police stood beside the door and listened to him.  He'd lied about most of the details, turning the headmaster into his great uncle and the cursed hand to cancer, but Harry thought it was a rather plausible explanation and for some reason it felt better to get the news off his chest.  The police seemed to sympathize a little as well, as they gave him only a tiny admonishment before closing the door and driving off towards Spinner's End, to return him home. Harry, suddenly feeling depleted, could think of no better place he wanted to go.

Snape opened the door on the first knock, and Harry had barely a second to realize how inconvenient the police were, as they had imposed on the bloody door first without giving him time to explain just why the police were darkening the doorstep. The female officer was rather taken back by Snape's appearance, his heavy night robes wrapped around him and his arms crossed beneath the black folds.

"I believe I saw you to your room half an hour ago."  Snape had drawn himself up to his full imposing height, an effect that unbalanced the officers and made Harry feel guilty.  He glared at the three of them, but his gaze lingered on Harry.

"Sorry Dad."  Harry mumbled, stepping inside the house. "I had to walk it off."

"No harm done, Mr. Snape.  We found Elliot over by the park being harassed by a few other teens, but he's alright."  The female officer had a fake smile plastered on her face as she tried to talk with Snape, but her partner had no qualms about staring around at the hallway behind Snape and Harry, as if to inspect the inside of the house.  Her attempts as sympathy were rather transparent, but Snape played along to get them out of his house quicker. He gave a short nod in thanks.

"Remember what we talked about Elliot, there's a time and reason for everything.  Next time talk to your Dad if you can't sleep, before wandering around at night."  She was talking to him as if he was a little child and it was grating on his nerves, but Harry knew better than to talk back with Snape standing right behind him.  He nodded silently and blinked his eyes to control the stupid tears that had decided to manifest now out of all moments.

"He will be fine." Snape's hands clamped down on Harry's shoulders from behind.

The police turned and left, making quick work of leaving their tiny little street and leaving Harry and Snape standing in the tiny front entry way. The door closed and locked with Snape's utterance of a spell, and Harry stayed rooted to the spot, staring at the black door.   An arm was placed across Harry, across his sternum and he was pulled back against Snape's chest, immobilized.

"If you ever," Snape said in a low voice that rumbled through Harry, "get brought home by the police again, you will be grounded until you're twenty seven."

Harry gave a small snort that had nothing to do with amusement and turned to nod his agreement.  Snape was giving him peculiar look, as if he was checking to see if Harry had injured himself in any way.  Harry watched him, noting in his eyes nothing but concern and irritation.  Harry knew they would have to talk soon about what had happened and what was going to happen, but he was glad Snape had just pointed at the stairs and all but frog marched him up to his room for the night.  Harry climbed into bed and wrestled himself into an uneasy sleep, trying to daydream about something pleasant as he heard Snape move about in the bathroom next door, drawing a scalding bath and causing the hot water pipes to groan.

--

In the morning, Harry walked downstairs to find an empty kitchen and a cold coffee pot.  By his estimate, he'd managed to get about three hours sleep throughout the night, and had several disturbing dreams of death eaters, gangrenous hands, cackling laughter, and buggy eyed Professor Trelawny spouting fake prophecies at him. He moved about fluidly, switching the percolator to start and cracking eggs swiftly into a pan as coffee and bacon battled to overpower the other's scent.  A bird pecked at the window as Harry was slicing pieces of the cantaloupe that he'd found in the fridge, and it took him a minute to fish the correct change out of the candy dish in the counter for the paper.

Harry tossed it on the table and offered the bird a piece of bacon, distractedly flipping the eggs not to burn them.  There was an article about himself on the front page of the Prophet, and Harry turned the paper face down on the table without a second glance.  The eggs were about done and so Harry moved them onto a plate as he tracked the footprints upstairs from the bathroom to the front bedroom.  Harry followed the same path downstairs towards the front door, where a metallic clink had announced the arrival of mail to the door slot.

Two bills for Snape, one official one that was addressed with Snape's full name, and a surprise at the bottom of the pile under the fliers.  One letter from Stepping Hill NHS, to Elliot F Snape.  Harry opened the letter with a tiny amount of interest, pulling out a brochure about life threatening allergies and recommendation for an allergy test with one of the doctors at the hospital.  He'd ask Snape about it later.

Snape arrived a few moments after the toast popped up, gliding into his seat and dressed in his imposing black, looking as if nothing had happened the day before.   He methodically checked the mail and added a dash of milk to the coffee mug at his place, habit that he did every morning before pouring the coffee into the mug.

"Your OWL results should be arriving today, Potter. I should hope you've passed everything."   The statement was ominous and laced with a double meaning that Harry had seen in the daily newspaper's arrival, the postman's clumsy delivery, and the hum of the coffee machine as it had started.  The world was spinning madly on.