The clock was an old Mickey Mouse clock that Dudley had gotten from Disney Land in Paris, during one summer long ago when Harry had been stuck at Mrs. Figg’s. It had stopped working a few years ago and had been thrown in the second room of Dudley with all the other broken toys, and it had taken Harry three hours to fix when he was ten.

That was all for naught now though, as Harry had smashed the clock to bits twenty minutes earlier.

The rain pounding against the window in the early summer afternoon, combined with the damned loud clicking of the clock had made Harry’s eye twitch, two words beating through his heart with each tick.

Ce-dric. Siri-us. Ced-ric. Siri-us. Ced-ric. Siri-us.

Downstairs he knew Dudley was sitting with his aunt and uncle, watching their regular Thursday television programs. Probably sharing a huge tub of popcorn as well, as they laughed at the stupid shows. They’d ignored Harry for most of the summer he’d been home, preferring to let him sulk in his room. Uncle Vernon called it sulking; Aunt Petunia called it grieving, though whatever it was, they both demanded he get over it soon and start picking up his weight around the house again.

Harry stared at the clock he’d broken out of anger, anger that had abated only a little. Number two on the list, Harry snorted to himself. The Five Stages of Grief – he’d been circling around anger for quite a while.

Harry sat on his bed staring at a piece of paper that he’d crumpled so many times in his hands that the paper had become soft. Dale Street, in Stockport, England - an address he’d found in one of his Aunt’s old boxes up in the attic. He’d spent four hours searching through the boxes one day when he’d first gotten home from Hogwarts, looking for anything that connected him to his real family, to his parents. And all he had in his hand was an address.

Springing up from the bed, Harry stalked over to his wardrobe and pulled out a backpack. Let them laugh downstairs, their little family. He would go to Stockport, and find his. Harry shoved a few changes of clothes into his bag, and pulled his wand out from under the floorboard. The invisibility cloak was packed in his bag as well, and he let Hedwig out of her cage, telling her to fly to the Burrow for the while.

After checking to make sure nothing important was left in his room that could be damaged by the Dursleys, Harry threw on a hoodie and stomped down the stairs. Dudley was, as expected, glued to the television. Uncle Vernon was sitting beside him, still ignoring Harry’s existence. Harry walked toward the kitchen, where he knew his Aunt would be cleaning up after Dudley and Uncle Vernon.

She took one look at his bag, and crossed her arms with a nasty look.

“Where do you think you’re going, boy?”

“Stockport.” Harry replied with an even tone, enjoying the look of surprise on his Aunt’s face. Of all answers, he knew she would be expecting that one least.

Petunia scowled and threw the rag she’d been holding in the sink.

“Don’t know why you’d want to go to that dump.”

“To see where my mum grew up.” Harry bit back, keeping his anger in check. Aunt Petunia still was his guardian, so permission to go was somewhat required.

Petunia looked like she was sizing him up, and it had not escaped her notice that Harry was rolling his hand over his left sweater sleeve, where she figured he’d stashed his wand.

“You’re to stay in the house. Blood wards or some claptrap like that.” It was a weak excuse, andHarry knew that Petunia didn’t much care if he left.

“I’m going to the place my mum grew up. I think I’ll be safe there.” Harry replied, in his mostsarcastic voice. Even Snape would have been proud.

“Fine.” She turned around to make herself a snack, effectively dismissing her nephew. He shuffled toward the hall door, but stopped when she called him.

“Harry. Don’t come back till Monday. We’ll be gone the weekend.” She didn’t bother to look up, nor ask where he’d be staying. The statement merely meant that he was to behave well enough that no further owls were sent their way.

--

Harry took the bus to London, traveling the muggle way to avoid being noticed on the Knight Bus. Once in London, he wandered around the train station a bit, before finally summoning his courage enough to stroll into Tesco and pick up a six-pack can of beer. He bought some crisps for himself as well, and a prepackaged sandwich for the train ride. The twenty-year old cashier had inspected his ID card rather vigorously, however Harry knew it was perfect. It had taken him a few hours at school to charm the date to make him older, but he was quite proud of the results. No one could argue with the matching lightning bolt scar on the photo, it was definitely Harry’s ID.

His bag now a little heavier, Harry bought himself a one-way ticket and walked across the platforms at King’s Cross, slipping through the crowds of summer tourists. His legs seemed to be on autopilot, and he waited silently for the train to arrive on platform 7. Harry closed his eyes as loud families gather around him like a waiting storm; his feet subconsciously pointed towards the gate to platform 9 ¾.

The train finally arrived, ten minutes late, and Harry boarded quickly. He scowled at anyone who looked his way, thus ensuring that no one sat near him as the train started the roll out. The ticket to Manchester had been more expensive than he’d thought, and though he’d planned his trip much better than when he’d run away after blowing up Aunt Marge, Harry found himself carefully counting his coins. Perhaps he’d have to take the Knight bus back, as it was much cheaper and faster to boot.

Harry put a pair of headphones in his ears and turned on his cd player, or rather, Dudley’s old one. Music filled his ears and he leaned back against the seat. The rain had not lessoned in London, and it beat against the windows of the train. Harry shuddered as he remembered his train ride to Hogwarts during third year. He found himself looking across the aisle, looking for Remus to protect him again, from the dementors he couldn’t shake the feel of.

Remus wasn’t there. Instead, he saw a watery reflection in the window, and Harry told himself that it wasn’t Sirius’ face he was seeing. Denial. For a moment Harry wanted to smash the window, smash the non-existent reflection that mocked him. Harry knew that his anger was easy to rise, after spending the past year being goaded by Voldemort, but at least anger was something he could feel.

He closed his eyes and turned up the music, hoping to find something better in Stockport.

--

The bus from Manchester to Stockport had been filled with annoying teenagers, pumped up with the excitement of going out for the night. It was already six in the evening by the time Harry had arrived, and when the bus had dumped him and his bag in the center of town, the first thing he did was stop for another bite to eat.

Now that he was standing in front of his mother’s childhood home, however, Harry wished that he’d never had the tiny bit of dinner. His stomach was churning, and the plain chicken sandwich wasn’t sitting too well. The Evans home was a neatly kept row house along a long street, red bricked with white trim around the windows and a tiny little front garden that had an abundance of flowers decorating it. The name on the post box had changed, but Harry imagined that the house had looked similarly inviting when his mother had lived there.

The windows were curtained partially, but Harry could see through the front window where a family was just sitting down to supper. The light that came out was a warm yellow, and upstairs Harry saw that the light had been left on in the front bedroom as well. Idly, he wondered if it had been his mother’s room.

Harry was startled out of his thoughts by a cough, and he turned to find that a car had pulled up beside him. Harry kept his posture loose, not wanting to appear to the police that he was guilty of something. They didn’t seem to think so, however, from what he could tell by their bored tones.

“On your way then, lad?” The driver eyed him curiously, and Harry took it as a warning not to linger in front of stranger’s houses.

“Just walking home.” Harry replied, picking up his bag and setting off, giving the officers a friendly wave. His smile fell as he rounded the corner, feeling like a prize idiot. Thursday night in the cold, and he had nowhere to stay. Harry wandered down the street towards the park he’d seen earlier, weaving his way through the trees and avoiding the evening dog walkers. He was following something, a slightly welcoming magic touch that he could feel. Harry had felt something like it before, a small comfort that had been there when he’d faced Voldemort in the graveyard.

Through the path toward the football field, Harry tracked the friendly feeling, finally coming to a stop in a thick setting of trees, covered by menacing looking shrubs around the trunks of the trees. Harry poked at the shrub with his wand, curious as to why it felt right to be there. Finally setting them aside, Harry saw that there was an old carved out tree hollow there, large enough to fit one or two small people. With a small smile, he settled himself into the hollow, a blanket over his legs and the pack of beer by his side.

Using a torch that he’d taken from Privet Drive, Harry inspected the insides of his new shelter, suddenly understanding why it had felt right to end up there. Above the entrance Harry could make out a name scratched in the bark, his mother’s name. Something else was written under the bold Lily, but Harry couldn’t read it as someone had carved over it. He traced his finger slowly over the writing before sitting down. Harry wrapped himself in the blanket he’d brought, and held his beer up to his mother’s name, giving a small toast before he drank as much as he could in a gulp.

One hour later, in the same city, one tired wizard returned to his home to hear a small alarm chiming in an unused bedroom on the upper floor. The alarm was studied, then cursed, and then the wizard left his house, slamming the front door behind him as he took off at a brisk pace.

--

“You little idiot.” The man reached into the hollow of the tree, and grabbed a handful of shirt and blanket. He yanked Harry out and held him up, but Harry was like dead weight in his hands.

“Stand up, Potter.”

Harry found himself being hauled out of the small hollow trunk of the tree by strong arms. They were covered in a thick black material, and for a second he though the police had returned for him. After being yanked to his feet, he was finally able to see the angry silent face in front of him, black eyes glinting with fury in the streetlight. Harry knew he should be afraid, but instead of excuses bubbling up his throat, Harry started giggling.

“Oh shit, it’s Snape.” He giggled out, even though Snape’s grip on his arm turned rather painful.

“Why are you drunk?” Snape demanded, kicking one of the beer cans out from around Harry’s feet.

Harry gave him a funny look before slumping a little in Snape’s grasp.

“Sirius got me drunk. And Cedric.” Harry hiccupped, finally free from the urge to laugh. A flash of something Harry had never seen before flittered across Snape’s eyes, but before Harry could verify if it was concern, Snape’s body stiffened as he looked past Harry’s shoulders. Someone was moving closer to them, and making quite a bit of noise as they did so. Snape summoned Harry’s bag from the tree, and with a look of sheer annoyance, marched Harry towards the entrance of the park.

Harry stumbled quite a few times trying to keep pace with Snape, becoming hopelessly lost as Snape led him down a few small alleys and finally stopped at an old black wooden door. Harry saw that the small street was tidy, but run down, and the small row house they stood at looked wholly unremarkable and partially unlived in. Snape opened the door with a key and put his hand on Harry’s shoulder to push him forward.

“In.” Snape growled at Harry’s reluctance.

Harry’s drunken haze lifted long enough for him to remember that he hated Snape, no matter how warm the house seemed compared to the cold evening outside.

“No way! You’ll try to kill me, like ya did Sirius.” Harry slurred loudly, shoving his hand against the doorframe.

“Bellatrix Lestrange killed Black, and if you don’t enter the house in the next five seconds Potter, I will hex you and push you in myself.”

Harry made to open his mouth again but Snape’s black wand was suddenly pointed between his eyes and the hand on his back was as strong as steel. Harry reluctantly entered the house and walked into the tiny entrance hall. He gulped at the narrow dark staircase they passed and barely glanced at the office to his right as he was pushed through a small doorway and ended up in a room surrounded by books. Harry figured this must have originally been the dining room, because a kitchen was at the back of the room, with a wide-open doorframe connecting them.
Snape pushed him into an old lino chair in the kitchen, and Harry picked at the edge of the seat where the corner material was coming loose. Snape was busy filling a large glass with water, and he startled Harry when he clunked the glass down on the chipped Formica kitchen table.

“Drink it, if you wish to retain a mediocrum of functionality tomorrow.”

Harry narrowed his eyes at Snape, who was leaning against the faded yellow counter.

“Don’t you have a hangover potion? You know, you drink, you forget, no pain.” Harry said, waving his hand in explanation. His other hand was wrapped around the glass, but he made no move to sip the water.

“When I drink, I drink to suffer, Potter.” Snape answered after a moment’s consideration.

Harry thought he saw defiance behind Snape’s stony glare, and decided to drink the water. He felt thirsty, and figured that asking for another beer would probably not go over well.

“Explain how you got to the park.” Snape asked with a no-nonsense tone, after Harry had swallowed two huge gulps of water.

“I took a bus.” Harry shot back defensively. This time he drank the water out of annoyance.

“Why did you take a bus here, Potter?” The emphasis on his last name made Harry flinch.

“Do you know the definition of home?”

Snape stopped and stared at Harry, trying to follow the conversation. “A place where one resides at a particular time.” Snape’s answer came slowly, and he waited to see what Harry would make of it.

“No, not what I’m looking for,” Harry shook his head sadly, nearly smacking it on the table. He looked back up when Snape tapped the table with his finger.

“Why, Potter.”

“I wanted to see where mum grew up.” Harry said, trying to focus the two blurry Snapes that suddenly appeared in front of him. Something sour went over the face of both of them.

“Mission accomplished, once you’re sober you can take a bus back to wherever you came from.” Snape sneered, snapping his finger in Harry’s face to get the boy’s attention.

“I’ll jus leave now then, since I’m such a bother.” Harry spat out, before making to stand up. He suddenly found he couldn’t though, as Snape had stuck him to the chair with a sticking charm.

“What the hell?” Harry grumbled, pulling at his jean legs.

“Sober, Potter. I will not have you drunk and wandering up and down the side of England. Tomorrow your relatives can collect you from the bus.” Snape’s eyebrows were narrowed, and Harry could see his wand being held loosely in his hand.

Harry started to giggle again. “That’s rich.”

Snape’s eyebrow furrowed more, and he seemed to be calculating something.

“What is your phone number, Potter?” He moved to the side of the kitchen cabinet, where a small muggle phone was plugged into the wall. Harry looked at him like a fish who’d just been stunned.

“How do you know what a phone is?”

“I am a man of mystery.” Snape deadpanned. It was a statement and delivery that Harry found ridiculously funny. After he’d stopped laughing, Harry gave Snape the number and tried to burn the image of Snape holding a phone into his mind, as he knew Ron would never believe him.

There was no answer at the number, as Harry knew there wouldn’t be, and so he rested his head on the table while Snape filled another glass with water.

“Dun bother. She told me not to come back till Monday.” Harry was speaking to his hands, and feeling very tired now.

“What are you talking about now, Potter?” Snape asked with exasperation in his voice.

“Gone way for the weekend. Told me not to come back.” The water was pushed into his hands, but he suddenly felt very full. Too full. Snape was eyeing him carefully, but Harry couldn’t have lied if he wanted to, and he suspected Snape knew that. All he wanted to do now was sleep anyway, and he didn’t care that his hated enemy was in the same house.

“You’re fifteen. Go home and wait until they arrive.” Snape said, watching for Harry’s reaction.

“They never gave me a key.” Harry said, as if that fact should be obvious. Snape’s face remained blank, so Harry just shrugged. This turned out to be a mistake, because the room started to take on an unusual tilt.

“Ugh. Stop the spinning.” Harry complained. He suddenly found himself being roughly pulled up from the chair by a very silent potions master, pushed through the library sitting room, and up a set of rickety wooden stairs. Up on the small second floor Snape dropped Harry’s rucksack by a bedroom door before leading him into the bathroom.

Harry started to protest under Snape’s grip, partially out of a desire to control his own steps, and partially because he felt like throwing up from the dizziness. Nonetheless, he was shoved into the bathroom before he had the chance to look much at the dim upstairs hallway that they’d walked through.

The bathroom was no less better however, as it was painted in the same dreary parchment colour that the hall had been, and Harry stared at the old cream coloured porcelain of the bath fixtures. Had the toilet been light blue, Harry would have sworn he’d stepped into one of those hideous old interior decorating magazines of his Aunt Petunia’s from the 70’s. The bathroom cabinet was an old mirror with a shelf behind it, and oddly Harry found the sight of Snape’s toothbrush sitting in a cup by the side of the sink to be the most disconcerting item in the room. Snape, his evil death eater professor, brushed his teeth every night, like any normal person. Harry felt unbalanced.

The feeling, and the toothbrush, didn’t last very long. Harry barely noticed it being banished to the bedroom, or somewhere outside of the bathroom, before he suddenly was overwhelmed by the scent of frying onions. Looking wildly behind him at Snape, who was standing with a tiny air bubble around his nose and mouth in the doorway, Harry felt his stomach start to recoil at the smell. He tripped to his knees and ignored Snape’s disgusted look as everything he’d drank that evening suddenly came back up again. Harry’s head was starting to throb, and he didn’t know whether he was going to pass out or keep sicking up, and he had suddenly begun to regret ever eating at all that day. It seemed like his stomach held a higher capacity that he ever knew about, and after ten minutes his eyes were tearing and nose was stinging, right along side with his throat.

Snape seemed to think that this was long enough as well, because Harry suddenly found that the smell of onions had disappeared, and that Snape had opened the hallway window. The smell in his own nose was awful though, and in lieu of tissue Harry groped around for some toilet paper to blow his nose with. He knew that Snape was watching him, and Harry ignored the little voice in his head reminding him that this drinking episode was definitely his own fault.

After sitting on the toilet lid and recovering for a moment, Harry jumped when he heard the shower tap start to run water. Snape was still in the doorway, but he had not said a word since Harry had started to clean himself up.

“Into the shower, Potter.” Snape’s voice was cold and commanding, the same tone that Harry had heard with alarming regularity in detention.

Harry’s head snapped up, something he instantly regretted. “I don’t want a shower!” The ‘with you standing there’ was unsaid, but Snape heard it anyway and scoffed.

“I don’t care if you want to drown yourself. You smell, and you will take a shower. Leave your undergarments on if you’re so prudish.”

Snape moved one step closer to Harry and raised his wand, stopping his movement when Harry jumped up and threw his shirt off.

“Fine! Don’t know why you of all people would care…” Harry mumbled, trying to undo his shoes and not having much luck. Every time he bent down to take them off, he nearly ended up sprawling flat on his stomach.

“Would you perhaps like to elaborate on that comment, Mr. Potter?” Snape’s tone was dangerous and Harry suddenly remembered the man’s excellent hearing.

“I’m not that drunk.” Harry replied, narrowing his eyes and finally just tugging his shoes off painfully. Still feeling annoyed, he stood up with an undignified sway and pulled his jeans down, leaving his boxer shorts on. With a self-satisfied smirk he smacked his foot on the edge of the bathtub before stepping in and standing under the spray of water, arms holding onto the ceramic tiled walls for dear life. Outside of the shower curtain he could hear Snape moving around, removing something from a package.

Harry turned the water off after standing under for a few minutes, and nearly had his head taken off by a towel when he opened the shower curtain again. Snape had tossed it at him, but Harry had just stared dumbly at the towel soared through the air and smacked him in the face. Stunned, Harry had wrestled with the towel as if it were a lethifold, finally realizing that he was to dry himself with it after threatening disembodiment and receiving no response from the cotton material.

“Intriguing.” Snape remarked dryly, regarding Harry as he shivered in the towel and his wet boxers. “I shall inform the Dark Lord that he merely needs to purchase bath linens to render you incapacitated. Brush your teeth after, and then come next door to the door that’s open.”
With that, he left the room, and Harry saw a brand new toothbrush sitting in a second cup on the sink.

After ten minutes of washing and stalling, Harry slouched through the bedroom door to find Snape digging through his bag, apparently looking for something.

“Hey, tha’s mine.” Harry slurred, dropping his shoes at the foot of the bed.

“Have you any idea how to pack for yourself, Potter?” Snape asked, not bothering to acknowledge what Harry had said.

“I sleep in my clothes.” Harry said, still too tipsy to look very indignant. Snape merely shook his head, giving Harry his best Potter-You-Are-An-Idiot look. He then stood up and flung open the wardrobe in the corner, flipping through clothes that were hanging up before pulling out a thigh length shirt and throwing it at Harry.

“Wear that.” Snape gave him a pointed look.

“Don’t watch me change.”

“You have nothing I want to see, Potter. And believe me, you’re drunk. You won’t remember in the morning.”

Harry met his professor’s gaze and could swear there was amusement in the eyes. As it turned out, he had needed the help after almost falling on his arse trying to change his boxers. At the end of his patience, Snape had pulled the nightshirt over Harry’s head himself, muttering under his breath about how long it would take him to strangle Harry with it.

“Why’d you make me throw up?” Harry mumbled, climbing ungracefully into the bed that was against the wall.

Snape cast a drying spell on the towel and Harry’s wet boxers, before draping them over the desk chair that was on the other side of the small room. He turned to look at Harry, who was reluctant to lie flat on his back and so was sitting propped up with his head on an uncomfortable angle against the headboard. Harry’s eyes were struggling to stay open, and he was mumbling under his breath.

“Choking on your vomit in the middle of the night is an undignified way to die, Potter. I’m certain you can be much more creative than that.” Snape pulled the cover from the bed up and draped it lightly over Harry, conjuring a bucket as well to sit on the floor beside the bed.

“Ha ha. Why do you care?” Harry muttered, not quite aware of what he was saying. “Ish not like you’re my dad, anyway. Hah. Harry Snaaaaaape. No, Harry Ssssssssnape. Like a snake. Did anyone call you Snake as a kid?”

“Potter,” Snape said, his tone strict, “If I were your father, you would have been spun over my knee as soon as I’d brought you home tonight.”

Harry’s eyes widened in shock at the meaning, and his mind raced with a flurry of thoughts as he tried to convince himself that no, his professor could not spank him.

“I’m not a child!” Harry sputtered, making a move to flee the bed. His body was sluggish though and he struggled to sit up fully.

“Your behaviour is atrocious, regardless of your age.” Snape responded, putting a firm hand on Harry’s shoulder, and pushing him all the way back to a lying position on the bed. When his head hit the pillow Harry was overwhelmed by a feeling of motion sickness, and for a few seconds panic flicked across his face as he fought the urge to throw up again. Instead, he held onto the mattress like it was a lifeline and passed out.

Snape shook his head and straightened up again, removing the glasses from Harry’s face and placing them on the nightstand. He closed the curtains in the room and looked around, remembering all the nights he’d stayed awake in that very room, avoiding the effects of alcohol on others. Tomorrow they would have a long talk whether Potter wanted to or not.

Snape paused as he went to walk by the bed again, placing his hand on one of Harry’s and murmuring a low incantation in a melodious voice. His wand pulsed against his palm, and after a few minutes he let go of Harry. The wards were set; the boy would be invisible to most vermin who dared visit Spinner’s End.

From the doorway, Potter looked rather young and lost as he curled up to his side and whimpered in his sleep. Snape cast a quick spell over him to make sure that if he did get sick in the night, Snape would hear the alarm. No sense in letting the brat do away with himself, as the lecture the headmaster would give him would be far too long and riddled with guilty statements to strike at his conscious.

Flicking off the light, Snape walked next door to the bathroom to survey the mess the boy had left there.

Harry didn't need the bucket during the night, but the next morning Harry swore that Snape had given him the worse hangover known to any creature.  He had awoken in a strange bedroom with a bone shattering headache and a whole new understanding on the concept of how the earth rotates on a daily basis.  Harry's head was imitating it perfectly.  The banging of whatever it was directly below the bedroom was definition not helping, but Harry strongly suspected Snape was well aware of that.

He was in a small single bed, and though the bed had a scratchy woolen blanket on top, the inner sheets and duvet were surprisingly comfortable. The walls were painted a dull shade of navy blue and Harry found it rather pleasing. A very strong colour, but not outlandishly bold. On the wall near the wardrobe Harry could see a faded pennant hanging by thumbtacks, an older Slytherin crest on it that Harry recognized from past generation student photos at school.  There was a small wooden desk near his bed, which Harry could see grooves worn in the front edge and ink stains on the top.  The wardrobe had been left open, and in it Harry could see a few black garments hanging. 

Harry heard a creaking noise from somewhere out in the hall, but ignored it in favour of the bed's comfort.  He dragged himself up to a sitting position and suddenly recognized both the bed and the room.  It had only been a three second flash he'd seen of it, but Harry definitely knew the room. This time, however, there was no bored teenager sitting on the bed, and no flies being shot down from the ceiling. Instead the fully-grown version of Snape was now standing in the doorway, wearing his normal black pants and suit, minus the teaching robes.

"Good morning, Mr. Potter."  Snape announced in a cold and yet amused tone.  His lips twitched slightly when he saw Harry flinch.

"Wonderful summer day outside, sun shining, birds chirping, as you can see."  Snape continued, waving his wand so that the blinds swung open and sunlight poured in. 

Harry groaned and flopped back down, pulling the covers up over his head.  He wished with all his coherent thoughts that Snape would vaporize in the sunlight, but Harry knew he wouldn't. And Harry was pretty certain that he knew now what the voice of death was. Snape's.

"Get out of bed, Potter." Snape growled, moving closer to Harry.

Harry held tight to the blankets covering him, and noticed a familiar smell. Sage, evergreen, and another sharp potion ingredient that he could not identify.  The blanket was snatched away and Harry clamped his eyes shut.

"Is this your room, sir?"  He mumbled out, feeling Snape's presence much too close for comfort.

"Get. Up. Potter."  Snape grounded out, ignoring Harry's question.   Snape's wand was suddenly pointed at Harry's face, and there was a slight snort as Harry nearly took his eye out jumping out of bed.

--

After dragging his feet to the bathroom again and spending a few minutes in limbo over whether he'd empty his stomach further or not, Harry gingerly descended down the stairs.  He had changed back into his clothes from yesterday, as he could not find his bag and didn't dare enter the other bedroom on the second floor. 

He found Snape sitting at the tiny kitchen table, reading the Prophet, and drinking a coffee.  There was a small plate at table waiting for him, with two pieces of toast, a fried egg, and a glass of juice.  Harry slid into the seat, wary of sitting too close to Snape.

"Eat." The man ordered, nodding to the food. "I daresay you expelled enough nutrients last night."

"I uh...sorry."  Harry mumbled, taking a bite of dry toast.   The egg look slightly greasy, which both appeased his stomach and disgusted his taste buds at the same time. Or was it the other way around - no, stomach definitely wanted the grease. His mouth, however, threatened mutiny if Harry dared eating something with that texture with his hangover.  Maybe just the toast today, it was the safer bet.

Harry took his time swallowing the toast, gulping down the juice to help with his dry mouth.  He stared around the small room they were in, a rectangular open area that looked as if it had been added on to the original house a long time ago.  In the daylight Snape's kitchen didn't look much better than it had the night before - worn and as if it had lost its cheer a decade earlier. The cream coloured cabinets looked like they could use a good scrubbing, and Harry noticed cobwebs in the corner of the spotted window. And was that -

"Potter, what on earth has you so fascinated by my kitchen?"

Harry gulped and blurted the first thing that came to his mind. "Your drawer handle is broken." 

"What of it?" Snape growled, leaning closer to Harry and narrowing his eyes.

"Why haven't you fixed it yet? You're a perfectionist.  And why is the rest of the house so out of date? It's like you want to keep this place dreary and crummy."

Harry clamped his hand over his mouth, but he knew instantly that it was too late to save himself from his Professor's ire.  Stupid hangover.  A hand shot out and suddenly Harry felt pain in his lower ear, where Snape finger had an extremely tight grip.

"Watch it, Potter, you have already worn my patience thin."

"Ow! I didn't mean to say it, Professor!" Harry was wincing and turned his head to relieve some of the pressure on his ear.  Snape let go after a minute, and Harry rubbed his ear carefully.

"Spare me the lies, and just keep your mouth shut."  Snape returned to his paper, and pointedly ignored Harry.

"Don't worry, I'll wrap this up and be on my way."  Harry shot back, suddenly tired and annoyed with Snape.

"Stop being such a drama queen." Snape didn't look up, and so missed the gob smacked look that Harry was giving him.

"The headmaster will be firecalling at one, and then you may explain your brilliant plan to trek half way across England and drink yourself stupid."  Snape finished his coffee and stood up to put his mug in the sink.

Harry pushed the remnant of an egg around on his plate and refused to look up. Of all people, he had to have run into Snape on his weekend off.  And what the hell was Snape doing living so close to his mother's home anyway?  Harry checked his watch and realized that there were four and a half hours until Dumbledore was to call, four and a half hours that he'd be stuck spending with Snape.

"What am I going to be doing until then, sir?"  Harry asked, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.  "Homework?"

"Oh no, Potter."  Snape had a smirk on his face, and Harry's stomach dropped. That look was never good.

"Since you have such strong opinions of my kitchen, you can spend your time scrubbing the counter and cupboards.  And remember, this is my house you are in, Potter. No Gryffindors to come save you."   

Snape dropped a thick book on the kitchen table before sitting back down and seemed to smile at Harry's grimace as the sound reverberated in his head like a gong.  The echo was rather loud in the tiny kitchen, and Harry figured Snape was taking advantage of that.   Harry looked around the kitchen and stared at the old counters, the worn cupboards, and the one broken handle on the drawer that was making his eye twitch.  There was no microwave, toaster, or modern kettle, but the kitchen did have a proper oven. Harry suspected the oven had been there since Snape had been a child, by the looks of it.

The kitchen would not be hard to clean, and indeed it would be a challenge to see if Harry could get the counter to look a bit brighter. But that was not the point.

"I am not cleaning your kitchen."  Harry crossed his arms and sat back in the chair, glaring at his professor.  He wondered if he was still a bit drunk from last night, as the look Snape was giving him normally made Harry's heart jump to his throat.

"Oh really?"  Snape heavily pushed his chair back and the feet scraped along the floor, causing Harry to suck back a breath of air and shudder.  His head was pounding and he knew Snape planned to make him suffer.

"I don't believe you have a choice, Potter.  Fifteen years old, running away from home, dreadfully inebriated, completely disregarding the safety of your parent's sacrifice..."

"I didn't run away!" Harry spat, cringing at the volume.  Somehow he'd make Dudley pay for this - the headache was definitely not worth the joy of drinking Dudley always went on about.  "Aunt Petunia knew I was coming here." 

"Of course she did."  An eyebrow was raised and the sarcasm stung through Harry.  "And she knew you didn't have a place to stay when you got here?"

"She doesn't care."  Harry growled, trying to focus solely on Snape. He had a hard time verbally sparring with Snape in his best mind, never mind when he felt like he'd wandered through a desert all night while being chased by a hippogriff.

Snape scoffed at him.  "Potter, don't be stupid."

A bucket of warm soapy water appeared on the kitchen table next to Harry, and he pointedly ignored it.

"I'm not stupid. She gave me permission to come here, Snape."  Harry stalked up to the sink and took the glass that he'd used the night before, angrily filling it with water. Sod Snape, Harry was parched.

"Professor Snape to you.  And she bought you the beer too, didn't she?"  Snape sneered, sending the bucket to rest on the counter beside the sink.

"No." Harry laughed bitterly. "I bought it."  Harry then felt his whole face blush. He'd just admitted to Snape he'd broken the law. 

"Dammit." Harry cursed, refusing to turn away from the sink.

"Indeed. Which is why you'll be cleaning the kitchen, Potter." Snape said in a very low and dangerous voice.  A pair of cleaning gloves appeared out of nowhere and Snape slapped them on the table, causing Harry to jump. 

"Great, a bloody summer detention."  Harry mumbled, sloshing the water around as he grabbed the bucket.   Harry put the gloves on and reached in to the bucket to grab the sponge.  He squeezed it tight to wring the water out, pretending that it was Snape he was squeezing the hell out of.

Harry splashed a bit of water on the counter and set to scrubbing as Snape levitated the few dishes that were on the counter into the sink.  There was a large marble mortar and pestle, and Harry watched it float through the air to the table.  He had an immediate wish that the heavy marble bowl would crash to the ground, preferably over Snape's foot, and then felt inexplicably bad about that thought.  Snape had taken him in the night before after all, giving Harry a warm place to sleep off his stupid drunkenness. Not to mention the fact that the man had saved his life more times than Harry cared to count.

There was silence in the room as Harry scoured the cream coloured surface, willing away the dryness in his mouth.  The smell of the soap was not helping the slight nausea in Harry's stomach, but Harry was pleasantly surprised to find it was one he recognized. Regular Ajax cleaner, one he'd used plenty of times at the Dursleys.  Harry flexed his fingers as he worked, picking up the old rotary phone and wiping underneath there.  He put the phone back down and then picked up a small dish full of spare pence, sickles, and knuts.  There was a matchbook from a pub in Stockport in the bowl too, and a folded pizza takeaway menu stuffed between the bowl and the wall.  Harry smirked at that, wondering what sort of disgusting pizza Snape would like.  Probably something with anchovies and mushrooms or olives and fish. The idea of the Death Eaters ordering a bunch of pizzas for one of their meetings suddenly popped up in his head and Harry started snickering at the image, picturing a bunch of men in masks arguing over what toppings to order.

"Whatever depraved thought you're laughing at, I suggest you wipe it from your mind before I do," said a bored voice from behind Harry, startling him out of his thoughts.

Harry scowled and moved to start scrubbing the cupboards. "I can't laugh at something?"

Snape picked up his heavy British atlas and looked pointedly at Potter's back before holding his arms out to the side of the table and dropping the book. It hit the floor with a very heavy smack, causing Harry to jump and hiss at the sound.  He swore and splashed water over himself, something Snape could see when he'd angrily spun around.

"Too loud, Potter?"  Snape gave him a sardonic smile and banged open another book on the table. "I can't imagine why your head would be hurting at the moment."

Harry turned back to the kitchen cupboards and attacked them with fresh vigor.  "I think you honestly like to cause people pain."

"So say the rumours." Snape replied smoothly. "I personally consider it a bonus when teaching a lesson."

"What lesson?"  Harry scoffed. "It's the summer, sir."

"Yes, well, loath as I am to hope you'd learn anything for the summer, after your behaviour last night it appears that you need to learn about responsible drinking, Potter."

Snape opened another atlas and started to take notes.

"So, I'm cleaning your kitchen because I insulted it, and got drunk yesterday."  Harry moved onto the lower cabinets, fetching a fresh scrub pad for them.

 "Punishment for snooping around in my pensieve, as well, as Merlin knows I'll never hear an apology for that." Snape glowered, summoning him a broom for the floor.

Harry was smart enough not to comment on that little mishap, and the fact that Snape had launched a jar of cockroaches at his head at the time.

He wiped the dirty water from the lower cupboard doors, thinking about the situations he found himself ending up in.   Getting drunk the night before had definitely not solved anything, but Harry hadn't fully been sure what the actual purpose of drinking was.  Dudley had often boasted about how he and his friends couldn't remember a thing after their night of drinking, but Harry remembered his night well enough.

Too well, actually, and he cursed himself as a blush crept up his face.  Not only had Snape seen him drunk, Snape had also seen him throw his guts up, take an undignified shower, and pass out in bed.

Then again, Snape had been the one to make him throw up.

At least, however, being around Snape gave Harry a sense of grounding. For all his sarcasm and hateful remarks towards Harry, Snape had no pretense about telling him the exact truth about things, in as blunt way as possible.

Harry stood up to rinse his hands in the sink and had to clutch onto the counter quickly, as he'd stood too fast and felt close to fainting.  He kept his back to the table though, as he was sure Snape would comment sarcastically on how white his face was.  He heard a soft laugh anyway, and realized Snape knew. Snape always knew.

"Are you going to sit there and make my morning as horrible as possible?"  Harry muttered, running cold water over his hands and holding them up to his forehead.

Snape flicked his wand towards the dishes in the sink, making the glasses and ceramic plates rattle together in a remarkably annoying cacophony.

"You did this yourself, Potter. I am merely enhancing the effects."  Snape replied, his lips upturned in a satisfied sneer as Harry groaned.

--

"Why were you drunk last night, Mr. Potter?"  Snape asked half an hour later, thumbing through what looked to Harry as muggle tourist books for the London area.

Harry didn't answer, but instead swept harder.  The floor had dirt and dust hiding in the corners and grout, which Harry was stubbornly fighting to sweep out.  He was fine cleaning away the morning until Dumbledore called, as long as he didn't have to think too much. Unfortunately, Snape seemed to be in the mood for one-sided conversation, and Harry was his target.

"Felt like imitating Potter senior? He spent his summers getting drunk and fooling around too."  Snape had a sneer on his face, and Harry employed all his strength not to answer back.

"Or perhaps you just wanted to irritate me further."

Harry slammed the broom back down against he counter, but did not turn to look at Snape.

"I had no idea you lived here."  Harry gritted out, his head pounding from the hangover.

"You traveled over one hundred and fifty five miles to get here, Potter. Do not lie."

"I'm not! I thought you stayed in the dungeons all year." Harry spat out, not caring for using honorific titles anymore.

"Very imaginative."  Snape replied snidely. 

"I told you last night, I wanted to see Mum's house."   Harry jerked his gloves off and tossed them in the sink, glaring at Snape.

"They stopped living there long ago."  Snape replied, a hint of bitterness in his voice. He was standing now, and stalking closer to Harry.

"I know that."  Harry whipped his wand out and pointed it to the drawer handle that had been bothering him all morning. "Reparo! I just wanted to see what home is."

 "Potter." Snape growled, as Harry spun toward the door.  "Have you any regard for the Decree for Underage Magic?"

Harry shook his head angrily as he stomped through the library to the stairs. Snape flicked his wand and slammed the library door shut though, leaving Harry standing frustrated and seething.

"This is my house, Potter. You do not get to storm off whenever you throw a little temper tantrum."

Harry didn't turn around; instead he started counting in his mind to control his temper. Dumbledore would be calling in an hour, and then Harry could escape his git of a professor.

"Sorry sir." Harry finally said, turning around. "Want me to break the handle for you again?"

"You may think you're funny, Mr. Potter," Snape started, advancing toward him and making Harry wish he could rewind what his mouth had spouted, "but I refuse to put up with your attitude during my summer."

 Snape grabbed Harry's arm and marched him toward the stairs, flinging open the doorway. Pushing Harry upstairs, he pointed at the bedroom door and waited until Harry walked to it. 

"Stay in the room, do not make any sound, and do not touch a thing." 

He spun around and walked back down the stairs before Harry could say anything,

Entering the room, Harry sat on the bed and saw that Snape had returned his backpack to the room at some point that morning. He pulled out his photo album, and looked closely through the pictures.  He was staring at the backgrounds, looking to see if any of the places looked like Stockport. Three of the photos, ones of his mum and dad on their wedding day, were taken in front of a small red bricked house, a fresher version of the one he'd seen the day before.  So they had lived here at least until his parents had gotten married.  Had Snape been living here then too?

Five minutes later Harry was startled by a plate of sandwiches and a glass of orange juice popping into existence on the desk.  Harry grabbed the plate, feeling an odd mixture of guilt and pleasure when he noticed that the sandwiches were honey ham - his favourite.  But how did Snape know that? And where did the sandwiches come from?  Harry was almost one hundred percent sure that there were no house elves here.  Still, he was slightly hungry and the juice would be welcome to calm his stomach a bit further.

Harry stood up and walked slowly around the room, his socked feet not making much noise on the hardwood floor.  He felt a mixture of devious and dirty, slinking around in Snape's childhood bedroom, but the man had ordered him to stay there so he supposed that Snape didn't have much to hide in the room.

Opening the wardrobe, Harry found several of the same nightshirt that he'd worn the night before, all in different shades of grey.  There were a few dress shirts hanging there as well, mostly cream or white coloured ones.  An old set of school robes hung in the corner, the old fashioned Slytherin tie hanging loosely over the hanger. 

Harry pushed aside the clothing, finding several pairs of dress pants folded on the top drawer of the wardrobe, and a strange looking timepiece that seemed to have been thrown into the closet.

Above his head, on a shelf, Harry found a few knit jumpers in different neutral colours, including some blue and soft greens. There was one red one as well, and Harry noted that it was at the bottom of the pile.  Harry moved on to the desk, wondering if he'd find anything strange in there, or any hints that Snape had known his mother.

The first drawer held old pieces of parchment filled with small sketches of animals that Harry recognized from Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them.  Harry was slightly impressed with them; he'd never pictured Snape as having much artistic talent.  The second drawer was full of broken quills and old ink, as well as three stained blotters.

In the third drawer, Harry found a sketch of the park he'd ended up in last night.  Some of the trees looked younger, but it was definitely the same park, and the same hollow tree was the focus of this drawing.  At the bottom at the sketch was a signature in a very familiar spidery scrawl, and the title of the sketch. Lily's Place.

Harry felt his stomach flip, and he dropped the paper to the desk. It only made sense; Snape had known his father and the other Marauders, and his mum had stood up for Snape when his father was picking on him. 

He stared at the sketch again, noticing how much effort had been put in the work to make it look as realistic as possible. It was almost as if Snape had been to that little hide out many times before in his youth, had - wait, was that Snape's name that might have been carved under his mother's?  The name had been scratched out rather heavily, but Harry thought he'd seen an S at the start of it.  And Snape had been able to find Harry there last night, even though he was well hidden in the park. Maybe there was something there that alerted Snape that someone was in the little hide out. 

Harry picked up the paper again as he remembered the image of Snape's parents arguing in this very house.  The tree hollow was a hide out. Harry remembered that definition version well enough. Home, a place of origin or refuge. 

Harry was suddenly brought out of his thoughts by a noise downstairs, the roar of fire flushing in the hearth in the library. He placed the sketch carefully between the pages of his photo album, before sticking that in his bag.  Harry put the bag on, and slipped his shoes on as well. He crept down the stairs, wincing at the sound of the creaks of the old wood.  Harry had spotted the floo powder in an old dusty bag on the mantel earlier, and when Dumbledore wasn't looking, planned to floo out to wherever he was.  Harry hoped the floo worked that way, he'd never heard of someone jumping through a fire call before.

The door to the library was partially closed, and so Harry waited outside, trying to keep his breathing as quiet as possible.  Snape was talking to Dumbledore, and Harry was suddenly very curious to the subject of the conversation.

--

"I have arranged for you to meet Amy Benson on Tuesday. I trust you read her profile?"

Snape sounded very suspicious as he answered hesitantly. "Yes, of course."

"She is expecting you to question her, and from past experience I have found she is somewhat reluctant to discuss what happened all those years ago.  We cannot, unfortunately, use magic around her."

Dumbledore was sipping his drink and sitting back against the settee, his mauve robes clashing horridly with the material of the couch.

"Some sort of monitoring spell?"  Snape had his own coffee that was slowly going cold.

"I believe so. I am not sure how often he checks it, however, as he seems to think that his plans are too grand for others to unravel."

Snape looked at his mentor with a questioning eyebrow.  "He has no idea that you know about that incident?"

"His subconscious probably realizes the possibility is great, however we both may agree that Voldemort stopped listening to either conscious many years ago."  Dumbledore offered a smile and took another sip.

"Touché." Snape murmured, staring into the fire.  He absentmindedly rubbed his left arm.  "You've spoken to Amy Benson before?"

"Ah, yes I have.  I daresay she was taken aback slightly by my appearance, and very unsettled to see me. If I might offer a suggestion?"  Dumbledore sat up taller against the couch and his eyes twinkled.

Snape crossed his arms slowly. Suggestions from the headmaster never worked out in his favour.

"Your kitchen looks rather bright today, Severus. I always figured a bit of elbow grease would restore the house to your standards."  Dumbledore veered drastically off topic, but Snape was well practiced in this and merely waited. Sure enough, after a moment of the older man inspecting the kitchen from where he sat, the suggestion came.

"Ms Benson has been very hesitant to share any information. She has several grandchildren, and as some muggles are fond of saying, the truth always comes out of the mouths of drunks and children. Perhaps if you were to bring along a youngster of your own..."

 "Absolutely not."  The glare that Snape had leveled at Dumbledore was one of his best, used for when one of his fellow Death Eaters made a remarkably stupid suggestion at a meeting.  Dumbledore didn't even flinch.

"You need to go as a muggle, Severus, and considering her background, it would be easier for you to know her better if you had a six year old son."  Dumbledore's eyes were downright sparkling, but Snape barely noticed it as he clutched his armchair in a death grip.

"If you have been poisoned, Headmaster, I must insist you inform me immediately so I may prepare an antidote against the delusions you are suffering."  Snape deadpanned, giving Dumbledore a look that told him to drop that foolish idea immediately.

Dumbledore merely chuckled and took another drink.  Snape fought the urge to growl.

"Speaking of the boy, it seems Mr. Potter's relatives have taken a vacation for a few days."  Snape was sitting straight in his chair, watching for Dumbledore's reaction.  He idly noted that though Dumbledore had arrived ten minutes ago, he had not asked once to see Harry.

"Have they now? Usually Petunia leaves him with Arabella when they go out."  Dumbledore appeared to be in thought.  Snape took in the information, but did not ask further as to why this was the case.

"This time, Petunia left him without a key to the house, until Monday. A misunderstanding, I'm sure."  Snape normally kept his sarcasm at a lower level when speaking with the headmaster, but today was a good day and it was just rolling off his tongue fluidly.

"Of course, just an accident.  But thank you for taking him in for the night, Severus, I'm sure you can drop him back off at Privet drive on your way to the airport on Monday."  Dumbledore finished his drink and looked like he was about to stand.

"Headmaster? Could he not go to the Burrow for the rest of the weekend?"  Snape was keeping his temper in check for the moment, but his weekend had definitely not started out on the right foot.

"I do not have time for the Dursleys at the moment, Severus.  And the Weasleys cannot take Harry right now."   Dumbledore sounded tired now.

"Grimmauld Place?"  Snape asked, exhaling a breath.

"No one is there. Eventually Harry can go to the Burrow, but not now. It's too dangerous to the Weasleys."  Dumbledore pulled a biscuit from his pocket, one dipped in thick chocolate.

"Just take him for the weekend, Severus. It's only temporary, he'll be fine here."

Snape regarded the headmaster for a moment, watching as Dumbledore checked some sort of list he'd pulled from his pocket.  His anger deflated as he thought about the headmaster's comments.  Not even the brat, who was eavesdropping out in the hall, could read into those words any other way.

"If you keep pawning the boy off, Albus, one day he won't play your game anymore."  Snape spoke softly, but his voice carried across the room.

Out in the hallway, Harry sunk to sit on the bottom step on the stairs. He knew he shouldn't have eavesdropped, as he was likely hear something he didn't want to. And while he didn't want to hear it, Harry felt a bizarre sense of painful closure in overhearing the headmaster trying to shuffle him around like a chess piece.  It seemed that even though Dumbledore knew both Snape and his family hated him, Harry was being forced upon them.

Like a burden.

"No one wants me." Harry whispered to himself. Somehow he felt a bit freer, albeit lonelier, to admit that to himself.  He knew now where he stood with his friends and the headmaster.  They liked Harry, but Harry was too dangerous to have around.  The Boy Who Lived couldn't deny that. And Snape...Snape had never made his disdain secret.

Snape heard a telltale creak from the corner of the room where the door was, and figured it was time to bring the boy in.  He sat back in his chair and whipped open the stairway door with his wand.  "Potter! Get in here."

Harry walked in with a blush on his face, standing close to the window by the kitchen.  He politely greeted the headmaster, but refused to look up from the floor.

"Mr. Potter, would you care to inform the headmaster of your little adventure from last night?" Snape sounded angry to Harry, but for once Harry felt uncertain that all the anger was directed solely at him.

"Professor Dumbledore." Harry greeted, eyeing Snape warily.  His bag was resting just outside the door, and Harry figured he wouldn't be able to jump through the fireplace, as the headmaster had actually stepped through and was sitting in the room.  He didn't want to any more, though. He just wanted to go back upstairs, to the room that wasn't his, to burrow himself in the blankets that weren't his either.

"Good afternoon, Harry!"  The headmaster sounded cheery, but Harry saw fatigue in the old blue eyes.  "Professor Snape tells me you decided to have a weekend out?"  He was smiling happily, as if trying to convince Harry all was fine.

"You could say that, sir."  Harry replied in a monotone, ignoring Snape's snort.

"And did the Dursleys know you were coming here, Harry?"  Dumbledore put his glass on the table, and Snape banished it to the kitchen.

"Well not to Professor Snape's house, no. But Aunt Petunia gave me permission to spend the weekend away."  Harry shifted his feet slightly, it wasn't exactly a lie.

"I suppose she would be surprised if you told her you were coming here." He winked.

"Not as surprised as I was." Harry muttered.

"Potter."  It was a one-word warning, and Harry glanced to Snape to see how irked the potions master was at him that particular moment.  Not too bad, Harry had definitely seen worse.

"Anyway Professor, just a little mix up.  Professor Snape has been very kind to host me for the night and I'll just be returning home this evening."

If Dumbledore wasn't suspicious about Harry's agreeable tone, Snape certainly was.  His dark black eyes remained trained on Harry, watching Harry's fingers lightly fluttering against the side of his jeans.

Snape knew Harry was lying about something, and Harry just hoped he wouldn't say anything. He'd rather not have to discuss his feelings with Dumbledore, as the man had put him through a lot last year, and kept quite a bit from Harry as well, leaving Harry to fend for himself.  He was reluctant to suddenly trust Dumbledore with everything again, even after their destructive talk in the headmaster's office.  

"As Professor Dumbledore said, Potter, which I'm sure you heard through the door, you'll go back on Monday."  The words were in an even tone, and Harry heard the rest of the unspoken ones. Snape would not let Harry go home alone.  Regardless of how much he hated Harry, Snape would do what Dumbledore had ordered.

Once again, someone was being forced to take him in.  Looking between Dumbledore and Snape, Harry finally nodded.

"Yes sir."

Dumbledore clapped his hands and stood up to face the fireplace.

"Good to hear you're in agreement.  If you have any trouble at the Dursley's, Severus, you may wish to consider the other option."

"What trouble?"  Snape asked, looking between Harry and Dumbledore. Harry looked embarrassed, and Dumbledore ignored the question.

"You haven't forgotten what Petunia was like, have you Severus?"  Dumbledore smiled, and Harry looked at him warily.

"I have not, and there is no other option."  Snape stood and summoned the small bag of floo powder from the mantle, handing it to Dumbledore.

"Just as well, my boy. I shall bring the potion by on Sunday when I call again," Dumbledore said as he pinched some powder.  Harry's eyes snapped up to watch, as he'd never in his life imagined Snape being called ‘my boy.' 

"That is not necessary, Headmaster. It will not be needed." Snape was vehement on this, and Harry figured the potion was something about the youngster for Snape's task.

Dumbledore merely smiled and threw some powder into the fireplace. Harry could still see a hint of amusement in the old man's eyes as he stepped through.  Snape, meanwhile, had an eyebrow twitch going on that not even Harry had managed to cause before.

"I'll just..."  Harry started, but snapped his mouth shut at the look he received.

"Dinner will be at five. Stay in your room until then."  Snape stormed out of the library and into the office next door, shutting the door with a bang.

Harry filled himself another glass of water from the kitchen, thankful that he could go upstairs and take a nap. As he walked through the library to the stairs, he grinned to himself at Snape's slip of tongue.  Go to his room.   The man must be mad.

Stew was for dinner, a thick and steamy broth with tender chunks of beef amongst a plethora of vegetables. It made Harry's mouth water as he slid into what was now his seat at the kitchen table, where a glass of milk stood next to his plate.  There were fresh dinner rolls on a plate to the side, steam rising off them as if they'd just come out the oven.  It was a simple but rich home-cooked meal, and his stomach grumbled with appreciation.  Harry didn't touch a thing, however, instead he eyed his bowl and his professor with a wary glance.

"Potter, if you're waiting for me to say grace you'll sooner die of starvation."

"Just for you to start."  Harry mumbled to himself.

Snape gave him an odd look and started eating his own stew, taking his time to enjoy the meal slowly.  Harry had never really noticed him eat before, but he supposed the man ate regular food like any other person. Though there were many at school that steadfastly believed he feasted only on blood.  Harry grinned very slightly to himself as he lifted a spoonful to his mouth and took a breath, inhaling the scent of the stew before he ate it.  None of the ingredients in the stew were foreign to Harry, but the small combination of spices was new to him. Harry's tongue savored the hot food as he watched Snape take a sip of his wine.

Snape's hair was less greasy than it usually was at school, and his face seemed a bit more relaxed.  He seemed young to Harry, and Harry realized that the man, even though he was twenty years older, was only thirty-five or six.  Even his posture was different; the normally straight backed and tense man was slightly less so when he sat at his own kitchen table, eating his own food out of a soup bowl that had a tiny chip on the edge of it.  Harry's bowl was a completely different colour than Snape's, and he wondered if the mismatched crockery was done on purpose, or to just hastily replace the broken parts of a set. 

"Dumbledore wants me to be your son, doesn't he?"  Harry suddenly blurted, aware that Snape had been watching him eat silently. 

Snape's face took on a very peculiar expression as his spoon paused high above his bowl, and he stared intently at Harry.

"I mean, err. For whatever task you had to do. He said something about having a kid, and well..."  Harry scrunched his face up and cocked his head to the side curiously.  "You don't have any kids, do you?"

"I do not." Snape gave him a Look with that answer, and Harry coughed slightly before shoving another spoonful of stew in his mouth.

"Why are you suddenly interested to take part in the headmaster's task? Given our past animosity I can't say I imagine you jumping at the idea of pretending to be my son."  Snape asked, looking down on Harry from across the table.  He smirked at Harry's horrified face.

"Not in the least." Harry blurted, almost knocking over his glass of milk. "Sir."  It was an after thought added, though Snape waved it off.

"Just as well, the idea of you being my spawn is rather repulsive."  Snape nodded, summoning two small plates from the kitchen cupboard. He set the green one by Harry's spot on the table, and took the blue one for himself.

"Could you imagine? A true Gryffindor with Slytherin genes."  Harry grinned a bit himself, and passed the dinner rolls to Snape.

"Indeed. The brains to come up with a dozen cunning plans, and the sheer stupidity to follow through." Snape took one for himself and gave the plate back to Harry.

"Bravery isn't stupidity." Harry said, crossing his arms with a huff.

"It's a very fine line." Snape conceded, melting some butter on the roll. "Most days your line seems to be perforated."

Harry opened his mouth again but then closed it without saying anything, working out whether or not he felt annoyed by the bizarre compliment mixed with insult. Snape continued on as if nothing was puzzling him.

"You haven't answered the question."

"Where do you have to go for the task? London?" Harry asked right back, curiosity overriding manners.

"Another country."  Snape narrowed his eyes, and wondered why he was bothering to answer the boy's questions.

"I've always wanted to go abroad."  There was an actual smile on Harry's face, and Snape tried not to grimace.  Harry was confused himself, he never thought he'd willingly smile in front of Snape of all people.

"Scotland is abroad, you idiot. Try again."

"Don't want to stay at the Dursley's."  Harry sat back and glared at Snape. He was somewhat less intimidating without the robes and the whole dungeons-in-a-castle background.

"Warmer."  Snape had finished his stew and was actually sopping up the last bits of liquid with chunks of roll he'd broken apart.  Harry was temporarily distracted by the action, watching his Professor's hands as he did this mundane action. There were small nicks around Snape's left hand fingers, probably from where a knife had slipped slightly while Snape was cutting a potion ingredient. Or vegetables for dinner.

"Potter. You're like a bloody cat. Focus."  Snape took another sip of his wine and raised his eyebrow in mock amusement.

"I...eh? Oh.  I just want information with the Order. Spent all of last summer locked up and I hated it."

"You never were one to sit still."  Snape stood and put his finished bowl and plate in the sink.

Harry figured it was best to shut up now and eat his dinner quietly.  As much as he loathed the idea of staying with Snape over his summer holidays, the past day hadn't been too bad.  No one had yanked him around, someone had taken care of him while he was sick (Harry preferred to think of the stupid drunkenness as an unfortunate illness), and he'd slept in a rather comfortable bed.  Snape wasn't smothering Harry either, which was a welcome change from being at the Burrow or Grimmauld Place. Odd, to not be feeling babysat or constantly under surveillance while at Snape's house.

--

The scream that startled Snape out of his sleep was an unfamiliar one, but the names he heard after were certainly not.  He rose out of bed with a grace that would have had his students accusing him of being a vampire, going from horizontal to vertical in one fluid movement as he walked to the door.  Five steps down the hall and he knocked on the other bedroom door, pushing it in as he entered.

Harry was trapped tight in the blankets, a layer of sweat across his forehead as he mumbled in his nightmare.  Snape listened to the words as he approached the bed, hearing the plea to the boy's dead mother to help him.  Not even Snape could stop his breath from clenching at that.

"Potter, wake up."   Snape flicked the lights on in the room and leaned towards the bed, pulling the blankets up so Potter didn't feel constrained.  This brought immediately relief, and green eyes stared up at him with a gasp.

"Just a nightmare."  Snape stood at the foot of the bed without removing his gaze from the boy, but instead studying the fear and embarrassment that flitted across his face.

"M'safe?"  Harry finally exhaled, muttering as he kept his eyes down.

"For relatively vague definitions of safe."  Snape replied sarcastically, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes.  "I may decide to poison your tea tomorrow."

Harry visibly relaxed and sunk back into the bed.  "You would, wouldn't you?"  He offered a small smile. 

It seemed Potter was less willing to censor his thoughts when he was half asleep.  Snape didn't move, but merely summoned a flannel and handed it over.  Potter wiped his brow, and his embarrassment seemed to abate a little.

"You have that dream often?"  Snape finally asked, watching for the reaction.

"They rotate."  Harry mumbled, fumbling as he put the cloth on his nightstand.

 "There's more than one." Snape stated in an even tone, not expecting a coherent answer.

"Sorry. Dinn't mean to wake you."  Harry yawned and rolled onto his side, curling up in a fetal position.  His eyes stayed open however, and he stared unfocused at the side of the desk.

"Do you make it a policy to apologise for things you didn't need to, just to irk me?"  Snape asked, noting that Harry seemed to be drifting off to another world.

"Sorry sir."  Harry said, closing his eyes and feeling sleepy.

"Potter."  The name woke him up a little, and he focused toward the bedroom door.

"Mmh?"

"Don't think. Daydream about something before falling asleep. Going to the park, the cinema, whatever you little idiots like to do."  Snape gave him a small nod and left the room, ignoring the confused look on the boy's face.

Harry closed his eyes again, for some inexplicable reason feeling comforted.  He wasn't as terrified as he normally was when he woke from his nightmares, though he wasn't quite sure why. Perhaps because this wasn't the Dursleys, that was probably the reason.  Definitely not because Snape had woken him - the man had even promised to poison him.  That didn't count as comfort, did it?  Then again, Snape's presence was rather imposing and strong.

Harry scratched the top of his head idly. He didn't usually get back to sleep after a nightmare, but Snape had ordered him to day dream, so he supposed there was no harm in trying it.  He thought about school, but found that it wasn't sufficient enough to distract him. Definitely didn't want to think about life at the Dursleys, but perhaps he could think about the future.  About Ginny? No, that brought on a different set of dreams that he didn't have the energy for, and he'd rather not think about life after the war either.

Harry fell asleep ten minutes later, dreaming about learning how to drive a car.  It was a small little European car, a bright summer day, and inexplicably he was being taught by a tall dark man, on small cobbled street in a northern industrial English town.

--

Harry woke up in Snape's old bedroom again; muscles sore but head thankfully clear.  The blankets were just as comfortable as they had been the day before, except this morning there was no Snape to wake him up, and no piercing sunlight through the room. Instead, Harry could hear the sounds of soft rain pounding on the window and the roof above him.   He rolled over onto his side, and stared at the feather that was on the desk beside him, lying next to the flannel.  Somehow he'd have to convince Snape to let him go to town unsupervised this morning, and get some money from the bank first.

Last night hadn't been so bad, Harry pondered as he threw back the covers.  After the awkward dinner conversation, Snape had given Harry a book and ordered him to make himself useful. After thirty minutes of unsuccessfully searching for caves around London, Snape had dismissed him and briefly told Harry to restrict himself to either the bedroom, the bathroom, or the kitchen. Upon Harry's sarcastic remark regarding apparition and avoiding hallways, Snape had given him a vulgar look, and permission to go for a walk.

Harry had wandered towards downtown in his two-hour time limit, grimacing at his reflection in the window.  Snape had disguised him with dirty blond hair and dull brown eyes, and Harry had shoved a hat on his head to keep most of the hair hidden.  Snape had also made him wear a rather worn leather watch that was supposedly some sort of emergency portkey in case there was trouble.  Harry's skin itched under the band, and he knew it had nothing to do with the feel of the leather.

He paused at one shop on Wellington road, attracted by the pictures in the window.  Multitudes of colour flashed back at him, and various black and white shadings against different series of skin.  Harry had never thought much about getting a tattoo before, but he remembered Sirius had had quite a few.  Harry entered the shop, curious about the procedure and the price.  As he talked to the apprentice at the front desk, he found out that there was a canceled appointment for Saturday at noon, and if he wanted a tattoo, he could certainly get one.  

Harry sat in the waiting room as he thought and watched as the shop owner talked to another customer and started sketching, a small dolphin splashed to life on the transfer paper.   He stared at the woman, a smile lit up on her face when the transfer paper was peeled back from her wrist, where the small dolphin would reside.  Almost like a friend who never went away.

Harry slowly pulled a feather out of his back jeans pocket, one of Hedwig's that he'd hastily shoved in his jeans before his Aunt had seen it and started yelling about unsanitary birds.  The feather was clean and soft, rather short as well, and fit well against Harry's arm.  He smiled to himself and handed the feather over to the apprentice, ignoring the nagging voice in his mind.  The fake ID in his wallet would hide the fact that he was only fifteen, and he'd worry about how to get the money from his Gringott's account later.

"Feather, eh? S'unusual one."  The artist was friendly and chatty, talking about going out after work. It was after all, a Friday night.

"From an owl." Harry said, thinking fondly of Hedwig. She was probably at the Burrow, hunting for mice in the field behind the yard.

"Owl? That's rather cool. Your own personal owl feather stuck to you forever."  The artist held up his finished drawing, which was a very well done likeness of Hedwig's feather.  He placed it on Harry's arm, and waited for Harry's reaction.

"She's always been there."  Harry said quietly, his eyes riveted to the paper as he moved his arm around.  "Brilliant.  Eleven am, tomorrow?" Harry looked up with a grin on his face. 

--

Harry had returned back to Spinner's End in a cheerful mood, ignoring Snape's suspicious glares.  He went to the bedroom shortly after arriving back, having found a book on poisonous plants in Snape's library to read.   Snape had grunted good night to Harry and then retreated into his office.  They did not speak a word about the headmaster's plans.

Harry eyed the book that was now sitting on the desk beside his wand.  Well, at least if he wanted to put himself out of his misery, he now knew at least four plants that could do it with very little pain.

Pain was something he was used to however, and somehow Harry felt like he'd be cheating if he managed to die painlessly.  A strange thought, but If he died and it hurt, he wouldn't feel unjustified guilt for Cedric's death, or for quitting occlumency and falling for Voldemort's vision of Sirius.  Because he would have paid in the end.

He thought of the nightmare he'd had the night before - it was one of his regular ones of the graveyard scene.  But last night had been different, Harry recalled with a fierce blush.  Snape had come to wake him up out of his dream, and not only had he not been angry with Harry, he'd given him advice on how to get back to sleep.  Had that really happened, or was it part of the dream too?

Snape had told him that it was his house, and he was not going to keep up his professor personality in his own home. It had actually been more of a warning, laced with a Speak One Word and You Will Die look that had completely silenced Harry.  So perhaps that small bit of comfort from the night before had been part of Snape's personality, something the man was capable of doing but unable to show when there were witnesses.  He was head of Slytherin house after all, and Harry supposed that Snape would have had to comfort homesick students before.  He snorted at the image of Snape giving out random hugs.  Maybe he was just going mad, and everything from last night was a dream.

Regardless, Harry would avoid tea today, just incase something had been slipped into it.

Harry slowly dragged himself out of bed, standing in front of the mirror on the wardrobe door.  He took the nightshirt off and stared at his body, noting the ribs that were starting to show through his skin. He'd only been at the Dursley's for two weeks, but after years of living with them, had never really started eating a lot of food.   He poked a ragged scar that was just above his stomach, one left over from the cruciatus in the graveyard.  "For Cedric."  Harry said, tracing the line.

A jagged cut on his hip stood out above his boxers, an angry red line that was just starting to fade. It was from the battle at the Ministry of Magic, when Harry had been thrown back against smashed rock while Voldemort and Dumbledore had battled. "For Sirius."  He sighed, no longer feeling any pain from it.

Harry moved to his bag and brought out a fresh pair of clothes, changing quickly and silently. He took another look at the mirror before leaving the room.  The lightning bolt scar was as striking as usual, and he scratched it lightly with his finger. "For Mum and Dad."  Harry said proudly, before heading downstairs, footsteps slightly lighter after paying his remembrance.

--

Snape had one chore for him that morning, and Harry was given two hours to complete it.  A list of food items was on the kitchen table, and Harry watched as Snape configured a rickety grocery buggy out of a metal pole.

"Sainsbury's is downtown, it'll take you half an hour to walk there, and do note there is no alcohol whatsoever on that list." The glare Snape leveled him was familiar one from class when they'd been told to quit fooling around and make their potions.

"Trust me to go on my own, sir?"  Harry asked, shoving his hands in his pockets. Inwardly, he was cheering at the timing.  He'd be a little late getting back to Snape's house, but hopefully not too much.

Snape took two twenty pound notes out of his pocket and dropped them on the shopping list, his black eyes not once breaking contact with Harry's.

"Absolutely not. But I hardly think you wish to be here when the Dark Lord stops by for tea."

Harry's jaw dropped for a second, before he snapped it shut into a scowl and took the umbrella that was being offered to him.  He wasn't sure whether it was because it was summer, or that Snape had always been like this, but Harry was starting to pick out some of the very dry, borderline demented humour that Snape seemed to favour. 

"Is there any way I can get some money from Gringott's?"  Harry boldly asked, stuffing the umbrella into the buggy.

"What do you need money for?"  Snape asked, eyebrows narrowing and arm stilled as he reached for some papers on the bookshelf.

"Just in case I see something, sir."  Harry kept his eyes trained over Snape's shoulder, and hoped Snape couldn't see the mistruth. He shifted in his feet as Snape continued to study him, as if working out what Harry was hiding.

After a moment's silence, Harry went with Plan B and managed a slight blush.  He pulled at the threadbare t-shirt he was wearing under his oversized jacket, trying to look anything but embarrassed.    "Maybe some proper clothes."

Snape's gaze moved from Harry's feet all the way up to the top of his head, taking in the state of his clothing and the reluctance written across the boy's face.  Similar to the little boy he remembered from long ago, the one who wore his mother's old shirts like a smock.

Snape then spun and walked over to the fireplace, yanking down the bag of floo powder and tossing some in the flames.  Harry was grateful for this, because as Slytherin as he felt playing the neglected card, he didn't enjoy exploiting his own upbringing to get what he wanted.  Not that he expected there to be any, but the last thing he wanted to see was Snape's pity.

The professor had turned to the fireplace because he didn't want Potter to see his understanding.

An old and particularly ugly goblin answered the call, and Snape shoved Harry toward the fireplace so the goblin could run his security scan.  Well aware of Snape standing in the background, Harry cursed himself for being stupid at eleven years old when he chose his security question.  Top security, the goblins had said.  Pick something only you would know, something not even your best friends will find out. Sure. The goblins never mentioned the chance that the man who mocked him endlessly might end up hearing the question.  Harry didn't know why they needed a stupid question anyway, as the magical signature scan should have been good enough.

"What is the first bar for the theme song of the show you used to watch from your cupboard?"

The goblin was reading off a piece of paper, and Harry wanted to strangle him.  He could feel Snape's smirk on his back.

"Dance your cares away,
Worries for another day.
Let the music play
Down at Fraggle Rock."

Harry replied in a very quiet voice, fighting the urge to sing it.  He heard a snort of laughter from behind him and just hoped that Snape would respect that it was a banking password and keep his sarcastic mouth shut.  Harry made a personal note to change the question as soon as he retuned to London.  Something adult and mature, like the top stockholders of his Uncle's drilling company.  Anything but his favourite childhood cartoon.

He grabbed the envelope of bank notes and signed the transfer slip, sending it back through the flames to the bank goblin, giving a strained smile as he closed the connection.  Turning around, Harry saw Snape leaning against a bookcase, arms crossed, and a smirk upon his face.

"What a creative password, Mr. Potter."  Snape kept the smirk on his face, but Harry saw he was almost fighting a laugh. It was an odd sight.

"Thought I was going to use potion ingredients or sing about money like a Malfoy?" Harry grumbled, in a sarcastic tone he usually reserved for either Snape or his uncle.

"I cannot say I'm surprised you chose something embarrassing." Snape rolled his eyes a bit and thrust the ugly watch at Harry.  "Keep it on, and remember if the face turns red..."

"Yeah, yeah. If the face turns red, head to the park and stay in the tree hollow."  Harry impatiently strapped the watch to his right arm and shoved his wallet back in his pocket.

"Can I go now?"

"Show some respect, you blasted boy."  All traces of amusement were gone from Snape's face, and he pushed Harry toward the door.

"Sorry, sir."  Harry called as he stepped out and headed off down the street, with the small tourist map of town that Snape had given him, the one that had been labeled Stockport for the Directionally Challenged in Snape's spidery writing.   Git.  George and Fred Weasley had a demented sense of humour too, but somehow Harry felt justified being much more wary of Snape than the twins.

--

Harry walked through town towards the grocery store and picked up the items on the list, before heading back towards Pins and Needles, the tattoo shop.  He was a bit early for his appointment, but   Even though Snape had given him two hours to complete his shopping, he didn't want to rush back too soon. Whether Snape had been joking about the Dark Lord or not, Harry wasn't in too much of a hurry to see whoever had decided to stop by.

Matt, the apprentice, greeted Harry with a smile and rang him up on the till.  Harry spent some time filling out the paperwork, pulling his fake ID out of his pocket and copying some of the information down. Instead of his address in Little Whinging, however, Harry decided to put down Snape's. He had no idea why he was doing so, but it felt better than using the Privet Drive address.  And that was a confession Harry did not want to think about much at that moment.

 After about ten minutes, Harry was sitting comfortably on a stool with his arm laid out on the table, cleanly washed and shaved.  The transfer that Matt had drawn the day before had been copied to Harry's skin, and the positioning was perfect.  Harry nodded his approval as Matt put a little cup of black ink beside his arm, and dipped the gun slightly in.

"Let me know when you need a break. This is going to hurt."  Matt's voice was calm as he warned Harry.

The gun descended on Harry's arm and a loud buzzing filled the room as Matt started.  Harry watched with interest as the ink flowed, thinking of the cruciatus curse that he'd experienced, the hollow ache from the blood quill he'd been forced to use by Umbridge, and the searing pain he'd felt when Voldemort had tried to possess him.

Harry didn't flinch once the entire time the tattoo was being drawn into his skin.

Harry walked with a bit of a bounce back towards Snape's house, pulling the grocery buggy behind him and knocking his fingers on leaves dripping with the morning's rain.  Sun was peaking through breaks in the clouds, though the town was still rather wet.  Harry felt great.  It was Saturday, he had pizza for lunch, he had a brilliant new tattoo, he was away from the Dursleys, and Snape hadn't even given him too much trouble for being piss drunk on Thursday night.

Life was grand.  Harry waved hello to a lady who was watching him suspiciously from her spot on the bench by the bus stop. Her gaze moved towards the thin white bandage on his arm, and Harry felt stupidly proud for a moment.  In a few hours he could unwrap the tattoo and let other people actually see...oh holy hell.  Snape was going to murder him.  Harry slowed his walk right down and nearly clipped the grocery buggy on a garbage can on the corner of Caroline way. 

Harry cursed under his breath and stared at the wrapping.  No, definitely not able to hide the tattoo.  Maybe he could tell Snape that he'd fallen on the way back, and gone to the pharmacy to get a bandage. That could explain why he was late too.  But then, that was rather stupid - Snape was a wizard, and from the company he kept, probably very adept at healing spells.  He'd make Harry unwrap his arm in order to heal it. This was probably why Snape kept mocking him for being a Gryffindor, for rushing out and doing things without much thought to all of the consequences. 

Maybe if Dumbledore forced Harry to go along with Snape's task he'd get the chance to study Snape and learn some more Slytherin tactics for dealing with life. Who better to learn from than the head of Slytherin himself?  Besides, it would be dead useful training for the upcoming war. 

Harry turned onto Snape's street and took a deep breath. Now was the time for him to act like the Gryffindor he was, and face his potions master.  He could do this. He would be sixteen in two weeks, for Merlin's sake. He'd faced down a basilisk when he was twelve.  Maybe Snape wouldn't care that he was half an hour late, and wouldn't care too much about the tattoo.

Snape, as it turned out, cared a lot.  As soon as Harry had opened the door, Snape had been waiting in the little vestibule and yanked him inside.  He ordered Harry to put the food away, and watched Harry like a hawk, seething as he stood at the doorway.  And judging from the annoyance emanating from him, Snape knew exactly what was under the inadequately thin bandage.

"Sit!"  Snape barked after the last can had been put away, maneuvering Harry into the kitchen chair. 

Harry roughly sat down, keeping his arm held softly to his side. He glared at Snape, before slouching in his seat.  Better to keep the upper hand here, Harry thought.  He wasn't a timid eleven year old anymore; he was a man with a tattoo.

"What have I done now?"

"Watch your tone, Potter, lest you wish to taste soap."  Snape was searching through the tall kitchen cabinet, where Harry knew a small first aid kit was located. He'd seen it on his punishment the day before, while cleaning out the cupboards.

Snape turned around and regarded Harry, who was dressed in scruffy jeans, an old t-shirt, black sneakers, and had put some sort of muggle gel in his hair to make it look messier than normal. The oversized jacket had been draped over the grocery buggy. He was slumped in the chair, legs sticking out and his unbandaged arm was slung over the back of the chair. Harry was watching him with narrow eyes, looking the picture of defiant teenager.  Snape wanted to smack the look right off his face.

It did not go unnoticed that the tattoo was in the exact same spot that the Dark Mark usually went.  Snape brought the bag down and stalked across the small kitchen towards Harry, who sat up a little straighter and seemed less sure of himself.  Maybe acting arrogant like a Malfoy was not the best idea.

"Unwrap it."

It was a command, and though Harry knew he should obey, some stubborn and demented part of his mind refused.

"No. I'm to leave the bandage on for a few more hours, sir."  He held his head up, but instead of meeting Snape's eye, trained his gaze beyond the man.

"What's wrong, Potter? Afraid of showing off your brilliant masterpiece?"  Snape sneered, pulling out a fresh bundle of gauze.

"Don't want to ruin the design." Harry smarted right back.  Snape was much more gratifying than Vernon to antagonize.

 "Just unwrap the damn thing so I can heal it faster."  Snape was losing his patience, and Harry noted that a small vein above Snape's eye was starting to twitch a little.  It was almost imperceptible, and Harry wondered if the same thing happened when Snape was annoyed in class.

Harry glared at Snape and then at the gauze.  The tattoo artist told him the tattoo would be itchy for a good week, and to be perfectly honest with himself, Harry would rather Snape healed it.  After taking a calming breath, Harry picked carefully at the medical tape holding the bandage on and started slowly unpeeling the covering. Snape waited, tapping his foot slightly, but not saying anything as Harry took his time.

Finally after two minutes of careful unrolling, the tattoo was fully revealed. Harry forgot that Snape was in the room and smiled as he stared at his arm.  The inner arm was mostly white still, though the edges around the tattoo were slightly swollen red and there was a tiny bit of dried blood around the lines of ink.   The feather looked very realistic, better than Harry had imagined.  He removed Hedwig's feather from his pocked and held it up to his arm, quite impressed by the resemblance.

"You have a feather." Snape said pointedly, staring at the design.  "That's not a phoenix feather though - your owl?"  Snape seemed openly curious, and Harry took a breather from the lack of sarcasm in his voice.

"Yeah, Hedwig's.  She was my first birthday gift and during the summers she's my only friend."  Harry was mumbling, and then looked up with a mortified blush when he realized what he'd said. 

"So you decided to immortalize one of her moltings on your arm. How very poetic of you, Potter."  Snape stated, ignoring what Harry had said and drawing his wand out from his sleeve.  He seemed to have put his mask back on. "The Pure Golden Boy who Lived now marked with a tattoo, like a petulant rebellious teenager."

"At least I picked my own design for my tattoo." Harry shot back, before his brain gave himself the mental feeling of smashing his head onto a desk repeatedly.  Harry stupidly kept Snape's gaze, and was impressed at the sheer look of utter loathing that he saw. Harry had thought over his past five years at Hogwarts that he'd seen all of Snape's angry facial expressions. Clearly the man had been holding back.

Snape's face turned white with anger as he glared at Harry, and sucked back air through his teeth.  Harry was stuttering and slowly shrinking away to the corner of the kitchen, as Snape looked like he was trying to resist strangling Harry or slapping him.  Harry's body was on edge, in fight or flight mode at the sense of danger.  There was a sudden loud crack as all the picture frames in the room splintered as if they'd had a fist slammed against them.  Harry looked nervously at his teacher, trying to gauge his chances of survival.

"That..that was a stupid thing to say."  Harry didn't make a move to run yet, but he was considering his options.

When Snape opened his mouth to yell, he finally registered that Harry was standing timidly next to the wall in the corner, messy black hair mostly obscuring frightened eyes.  He wasn't crying, Snape noticed Harry rarely cried, but his skittish and submissive body language struck painfully at Snape's memories.  Snape had been there. He'd stood in that very corner.  An iron grip clenched at Snape's stomach, and he suddenly felt like a monster.

"Be quiet." Snape said in a very quiet voice.  Snape was turned to face the sink, arms resting heavily on the counter.  His head was dipped a little, and Harry thought the man looked a bit...broken.

Harry scratched his good arm nervously, thinking about what he'd said.  He definitely had not meant to blurt anything out about the dark mark, but Harry had always had that bad habit of thinking before speaking.  Snape's shoulders straightened as he spun back toward the room - Harry saw out of the corner of his eye - and Harry braced himself for Snape's lecture. Fortunately, there were no jarred potion ingredients within reach now as Snape looked like he'd composed himself again.  

"Give me your arm." It was whispered very softly, and Harry instinctively cradled his arm to his chest, shaking his head no.

 "Do you want the arm healed or not?"  Snape's face thankfully wasn't red with anger, but Harry wasn't sure if deathly pale was a better variant.

"You'll take it off."  Harry said uncertainly, meaning both his arm and his tattoo.

"That is something I would do, isn't it, Potter?"  Snape upturned his lips into a sardonic smile, and Harry's eyes widened. He didn't get the chance to say anything else though, as Snape's arm had shot out and grabbed his own, pulling it out straight.  The black wand that Harry now noted was elegantly carved in a design at the handle was waved over the wound, and a soft incantation spoken.

Harry closed his eyes as he felt the magic wash over his arm, listening to Snape's deep voice speaking the Latin almost poetically.  Then the words stopped, but the tight grip did not lesson.  Harry opened his eyes quickly to note that the tattoo was perfectly healed and cleaned, lines of the feather fine in their detail and not one spot of ink out of place.    Snape then took the gauze he had retrieved from the first aid kit and began to methodically wrap the tattoo again.

"Are you alright, sir?"  Harry said softly, his eyes refusing to look up and meet Snape's. He received no response, but Snape's arm stiffened slightly for a moment.  Harry took it to mean that the topic was not up for discussion. After a minute the tattoo was fully covered and the wrapping secured, then Snape said one final spell over the whole job.

"It's water proof now, Potter." Snape said by way of explanation, banishing the first aid supplies back to their spot in the cupboard.

"Er, thanks?" Harry questioned, glad that his arm was no longer itching. 

Snape stuck Harry to the chair again and moved about the kitchen, fetching a spoon and a bright yellow jar of something. It was placed on the table, and Harry strained to read the label as Snape pulled his chair out to sit very close to Harry's.  This was definitely not good.

"Professor?"

"We're going to have a little chat, Mr. Potter."  Harry's eyes were riveted to Snape's hands, watching as he slowly undid the jar.

"About what, sir?"  Harry was suddenly very nervous.  When his aunt and uncle were mad, it was rather easy to predict how they'd react.  Snape had a deadly calm about him that terrorized Harry inside.

"I have been rather lenient with you this weekend, Potter.  But as it appears I may be forced to drag you along for this mission, there are certain behaviours of yours we need to remedy."  Harry watched as Snape summoned a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water.  Snape took a sip, and continued.

"You lied to me, Potter.  You have been lying to me for quite a few years now."  Snape said this with a very sure and even voice, which unnerved Harry even more. He had no idea where the guilt he was feeling was coming from, but it was a damn inconvenient time for it.

"I did look at clothes! I wasn't lying about that." A silver spoon was dipped into the jar and Harry finally saw the label.  Colman's English Mustard, the old fashioned yellow paste.

"You went explicitly for the tattoo, and that's why you requested money from the bank."  Snape sounded very sure of himself, and tipped two drops of clear liquid into the jar, from a bottle he extracted from his pocket.  The mixture was stirred, and then he pulled out a spoonful of mustard.

"Yeah, but I wanted clothes too. It wasn't exactly a lie."  Harry eyed Snape's hand suspiciously. It was edging closer to him.

"Open up, Potter."  Snape was staring straight at Harry, face muted in determination.

"What? You want me to eat mustard?"  Harry forgot to be defensive as he tried to figure out what on Earth Snape was doing.

"Not quite. You won't swallow it."  The spoon was rather close to Harry's mouth and his nose was filed with the strong musky scent.  Harry opened his mouth to say something else, and Snape shoved the spoonful in faster than a snitch out maneuvering a seeker. He dumped the mustard right on Harry's tongue, and pulled the spoon out.

"Keep it there." Snape commanded, as Harry sputtered.

"Wha thu hell?" Harry managed, scrunching his face up in disgust at the taste.

"While it would be no great loss to set fire to those ridiculously oversized and worn out trousers of yours, or pants if you wish to use the American term, I do believe this will be a firm step in learning your lesson."

"Set fire to my pants?" Harry was tempted to spit the revolting mess back out at Snape, were it not for the fierce glare he was receiving and the knowledge that whatever might happen after would be so much worse.

Snape pulled a stopwatch from his pocket and glanced at it, before leaning in towards Harry and speaking in a very low voice.

"Liar, liar."

Harry stared at him, fighting the urge to swallow the disgusting mustard.  The man was absolutely crazy.  First he does the onion trick while Harry was drunk, and now putting hot mustard on his tongue? Harry's mouth was starting to water, and not in a good way.

"You not seious."  Harry mouthed, trying to talk without making a mess.

Snape rolled his eyes.

"The burning should make itself known soon enough, and you'll know how serious I am."  Snape slowly put the lid back on the jar, watching Harry's face with a twisted smile.

The burning on his tongue had already made itself known, but Harry refused to admit that.

Snape, however, noticed that Harry's eyes were beginning to water. 

"Three more minutes should do, I think. In the meantime, now is a good time to talk about your abhorrent impulse control."

Harry squirmed in his seat and kept his eyes trained on the glass of water, which Snape saw.  Harry wanted to curse the man when he took a leisurely sip of it. 

"Your drinking escapade on Thursday night was ridiculously immature and ill thought out. A death eater found you, Potter. And what did you do? You staggered after me like a puppy and threw up for twenty minutes."  Snape glared at Harry's fidgeting, and held his hand up when Harry went to say something.

"Don't bother, Potter. I listen to your pathetic excuses enough during the school year. I have a very good idea as to why you were drunk. You are also fifteen, and every stupid teenager tries a drinking binge once. Bearing that in mind," Snape leaned even closer towards Harry, lowering his tone to a soft almost whisper,  "if I ever catch you drinking like that again, or hear of it, you can be sure you won't just be smelling onions. You'll be tasting them as well, for the entire time I have you scrubbing cauldrons as punishment. And if you try to lie about it..."

Harry's face scrunched in an ugly look as he imagined the taste and smell of onions and mustard together. He'd never be able to eat a hotdog again. 

"I not supid."  Harry managed, holding his hand under his mouth.  The burning on his tongue was becoming unbearable.

"Two minutes left.  And so you've said before, however stupid and teenager are not mutually exclusive."  Snape sat back in his chair again, a sneer on his face.

Beads of sweat broke out under Harry's bangs, and he determined that Snape was some sort of food sadist. His shoulders slumped a little and he started counting in his head. This would be the longest two minutes ever.

Snape continued after watching Harry squirm for a bit.

"As for your lying, you will not lie to me. You are currently at my house, under my watch, and while you are here you will not lie.  I don't care if you lie to your relatives, your friends, the general public - while I am entrusted with your safety, you will not lie to me."

"You don care?"  Harry snatched a serviette from the table and wiped the corner of his mouth. His eyes were leaking small tears now, but he didn't care that Snape saw.  He was strangely reminded of the night in fourth year, when Snape had pulled him into the supply closet and accused him of stealing potion ingredients.

"Potter, I expect you to lie, cheat, steal, do whatever is necessary to defeat the Dark Lord. But not to me. I need to know what stupid ideas are running through that ridiculous little head of yours to protect you from yourself."

 Snape was giving him a funny look, and Harry should have been more insulted by that comment.

"Crabbe and Goyle senior were at the house today, two very active and very stupid death eaters. I expected you to be where I told you to go while they were here. And were you?"

Harry shook his head glumly. Just what he wanted, a burning tongue and guilt.  Snape had a bloody point, of course.  Hanging around Little Whinging for the summer was one thing, and he'd been attacked by dementors even there.  But Stockport was different; Harry didn't know the place at all and had no idea if other witches or wizards lived in town.

The watch on the table clicked, and Snape waved him to the sink to spit out the mustard.

Snape waited patiently as Harry rinsed his mouth out several times.

"You're not going to give my anything for my tongue, are you?"  Harry finally asked, taking a tentative breath of air.  His tongue felt slightly swollen and still burned.  Snape merely raised his eyebrow.

"Thought not." Harry mumbled.  "I get your point though. Stop lying."

Snape snorted in scorn. "Oh, you'll lie to me again, Potter. Of that I have no doubt. But perhaps the burning tongue memory will give you pause to think about whether the lie is worth it or not."

Harry eyed him tiredly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Right. All for my personal safety."  Harry said, rather bitterly.  Snape said nothing, but gave him a strange look, like he was a potion that wasn't turning out just the right shade. Harry suddenly thought of something and figured now was the best time to ask.  Surely Snape wouldn't punish him again so soon after the mustard.

"Why d'you let me keep my wand? It's summer, and I'm not of age."  Harry leaned back against the counter, running his tongue gingerly along his teeth. Maybe by bedtime it would be back to normal.

"And your forged identification card?"  Snape finished his water and stood up, putting his chair back at its regular spot.

"Yeah, that - how do you know about that?"  Harry's hand immediately went to his back pocket, where he knew his wallet was.

"How else would you be able to buy beer, Potter? You look twelve."  Snape asked smoothly, putting his glass in the sink.  "I also inspected your bag while you were indisposed in the washroom, your first night here."

Harry didn't have it in him to be genuinely outraged, but he managed indignant. "That's my personal property, sir."

"They are. And you still have them."  Snape took a strong grip on Harry's arm and started to walk him out to the library, to the door that led to the front hall.

"I...why haven't you taken them away? You were so set on confiscating my invisibility cloak before."

Snape pushed Harry into the front office, a room Harry had never been in before.

"This is not school, Mr. Potter. In the real world, anything you can use to your advantage is not something to be taken away due to some silly age rule."

Harry regarded him curiously and with no hidden surprise. Snape was right; having those objects would help if Harry ever got caught in a tight spot. Though maybe he should change the name on the ID card.

"I believe this room could do with your impressive cleaning skills, Potter." 

It was his This-Is-Your-Detention-Task tone, and Harry looked around at the room, cobwebs in the corners, a layer of dust on most of the shelves, stained coffee rings on the side tables, and foot prints scuffed on the dull hardwood floor.  There was an impressive stack of paperwork on the desk.

"Bugger." Harry murmured, as a bucket, mop, and box of cleaning supplies appeared.

"Indeed. Any more comments about my tattoo and this task will seem like a walk in the park."   Snape glared at him, black eyes glittering.

"Wait." Harry said, looking up with confusion as Snape made to leave the room. "You're really not mad about the tattoo itself?"

"Paint yourself pink, for all I care.  I have never had any illusions of your pure innocence for you to break.  Though I do draw the line at the tattoo, Merlin knows how ridiculous you'd look if you took a nail gun to your face." Snape rolled his eyes, pointing to the bucket.  "I do look forward to watching you squirm when Molly Weasley finds out about the tattoo.  And your relatives on Monday."

Harry's face blanched, and Snape left the room with a smirk.  Harry took a deep breath and stared around at the office that was once a sitting room. He'd only glanced into it a few times since his arrival at the house, and it was as dreary as the rest of the place.  A small but sturdy wooden desk was against the wall that was shared with the library, two or three lamps were strategically placed around it, and a wooden librarian's chair on wheels was set at the desk. An older chesterfield sat under the two front windows, and even though the fabric was faded, Harry could tell that the sofa hadn't been sat in much, as the edges still looked stiff enough to provide strong support to whomever perched on it.

He gazed at the fireplace, the ornate carvings around the edges of it blending in with the simple wood patterning on the molding of the room.  The wallpaper was faded blue, with a darker blue damask pattern that wasn't too overpowering.  Harry actually liked the room, as it was strong and held a quiet character to it, unlike the overly cheery flower patterns of the living room at Privet Drive.

Kicking the bucket beside him, Harry decided to work from the ceiling down, and so picked up the mop to start pulling at cobwebs.  He was rather grateful that Snape had decided to remain in the kitchen, because he could focus solely on scrubbing and not having to listen to any disparaging comments.  Harry paused as he swept down the walls, thinking about Snape. He'd been surprisingly nice for Snape over the past two days and Harry was taken back at that.  He had definitely not expected Snape to give him a place to stay while drunk, nor had he expected to be allowed to stay the next day. 

Snape was acting in a much different manner than he normally did at school - sure he was still short-tempered with Harry, but not overly malicious.  He hadn't even tried to get Harry expelled the year before. Harry puzzled over this, and the lecture he'd been given about lying.  It wasn't that Snape cared about Harry, he just cared enough to make sure Harry stayed alive long enough to defeat Voldemort.  As he wiped around the fireplace, Harry wondered idly if Snape had heard the prophecy. That would definitely explain his lack of interest in outright killing Harry.

Harry supposed that the reappearance of Voldemort would put anyone's petty childhood grudge on the backburner, especially to someone who walked a very tight line in Voldemort's camp.

And then there was that conversation with Dumbledore.

The headmaster had seemed very tired during the floo visit, and while Harry hadn't expected him to drop everything to help Harry out, he hadn't expected the manipulation of Snape either.  Harry hated feeling like he was a kid that someone always had to be taking care of, but at least at Snape's place he wasn't being treated like a child.  When he wasn't grounded and having to scrub down one of the rooms, that was.

Harry removed the hurricane glass covers from the candle lamps and placed them on the floor next to the bucket of cleaning water.  He stared at them for a moment, before leaving the room and venturing into the library.  Snape wasn't at his favourite chair, as expected, but was instead seemed to be rearranging his books, or searching for a few. 

Harry was going to cough to get Snape's attention, but as usual the man seemed to know he was there.

"You can't be done already, Potter."  Snape's tone wasn't as angry as it usually was when Harry had detention, so Harry took that for a good sign.

"No, sir. But I need a large bucket, to fill with hot water."  Snape gave him an odd look, but Harry just stammered on. "About the size of a thick pillow, to wash the lamp covers."

Snape nodded at this and conjured a suitable bucket, before returning to his books. Harry slipped out of the room and upstairs to the tub, where he knew he could fill the bucket faster. He started daydreaming as he waited for the bucket to fill, thinking about how pleasantly quiet the house was.

Harry returned downstairs and put the hurricane lamps in the soapy water to soak away the dust and grime.  The drapes came down with relative ease, and Harry used the doxy killer spray to rid them from the curtains, spraying it around as if he were Indiana Jones battling a chamber full of snakes.  The theme song for Indiana Jones started playing in his head, and Harry sang the beats aloud as he started scrubbing the windows.  They were dirty from the outside as well, but Harry figured he'd wait till he got in trouble again before cleaning them.  As there were only two windows, it didn't take long for them to be sparkling, and he then tackled the window frames and baseboards. 

Harry gingerly wiped the baseboards in invisible patterns, as if he were avoiding a certain spot that would trigger poisonous darts to shoot out at him, just like Indy had faced in the movie.  This was good honest work and Harry finally felt relaxed.  He wasn't thinking about Sirius, he wasn't thinking about Cedric, he wasn't even thinking of his aunt and uncle.  He was just in this small little room he inexplicably felt comfortable in, rejuvenating it, and not needing to worry about where he was going to sleep that night or if he'd be sent to bed without any food.  Speaking of food, Harry's nose twitched at the smell of basil and garlic that filled the air.  He didn't consciously note it however, but instead turned around to check on the hurricane lamps, tripping over the bucket of cleaning supplies.

Tucking himself into a roll, Harry landed on his butt near the door of the room, where Snape was leaning against the doorframe with an amused look on his face.  Harry blushed and shook his head as he finally realized what the delicious smell was.

"Dinner is ready, Dr. Jones."

Snape gave the tiniest hint of a smile and walked off towards the kitchen, while Harry blushed.  Snape must have heard him humming while he was cleaning.  He may have heard the fake whip sounds effects Harry had made while shaking out the drapes as well but Harry was going to deny that had ever happened.

He brushed himself off while walking through the kitchen to wash his hands in the bathroom at the back of the house, something he knew Snape would demand so he did it first to spare the lecture.  The kitchen smelled wonderful and there were two large plates of pasta on the table with a fresh loaf of garlic bread in between.

Harry slid into his seat and closed his eyes, savouring the smell. He waited for Snape to start eating before tentatively picking up his fork.

"Eat it. I'll not send you back starved."  Snape ordered, swirling his own pasta round his fork.  He noted the instant blush that appeared at the word starved, but did not comment on it.

"You've seen Indiana Jones?" Harry asked, carefully taking a bite of the spaghetti. His tongue was still tender, but it was alright to eat with.

"Of course. Though large liberties were taken with the accuracy of the film."  Snape had wine with his pasta, but Harry was fine with the milk that had appeared at his spot. He'd had enough drinking for a while.

"Accuracy? It's Hollywood, they always go a little beyond realistic." Steam was rising from the garlic bread, and Harry couldn't resist any longer.

"Potter, how can you be so ignorant of your own world?"  Snape sounded exasperated, but not fully annoyed.

Harry thought for a minute, debating with himself how much to tell Snape.  He didn't want to make himself the victim, but Snape's idea of Harry's home life was so twisted that Harry couldn't help but mention something.  Then he got the idea for the perfect comparison.

"Malfoy." Harry stated, swallowing a mouthful of pasta and ignoring Snape's raised questioning eyebrow.

"That family absolutely despises muggle-borns and probably half bloods too. I'm sure Mr. Malfoy has caused some physical harm to muggles, just because they're not wizards, and Draco is a little prat towards non-pure wizards."

Snape nodded for Harry to continue, not contesting Harry's blunt accusations.  Maybe he didn't like the Malfoys nearly as much as he seemed to in school. Harry filed that away for future reference.

"Switch Mr. Malfoy for Vernon Dursley, Draco Malfoy for Dudley Dursley, and muggle borns for any relation to the Wizarding world whatsoever."

Harry was quite satisfied that his answer didn't give too much away about life at the Dursleys.  While the Weasleys knew more about what Harry went through, Dumbledore had ignored his pleadings to spend his summers elsewhere and Harry definitely did not want to give Snape any idea of how much that hurt. 

"Someone else is going to have to explain away Petunia Dursley however, as I've never met Mrs. Malfoy."

Snape chuckled at this, and Harry looked at him with a shocked expression. He'd seen Snape smile before, but it was always an evil smile, a sardonic grin, or a smirk that meant that Harry was about to pay for something or had just done something remarkably stupid.  He could honestly say he'd never heard Snape laugh before.

"If she's anything like how she was as a child, the comparison to Narcissa Malfoy would be accurate." Snape sat back in his chair and took another sip of his wine.

"So you did know Mum when she lived here." Harry said, breaking off another piece of bread.

"Yes." Snape answered simply, not adding anything more.

"Could you tell me about her, sir?"  Harry knew he was taking a risk, especially after the scene he'd stumbled into in the pensieve. Snape's eyes narrowed at him, and Harry blushed.

"Everyone talks about Dad, but most people only tell me I have Mum's eyes."  Harry had his eyes trained on his plate, not wanting to look up, even though he knew that Snape knew Harry was at a disadvantage.   From the silence, Harry supposed Snape was thinking about his mum and their time together when they were kids.

Finally Snape put his wine glass on the table with a little more force than necessary.

"For all you've done for your friends at school - go look in a bloody mirror, Potter." Snape gruffed, eating the rest of his meal in silence.

--

Harry stared out the window of the small bedroom, over the labyrinth of slanted roofs and old brick chimneys. Stockport was not a very pretty town, but Harry felt rather comfortable there. There were no pretences, no having to dress oneself up properly to show class. It was a working town, and work was valued more than fashionable clothing or custom.

Harry thought it must have been a nice place for his mum to grow up in, a regular run of the mill normal town that wasn't too big that you could lose yourself.

Snape knocked on the door and startled Harry out of his musings. "Come in."

"It's late." Snape stated, fixing Harry with a look.   Snape walked into the room and moved to the wardrobe, opening the door and peering at something on the top shelf.

"Er. Are you giving me a bedtime, sir?" Harry suddenly felt rather uncomfortable in the room. It wasn't his, but Snape had knocked on the door respectfully, unlike his own relatives.

"No." Snape turned around and gave him a withering look.  "I merely wish to inform you that there will be no wandering throughout the night, no snooping through anything, and no making loud noises. Refrain from being your normal self at school."

Harry looked away and absently scratched his forehead. "Sorry for the nightmare last night. I didn't mean to wake you."

Snape studied him as he put the small bundles of paper he'd taken from the closet into his robe pocket. The boy looked rather tired, almost dejected.  There was no anger in his eyes either, nothing like what Snape was used to seeing in class. Instead, Harry just looked worn.

"What's wrong with you?"  The question wasn't nearly as mean as Snape could have made it sound, but Harry's head snapped up anyway and Snape saw a spark of black annoyance along the green. That was better.

"Lots, apparently."  Harry huffed, flopping down on the bed and turning on his side to face the wall. "I won't leave the room."

Snape was suspicious that the boy was so easily...agreeable.  He would ponder about the response to his question later.

"Don't be stupid, you may use the lavatory if you need." 

Potter nodded at him, and continued to stare at the wall, his green eyes slightly unfocused without the glasses.

"Potter. Daydream."  Snape looked uncomfortable with the word daydream, and Harry blushed for needing to be told that.  Tit for tat, Snape smirked as he left the room and closed the door.

Harry stretched back out on the bed and stared at the ceiling. It wasn't too late, only 11 pm, but he supposed that sleep wouldn't be a bad idea at that point.  He had no idea what to day dream about tonight, though.  The conversation in the library yesterday had been unsettling, and it wasn't really the part where Dumbledore had suggested Harry play Snape's son that had bothered him all that much.  That at least would be a fun challenge, and he'd get to go somewhere, from the sounds of it.

What was bothering him was the fact that this was his last night at Snape's house, and he actually felt bad about that.  Snape had been his rather strict self over the weekend, though actually a bit less so when Harry thought about it, and Harry would actually miss staying here.

It was a very bizarre feeling.

Harry stared at the ceiling above, and noticed now that there were tiny scorch marks there, most likely made when the younger Snape had been shooting down flies during the summer.  This was a good room to think in.  Maybe in the morning Harry would leave his own tiny mark, write his name under the bed or something.  Harry smiled and turned out the lamp by the bed, digging under the covers. He made a mental note to ask Snape how he'd gotten around the underage decree as a child, to shoot down flies of all things, and slipped off to another world.

 This night, Harry dreamt about winning some money in the lotto, and redecorating the bedroom in dark blues and reds, with as many books and electronics as he could get.

Sunday morning was rather overcast, the rain clouds from the day before had not completely disappeared.  Harry had appeared rather quietly for breakfast, bringing his bag downstairs to stand by the front door. Snape had eyed him curiously about this, before snapping at him in a rather gentle-for-Snape tone.

"I said Monday, Potter. You're not going back with the headmaster tonight."

Snape ignored the smile that flashed across Harry's face, and Harry pretended that Snape hadn't done it just to be nice.

The rest of the day had passed rather serenely, with Harry cutting up potion ingredients for the upcoming school year for a few hours just to keep himself out of trouble. That was the excuse that Snape used to keep Harry busy, and though Harry was oddly willing to help out, he went along with that idea as well. Anything to practise keeping his temper around easily irritated people - Harry needed as much practise as he could get.

Daydreaming seemed to help, and Harry was in the middle of a particularly good one - fingers deftly bundling up leek on their own accord - when a blinding flash appeared in the centre of the room, startling them both and making Snape spill his coffee a little.

"Shit."  Snape muttered, spelling away the stain.  Harry stared at him as Snape seemed to be reading a message from the lips of the patronus phoenix that had made the noise and light.  Snape's face turned sour as he heard the message, and his light robe snapped as he spun around and summoned some potion bottles from various rooms in the house. 

Snape caught most of the bottles as they flew into the kitchen, using both hands to place them into what looked like a padded pouch. It was like watching a juggler pluck objects out of the air with surprising dexterity, though one bottled seemed to be skittering at an odd angle, and Harry caught it before Snape ended up conked in the head with it.

"Stay here." Snape acknowledged in thanks. "Do not open the door, do not go near the windows, keep the watch and your wand with you."

Harry nodded as Snape quickly wrapped up the bundle and stepped toward the fireplace.  He looked worried.

"There's food in the icebox, and Potter," Harry's eyes focused at this, "don't burn my house down."

With that, Snape threw powder into the fire and spun away to Dumbledore's office.

Snape didn't return until after seven that evening, after Harry had finished with the ingredients he was preparing, and made himself a light dinner.  He had even tidied up his room, and started reading a book in bed.  The book had held interest, but the comfort of the bed had won and Harry finally slipped off to sleep.

He didn't hear Snape come back, but felt a blanket being pulled over him, and his glasses taken off his face. It was an odd feeling, and Harry wasn't sure if it was a dream or not until Snape pulled the book from Harry's fingers.  Harry kept his eyes closed, but was fully aware now of what was going on.  Snape stayed in the room a few minutes longer, before putting out the light and walking down the hall to his own bedroom.

Harry slipped quietly out of bed and crept to the door, which had been left open slightly.  Harry could hear Snape muttering in his room about stupid curiosity, barmy old men, dark curses, and a ring.  Harry saw Snape's shadow on the hall floor as the man sat down heavily on his bed.  He must not have shut the bedroom door, thinking Harry was asleep.  Harry decided to return back to his bed, obviously Snape was pissed off about something and Harry had no desire to get caught eavesdropping and need to clean something else. The last thing he heard before climbing back under the warm blanket was a loud exhalation of breath, and the chilling words "This is how the world ends, not with a bang, but a whimper."

--

"I can't believe you punched my uncle."  Harry said, walking behind Snape as they weaved between cars at the airport parking garage.

Snape stopped at a wall that was rather secluded, and away from the cameras.  He rubbed his jaw slightly, at the spot he'd healed moments after leaving Privet Drive.  Harry swore that he saw a slight smirk on Snape's face, before he pulled a potion bottle out of his bag and unshrunk it.  A small spoonful was carefully handed to Harry with Snape's right hand. The knuckles had not been healed.

"Then again," Harry continued, "I didn't think he'd be dumb enough to hit you."

"Let that be a lesson to you then, Potter. The first punch is always free." Snape replied, shrinking the bottle again.

"Yeah, but you clobbered him."  Harry said, trying not to grin.  He'd never seen Snape duel before - Harry didn't count the second year dueling club - but he imagined that after seeing Snape gracefully throw a punch that knocked his overly large uncle onto his arse that seeing Snape in a duel would be rather inspiring.

"In case you've forgotten, Potter, there is a rule against using magic in front of muggles."  Snape rolled his eyes as Harry sniffed at the potion.

"Well aware of that, believe me. I just figured you to be more of a hexing person." Harry held the spoon in front of him and stalled taking it a bit longer.

"That would have been an unfair fight."  Snape said, pointing at the spoon and talking to Harry as if he was an idiot.

Harry's mouth dropped open a little as he tried to process the fact that Snape had a notion of fighting fairly.  He put the spoon in without thinking, and nearly sputtered out the potion as it hit his tongue.

Snape put his hand over Harry's mouth, making him swallow it.

"I had just removed his iron grip from very close to his throat, while your aunt was threatening to remove your tattoo with sand paper. And you're concerned about how hard I hit him?"  Snape asked dryly.

Harry suddenly gave a strange hiccup and shrunk rapidly, just like Trevor the Toad had done in class.  Harry felt scrawny and insignificant standing next to the suddenly very tall Snape, and rolled his eyes at the clothes that were suddenly adjusted for him.  Blue jeans, and a green Slytherin shirt.  At least Snape didn't say anything about Harry being a lot smaller than he should have been.

"You've never lost a fight, have you?"  Harry asked, surprised at how high pitched his voice was. He didn't remember it like that.

"Not since I was sixteen." Snape replied distractedly, as he pulled papers out of his pocket.

"Your birthday is July 31st?"  Snape suddenly asked, startling Harry's inspection of his own tiny hands.

"Huh? Yes, the 31st." Harry replied, wiggling his toes in his shoes. His hair was a bit longer than normal, but still just as messy.

Snape muttered something while he waved his wand over the packet of paperwork he was holding in his hand.

"Memorize this. This task is a very important one for the Order, and I will not have you acting like a typical Gryffindor and mucking it up. Stay in your role, Potter, or else."

Snape glared at him and had his arms crossed severely.  It was his I Mean Business stance, normally one Harry ignored.

"Sure Dad." Harry stressed, rolling his eyes. "Looking forward to this trip."

There was a moment where Harry wasn't sure if Snape would smack the grin off his face or strangle him, before Snape shook his head.  He took a photo of Harry with his wand, and somehow managed to put the picture into the blank passport that Dumbledore had included in the package.  Harry wasn't sure what the spell was, as light dots were still dancing in his eyes, but after a minute the passport was given to him and Snape instructed him to memorize the details as they walked to the check in counter.

"Elliot Fyodor Snape?"  Harry asked, jogging a little to keep up with Snape's pace.  He felt a balloon of questions burst in his head all at once. "How do you even pronounce the middle name? Is it like Theodore? Is it Russian?"  Harry took a breath and started right back up again.

"I'm supposed to be your kid, and you chose the name Elliot?"

"Potter, enough with the damn questions!  And what's wrong with Elliot?"  Snape glared, slowing down a little so Harry could take a breath.

"Oh nothing. Elliot's as close to calling me idiot as you can get without people being suspicious."  Harry hated how high pitched the de-aging potion made his voice, it completely ruined the sarcastic effect.

Snape stopped this time, and Harry ran into him.

"Elliot is a fine name for a boy. I would not have called a son of mine an idiot."  Snape glowered, and then took hold of the back of Harry's collar. They had a limited amount of time before the check in counter closed, and a little distance still to walk.  Harry kept quiet through the walk, but thought about Snape's answer.  Elliot, it seemed, was a name Snape had chosen long ago, not just this morning. Harry then wondered where Fyodor had come from, and why on Earth Snape had chosen it for him.

--

The plane landed with a rather jerky bump, and Harry pushed himself up to watch out the window.  He'd never seen a place so flat before.  England had rolling hills, and Scotland was definitely hilly, but the Netherlands seemed to be perfectly flat. It was a strange sight to see, and Harry was so engrossed in watching them drive up to the terminal that he didn't see the look of amusement on Snape's face.

That amusement turned to annoyance rather quickly when they tried to make it to the baggage claim, as Harry's smaller legs could not move him fast enough to keep up with the crowd or Snape.  Eventually, the man had stopped long enough to pluck Harry up into his arms, and awkwardly carry him down to the baggage area and out to the unrestricted part of the airport. Here Snape put Harry down and held out his hand impatiently, waiting for Harry to take it before they moved on to get a seat on the train. 

Snape prayed a thanks to whatever gods were listening for putting the train station at the lower level of the airport, because he did not feel like dragging a six year old Potter long distances. The potion the headmaster had provided had certainly kept the 15 year old Potter's mind intact, but his body behaved like a child and Snape figured the boy would need a nap soon, whether he wanted one or not.

Once the train had finally arrived, Snape led Harry up the stairs on the second-class carriage to see if they could find a seat. Cursing inwardly, he remembered that it was a Monday afternoon, and thus the train was fairly packed. Slipping past the ugly green plastic benches, Snape spotted one free bench that was unfortunately across from two very stocky women and a group of children.  Still, it was a seat, and it was better than standing for twenty minutes.

He nodded at the seat in question and one of the ladies welcomed him to sit, giving him a look over that made Snape feel suspicious and revolted at the same time.  Squeezing into the spot and putting the bag beside him, Snape quickly looked around at the children that seemed to belong to the women.  Loud and boisterous, the two boys and one girl were all around the four to seven year old range, dressed in hideously bright t shirts and speaking in what Snape figured was as close to a shriek as humanly possible. 

Harry, on the other hand, was standing in front of him and looking rather lost as he tried to maneuver between the chubby legs of the women and Snape's knobby knees.  He remained silent, his messy black hair hiding part of his face as he looked down, green shirt still unwrinkled and jeans still very clean.  With a look of annoyance to the noise makers, Snape leaned forward and hoisted Harry up to sit beside him, letting him sit closest to the window so he could watch the scenery go by.

"Spreekt u Nederlands?"  The blonde woman who'd been checking him out asked.

"No." Snape said, resisting the urge to sneer.

"Your son, he is well behaved. Just like his charming papa." The compliment rolled off her tongue and Snape stiffened in annoyance.

"Perhaps."  Snape distractedly agreed, waiting impatiently for Amsterdam to start to appear in the window.

Harry decided to take pity on Snape, because an annoyed Snape did not bode well for him the rest of the day.  It was time to start playing the game.  He carefully leaned against Snape's side, ignoring the stiffness of the body. Harry brought his legs up on the bench and leaned them slightly towards Snape, resting them tentatively against Snape's thigh.  He closed his eyes and tried to sound weak.

"Dad, I'm tired." He mumbled, loud enough for the women to hear, faking a yawn to go along with it.

"You can sleep at the hotel, Elliot." Snape replied, but put his coat around Harry anyway.   This worked to shut the women up, and Snape grunted once to Harry, which Harry took to mean as a thanks. Harry remained painfully alert for the entire train ride, as he watched the rows of terrace houses go by.  This was his first Order assignment, and regardless of how he'd not gotten along with Snape in the past, Harry was determined not to bugger the mission up.

--

They exited Amsterdam Centraal station and walked across the platforms, Harry inexplicably jumping over the tracks as if they were puddles of water.  Snape gave him a weird look, but Harry just shrugged with a grin. Harry had no idea why he'd felt the urge to jump the puddles, but it didn't matter.  He was in Amsterdam!   There was a small canal just in front of them and Harry could make out some strange tourist boats that had glass ceilings on them, and tonnes of people walking around with cameras, maps, and a variety of back packs.

Stranger to Harry was the slight of the bicycles. To his right, just down the tracks toward the end of the station, Harry saw what looked like a three story parking garage for bikes, which was packed to the brim of them. There was no one cycling near the tram tracks where they were, but Harry figured that was because they were too close to the train station for people to ride there.

Snape pointed to the tram numbered 5, and they climbed aboard. Snape had some sort of strange ticket that he offered the conductor, and mumbled in what Harry thought was Dutch.  Once they'd sat down, Harry squashed against the side of the streetcar, he finally got his chance to ask questions.

"When did you learn how to speak Dutch?" Harry's legs didn't reach the floor of the car, not even close, and he swung them slightly. 

"I didn't." Snape tapped the top of Harry's legs to get him to stop. Apparently the sound of his heel smacking against the leg of the chair bothered Snape.

"But..you just did." Harry was perplexed.

"A translator, Potter."  Snape answered with a smirk, and Harry thought Snape was trying hard not to laugh at him. "Invented by a Brit with an alarming obsession with science fiction."

Harry gave him a queer look.

"How do you do it?" 

"Babelfish."  Snape said with a slight upturn of his lips, and the conversation was closed at that.

Harry turned his head toward the window and watched in amazement as the lights turned green and a swarm of cyclists passed by the streetcar, some in business suits with briefcases swinging off the handlebars, others in skirts, teens riding with another teen on the back bike rack, a mother riding with a small toddler strapped to a seat on her handlebars, and a man riding with a large wagon of flowers at the front of his bike. It was the strangest bike Harry had ever seen, but he weaved in and out of traffic with the rest, following bizarrely painted lines on the road and a set of traffic lights that only the natives seemed to fully understand.

Harry's eyes were glued to the window as they passed by old buildings that leaned together for support, large window frames seemingly lopsided as the edifice had settled unevenly overtime.  They passed by the back of what looked like an impressive palace, and a stream of people climbed on, chatting on mobile phones in a few different languages.  Harry watched with interest as some passengers got on, ignored the conductors completely, and approached a strange yellow ticketing machine to insert a bright blue and green slip into. It pinged away happily as each person did this.

After ten jarring minutes of progress on the tracks, their train stopped at a little clearing that had several bookstores and a few pubs as well.  They jumped off, Snape taking hold of Harry's collar and navigating through the crowd of students that had gathered around a ridiculous amount of bikes that were chained up.

"Spew-I street? Hermione would like this one."  Harry snorted, reading the street sign.

"Spui. It rhymes with cow." Snape corrected, sounding like his patience was running thin.

They entered into a tiny doorway that Harry figured out was actually the entrance to a hotel.  It seemed to be a muggle hotel called NH oddly, and he kept his mouth shut, knowing that he was supposed to act as a perfectly behaved little boy.  While Snape filled out the paperwork for the room, Harry stood quietly beside him and inspected the lobby of the hotel. Spies were supposed to notice their surroundings, so Harry had seen on the telly, so he was trying to catalogue everything he saw in the lobby. .  He missed the looks of suspicion from Snape at his silent behaviour.

Upon entering the room they were to share, obedience was all but forgotten as Harry jumped on the bed nearest the wall to claim it for himself.  The windows were huge and bright, but Harry preferred his own little corner, and ignored Snape's admonishment to act his age.

"Potter, we will establish some ground rules now."  Snape gave him a pointed look, and sat down on one of the plain chairs by the small table in the corner.

Harry jumped down after a minute and sat down in the other chair, feeling tired yet energetic at the same time.

"As helpful as the headmaster is, the potion he provided not only guaranteed that you'd look like a six year old, but it also ensured that your body will feel the same fatigue, energy, childish desires, and fears that you did at that age.  Though you have retained your fifteen year old mind, much to my displeasure." 

Harry glared but didn't say anything.  Snape's tone wasn't nearly as caustic as it normally was at school. That did, however, explain why he was feeling so skittish at the moment, and ready to run.

"As such, I expect you to be polite and quiet, eat the food I serve you, and take a nap when I tell you."

"I don't take naps," Harry pouted, crossing his arms. 

"You'll be taking one in a moment if you keep that up."  Snape narrowed his eyes down at Harry, wondering how such a small child could look so innocent and troublesome at the same time.  There was a fifteen year old behind those eyes though, Snape reminded himself.

"What are you going to do, stick me to the bed?" Harry leered.

"One of many options." Snape replied dryly.  Sarcastic teenagers clawed under his skin like fire bugs.

"Wait. I've got the same fears I had as a six year old?"  Harry's change of subject caused Snape to blink a few times before he remembered the potion details.

"Yes. Fears, worries, and likes."

Snape studied Harry, watching as concern flickered over the small face, and a great sense of unease.  Harry's body was tense, his shoulders hunched forward, and his eyes focused on the table as if having a mental argument with himself.

"Dreams, as well?"  The tone had lost all sense of defiance, and Snape was now curious.

"I assume so." Snape confirmed.

"Maybe we should make a deal."  Harry said after a moment, his hands nervously picking at the hem of his shirt.

"Trying to channel Slytherin, are you?"  Snape immediately replied, curbing his urge to be too sarcastic.  To his disappointment, Harry didn't rise to the bait.

"Call it what you want.  We're sharing a hotel room, so... any thing I may say in my sleep, you can't use against me."   Harry finally looked up at Snape, hoping that the man didn't use legilimency on him.

"In exchange for what? You won't tell your fellow Gryffindors what I wear to bed?"  Snape's eyebrow was raised.

"Hah. Grey nightshirt is hardly entertaining." Harry snorted, and then immediately clamped his hand over his mouth.  Seconds too late.

"How do you know what my night clothes look like, Potter?" Snape's eyes flashed angrily at him, and Harry knew his brain couldn't work fast enough to lie himself out of trouble. Worth a shot, though.

"Just a guess. Your clothes are rather predictable."  There was a red blush creeping around Harry's cheeks, and he mentally cursed it.

"Try again."  Snape ordered, leaning towards Harry.  "You snooped into my bedroom at Spinner's End?"

"No!" Harry blurted. He definitely did not want Snape to think he'd disobeyed the order not to enter the man's bedroom at the house; however, the lack of answer it left him was not much better.

"Potter, we just discussed lying yesterday..."  Snape was close enough that Harry wondered if he could perform legilimens without making eye contact.

"Hogwarts."  Harry admitted sheepishly to his lap. "Stupid wailing egg."

It only took Snape thirty seconds to remember what Harry was referencing to, and Harry suddenly found himself being floated over to the bed.

"Hey, what the hell!"  Harry wrestled with thin air but Snape still wouldn't drop him down to the bed, so he just spun slowly in the air.

"You did break into my office, you little cretin."  Snape bounced him down to the bed once and back up, noting with satisfaction the unsteady look on Harry's face.

"Barty Crouch did, as Professor Moody. And I didn't steal your gillyweed either, before you bring that up."  Harry dropped for another bounce on his behind and groaned as his stomach flipped.

"We'll see about that, I might poison you with veritaserum later."  Snape replied, lowering Harry to the bed and sticking him to it.

"Fine, I know I didn't do it." Harry shot him an annoyed look, and struggled with the bed sheet to move around. He suddenly looked up quickly at Snape. "No wait. No veritaserum."

Snape's eyebrow rose with interest.  "Oh no? What could you possibly have to hide, Potter?"

"It doesn't matter what I have to hide, Professor." Harry said, not paying attention as much to the conversation as he was to trying to unstick his jeans from the bedcover. "Everyone needs secrets to keep them company."

Snape pondered that profound statement for a moment as he watched Harry struggle. Such an intelligent remark out of the boy, and yet he didn't realize that if he would only sit still for five seconds, the spell would undo itself.

With a wave of his wand, Snape undid the spell and locked his suitcase. It was just past four, and a good time for a stroll before dinner. They paused on the way out of the hotel to get a map from reception, and for Snape to enquire where a few stores were. Harry didn't pay much attention, as he was too busy watching the boats go by on the canal outside the window.

Snape lead Harry back towards the clearing they'd gotten off the tram at, and Harry was less than surprised when the first stop they made was at a bookshop called Athenaeum Boekhandel.  Harry twisted his tongue a few ways as he tried to pronounce the bookstore's name, and was rather impressed when he stepped inside and found the shop was on several different levels, all with tiny half staircases leading to different sections of books.  Snape wandered towards the botany section of the store while Harry took a few steps down the closest staircase and found himself in the general fiction section. 

It was here that Snape found him fifteen minutes later, comparing two Stephen Fry books to see which cover was the bizarrest in relation to the actual story.

"Perhaps I should not leave a six year old to his own devices." Snape said, watching Harry with a raised eyebrow.  

Harry blamed the potion for his sudden childish decision to stick his tongue out at Snape.

--

They ate at an Argentinean restaurant near the square, not venturing too far into the rest of the city.  Snape still had a lot on his mind from his meeting with the headmaster the day before, and he knew Harry would be tired from the potion's transformation.

After the dinner, they walked a bit further down Kalverstraat and Snape dragged Harry into the department store. Harry was embarrassed to be taking the escalator up to the children's section, but he figured it was easier to buy smaller clothes than to have to configure his whole wardrobe. And he was fairly certain Snape wouldn't make him wear anything with fluffy bunnies or brightly coloured dinosaurs on it.

As it turned out, Snape planned to be in Amsterdam for the whole week, so he told Harry to pick out five outfits. They were only scheduled to meet Amy Benson once, but Snape merely pointed toward the clothing rack and told Harry to be prepared.  Harry filed that bit of information away for later use in the mission. Always be prepared for the plans to change.

Harry wasn't exactly sure what his job was to help out, but he was determined to not mess up his part at all.  For all the Order did in the war and to protect him, it was gratifying to finally take more than passive role, regardless of how he'd ended up there.  Perhaps out of necessity so far and a lack of anywhere else to be, but by the end of the week Harry was determined to prove himself worthy of working for the Order of the Phoenix.

It was because of this resolve to behave and pay attention to everything going on around him that Harry saw the look of pain that briefly flicked across Snape's face when he withdrew a bright turquoise muggle wallet that looked to be a gift from Dumbledore to pay for the purchases.

--

Just before slipping into bed that evening, Harry turned to look at Snape, who was still fully dressed and sitting at the table.

"Do we have a deal about the dreams?"  Harry suddenly asked, picking absently at the bedcover.

"I thought I told you to daydream before bed." Snape replied, not even looking up from his notes.

"You did, sir." Harry confirmed, smoothing out the snag he'd just created in the material. "But just in case that doesn't work..."

 Snape looked up at that, and seemed to be studying Harry like he was an experiment.  He looked like he was in a bad mood.

"Why are you suddenly acting so complaisant, Mr. Potter? You're away from your little friends and beloved headmaster, and you have to pretend to be my son. Frankly, I'm a bit disappointed at the lack of drama and temper tantrums."

Harry opened his mouth to say something smart right back, but after a second's consideration, snapped it shut with a glare.  Being a smartarse would definitely not prove his maturity. Unfortunately, Snape didn't stop there.

"I wonder if it's perhaps because I came to the rescue of the great Boy Who Lived?"

"Good night, sir."  Harry interrupted with as neutral tone as he could.  He rolled over and faced the wall, wondering why Snape was being such a git again. Harry tried to convince himself that it was left over annoyance from whatever had happened the day before in Dumbledore's office. 

Almost half an hour after Snape had finally turned out the light and gone to bed, Harry fell asleep to a fitful dream of wandering around lost in Amsterdam.

--

Amy Benson had fled England at eighteen years of age, two days after leaving the orphanage.  She had not spoken a word since the day in the caves, and her file was thick with notes from the NHS and various publicly funded psychologists who had attempted over the eight years that Amy had been in the state's care to get her to speak.

It had never worked, though she'd become prolific with written language. Snape noted that aside from the refusal to speak, Benson had led a fairly normal life.  She'd escaped to Amsterdam, to the city of people whose small oddities were noticed often but rarely discussed.  She'd met a young Dutchman, and in the years defining a devastating flood in Holland, the creation of a polder of land reclaimed from the sea, and revolution during the sixties, had raised two children of her own.  She now had grandchildren, and it was with them that Dumbledore had figured they had a way to drop Benson's personal shields.

Snape thought it was a mad idea, but then again, he'd always thought Dumbledore was a bit barmy.

Potter, for some unknown reason, was taking his role very seriously.   Snape had caught him studying the papers again in the morning, as if he would be examined on his knowledge of being Elliot Snape.

Snape was rather impressed by the eager shyness he'd shown upon first meeting Benson and her grandchildren.  They'd gone to a little café in Dam square, a large bustling area that gave enough tourists and natives space to wander around that Benson could disappear if she felt threatened.  Snape had expected the gesture, and though it unnerved him, sat with his back facing the square so that she was more at ease.  He was agitated, but this was for the greater good, the mantra that had driven his conscious for the past twenty years.

"This is my son, Elliot."  Snape introduced, holding a stiff hand behind Potter's shoulder and giving one small squeeze.

Harry slowly raised his head to look at Benson, keeping his eyes large and extending his small hand. Time to start acting.  "Pleased to meet you, ma'am."  

Her smile was soft and her expression was less suspicious than it had been when they'd first arrived.  Snape removed a muggle notepad and pen from his pocket, refusing to admit to himself that Dumbledore may have been correct in his manipulations.

"Such a polite boy," a small note said, passed to Snape with a steady hand.  He idly noted that the hand was flushed, as if there was an irritant rubbing against the top of her skin. He smiled at her, and ignored the giggle that Potter gave him upon seeing the smile.

Two grandchildren were with Benson, a small boy and a girl who were introduced and then shuffled off to play by the war statue close to their chairs. Potter went with them, pretending to be very interested in a game of tag.  Snape wondered if the boy would be smart enough to pick up the Dutch cursing the kids were trying to teach him.

"You're fond of him."   The paper was placed atop his hand this time, and she gave him another small smile as he turned to face her. There was a small grimace on his face when he realized he'd been watching Potter skip off to play.

Snape coughed and opened the notepad.

"We are doing a murder investigation Ms Benson, regarding a child you grew up with at the orphanage in London."  Snape stated, clearly and in a non-accusatory tone.  He noted that she immediately stiffened, and began scratching her arm.

Amy refused to meet Snape's eye, but he continued his questioning softly.

"You left the orphanage at eighteen?"  Snape asked, opening his notebook to make notes.  She made a nod, eyes warily on Snape.

"And fled England at the same time?" 

Another nod.  The notepad was then grabbed, and one sentence was pushed back to Snape.

"You want to know about Tom."

Snape looked up and read the fear in her eyes. The paper was snatched back, scribbled on, and shoved across the table.

"Not today."

She was scratching her hand as if it was covered in something painful, and there were angry welts starting to rise.  Snape knew it was time for retreat.

"Come, Elliot."  Snape called, sitting calmly at the table to not agitate Benson further. Whatever the Dark Lord had done as a boy in the cave, he'd traumatized this woman for more than fifty-five years.

Harry came over almost immediately, and though Snape saw that there were plenty of questions the boy wanted to ask, he kept his mouth shut and simply smiled at Benson, pretending not to notice how agitated she was.

Snape stood and put away his notebook, leaving a card on the table with their hotel phone number on it.  He took Harry's hand and nodded to Ms Benson, promising to be back there the next day.

Amsterdam was not a morning city.  The sun rose early, and in the canals the houseboats swayed with tiny rhythm as their occupants got ready for the day.  Cyclists zoomed through the city, bells ringing and harsh shouts echoing down the streets as they narrowly avoided pedestrians and cars.  The public transit was packed, the little ticket machine pinging away merrily as half asleep workers held tightly onto their AH paper bags filled with breakfast pastries. The grocery store seemed to be the only thing really open in the morning, and there was a long line as people ran in to grab late breakfast or prepackaged sandwiches for lunch.

Harry slept through the whole morning rush.

Snape stood by the hotel window, cup of coffee in hand as he watched a few lazy boats drift through the Singel canal in front of him.  The glass ceiling tourist boats hadn't started yet, but he knew they would by nine, as the tourists woke early to make the most of their time. The shops, however, would not open a moment before ten.

Snape turned and glanced at the small boy that was tangled up in the bed sheets. Potter was wearing an old shirt that was big enough now on him to be considered a night shirt, and somehow he'd wrapped his legs together in his sleep, the blanket tight around him and one arm slung up over his head.  The hair was still an absolute mess, but as a six year old, it was somewhat endearing. Snape took a bitter sip of coffee at that thought.

Shaking his head, Snape unrolled the latest message that had come from Dumbledore via an owl.  Everything was fine back home, his hand was nothing to tell anyone about, and the second pawn had been found.  Hello to his son (Snape scowled at that), and have a nice vacation.  Such a banally light and cryptic message that Snape was slightly annoyed at receiving.  Everything was NOT fine, but the headmaster had other definitions of the word.  At least he'd found Bishop - it would be less work for Snape later.

Snape looked over at the bed again.  Potter, a fifteen year old in a six year old's body, was not to be told about the headmaster's condition yet.  This was for the best right at the moment; Snape could of course see that. However, Dumbledore did not have a lot of time left, and Snape wondered how many people could be taken from Potter before he started to crack.  How would he tell a boy, who'd witnessed his godfather murdered just a month before, that his greatest mentor and role model had finally proven himself mortal?

--

Snape woke him up at eight am, and Harry was very disorientated.  He wasn't used to how tired the six year old body made him, and the lack of nightmare made for a deep sleep. Begrudgingly he rubbed his eyes and groped around for his glasses.  Snape was standing in the doorway to the bathroom with his arms crossed.

"Wear a jumper, we're going out and it's chilly."

Harry dropped his head back to the bed and yawned.   "Great."  The sarcasm wasn't meant to be hidden.

"If you were too stupid to pack one or buy one for yourself I suppose I can sacrifice one of mine."  Neither was Snape's.

"Yes, sir." Harry mumbled.  "Where are we going?"

"We, Potter, are going to the market."  Snape sounded oddly content about this.  "Be ready for breakfast in twenty minutes, and remember Potter, we keep up the act all day. You never know who we might see." 

He entered the bathroom, and shut the door, giving Harry a chance to wake up and stretch.  Harry stared at the door and shook his head, reminding himself that he was supposed to be acting like an adult, or well, an adult acting like a well-behaved child.

Harry did end up having to wear one of Snape's grey knit pullovers, though when he walked past the mirror in the hotel lobby, he smirked to himself upon seeing the reflection.  The sweater was shrunken down almost to fit his body perfectly, with the only exception being the arms that were a bit too long. Harry quite liked the look.

Some of the stalls of the flower market were not fully open yet as they passed through, but Snape seemed not to care and stopped off at every merchant to see what was available.  Harry knew this was a muggle market, and after three stops, all of them started to look the same.  He recognized a few of the flowers from the book on poisonous plants he'd read back in Stockport, but Snape didn't hold any interest in those.  He did buy a fresh bouquet of lilies though, and a few packets of seeds.  Harry walked along quietly, trying not to touch anything and to keep quiet.

Professor Snape was a person who had no reservations spending time by himself, or time spent in complete silence.  Harry was still having a bit of difficulty with that, and it wasn't helping that the deaging potion was making him want to run through the market and smell all the strange flowers.  It also didn't help when Snape told the shopkeeper in English that it was fine to talk for a while with Harry there, as Harry trained to wait quietly. Harry glared at that, but Snape said nothing more and continued on with his purchases. That was just fine with Harry, as Snape would now get what he ordered this morning: a very realistic six year old Elliot Snape. Harry smirked as he crossed his arms and toed some soil that had spilled to the ground.  Snape was not the only one that would have fun on their trip to Amsterdam.

After a minute he started poking some of the leaves on a potted plant by the front entrance of the stall they were in, poking the base of the leaf where it met the plant.  Snape was discussing proper bulb care with the shop owner in fluent Dutch (Harry was still curious to see what this babelfish invention was) and Harry was bored.  The plant started waving against his finger, and Harry grinned to himself. His wand was in a hidden pocket Snape had made in the side seam of Harry's pants, but even without it he could make the plant move.

"Elliot."

The plant dodged under his finger and tickled Harry's skin slightly, causing him to laugh a little. 

"We are leaving now, Elliot, unless of course you wish to get better acquainted with the plant?"  Snape's voice was the perfect mixture of sarcasm and impatience.

"Daaaaaaad."  Harry whined, stomping his foot a little.  He nearly burst into laughter at the horrified look that registered for a second on Snape's face.  "You're silly. It's just a plant!" 

Harry said it with the youthful innocence he'd seen of other children of that age, and he watched Snape try to control his reply.  Technically, Harry was acting his part just as he was supposed to; the revenge for making Harry get up and go to a boring market in the morning was just a bonus.

"C'n we go to McDonald's on the way to the museum?"  Harry cheerfully asked, slipping his hand into Snape's.  He tried to ignore how warm the calloused hand was.

"Absolutely not." Snape replied, keeping his teeth clenched and his grip on Harry's hand very loose.

--

Lunch turned out to be something called a tosti that Snape ordered for them. It was a grilled sandwich with melted cheese and ham inside of it that Harry found he quite enjoyed.  He told Amy Benson all about this while they sat at a new café at a less populated square over the Singel canal, and she gave him her undivided attention.  The lilies that Snape had bought sat next to her, still carefully wrapped in their paper. 

"We went to the Anne Frank museum, too!"  Harry said with a big smile on his face.  The potion was helping him act overly exuberant, though he couldn't remember being this pleased to talk to anyone when he was a kid.

"Did you like it?" The paper was passed to him and the writing was in block print, just in case Harry wasn't able to read cursive writing.  He didn't bother to hide his reading skills. Pretending to be a child was one thing, hiding a basic skill was another.

"I did, yes ma'am.  It was sad to see the pictures though, see how skinny the people were. Reminds me of when I was..."

"Studying them in school." Snape interrupted, handing Harry a glass of juice that the waitress had dropped off. He gave Harry a warning glare, but Benson had already started to guess what Harry had originally been meaning to say.

"Are you Jewish?"  She asked Snape, guessing wrong.

"No." Snape replied, tapping his muggle pen against the notepad he'd once again brought.  "We're not Jewish."

Harry tilted his head curiously. It occurred to him that this might be an opening to find out about the middle name, and he was fairly certain Snape wouldn't hex him in front of Benson.

"My middle name's Fyodor." Harry said, pretending to be a proud child. "So we're not just English."

Snape coughed to cover his admonishment of Potter, before reluctantly explaining further.

"We have Russian lineage."  Snape was annoyed that the conversation wasn't proceeding where he wanted, and that he had to use Potter as leverage to get the woman to talk.  His original idea of a pleasant week in Amsterdam was shot to hell.

"Does your dad have a nice Russian name too?" Benson was smiling and had handed the paper straight to Harry.  She mistook his smirk for child's delight.  Harry wasn't sure, but he was itching to find out.

"Oh yeah. Dad's got a really nice one."  Harry grinned, showing his white teeth.

"I sometimes can't say it right though."  Harry tried to look troubled at this, and prayed that Snape's middle name wasn't a simple English one like John.

He turned to look at Snape and managed not to wince at the smile on Snape's face. It wasn't a grin, it wasn't an upturn of lips, it was an actual real smile.  Harry suddenly felt like he may have gone a bit too far with the teasing.

"Ilya." Snape replied, tearing off a few pieces of paper from his notebook. He placed them in front of Harry and pulled another pen from his pocket, which Harry was certain had been quickly conjured from a quill.

"Which reminds me, my little Elliot."  There was the smile again and Harry's faltered a little.  He wasn't quite sure if Snape had used the name, or actually said little idiot. 

"Your great grandmother will be checking up on your penmanship when she next comes to visit. I think it best to practice writing your name a few times, don't you?"

Harry slunk down a bit in his seat. Snape had given him enough paper to do at least two hundred lines.

A strong hand leaned over and scribbled something down on the top of the paper, the elegant spidery writing that normally was commanded by Snape losing a bit of it's power coming from a ballpoint.

"Good boy." Snape, once again, had the last smirk.

The rest of the conversation, which Harry only partially listened to as he wrote his lines, touched only briefly on Benson's time in the orphanage.  Voldemort wasn't mentioned, but instead they gained a very clear image of the bleakness of growing up in a depression era London orphanage.

After saying goodbye and agreeing to meet again the next day, Harry followed Snape back to the hotel, deep in thought.  Thinking about the orphanage description and the few memories of Snape's that he'd seen, Harry couldn't figure out between him, Snape, and Voldemort, who'd had the worst childhood.

--

The nightmare that Potter had been dreading happened that night.  Wednesday night in Amsterdam was rather quiet, and with the window open Snape could only hear a very low murmur of conversation from the second shift workers who were unwinding at the light night pubs.  He was not quite asleep, lying under the light blankets, but still jumped and grabbed for his wand upon hearing Harry's cries.

He sprung up to his feet and moved next to Harry's bed, listening as Harry pleaded to be let out of somewhere. There were few tears on Harry's face, but he trembled slightly as he tried to claw frantically out of some sort of confined space.  Snape thought about speaking loudly to wake him, but he was distracted by the reality of the dream. At six years old, Harry Potter was begging not to be left behind in...a closet.

Snape knew the potion would bring back the same fears from that age, but for Harry to have remembered the dream well enough before hand to bargain with Snape over it made Snape conclude that he'd had this dream quite often.  This wasn't the regular childhood nightmare of some faceless monster trapping him though.  Harry's body was posed on the bed, on his side, as if he was ready to bolt as soon as he got out of whatever was containing him. He kept crying to be let out, and begged for his aunt and uncle to open the door.

Snape suddenly felt very uncomfortable. He had seen enough of Privet drive in the disastrous occlumency lessons to know that the cupboard was a very real place.  The only problem was, Snape had no idea what the proper way to wake Potter up was without terrifying him further.  Snape stared at Harry, not moving an inch as the boy twisted and cried in bed. He'd seen many people in that pose before, but at those times simply lowering the wand stopped the curse and the pain.  Snape had no experience with children's nightmares; usually the prefects at school handled that.  This was nothing like the first bad dream Harry had had in Stockport.

Thinking that tactile stimuli might work best against mental anguish, he quickly summoned a cloth from the bathroom and with his wand cast a cold aguamenti to soak the towel. Holding it over Harry's head, he let the water drop offer Harry's forehead, freezing cold water to contradict the surrealness of his dream.   The first few droplets startled Harry and he yelped out.

"Let me out! It's in here with me, I can see his eyes!"

Snape frowned at the yell and watched like a hawk as Harry's face scrunched up under the water. His trembling calmed very slightly, but he was still mumbling.  Snape turned on the bright overhead light and, unable to think of anything else, pulled the blanked off Harry and started to lightly tickle his feet.  After a moment, Harry's eyelids bolted open and he looked around with a very confused look on his face.  Snape saw only the six year old; his green sleepy eyes looking innocent and still afraid. Snape sat on the bed and awkwardly opened his arms, remembering that with small children physical contact was sometimes comforting.  He'd read it in a book somewhere.  

Harry eyed him cautiously, and Snape slowly understood that the boy had never been offered comfort after such a traumatizing dream.  It was oddly alright with Snape, as he didn't know how to give comfort and therefore Potter could not be disappointed. After a moment's consideration, Harry crawled over tentatively and sat beside Snape.  He shivered a little, and Snape put his arm around him.

"You're safe." Snape said, his voice low and deep.  Harry seemed to melt against his side, and Snape started reciting a potion recipe, one that was used as a general kitchen cleaner. It was the first thing that came to mind, but seemed to be working as Harry was starting to calm down. After ten minutes the harsh breaths had turned to short hiccups, and the damp head against his shoulder relaxed completely.

Snape gently put Harry back under the covers, and conjured a little light to put on the nightstand.  He pulled the blankets up and spelled off the lights, determined to get to the bottom of the dream in the morning.

--

Harry woke up much quieter than he usually did, and looked to be deep in thought as he slowly peeled away the blankets.  The extra one that Snape had draped over him the night before was still there, on top of the duvet.

"Oh damn."  It was whispered, but Snape still heard it.

"Good morning."  There was a bit of sarcasm in his voice, but neither he nor Harry believed it.

"Sorry for waking you. Again." Harry muttered, sitting up and stretching. Snape stood at the dresser and fastened a muggle watch to his wrist.

"I will not speak of this to anyone else." Snape offered, bringing up the deal they'd made.  Harry waited for the condition.

"Where were you locked up?"

Harry pulled at the covers and shuddered a little, staring at the nightstand. 

"Uncle Vernon used to like watching horror movies late at night in the living room." Harry answered, avoiding the original question. "He used to tell Dudley that monsters wait in closets and under beds to trap and attack horrible children. I used to tell myself they weren't real, it was just a dream."

Snape nodded, and waited for Harry to continue the story.

"I don't know why I beg them to help me. They're the only family I have, but they never would." Harry said, talking to his hands and not noticing how much Snape stiffened at this random tangent. "Anyway, then I got to Hogwarts and found out he was right. Monsters do exist."

Snape didn't smile, but Harry wasn't looking at him anyway.

"I was in my cupboard."  Harry whispered.

Snape gave Harry a small nod and told him to get dressed, as they were going to visit Madame Tussaud's wax museum before meeting up with Amy Benson again.

"Since you kept bothering me about it."  Snape grumbled, refusing to admit he was doing it to cheer Potter up.

--

Snape sipped his coffee as they waited for Amy Benson to return for the third meeting in as many days and cafes. Snape had to admire her caution; and wonder what she was worried about. He glanced to the oversized chessboard that was near the outdoor seats, where Potter was playing an older Dutch gentleman.  This little square, Max Euweplein, was a much less touristy place than the others they'd met at, and Snape was quite content to sit in the sun quietly and watch Potter get trounced in chess. The plastic pieces were half his own height, but Harry still moved them as if he were a general facing battle, much to the amusement of the older man. Little idiot, Snape thought with no malice whatsoever.

Benson arrived right on time, flanked with the two grandchildren and a younger man whom she introduced as her son Jan. The youngsters were sent to play with Harry, and Snape wondered how long it would take for a chess piece battle to ensue.

Twenty minute later the plastic pieces were fiercely defending their sides o the chessboard and Snape had gotten as much information from Benson as he could without directly asking about the cave. She was still very reluctant to speak, and Snape figured that he would be better off questioning Dennis Bishop instead.  Or a brick wall, for all the avoiding this woman could do.

Harry watched Snape talking to Ms Benson's son, politely sipping his coffee. It was a very warm afternoon, and after all the walking they had done that morning, Harry felt himself becoming quite tired.  From the looks of his companions, they were getting sleepy too, though seemed to be absorbed in an argument with two other kids that had joined them.  Fortunately, the other children were from America, and Harry could understand them.

"My dad can run forever and not get tired!" The girl yelled, startling Harry's attention back to the group and starting a whose dad is best contest.  Harry stayed quiet, thinking of James Potter.  His father had made the ultimate sacrifice to save Harry, but these kids around him wouldn't understand that.  He was pretending to be a Snape anyway.

"Your dad is scary!" Jeroen, one of the grandchildren, breathed out in Harry's direction. He fearfully glanced over to where Snape was sitting.  Harry smiled and then laughed with the kids. 

"Yeah, he is scary."  Harry snorted, wondering if Snape would hear and take points.

After another twenty minutes of playing, the group was getting tired and a bit cranky with each other.  Finally having enough, the three made their way back to the table and Harry watched as Jeroen's sister Emma promptly climbed into her grandmother's lap, yawning a question to Harry.

"Have you ever seen the boogey man?" 

There was a slight murmur of amusement from the adults at the topic of conversation, and Harry hid his blush by covering his mouth and faking a responding yawn.  Jeroen had settled on the bench next to his dad, but Harry just stood beside Snape, feeling a bit left out.

"Yeah. He's got red eyes."  Harry answered, looking beyond Jeroen to a shadow playing across the façade of one of the buildings in the square.  He was sleepy and wanted to be held too, but he kept his eyes averted because he knew that Snape would laugh if he asked to -

Thin hands suddenly snaked under his armpits and Harry was lifted up into Snape's lap, a strong arm around the front of him so he rested back against Snape's chest.  Harry felt instantly relaxed as he rose slightly with every breath Snape took, and smelt the delicious coffee that Snape continued to sip.  Harry took a deep breath and burrowed softly against Snape's shirt, almost falling asleep minutes later.

"My dad's a death eater."  Harry whispered, his head resting in the crook of Snape's neck. "He keeps me safe from the boogey man."

Snape stiffened slightly and then relaxed again after a minute.  He thought about what Harry had said, ignoring Jan as he mumbled about the prices of coffee these days. 

Harry had called him a death eater, yes, but there had been no malice or accusations in his tone. Instead, there had been a quiet admiration. It only took a few minutes for Snape to realize that Harry had fallen asleep.

Harry's hair tickled a little under Snape' neck, but oddly he didn't mind all that much.  Potter was very light for his age, but Snape found the weight on his lap rather comforting.  I'm going soft, Snape thought wryly.  He looked across the table at Benson's son Jan, who was now holding his son gently and rubbing the little boy's back subconsciously. Harry shuddered suddenly in his sleep, almost as if he'd sighed.  Snape's hand immediately flew up to cup the side of Harry's head, and he wondered if that would help if Harry got another nightmare.  Snape's eyes widened as he tried to process where on Earth that thought had come from.  He saw Ms Benson smile at him, and fought hard to keep his face impassive. Did they really look like father and son?

"He seems older than he is." The paper was passed across the table quietly.

Snape nodded, wondering where she was going with this.

"His mother died when he was a baby." Snape said it quietly, hoping to not wake Potter.  He heard her scribbling something in her notebook.

"I'm so sorry to hear that."

Snape merely nodded again as he thought of Lily and accepted condolences that were not rightfully his.

Snape carded a finger through Harry's hair absentmindedly and watched a few men pick up the chess pieces to play again. Hearing Jan's voice brought him out of his thought that he was very much enjoying the warm sunny day and bustle about of people carrying on in another language.

"That's a rather angry scar he has." Jan spoke, nodding towards Harry's forehead.  Snape looked down and saw that the scar was bright red against Harry's pale skin and black hair.

"It's from Tom." Snape replied, pretending to be deep in recollection.  He noticed out of the corner of his eyes that Amy Benson had sat straighter.

Suddenly, as if the last tumbler in a lock finally clicked into place, Snape saw Amy Benson's defenses crash.  Her eyes glistened slightly as she shakily pulled a diary out of her bag, old and worn at the edges. Several bands held it together.

Snape waited as she scribbled a note to go with the diary, and took it gently when it was handed over.

"It was almost sixty years ago.  Don't arrest Tom for me. Arrest him for your son."

Snape thought the sentiment was nice, but he had no intention on merely arresting the Dark Lord.  Snape wanted mass destruction. Perhaps Potter would even throw in some of his spectacularly dumb luck and create a small catastrophe in the process. One could hope.

Snape opened the diary slowly as Jan ordered a round of drinks for the adults. The diary was full of sketches mostly, childish ones that had increased in skill as Amy had gotten older. Finally, after flipping through a few pages, Snape found what he was looking for and read slowly.  There wasn't much written, but it was enough to give him flashbacks to the night he had joined the death eaters.

The Dark Lord had lured both into the cave, and at the age of ten proceeded to torture them by rubbing stinging nettles over their hands.  It explained to Snape the itching that Benson had experienced when he first met her, and from the notes in the diary Snape saw that she'd had that problem her whole life.  It was a strong curse for a boy to command, but Snape stopped letting himself be surprised with the Dark Lord a while ago.  The burn of stinging nettles wasn't too far from an accurate description of the Dark Mark summons, and Snape wondered if this was where the idea had come from.

While their hand was burning from the nettles, Snape ascertained from the diary that Riddle called forth a snake, and for lack of a better term, used it for his own amusement and to push the children to their snapping point.  The snake had crawled all over Benson, flicking it's tongue out to taste her as she tried to stay as perfectly still as possible. The snake eventually wrapped itself around her throat, keeping a tight hold on her and keeping her terrified. 

Snape felt sick at the last description of what had happened in the cave.  After twenty minutes of having the snake crawl all over her, Riddle had ordered it to bite her.  It hit her neck and it was then she lost her ability to speak, though no one had realized the handicap was caused by a snake.  Benson did not think she could convince anyone that after doing all that damage, Tom Riddle had healed the wound.

Snape shut the diary and drank his beer. He knew that Riddle had done it out of self preservation, as he certainly wouldn't have cared if a muggle walked around with a snake bite wound.  Looking down at the undersized child sleeping in his lap, Snape prayed that the Dark Lord never captured Potter or his friends, and subjected them to his demented pleasures.

"For the love of god, Potter, stop pacing around the damn room."  Snape was flicking through a tourist map of the city that he'd gotten at the airport, marking off certain spots with his wand.  Harry was walking back and forth between his bed and the bathroom.

"When are we leaving?"  Harry asked suddenly, scratching the back of his neck.   Snape gave him an odd look.

"Saturday evening."  Snape held his wand above the Amstel canal. "There is an open air market on Saturday morning we are going to."

The look of relief on Harry's face was not missed.

"Even though you got what you wanted from Ms. Benson?"  Harry had sat on the bed and was now swinging his legs enthusiastically.

"Yes. Do you not have any other way to burn off that ridiculous energy?"

"I had a good nap." Harry shrugged.  "Do you think the stars will be out tonight?"

"I have no idea."  Snape replied, flipping through the guidebook that had been given to them from the front desk.

"Isn't it weird how some people live from hotel to hotel to hotel? It's like they have no permanent home."  Harry was lying back now, smacking his palms against the bedspread. Snape gritted his teeth.

"For some the word means nothing more than where they rest their head."  There was a small flash of light and Harry suddenly found a Rubik's cube sitting beside him.

"No more questions until you solve that."  Snape stated, with a glare that was completely wasted as Potter had already picked up the toy to start fiddling with it.

--

On Friday morning Snape surprised Harry by taking him on one of the guided boat tours through the city.  Sitting uncomfortably in the bench seats, Snape looked out the windows with slight interest at the buildings and landmarks being pointed out to them.  He was dressed in a nice pair of grey slacks and a white dress shirt with his sleeves rolled up. The Dark Mark was covered with a medical wrap, and he rested his arm on the bag from Waterstones' bookstore by his side.  They'd stopped there on their way to the boats, Snape sending Harry to the comic book section before he asked the shopkeeper for assistance.  He was pleased with how impassive he'd kept his face when he'd inquired about books dealing with reoccurring nightmares, but was curious as to why he'd blushed, blushed of all things instead of scowled, when he was pointed toward the parenting section of the store.

The ride lasted for about an hour, and was rather peaceful when one ignored the multilingual speeches about the different landmarks. Harry was rather subdued as he tried to not be interested in the sights from the boat and Snape kept his smirk mostly hidden to allow Potter his proper sulk.  They'd gotten into a row that morning over disguises, Potter being of the opinion that since the mission was successful, he should be allowed to change back to a fifteen year old.

Snape had calmly started to tick off the names of wizards who were out to capture or harm Potter, the odds of that happening when he was so far away from his blood wards, and the percentage of people in the Wizarding part of Amsterdam that would recognize him.  The numbers were fabricated, but Harry didn't know that and Snape, regardless of how well Potter had played his part, refused to be disobeyed.

Unfortunately, before Snape could finish his calculated speech on why he knew best, Harry had stormed off to the washroom to take a shower, leaving Snape to wonder when the brat had become less afraid of him.

Now though, as their lunch was delivered to their table at the small café, he noticed that Harry was acting more reserved than defiant. Almost as if he were protecting himself from something unpleasant to come. 

"To accomplishment."  Snape held up his glass of water in a small toast.  He watched as Potter's head snapped up and a moment of unguarded happiness lit up his eyes.

"So, I did well on the mission?"  Harry was playing with his fork and staring over Snape's shoulder, an annoying habit that he had when he was nervous.

"You were...passable." Snape said after a moment's consideration. He did not bother to hide the little quirk of his lips when Potter's eyes focused on him.

"Do you think you might tell Dumbledore that? You know, in case there are any others..." Harry trailed off, his cheeks blushing, and his eyes oddly wet.  Snape did not believe he could be fighting tears.

"Headmaster Dumbledore." Snape corrected automatically.  "And I would have thought you'd want to rush back to spend the rest of the summer with your friends, Potter."

"I guess. But helping you with this made me feel a bit useful towards the war, if you know what I mean."  Harry tried to shrug nonchalantly.

"I suppose." Snape pondered, pausing from his lunch and putting aside his cutlery. 

"The last time I tried to help, Sirius was killed. This time I did something right." Harry pushed his plate forward, appetite long gone.

Snape studied the boy in front of him. Physically a six year old, but the voice and the mannerisms were much older, and he more practiced at keeping himself together than he should have been.

"You're still grieving."  Snape said, his tone rather soft compared to his usual. "The Dark Lord has bent the will of many weaker wizards; he would have lured you to the ministry one way or another."

It was Snape's roundabout way of saying Sirius' death was not his fault, but Harry gritted his teeth anyway. After half a year of Snape telling him that he was useless at occlumency, Harry couldn't help but feel that falling for the trap had brought about his godfather's death.

"So I'm doomed to be the victim then? I'm terrible at occlumency, which you've told me many times. It's my fault he was there, my fault he risked his life, my fault he paid for it."  Tears were starting to fall, and Harry swiped them angrily with his sleeve.

"Stupid kid's body. And of course I'm still grieving! I finally had a godfather I was getting to know and then in just one minute he was gone! No warnings, no goodbyes, just gone."  Harry rasped out the last bit and snatched the handkerchief Snape was holding out. It had been a long time since Harry had cried in public and he was frustrated that he couldn't control it now.  He didn't notice that Snape seemed unsurprised about the outburst.

Snape leaned forward and spoke in a low tone, one that chilled Harry to his spine. It wasn't fully the voice, but also the pained expression on Snape's face.

"So instead of just enjoying your happiness up until the moment he died, you would rather have known a year beforehand that he was going to die, and that there was nothing you could do to stop it?"

There was resignation in Snape's eyes, and Harry shifted in his seat as he processed the look and realized Snape was not speaking hypothetically.

"Who..." Harry started, but was cut off when Snape gruffly waved his hand.

"Never mind and finish your lunch. You'll need more muscle for the next mission and you look like a little runt right now."

Snape pulled open a De Telegraaf newspaper that had been left on the chair beside him and tried to ignore the fact that making Potter's lost puppy look go away made him feel slightly better as well.

Harry sat quietly and tried to eat the rest of his sandwich, as he thought about how many people Snape knew, which was quite a lot, and how many Snape would actually be disturbed about their impending death, which was startling few.   The rest of lunch was eaten mechanically, and Harry thought about what he'd next get to do on their second mission to forget the unpleasantness that his original thoughts had implied.

--

The summons came at eight pm, just after Harry and Snape had returned to the hotel room after dinner.  Snape had been considering going for a walk in the warm evening, but when his arm started to give it's ten minute warning burn, all pleasant ideas were abandoned and Snape jumped into his emergency mode.

Harry sat on the bed looking a bit bewildered as Snape moved carefully around the room, placing a few wards silently on the windows and pulling a small bundle of vials from his suitcase. He tossed one at Harry, who caught it at the last moment out of reflex more than intent.

"Take it, and give me your watch." 

Harry took off the old watch Snape had first given him in Stockport and handed it over, before popping the cork off the vial.

"What is this?"  He asked, nervous now at how high strung Snape seemed to be.

"Antidote. You can protect yourself better when you're bigger."  Snape was not looking at him, but instead fiddling with something on the watch and pointing his wand at it.

"Can you make certain parts bigger than they were before?" Harry asked with a skittish attempt at a grin, kicking himself mentally. Stupid nervous habit.

Snape looked up and stared at him.

"Potter, don't be vulgar."  The watch was handed back and Snape enlarged Harry's clothes just in time for him to grow back to his normal size.

 "If the watch face turns red, press the knob at the side of the watch three times. It is a portkey to a safe location where I can find you. I will be back as soon as possible; stay in the hotel room. There is fifty euros on the table there that you can order yourself food with.  Do not hesitate to use magic if you need it."

Snape looked over Harry, who was rolling his own wand in his hand and staring around the room.  Snape's speech, and the fact that he seemed to be genuinely concerned about Harry's safety, unnerved Harry a bit further.

"Potter."  Harry gave Snape a smile that the elder took to mean ‘I'll be fine.'

Snape nodded and pulled his traveling cloak on. Four minutes to apparate to the Dark Lord before he sent the official summons.

"Don't stay up too late, and dream before bed." And with a crack, Snape was gone.

--

Harry paced around the hotel room, looking at the clock. How stupid.  Snape had left just half an hour ago for the meeting, and Harry wanted out. Out of the tiny hotel room, out of the hotel, out to walk around without Snape constantly reminding him he was a target.  He wanted out, but another part of him was scolding himself for wanting to break Snape's very valid order for him to stay inside.

And what was it with Snape always telling him to daydream before falling asleep? Granted, since he'd started doing that he'd not had a nightmare every night, but it was still a bit strange to have Snape telling him to do that. As if the man were even capable of pleasant daydreams.

Harry flopped on the bed and muttered darkly toward the ceiling. This was worse than living at the Dursleys - at least his escape from there was justified.  But here...he was in Amsterdam of all places. The city of sin!  And just like Hogwarts, the overwhelming urge to explore his surroundings was calling at him, but now he had some small guilty conscious nagging him to stay inside.

Thinking back over their conversation at lunch, however, made Harry change his mind a little.  Sirius had not known a moment before the end had come that his time was up. Sirius had lived for the moment, and from what Harry had heard of the adventures, had enjoyed most of the life he'd had outside of captivity.   What if this was to be Harry's last summer? What if this was his only time coming to Amsterdam?  Harry definitely didn't want his only memories of the place to be as seen through the perspective of a six year old.  And besides, only Snape and Dumbledore knew Harry was in Amsterdam, so the chances of anyone in the muggle world recognizing him were probably very slim.

Whomever Snape had been referring to at lunch as well, the person who'd been told he was going to die soon, would surely want to make the best of whatever time he had left.  Harry swallowed hard as he tried not to think of the prophecy and the fact that it was between him and one of the most powerful evil wizards in a few centuries to see who would come out alive.

Harry was not a betting man, but he didn't need to flip a coin to guess how that would come out.  However, speaking of coins...

Twenty minutes later and sixty flips of the twenty-eurocent piece that was sitting on the dresser, and Harry had his decision.  The Dutch Queen's portrait (which Harry thought looked a bit squarish and lacking of detail) had landed up thirty eight times, which meant he was going out.  Harry ignored the small heavy feeling in his stomach and stood up.  Snape hadn't come back yet, and considering he'd told Harry to go to bed early, he probably wouldn't be back for quite a while.

Looking around the room, Harry's eyes settled on the room service menu.  Snape had told him he could order something from room service.  That was certainly nice of Snape, Harry thought with a grin. Perhaps the Slytherin had been spending too much time with the Gryffindor, to be that nice.  Harry flipped through the menu, and found a small slice of apple pie that he could order, with some fresh juice. That would work.  Harry placed the order, and looked around the room to see what else he needed.

With wand and wallet stuffed into his jeans, Harry was fighting an internal debate as he waited for the room service to arrive. It wasn't cold enough to require a jacket, but Harry needed to look older than 15, and Snape's muggle jacket was just sitting there on the chair. To wear it or not...Harry's cheeks tinged slightly red when he imagined playing dress up and walking around in his professor's clothes, but then again, it would complete his image and he was vaguely aware of having worn an old nightshirt of Snape's the first night when he was so very drunk in Stockport.

Shaking that particular memory out of his head, Harry jumped when an impatient knock sounded at the door.  Grabbing the jacket and twisting it on, Harry also took some money and opened the door.  The attendant brought Harry's order in, and only looked vaguely surprised when Harry followed him to the door.

"Forgot something, chemist's."  Harry muttered with a forced blush.  The attendant merely shrugged, and accepted Harry's tip.  Harry followed him out the door and locked it securely behind him. No matter what spell Snape had put on the door, by going out with the attendant, Harry figured that Snape would never know that Harry had left for a bit.

At least, that's what he very much hoped.  Harry did up Snape's jacket, ignoring the pang of guilt he felt when he smelled the anise lingering on the jacket.  The night was rather warm, and people were milling about on the street in front of the hotel, laughing and talking loudly to one another.  Harry stuck his hands in his pockets and set off, looking determinedly like he belonged and was not one to be bothered.  Avoiding the errant teenagers cycling on the street, Harry headed up Kalverstraat towards the Dam, and towards the one area he was very eager to explore.

Ten minutes later, after a very brisk walk, Harry entered the Red Light District.

Harry sauntered up Oudezijds Voorburgwal, one of the main streets in the Red Light district that he'd remembered quickly glancing at the street sign for when Snape had whipped them through there earlier in the day.  At night it was completely different. Nearing 8 pm already, the streets were full of rowdy drunken tourists, mostly British Harry noted with a sour look on his face.  Pubs were full of lively and shouting people, and the sickly sweet smell of cannabis permeated through the air as he passed by the coffee shops. Harry walked with a brisk pace, not wanting to be caught by going too slow, and not wanted to get second-hand stoned.

He did, however, stop into a brightly lit smart shop that looked rather clean and open.  Neville had told Harry all about the muggle uses of mushrooms to create hallucinogenic dreams, and while he was a bit wary of what sort of horrors his mind could dredge up, it was interesting to see the varied types the muggles had cultivated. There was even a small menu with listed effects from each different kind of mushroom on it. Harry left the shop without purchasing anything, but feeling a bit less naïve.  He smiled down at the tattoo that had reappeared on his arm, and then walked with his head held a bit higher.  He was right to come out tonight; the Boy Who Lived Sheltered was finally getting out and seeing life outside the box.  Harry ignored the uneasiness he felt as he tried to keep constant vigilance toward everything going on around him.

He walked towards the old church, and found himself staring at the windows again, the red street lamps much more obvious in the fading light of day.  The women were dressed even more provocatively than before, some topless, and Harry clenched his teeth together to keep his jaw shut.  He must have kept his eyes on one set of windows too long, however, because the rather bored looking woman in a bright pink thong suddenly shouted to him.

"Hey boy! It's fifty euros for a fu..."

But Harry spun on his feet and walked quickly around the other side of the church, face burning. Perhaps it had been a stupid idea to come here at night.  Harry kept his eyes lowered, walking towards the edge of the District, back towards the Damrak.  The smell of fresh greasy chips invaded his nose, and Harry could see that this street was more for the tourists, lots of pubs spotted up and down the street, plus a few souvenir shops and sex shops.  The sex shops had Harry's attention, and he forgot momentarily about his urge to flee back to the hotel room. Instead, other fifteen-year-old urges popped to the forefront of his mind, and Harry remembered his mission.  He was a man, out on the town and he was going to have fun.  Before long, Harry found himself slipping into a shop that had bright fluorescent lights at the door, and a surprising amount of leather hanging from the ceiling.

The shop was narrow and had some booths for viewing, Harry speculated for a second before pretending they didn't exist. He moved to the back of the shop, where he'd spotted some magazines behind a huge wall of multi-coloured toys.  Though he felt like sneaking over, Harry knew he had to keep up appearances and so walked with purpose, as if going to a muggle sex shop was something he did once a month, as regular as paying rent or buying groceries.  He carelessly gave his ID to the clerk when requested, and with a small smile carried on to the magazines.  He thanked whatever god made the lights in the store tinged red, because he was sure his blush covered his whole face.

Harry scanned the multitude of magazines, skipping over the rather detailed fetish ones in favour of the regular and he supposed somewhat duller straight ones.  Half listening to the conversation at the counter where one man was loudly debating the quality of silicone in a rather vulgar looking sex toy - damn if the Dutch weren't ridiculously progressive - Harry finally found a magazine that looked like it would suit his purposes, well enough that merely flipping through it had made his trousers tight already.

Selecting another issue of the same series, Harry took a deep steadying breath and turned around, ready to march up to the cash register. He took one step forward, only to run into one black solid wall of very angry Severus Snape.

"Fuck."  Harry whispered, colour and blood leaving his face and pooling rapidly at his feet. He almost dropped the magazines, but a very painful grip had seized his right arm and Harry found himself frozen.

"You better have not." Snape growled, squeezing Harry's arm tighter and wrenching the magazines out of his hand. He shoved them back on the shelf before pulling Harry forward, heading for the exit. The shopkeeper was watching them carefully, wary of the confrontation.

"I...I can explain."  Harry mumbled, unable to look away from the angry black eyes that were glaring at him. Snape looked absolutely livid, and it was a look Harry never wanted to be on the receiving end of again.

The shopkeeper heard this and spoke over the man who was now talking about industrial grade silicone.

"You! You okay with that man?" 

Harry could tell that the shopkeeper was concerned, but it was only partially for him. Though he'd seen Harry's ID when Harry first walked in, potential minors in the store caused a lot of problems, as did people starting fights.

"Yeah. Fine, He's my..." Harry tried to sound nonchalant, but his knees were shaking and he knew it was a long walk back to the hotel room.

The man took one look at Harry's guilty and anxious face, to Snape's look of murderous calm.

"Ah, your dad. Stupid boy."  The man waved his hand dismissively and returned to the loud customer.  Snape dragged Harry out of the shop and they walked through the crowd in absolute silence.   The grip on his arm never lessened, in fact, Snape was using it to steer Harry and Harry knew that come morning his arm would have an impressive bruise in the shape of Snape's hand. He didn't say a word about it however, nor did he try to slow down his walk to prolong their arrival at the hotel, because somehow Harry knew that scrubbing cauldrons or windows would be the least of his punishment.

Snape, for his part, was completely silent as they marched back, to the point that Harry wasn't even sure if the man was fully breathing. Really, Harry wasn't sure how the night could get much worse, which was ironic considering how merely two hours earlier he thought it'd be the best night of his life.  Alone in Amsterdam, able to explore the dirtier side of the city, not needing to be the perfect innocent Boy Who Lived. Though he had to admit, it had been a little nerve wracking walking by himself through the drunken and debauched crowds, avoiding things he thought he saw in the shadows in the alleys.  At least for their walk back, people were giving the Boy Who Lived and the Evil Dungeon Bat a wide berth.

Harry wanted to snicker at that, but he valued his life for a little longer. He then cursed himself for feeling safer in the city with an angry Snape walking beside him.  He figured that Snape was walking him back to the hotel room instead of apparating, in order to give himself time to cool off.

Harry used the rest of the time to think of the best logical explanation for his very stupid idea of leaving the protection of the hotel room alone, and gulped when he saw the front door to the NH Hotel appear.

Time was up.

They arrived back to the hotel and once across the door Snape finally let go of Harry's arm.  Snape spun around and warded the door shut, which Harry watched with fearful eyes, though he didn't move.  His mind was screaming at him to run, hide under the bed, lock himself in the bathroom or do something equally as stupid, but his limbs were betraying him. 

"It wasn't what you think!" Harry blurted, feeling the urge to say something in the silence. He'd worked himself up on the walk back and his nerves were tingling.

"And what exactly was it then, Mr. Potter?" Snape asked, in a dangerously low voice. He'd crossed his arms and leaned towards Harry, making Harry press back against the wall.

"I just wanted fresh air. Can't the Boy Who Lived have a bit of fun?"  Harry glared back, but was scrunching his hands against his side. The only thought that was spurning his courage was his belief that Dumbledore would not allow Snape to kill him.  Not yet anyway.  It was then that Harry remembered he was wearing Snape's jacket, just as Snape grabbed hold of the lapels.

"Fresh air." He repeated, voice starting to rise. "You're in Amsterdam, alone, far away from your little friends and protection, and you decide to go for a jaunt in the Red Light District.  Can you not listen to directions once, Potter? I told you to STAY HERE!"

Snape shook him on the last words, and Harry got caught up in the moment. His nervous energy flushed forward and he started shouting without thought.

 "I wanted out! You can't keep people locked up, and why do you care anyway? You've always hated me!"

Harry tried to slap the hands away from his jacket, but Snape wasn't letting go.

"I've kept you alive since you were eleven. I'll be damned if I fail now." Snape snarled, and started hauling Harry toward the table and chairs.

"Let me go, you git!" Harry grunted, trying to wrestle himself out of Snape's grasp.  He was caught off kilter when Snape stopped, turned him a little, and landed a sharp smack to his bum.

"What the fu..." Harry managed to gasp out before the second smack followed directly after.  Snape delivered three more in rapid concession, punctuating them with the words ‘you will pay attention.'

Harry, however, was momentarily stunned and felt confused as his anger quickly left him. What had just happened? And who did Snape think he was making such a big deal out of it; Sirius wouldn't have cared if Harry had gone!  Sirius probably would have cheered Harry on.

"St...stop! What do you think you're doing?" Harry ground out, blinking his eyes owlishly when he realized that they were becoming wet.

Snape had already stopped though, and turned to sit on the chair. He pulled Harry forward, keeping a strong grip on Harry's arms, making him stand directly in front of Snape and look down to meet his professor's eyes.

I'm getting your attention, is what I'm doing."  Snape said, and Harry could tell he was trying to control his temper. Whatever reason he had done it for, Snape certainly had Harry's attention now.

"It was just a walk and some stu...stupid magazines." Harry stuttered; his backside felt a small twinge and Harry still couldn't believe Snape had actually spanked him.

Snape's lips tightened and he was muttering something that Harry thought sounded like cursing in another language.

"It's not what you did Potter, it's why you did it. You performed well on the mission this week, and I trusted you to stay here." Snape lectured in an irritated tone, keeping his dark eyes locked on Harry's green ones.  "Do you have any idea what you put me through tonight?"

Oh. Damn. Harry watched as Snape ran his hand through his hair in agitation and then Harry's stomach plummeted. All his anger was gone now; he'd thought detentions from the man were painful at school, but it was noting compared to knowing he'd finally earned Snape's trust and then lost it.

"I didn't mean to embarrass you." Harry replied, keeping his head down and trying to look anywhere but at Snape.  He'd been ready for a shouting match when they'd walked through the door, and could deal with that.  A rational conversation with Severus Snape was nothing Harry was prepared for.

"Embarrassment was the least of my problems." Snape growled and kept his hands tight on Harry's arms, not hurting him, but preventing him from backing away. Harry felt rather uncomfortable standing so close to Snape, and his eyes were still slightly watery.

"Where did I go tonight?" Snape asked, making Harry feel worse. He'd seen Molly Weasley lecture Ron and his brothers before, but Harry never understood why they hated Mrs. Weasley's ‘I was worried' speech until now.

"To a death eater meeting."  Harry said, rather meekly. How exactly had Snape made him go from a defiant almost-adult to feeling like a small child being scolded? No wonder Dumbledore had made Snape head of house.

"Look at me, Potter."

Harry looked up and really took in Snape's face.  The anger was still there, but Harry saw that there were lines around his eyes and mouth that showed some of the stress that was emanating from his body.  Snape looked tired, annoyed, and at the end of his rope, but Harry also saw the tiniest sign of relief in the older man's expression, which confused him.  It also explained some of the guilt Harry was feeling; it looked almost like Snape had stalked around Amsterdam for a while trying to find Harry.

"I did not."  Snape said after a moment, somehow knowing what Harry had concluded. "I daresay that would have been easier on me.  That watch you wear has spells on it that let me know when you are in danger, so instead I was sitting in a meeting room, filled with thirty death eaters and the Dark Lord when the silent alarm alerted me that you left the hotel room."

Oh. Harry gulped and sniffed quietly.  Of course Snape would have a way to track Harry while he was gone.

"As you know Potter, the Dark Lord is skilled in legilimency."  Snape continued, his voice not smug as it normally would have been in class.  "So I sat there, wondering whether you'd left the room on your own accord or had been taken, where you had gone, if you were safe, and how to keep these thoughts from him," Snape finished, not breaking eye contact.

The tears started again; Harry couldn't help it this time. It sounded almost like Snape cared.

"Stop."  Harry whispered, closing his eyes.  He had been in trouble before; at the Dursley's he'd been locked up, swatted as a child, been kept without food, and forced to do chores. He'd felt sorry at the time, but he'd never before regretted doing something like he did now.

"Tell me why you left, Potter." Snape was relentless, and his cold tone demanded an answer.  Harry wished he would yell irrationally instead.

"I just wanted to..." Harry started, but he was interrupted when a box of tissue was shoved toward him.

"You wanted to go out, and your nasty teacher locked you in your room."   Snape deadpanned. Harry, in a moment of clarity, kept his first reaction to the statement to himself.

"Yeah."  Harry shifted on his foot, wanting to sit down, but Snape kept him where he was. It was odd to be looking down at his teacher, and Harry felt a bit off balanced, as if he was disrespecting the man.

"Not good enough. Why did you want to go out?"

"I just did. You were gone and we're leaving soon and I just thought..." Harry let himself trail off, almost in hope that Snape would fill in the blanks.  He didn't.

"Tell me the exact thing that went through your mind when you decided to leave."  Snape looked like he was perfectly fine with keeping Harry standing there all night until he got his answers.

"I thought that the queen's head on the coin wasn't a very detailed picture compared to ours."  Harry blurted out, keeping his gaze on Snape's knees.  The man would probably be furious if he knew that Harry had been thinking about Sirius' adventures before going.

"You flipped a coin." The way that Snape was almost grinding his teeth told Harry that he'd better think of another answer as fast as possible.  Remembering the taste of the mustard on his tongue, and the fact that Snape was probably already going to kill him, Harry went for the truth.

"I was thinking about Sirius. And that person you mentioned before, the one who had a year to live." 

Snape stiffened at this - he'd not expected that answer.  Harry took a breath and continued, after all, in for a penny, in for a pound.

"I thought that since this is probably my only time I'll ever go to Amsterdam, that I should experience it.  I really haven't done much and that prophecy is rather, well, blunt."

Snape took a few minutes to study Harry, releasing one arm to hold up Harry's chin with his hand. 

"Potter, if it kills me this summer, you will learn that your actions have consequences, and that your life is worth something."  Snape stood up and steered Harry toward the bathroom.

"I know it is.  I have to defeat Voldemort." Harry grumbled, feeling sorry for himself.

"Don't be ridiculous." Snape scoffed, wetting a towel that was sitting by the sink and wiping Harry's face with it.  "If that were the sole purpose of your life I would have dragged you to him already to get it over with."

Harry's heart stopped cold and he stared with an open mouth at Snape.  The guilty feeling was instantly forgotten and he measured his teacher's unreadable face. This couldn't be though, Dumbledore trusted Snape.

"Relax, you idiot." Snape handed him a toothbrush and put the cloth down.  He made eye contact, but Harry never felt the invading touch of legilimency. 

"You don't expect to live after meeting Voldemort." It was a statement posed as a question, and Harry answered it by shaking his head.  He needed no time to think about the answer, as it had been on his mind since the night in the cemetery when Cedric died.

Snape regarded him with a calculating look, before spinning on his heels and leaving the room.  "I will change that.  Be ready for bed in ten minutes."  Harry stared at the door in bemusement.  Were a few swats and a stern talking to all the punishment he was going to get?  Considering it was Snape, Harry thought he was getting off rather easily. Then again, the horrible feeling he'd gotten at Snape's utter disappointment in Harry for leaving the room was something he didn't want to experience a second time.

 When Harry emerged from the bathroom ten minutes later, he found Snape sitting at the desk by the window, scribbling a note quickly in the margin of a book. It was one Harry had seen Snape pick up at Waterstones', but Harry had no idea what the book was about as Snape had kept it rather hidden.  He dropped his clothes on top of his suitcase and moved to the bed, closest to the wall away from Snape.

"As my first desire was to strangle you upon sight, we will be discussing your punishment once back in England. For now, rest assured that you will not be leaving my side any time soon, and will be writing me an essay on the consequences of your actions and what you think you are worth."

Harry nodded silently to this, and stared down at the bed.

"What now, Potter?" Snape said at Harry's hesitation.  He still looked annoyed from earlier, but Harry figured most of the frustration had been taken out on the walk back to the hotel and the lecture.

"Can I still help you on that second mission?"  Harry asked, trying to keep he hope out of his voice.

"We will see," Snape finally answered as Harry climbed into bed. "You are grounded at the moment. There will be no going to the Burrow, but I am undecided on the mission"

Harry took that to mean it was a privilege he could earn back by acting responsible and doing what he was told.  He settled into bed feeling a tiny bit better.

Harry was surprised to feel the sheets warm, and to find a strange object beneath the covers.  Harry lifted back the covers enough to see a small cloth covered bag of what felt like kidney beans, heated up so the bag was warm to Harry's touch.  It felt good against his stomach, and Harry curled up on his side, hugging it. Had Snape put it there?  The man had to have, since Harry knew no one else had been in the hotel room since they'd gotten back.

Snape walked over to the bed and turned out the light by the bedside table. He held out his hand for Harry's glasses, placing them on the table beside Harry's wand.

"The watch told you where I was?"  Harry didn't turn away from the wall, as he was having difficulties not yawning. He was tired from night out, tired from the crying, and tired from his guilt.

 "Yes. I am well aware of your nighttime wandering habits, Potter. I have four different ways to track you at all times."  Snape responded, taking back the jacket Harry had worn and draping it neatly over a chair.

"Sirius wouldn't have cared if I'd gone."  Harry was mumbling more to himself, but Snape heard him anyway.

"He never did care for the well being of others." Snape's tone was flat and unemotional.  There was no sneer in his voice, and Harry hugged the beanbag tighter as he thought about what Snape had said, and remembered what he saw in Snape's pensieve.

Snape was right. Sirius would not have cared much about any danger, and he probably wouldn't have bothered to put tracking spells on Harry.

"Listen to me and repeat what I say."  Snape spoke, his voice carrying softly over the bed and catching his attention. "Harry James Potter is not invincible."  The ‘you must therefore take care of yourself' was implicit.

Harry turned and took in the blurry figure that stood beside him.  He opened his mouth and in one sentence dispelled all the rumours and gossip surrounding his status as the Boy who Lived. 

"Harry James Potter is not invincible."

Snape nodded and moved Harry's shoes to the end of the bed, so Harry wouldn't trip on them if he went to the washroom in the middle of the night.  

"Neither is Elliot Snape."  Harry mumbled, his eyes closed and his body warm from the beanbag.

Snape paused as he folded down the covers of his own bed.

"No."

Harry yawned and let himself slip into a daydream. The room was warm, the bed was very soft, he could hear people talking through the cracked open window, and the sound of Snape flipping through a book in the bed beside him lulled Harry's mind into a very comfortable zone.  His bottom didn't hurt really, but it felt more a residual warm ache than a sting, and the hot beanbag against his belly was counteracting it.

"I'm still in trouble, aren't I?"  Harry asked sleepily, pulling the blanket up under his chin.  He didn't know Snape was watching him from the other bed.

"Like a mouse amongst a nest of snakes, Potter." Snape answered, settling back against pillows and releasing muscles that had been tense since the watch had first alerted him.

--

Harry woke up the next morning feeling horribly embarrassed about the night before.  Snape was already awake and moving around the room, and Harry kept his eyes closed as he tried to fake rolling in his sleep, and pulling the covers up over his head.

Apparently Snape saw through his movements though, as seconds later the whole top sheet was yanked from the bed and Harry saw Snape standing with his arms crossed at the end of the bed.   A small vial was in one of his hands, and after a moment Harry held out his own hand to take it.  Snape regarded him with a stern glare, and passed the potion.

"Head hurt from crying?"  Snape said in an even voice, watching Harry take the correct dosage.

"No." Harry answered in a quiet tone, turning back on his side and huddling up as the potion took effect.

Snape watched as the short and thin teenager that he'd known for five years shrunk down to a tiny and even shorter child.  The black shaggy hair was a bit longer, long enough to cover the infamous scar on his forehead, and the green eyes looked a bit lighter.  The body was undersized, and Snape knew from Harry's growth pattern over the years that it had not been caused by genetics. 

Harry shivered and hugged himself a little, swallowing back something as his six-year-old feelings took dominance once again in his body.  Snape turned around to allow Harry time to his thoughts, and folded up his list of ingredients that he wanted to purchase at the market. A sarcastic and combative Potter irked him to no end, but he didn't like this resigned version either.  It only confirmed his theory that the disobedience had very little to do with Snape himself.

"Stop sulking, Elliot." Snape said, using the name on purpose. "This is the last day in Amsterdam and I will not be dragging a petulant child with me through the city. We will deal with your punishment back in England."

Snape gave Harry a pointed look, and did not react when Harry smiled a tiny smile.

--

The man who owned De Gouden Sleutel, which was a dingy little café on the Amstel just past Muntplein, was a rather simple man who enjoyed his beer strong, his food greasy, and his routine to flow smoothly.  The café drew very little interest from most who passed through it, with its one dusty table and mismatched chairs that stood under the one window by the door.  An old menu on the table still had prices in Dutch Guilders instead of Euros, though Dirk only accepted galleons in exchange for anything ordered.  The problem of mismatched prices had never come up though, and Dirk was quite happy to spend his days watching muggles bustle by his window, waving wizards through to De Kromweg with a slight nod.

Dirk's routine was jarred slightly by the two wizards that entered early in the morning that Saturday, the taller menacing one wearing his dark robes with an air of confidence that did not cross the line into snobbiness. The little one, who looked to be five or six, had a shaved head, brilliant hazel eyes, and a t shirt with some sort of fluorescent puppet on it, had actually waved at Dirk as they passed through.

The coffee seemed a bit more aromatic this morning, and Dirk spelled the alley door to allow them passage.  He even gave a small wave back at the boy, before returning his gaze to his window.

--

Just like he had on his eleventh birthday, Harry felt overwhelmed with giddiness as they entered De Kromweg.  Snape had mentioned that it meant Crooked Way or something like that, but Harry didn't care about translations at the moment. He closed his eyes as Snape laid a hand on his collar to keep him close, and took a deep breath.

It smelled different than Diagon Alley, but not unpleasant.  There was a mixture of damp earth and fresh bulbs coming from the flower stalls at the market to his right and just up ahead Harry could hear shouts from a group of wizards in aprons that were tossing fish and haggling with customers.   Harry instinctively latched his hand onto the edge of the pocket of Snape's robe, and followed him with wide eyes through the streets.

Most of the shops were similar to the ones back home, except the names were foreign to him and the fashions slightly different. Harry saw a stall that sold magical pets and supplies for them, resisting the urge to stop by the tank of snakes and see if parseltongue had a Dutch variant.  Snape stopped at the stall next to this and pulled out a list of things to buy; the stall looked like a mixture between a produce market and a garden center.  Harry stood still and watched around him, smiling at three boys who ran past their group shouting at each other, ice cream cones in hand with ice cream that changed colours every few seconds.  An ice cream would be a nice treat on such a hot day.

Harry stayed silent, however, not daring to ask Snape for one. He didn't really deserve it, and he'd told himself to be on his best behaviour today. Nothing could fix his stupidity for the night before, but perhaps it would alleviate some of his shame for disappointing Snape. The man had hinted that Harry was going to take part in his next mission, and perhaps if Harry were at his best, Snape would still let him go.  He'd told himself he wouldn't speak a word unless spoken to, and so far Snape had seemed to appreciate the silence as they'd walked through the crowds.

When Snape was done with the merchant, he silently cupped his hand to the side of Harry's head and gently turned them both to continue down the street. It felt weird to have Snape's hand against him, but Harry figured that was probably from the lack of hair. There had been a twenty minute row that morning over the disguise Snape had planned for Harry, the hair spelled into a very short shaved cut, dirty brown fuzz remaining to match with hazel brown eyes.  The scar had been hidden by muggle makeup, something Harry hadn't been too pleased about, and Harry had refused to speak to Snape for a while, his cheeks flushed red with embarrassment, as Snape had transfigured him a perfectly fitted Fraggle Rock t shirt.

At least it was a stationary picture on the t-shirt, and not a moving one, Harry thought as they entered a shop called Kleis en Gijs Apotheek.

Snape made quick work of visiting the apothecary to check for ingredients he couldn't get in England or Scotland.  Harry amused himself by staring across the street at the store called Koninklijk Zwerkbal, laughing at the sign on the wall. Quidditch was apparently zwerkbal in Dutch, and Harry rolled the word on his tongue as he tried to pronounce it properly.

"Elliot, come here."  Snape was standing at the counter, and from the looks of his impatience, had been for more than a few minutes.  Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes and walked towards the other side of the shop, running his fingers along the shelves as he went.  Snape tapped his foot a few times as he spoke to the cashier, but Harry walked carefully over.  He resisted the childish urges of the deaging potion; Harry refused to run in a shop full of disgusting ingredients in breakable jars.

Harry stopped at the edge of one shelf, idly touching one small jar of powdered griffin claw as Snape bartered with the cashier. He stared back out the window and stopped listening to Snape, instead focusing on a teenager outside the shop who looked his regular age.  The boy was tall and gangly, dressed in a rock band t-shirt and low hung jeans, his messy hair scattered atop his head with what looked like muggle gel.  He was leaning against the doorway to Koninklijk Zwerkbal, arms crossed and a bored look on his face.

Harry picked up the jar of powder and held tight to it as he watched an older man, the spitting image of the teen, walk up and start talking.  The boy had such a look of contempt on his face at whatever the man was saying - Harry almost shook the jar as he flinched - and after a minute of listening to the man who pretended to be oblivious to the attitude, the boy shouldered his father away and stalked off in another direction. Not even a single look back, but Harry saw the resignation in the older man's reflection.

For a second their eyes met through the glass, and Harry felt a pang of empathy.  Sirius would probably be that patient with him too, even with that attitude.  The man yelled something at his son, but through the window Harry couldn't hear it.  Instead, his stomach lurched violently as he realized he couldn't hear Sirius' voice in his head either.

Sirius wouldn't get the chance to be that patient with him. Sirius was gone, and Harry couldn't remember what his voice sounded like.  Sirius would never take him to Amsterdam, never get annoyed with him for breaking rules, and never say he did well at something.  Harry couldn't hear his voice, but he remembered how Sirius used to smile.

His vision unfocused, and Harry dropped the jar in his hand, not flinching when it smashed on the floor by his feet. His knees felt weak, and he slid down to the floor, his hands automatically putting themselves out to prevent a face plant.

Harry didn't feel the shards of glass cutting his palms, but he did feel a cold hand on his forehead, and a steady arm wrapped around his middle.  He was pulled off the floor and against a strong chest, the hand not moving from his forehead as tears fell from his eyes, but no sound came from him.  Harry's vision was blurred, and he was glad he couldn't see out the window anymore. His hearing was fuzzy as well, but he didn't care about that either.

Snape saw the whiteness in Harry's face and knew shock wouldn't be far off in the little body. He silently lifted Harry and stood up, following the cashier to a small back room kitchen behind the counter.  It was a large enough room, and the man left Snape there to go clean up the spilled glass and powder. 

The book hadn't quite mentioned that children in grief would have a certain snapping point where they'd realize their family member was gone, but Harry wasn't a normal child and Snape had experienced enough loss to know that every person didn't follow the same exact steps while mourning.

Snape put Harry on the counter, sitting him down and putting one finger under his chin. Snape easily lifted Harry's head, and made eye contact with the sad brown eyes.  Snape could see the despair in them, and understand it very clearly.  He'd seen that broken look before, on his own face in a memory of the night he'd learned Lily had died, the night he'd been destroyed.  Dumbledore had caught him, kept him safe at the school and helped put part of him back together.  Snape didn't know how to do sympathy though, so he hoped that Potter's Gryffindor bravery could hold the boy a little longer as he tried to drop the sarcastic and uncaring personality he'd ingrained to himself.

"Elliot, I need to clean your hands."  Snape spoke in a calm voice, and Harry watched his every move as the larger nimble fingers took Harry's right hand into their own, gently fishing the glass out with his wand.  "You saw something outside, was it the man by the quidditch store?"

Harry didn't nod, but he didn't shake his head either.  Instead, a few more tears dropped down his cheeks, and he shivered.  Snape whispered a cleaning spell, healing the palm, and then moved onto Harry's left hand.  The touch was soft, and Harry felt that it was unraveling him more than the realization that Sirius was really gone.

More glass was taken out of his skin, and the cleansing spell was done.  The cuts were small enough that they healed without needing bandages, though instead of spelling away the blood, Snape wet a paper towel and started to gently clean Harry's fingers.

Harry watched him, his shoulder length hair falling forward and covering his face partially as he leaned over Harry's hands.  The touch was very light, not one that Harry had ever imagined the potions master capable of.  Especially not after the spanking he'd received just the night before, a thought that made him shake his head slowly.  Snape hated him, but here he was, for the past seven days, taking care of Harry and putting up with his foolishness. Just like the man outside.

"The boy pushed him away."  Harry whispered, his eyes staring down at his lap.

"The teenager?"  Snape asked, rolling up the towel and vanishing it.  He held up Harry's glasses, and spelled them clean.

"Yes."  Harry was amazed that Snape had said nothing about his breakdown in the middle of a store. Surely the Gryffindor golden boy wasn't allowed a breakdown.  Harry glanced up quickly and didn't see any malice in Snape's eyes, which caught him quite off guard.  Was Snape actually concerned about Harry?

Harry played with his hands and continued his explanation.

"He just shrugged his dad off. Like he'd always be there."    Harry knew he sounded pathetic, but the tightness in his chest was almost too much to keep him from sobbing. He'd felt loneliness before; he could clearly remember actually being six years old and forgotten in the rain outside a store after Aunt Petunia had finished her shopping and gone home.  Loneliness Harry could handle. Longing was a different story.

Light pressure suddenly started circling Harry's shoulders, where Snape had moved his hands and gave a small squeeze.  Harry melted a little under the touch, and the tears nearly started back up again.

"You think the teenager is unappreciative."  Snape held his handkerchief out as Harry sniffed, and didn't grimace when Harry blew his nose.

"Some days I wish I hadn't met the Weasleys." Harry stated, in a random sentence that Snape was only able to follow from years of practice with the headmaster's ramblings.  

"I can't miss what I never had."

Snape took a sharp breath at that, and gave Harry a small upturn of his lips. 

"Perhaps we should lighten the day a little, then."  In a move that Harry wasn't expecting, but very much appreciated, Snape lifted him easily up and held Harry to his chest , crossing his arms under Harry's bum.  Harry rested his own arms loosely around Snape's shoulders, and rested his head in the crook of Snape's neck.

"A new definition for you, Elliot."  Snape commented as they walked up the street towards the Dutch Ministerie van Toverkunst office building and public Floo.    "Home is where they understand you."

Harry smiled at that and grinned as they stopped at a souvenir stand along the way, where he pointed out a ridiculously bright orange crown with spinning windmills on it and a mooing cow for the headmaster.    Snape shrunk the hat to fit in his pocket with the rest of their luggage, betting Harry three galleons that the Headmaster would not wear it at that year's opening feast. 

Snape had not been kidding about Harry not leaving his side as part of the punishment, and after three days of having the boy as a shadow, Snape noticed that while the six year old was no longer there, there were traces of him in the expressions from the stronger jaw line and harder eyes of fifteen year old Potter.  Not to mention the ridiculously sugary way that Harry still took his tea at night before bed, and the way he sung quietly to himself when he thought Snape wasn't within hearing range.  The singing wasn't horrible, and Snape had been silently impressed at how Harry had used two pieces of paper to make cones, so that his little headphone pieces could become makeshift speakers. 

Ingenuity like that was very useful to a spy or anyone in a war, and Snape acknowledged the fact that it was borne out of a need to make do with what little Harry had been given while growing up, instead of a natural talent.  Speaking of lack of guidance, Snape brought himself out of his own thoughts, there was one more thing they needed to discuss from Potter's little adventure, and he had a feeling the conversation would be rather amusing.

--

Harry sat at the kitchen table after lunch, flipping through one of Snape's cookbooks and trying to figure out what to suggest for dinner.  Even though he'd been responsible only for washing the dishes after every meal this week, he still found it fun to look through some of he international books. The Dursleys had never been open to other cuisines.

"You are far too quiet for your own good." Snape announced from the library, where he'd just walked in with a large wrapped bundle of what looked like books, with the Hogwarts crest on the wrapping.  Harry closed the cookbook but didn't say anything, remembering his goal to behave and act like a mature member of the Order.

"This, Potter, has the potential to be embarrassing and uncomfortable for me to talk about," Snape said with a crooked twist of his lips, and Harry was immediately cautious. That was definitely not a good opening statement.

"Now that I've had some time to reflect on your short little adventure in Amsterdam, I've come to the conclusion that the British public education system is lacking in certain areas, and I believe it is time we remedied that."

Harry's fingers, which had been drumming slightly on the kitchen table, froze.  He'd almost been in the clear. It had been three whole days that Harry had been grounded, in which he'd cleaned the washrooms, did the dishes, helped clean the back garden, and written the long essay for Snape.  He had definitely not forgotten the lecture he'd been given in Amsterdam either, which still made him feel rather ashamed to think about. And yet -

Snape pushed the book bag toward Harry, as if daring him to refuse it.  Harry pulled out the first book from the bundle as Snape watched him, arms crossed and that evil smile on his face.  

Harry's jaw almost dropped when he flipped the bag open to see inside.  It was a set of books for teaching sex education to high school students, specifically for the Heads of House to have in case their students had questions. Harry could feel his face burning and didn't dare look up, but it didn't matter as Snape had leaned forward and put his hand in the table.

"Since you were so eager to learn in Amsterdam, Mr. Potter, I've taken the liberty of providing you with as much material as I could on short notice in order to satisfy your curiosity."

Harry wanted to quash the smugness out of Snape's voice. And then run from the room and possibly become a monk.

"Not curious anymore, sir." Harry immediately answered, grateful that his voice had remained calm and steady. He was not sitting in a tiny kitchen in Stockport about to learn about the birds and the bees from Professor Snape. No. He was not.

"I highly doubt that, Mr. Potter," Snape said, again smirking at Harry. "You're a fifteen year old boy.  You're probably, ah, curious about those things at least three or four times a day."

"Snape!" Harry's face was blushing a furious red as he sputtered his denial, but Snape merely waved him off and picked up one of the thinner books, sneering in distaste at the cartoonish cover. He held up the cover to show Harry, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice. 

"Entirely natural, Potter.  The act, that is; I don't want to know what depraved thoughts you have while doing it." 

Harry bit his lip so hard he thought he might have drawn blood and stared at the window over the sink.  It was a nice day out, perhaps he could make a mad dash for the back door and -

"It's a bit young, but perhaps you'll enjoy the illustrations."  Snape's mock thoughtful voice interrupted his wishful thinking and the bright red book was handed over to him, with a badly drawn picture of a family on it waving up at him.

Harry's eyes snapped from the cover back up to Snape, looking to see if the man was joking or not. Harry put The Basilisks and Billywigs, How little Witches and Wizards are Created aside and waited silently for Snape to produce the next in the series of humiliation he'd decided to spring upon Harry. Maybe if he kept his mouth shut the lesson would be over faster.

Harry had a good idea of the actual mechanics of sex, and while he thought that learning about some of the not so obvious things would be helpful, he didn't want to get the information from Snape and Spawning With Your Other Wand, a Guide for Teens. Harry left that book on the table in front of him like a cushion, and let his forehead drop with a smack. Snape rolled his eyes, which Harry couldn't see but he knew anyway that the man had done it.

"Stop being melodramatic and sit up. You will learn about this, as I do not want little bastard Potters running around Hogwarts any time soon."

Harry groaned but did as told and pushed the book back.  "I'll read up on it, I just really don't want to hear you talking about sex and...vaginas and stuff, sir." Harry mumbled, cheeks bright red.

"Mmmh." Snape sounded as if he'd concluded something with that statement, and held up another book, that looked almost like a comic.  "Perhaps this is more to your tastes, then?"

"The Bent Broomstick, Tales for the Bi-curious Young Wizard."

"What? No!"  Harry sputtered, trying to shove the book back towards Snape.  "I just don't want to talk about...it...right now, Professor." 

"Sex."  Snape still had his arms crossed but he was now leaning back against the kitchen counter, looking far more amused than Harry thought he'd had the right to.

"If you can't even say the word, Potter, how do you expect to convince someone to do it with you?"

Harry growled with frustration. 

"I went out in Amsterdam just to see what was there. I didn't want to have...sex."  Harry was staring at the plate on the counter that held the spare change in it, wishing that he could apparate on the spot. To anywhere.

"Good boy." Snape said, catching Harry by surprise.  "Because if I find out you had sex before you turned seventeen, this discussion will seem like a pleasant afternoon tea."

Harry gulped at that and poked one of the books.  "I know how it goes, sort of. I don't need all those details, sir."  He tried his best not to sound like a whiny teenager.

"Oh but you do." Snape answered, pushing himself up to a standing position and opening the bag further.

"Mother nature tells you enough via hormones to enable clumsy procreation, but you need to know about diseases, unwanted pregnancies, premature ejaculation, women's reproductive systems, sexual orientation, masturbation," Snape was ticking off these topics as he went through the list and stopped to look pointedly at Harry with the last one, "and last but certainly not least, how to stimulate and sexually please your partner."

Harry was feeling rather queasy and wished he could hide under the table. His traitorous body was perfectly happy to be learning about all the fun things it could soon start to do, but his mind would rather take a thought other than the fact that it sounded like Snape knew very well what he was talking about.

And Harry really did not want to imagine Snape having sex with anyone.

He shivered slightly as Snape fished out a box of condoms and put them down on the kitchen table.  Harry immediately looked anywhere but at them and the damn bunch of bananas that sat in the fruit bowl on the table.  The conversation just kept getting better.

"Do wizards really need those, Professor?" Harry finally asked, if only to break the uncomfortable silence that Snape didn't seem to mind.

Snape snorted.  "Your lack of focus is appalling enough when you're not distracted by raging teenage hormones, I hardly think you'd want to cast the contraceptive spell on your own genitalia at that point."

"Dad!"  Harry blurted without thought, mouth dropping and eyes widening at the bad mental image that had given him.

Before Snape could answer a sharp knock came to the front door.  Snape cursed as a light blue ball suddenly appeared in front of him and pulsed purple.  It disappeared after a few seconds, and Harry was still wondering what it was when Snape's wand was pointed in his direction and a spell washed over the books on the table.  They were now looking rather non-descript, and oddly enough, written in the Cyrillic alphabet.

"Sit at the table and don't come too close. They can't see you, but they can still run into you."  Snape told him as he walked out the room. Harry was left to ponder the cryptic message when the front door opened and Harry's blood ran cold at the greeting.

"Hello, Severus."  It was arrogant and tried to come off sounding domineering, just as Harry remembered Lucius Malfoy's voice to be.

--

Harry listened in from his spot at the kitchen table, watching as the Malfoys tried to keep an air of superiority up in a room full of slightly dusty tomes and a man who didn't give a knut about social standing.

"Severus," Lucius started, attempting a silky tone, "the Dark Lord will be bestowing a great honour upon my son soon. I advise you not to concern yourself with it."   He had been trying to go for imposing and threatening, but utterly failed. 

"What a peculiar definition of honour you have, Mr. Malfoy."  Snape replied in a bland tone that made Harry want to laugh.  Both the lack of interest and usage of his last name seemed to get under the elder Malfoy's skin.  Draco, on the other hand, was staring around the room in unhidden contempt.  He walked towards the books at the kitchen table, and Harry held in his breath.

"What's this? Code for something?"  He poked at one of the books, giving it a look of disdain as if the age of the book would cause the cover to crumble slightly on his skin and leave a blemish.

"It's a book, Mr. Malfoy." Snape answered, not offering any further information.

Lucius then walked over to see what was on the table, and Harry stiffened, not liking how close they were coming, no matter if they could see him or not.  Snape stayed calm though, and gave him a barely perceptible nod before schooling his features back to indifference.

"Russian books again? Certainly the quality of our English potion makers is not so crude?" Lucius asked, walking back to the library room and displaying a remarkably ignorant anti-Slavic sentiment that Snape had encountered before in both the wizarding and muggle worlds. 

"Really, Mr. Malfoy, one would think that even you would concede Russia's cultural advances, when given the evidence of Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Tchaikovsky's The Nutcracker, and the architectural elegance of the orthodox cathedrals found throughout the country."  Snape's voice wasn't combative, merely superior with his knowledge, and it seemed to irritate the senior Malfoy that Snape could not be bothered to address the two differently.

 Harry made a mental note to ask Snape later if his grandmother really was Russian and just how much Snape had learned while growing up.

Draco stared at Snape before shoving his hands in his pockets.  "Funny comment from someone who lives in a run down house in a shoddy old town."  Draco's childish remark flowed freely from his mouth and he didn't look as if he expected to be reprimanded for it.  Sure enough, his father merely quirked his eyebrows as if he agreed with Draco.

Most surprisingly of all, Snape allowed the comment to roll off his back like a bead of water to a duck.

"You seem to be labouring under the misconception that money equals culture, Mr. Malfoy. A pity."  Snape turned to the hallway door and pointed with his wand at it.  "It's been a displeasure to see you again, and your message has been received."

Draco looked surly at the insult, and Lucius' lips pressed together as he straightened his posture.

"If my needlessly worried wife visits, Snape, do keep in mind that it would be in your best interest to ignore her request."  Lucius annunciated his last words as if they were a threat that had dire consequences.  Snape paid it no mind whatsoever.

"Pawning her off to me to say no, Mr. Malfoy? How very noble of you."  Snape smirked a little at the little tinge of pink Draco got on his cheeks in anger at the insult to his mother.  Harry bit his lip to stop from snorting himself, as Draco looked like a porcelain doll that had been over-painted with blush.

"You are nothing but a lowly servant to the Dark Lord, Severus.  You ought to respect your elders, the ones privileged enough to be a humble host to our Lord."  It was hissed out at Snape, and Harry admired how Snape just rolled his eyes and ushered them out.  Harry wasn't afraid of Draco, but after the incident at the Ministry, Harry knew that Lucius Malfoy was a right bastard with a wand hand itching to curse.

Snape returned to the kitchen and spelled the kettle on to make tea.  He seemed entirely unperturbed at the Malfoy's visit, and their message to him.

"Why'd you let him do that?" Harry asked, ignoring the fact that the books had been spelled back to their original topics.

"Do what?"  It looked like an electric bill Snape was reading, and he didn't lift his head toward Harry.

"Insult you! There's nothing wrong with our house, I like it.  It's not pompous or arrogant or a manor. It's comfy."  Harry had wanted to slap Draco for being such a spoiled prat, and he didn't understand why Snape had allowed it. 

Snape's hand had stilled the paper he was reading as he thought of his response. He had not missed the slip of Harry's language, when the boy had said our.

"The Malfoys value money, fame, and prestige.  They certainly do not think tiny rooms overflowing with books, a crammed kitchen with recently repaired cabinets, and no house elves to clean are...comfortable."

Snape was watching Harry intently now, and Harry flipped over the Broomsticks book with annoyance, so the wizard on the cover would stop making lewd gestures at him with the broom.

"Cause they've never been without."  Harry mumbled, rubbing the scar on his forehead absentmindedly.  He suddenly felt tired and stood up, wanting to rest upstairs a bit.  "Can I go up?"  Harry asked in a regular voice, knowing that part of the grounding meant he needed to ask permission to go just about anywhere except the washroom.

Snape, who had heard what Harry had mumbled, suddenly heard something else replay in his mind. I can't miss what I never had. Snape gave a nod and turned the kettle off, which had begun whistling.

"May you." Snape admonished, pouring himself a mug and letting the tea steep.  "And yes, you may go upstairs. Dinner will be around six."

Harry stood up and stretched, stuck in his thoughts and far too somber for Snape's liking.

"Potter, I'd ask you to read those books tonight and write a summary on what you learned, however I think considering the topic that any further investigation is best left till morning, don't you?"  Snape had a small smile on his face that was mostly covered by his hair as he reached into the fridge to get milk.

"No..er..yes sir." Harry stilled his hand on the table as he stood to go upstairs, and kicked himself for feeling flustered.  Harry had never noticed it at school, but Snape had a bizarre sense of humour, and he seemed to enjoy keeping Harry off balance. Perhaps their vacation to Amsterdam and Harry's time spent as a six year old was not going to be completely forgotten.

--

Harry was just coming down the stairs after his nap when he heard the doorbell ring. He froze on the stairs, wondering whether or not he should hide when Snape called at him from the kitchen to answer the door.  Harry shrugged nervously and peeped through the looking hole before opening the door and greeting the driver.  The greasy smell of fish and chips permeated the tiny entryway and Harry's stomach immediately started grumbling.

"Snape?" the young guy asked, bored tone evident that he was only confirming the delivery long enough to get a tip. He had a hoop through his nose and his hair was a shade of green Harry had only seen once before, in his cauldron at school when his potion had gone wrong.

"Uh, yeah." Harry took the bag from the guy, the brown paper wrapping on the chips doing nothing to dampen the delicious smell. He figured it best to keep up the pretense, even if the man was a muggle, and so turned toward the library door to yell, just as Snape walked through it.  

Snape paid the takeaway driver, not bothering to hide his distaste at the hair or the ring, and then retreated with Harry to the kitchen. There would be plenty left for lunch the next day, and Harry took his time savouring the breaded fish while Snape talked.  He was grinning as he ate, as Snape had just told him he'd earned the chance to go on the mission, and tried his best to pay attention to everything Snape was telling him about this Bishop fellow. He sounded like a common thug he way Snape was describing him, and Harry figured that compared with Amy Benson that he had to be around seventy or so.

"Why can't we see him until Saturday?"  Harry asked, hoping the question wasn't a stupid one.

"Because he doesn't get paroled until Friday." came Snape's answer.

--

While Harry took his evening shower and got ready for bed, in time for his ten pm punishment bedtime, Snape sat downstairs in his favourite chair by the fire and waited for the Headmaster's call.  While he waited, Snape flipped through the essay Harry had written on the value of his life and the consequences of his actions.  It had started out rather unorganized, as if the boy hadn't ever thought of the question before and had let his thoughts ramble. Half way into the second paragraph, he seemed to have found a path of thought and ran with it.

Snape read on, his coffee growing cold as it sat on the books beside him, the small clock in the kitchen ticked with a hesitation on the eighteenth second from the arm that had been bent long ago when it fell off the wall.   Harry had separated his value into three different sections, the first in relation to the Dursleys, the second in relation to his friends, and the third in relation to the Wizarding world. 

In the first section, Snape skimmed over the physical tasks that Harry had been demanded of, getting agitated at the servitude Harry had been entered into after losing his parents.  He read further and saw the self sufficiency that Harry had developed in that time, and recognized the boy's reluctance to ask for help as a hard lesson won.  As a summary, Harry had actually listed a monetary figure of his worth to his relatives.

With Potter's friends, he'd gone a little sentimental about how they'd been supportive to each other for most of Harry's time at school.  Snape had seen evidence of this stubborn loyalty throughout the years, though the Weasley boy had wavered a few times, trying to deal with Potter's fame. His worth in this section was summarized in hopeful friendship - the hope that his friends would always have use for him.  That particular thought was familiar with Snape, and he warmed his coffee up with quick annoyance.

Upstairs, bare feet smacked against the wooden floor trailing from the bathroom to Snape's old bedroom.  Snape heard the creak of the door closing, and Harry shuffling along the room, probably putting clothes in the wardrobe before climbing into bed.  Funny how away from school, Potter followed his punishment without a single complaint.  Snape checked the clock in the kitchen and went back to the essay, knowing he could finish before the Headmaster called in fifteen minutes.

The last paragraph showed the boy's perceptiveness far better than the previous two.  There was no summarization of worth, though in the list of demands the Wizarding world made of Potter, it was evident.  Snape put the paper down and closed his eyes.  He'd known Potter for one thousand, seven hundred, and ninety days.  Give or take a day or two, as he wasn't sure if there'd been just one or two leap years in there.  Potter's worth to him for almost all of that time had been a horrible job, numerous broken bones, hundreds of sleepless nights brewing poison, recurring nightmares, meetings when he was unsure if he'd be discovered and killed, an intimate knowledge of the cruciatus curse, fifty different scars, and five instances of torture aimed towards muggles.

Upstairs had fallen quiet, but it was still too early for the boy to have fallen asleep right away. Idly, Snape thought back to the night he'd pulled the drunken Potter from the tree in the park. Still had some fight to him, argumentative, a small protective act over himself. And he'd been looking for home.  Snape wondered if anyone had really comforted him after his godfather had died.

He'd heard about the destruction of the headmaster's office, and admitted to actually allowing himself a laugh in his own private quarters. And then when he remembered what Dumbledore had talked to Potter about, the laughter had died just as fast from his lips.  Albus Dumbledore may be one of the brightest and powerful wizards in the UK, but there was no excuse for that bad timing.   Condolences and support do not come in exchange for a prophecy about your potential downfall.

No wonder Harry had fallen apart in Amsterdam.  How he'd lasted that long, four weeks after Black had died, was a mystery to Snape, though Snape wasn't as surprised that the trigger had been a father and son.   

Snape stood and walked over to the bookcase by the window, where he pulled an old compilation of T.S. Elliot poems from the shelf. In behind, Snape took hold of the pensieve and brought it out to the coffee table.  He removed a memory with his wand and placed it in the bowl, before putting a security spell over it. No need for the headmaster to get too nosy.

Snape had just sat back down in his chair when the fireplace flared green and made a knocking noise, and seconds later the headmaster flooed through.

"Good evening, Severus."  Dumbledore had a pleasant smile on his face and it wasn't long before they were analyzing the information gleaned from Amy Benson regarding the cave. Unfortunately, she had been unable to recall exactly where the cave was, but the headmaster didn't seem too disappointed.  He held out more hope for that information from Dennis Bishop.

"Where's Harry?" Dumbledore finally asked as he rolled up a map of London and stuck it up his sleeve. It had been a good fifteen minutes since he'd arrived, and he'd noticed how quiet the house was.

"Upstairs, pretending to be asleep." Snape answered coolly, before he stoked the dying fire.

"I hope he wasn't too much trouble for you in Amsterdam, Severus." Dumbledore said with a smile, wondering just how the little vacation had gone.

"Why are you making apologies for the boy?" Snape asked, his face not quite schooled into a glare, but not far off.

"I believe I coerced you to take him in, with only the best intentions I assure you." Dumbledore's eyes were bright and matched his smile.  "I will have the Weasleys ready for him for his birthday on Thursday."

Snape didn't bother to turn his head, though he watched the headmaster's face out of the corner of his eye for the reaction.

"That will not be necessary; he's grounded."  Snape barely managed to conceal his amusement at the slightly stunned look on the headmaster's face.

"Is he really?" came the comment a moment later, followed by a wide grin. "Why Severus, that's almost -"

"Don't say it, headmaster." Snape interrupted, standing to put his mug in the sink.

"As you wish," Dumbledore didn't manage quite to hide his chuckle. "Misbehaved in Amsterdam?"

"We have discussed the infraction; I don't believe it will happen again," Snape held up his hand, refusing to explain further.  Dumbledore seemed to understand, as he changed the topic back to the mission.

"Was Harry the key to getting Ms. Benson to talk?"

"Yes, though it was not something he purposefully did, as usual."  There was no accusation in Snape's voice, unlike at school when he accused Potter of something.

"You are holding back some of the details, Severus."  Dumbledore stretched and plucked a chocolate frog from one of his pockets, which Snape denied the offer to.

"Of course I am," Snape snapped, a little harsher than he'd intended. He remembered the tired little boy who had felt completely at ease and fallen asleep sitting in his lap. Him, Severus Snape, the antisocial death eater of the dungeon who everyone hated.

"Sometimes life happens in the little details." Dumbledore mused, noting the locked pensieve and once again displaying his knack for conversing between the lines.

"Yes it does," Snape acknowledged, not giving up anything else.

--

Snape woke up on midnight Thursday morning when the wards on the house alerted him to a few owls visiting. He listened carefully but could not hear any noise, no tossing and turning to indicate that Harry was having a nightmare.  Slipping out of bed, Snape silently opened his bedroom door and saw light leaking out from under the door to Harry's room.  Snape stopped himself for a millisecond as he passed by the washroom door. When had it become Harry's room?

He walked slowly down the tiny hall and placed his wand on the door, whispering a small spell that created a window in the door.  There sat Potter on the bed, surrounded by four owls, one of which was flying around the ceiling light in what appeared to be some sort of bizarre landing pattern.  There were four boxes in various stages of unwrap, a small cake with some unlit candles on it, and Hedwig sat perched on Harry's shoulder, as if watching over him. Potter was quietly humming happy birthday to himself, and appeared to be in his own little world, as if this was a yearly ritual. Snape admired the snowy owl's protectiveness, as he realized that it probably was.  Cancelling the spell, Snape left Harry to the birds and went back to his own room.

Harry woke the next morning feeling slightly more rested than he normally was, and with a start realized that he had slept in. Or, since Snape had been waking him at seven that week, he'd apparently been allowed to sleep in.  Harry moved to the wardrobe and saw the presents he'd gotten the night before were still piled in there as he left them, and the cards on his desk were untouched.  

Feeling slightly more relaxed, Harry threw on an old pair of jeans and one of Snape's old robes that were in the closet, snatching two mismatched socks out of his bag. Downstairs Harry was surprised to find bacon and eggs sitting under a charmed warming cover, and a small thermos of coffee sitting on the counter.  Snape had brought back some coffee from Holland, and Harry was curious to try it, as the scent had been rather appetizing.  

Outside the side kitchen door, movement caught Harry's attention and he watched the bizarre domesticity of Professor Snape in the garden, tending carefully to several plants that Harry knew were very poisonous to humans.

The rest of the day passed in a similar strange fashion, with Snape mumbling about loud construction on the main road not too far away and making more comments than usual about Harry's unkempt hair.  Harry had tripped over a book on the floor while trying to dive out of range of the shaving hex Snape had sent at his head after lunch, and he'd been surprised when at two pm Snape had told him to get changed into something decent, as they had an errand to run.  

Harry had been helping with the errands all week as part of his punishment, but to Harry's horror, this errand had meant going to the main mall in Stockport.  This time there was no way Harry would be able to avoid getting new clothes, as Snape had told him that his nice casual clothes from Amsterdam would not work on the new task to meet Dennis Bishop

It did not escape Harry's notice that Snape had made him pick out more clothes than he'd need for this simple mission, and that they were a wide variety of styles instead of just the one he needed for the new part he was going to be playing.  Snape remained his grumpy usual self as the overly cheery cashier tried to sign him up for some sort of rewards program for future purchases at the store, completely non-phased by the look he gave her.

"If he can grow out of the clothing that fast, we will not be shopping here again."

Harry barely had time to make heads or tails of that statement when a strong hand clamped down on his shoulder and steered him out of the store, much like it used to do when he was a six year old.

Dinner was in a fancy restaurant just up the road called The Old Rectory, which finally explained to Harry why he'd been told to put on something decent.  It sounded like Snape had actually even reserved a table for them, and had smiled politely at the elder waitress who had come to take their order, something that she had found charming, but Harry had found suspicious.  What else had Snape planned?

Dinner was nice though, and while they were waiting for dessert, Snape caught Harry off guard by pulling a small and heavy box out of his pocket. It was not wrapped, but the brown leather case had a white bow on it and looked to be pleasantly worn.  Harry opened the straps and inspected the little metal tools that were wrapped up inside, wondering what exactly they were for.

"It's a lock picking kit.  A muggle one." Snape said, as if that should have been obvious to Harry.  "When you are able to unlock the door to the cellar with it, I will teach you some of my spying tricks, as you so eloquently put it."

Harry rolled his eyes at that, remembering his younger self claiming one day by the flower market that Snape was the wizard version of James Bond.  He put the tools back in the case and then looked up, with a questioning glance.

"But you said the cellar door is warded."

Snape gave him a twisted smile and sipped his wine. "Best be careful, then."

Harry snorted and thanked him for the gift, carefully wrapping it and sticking it in his jacket pocket.  Just when he thought Snape was actually being nice and human though, Harry heard the clapping.  It was soft at first and seemed to jump in time with the amused glint of Snape's eyes. The singing then started and Harry groaned, grateful that no one in Stockport knew him. As the wait staff gathered round their table to sing, Harry, saw out of the corner of his eye Snape raising his glass and toasting him a happy birthday.

The settee was not a chair Snape normally sat in, however on Friday morning he settled himself against the side arm and reclined with his feet up against the length of the seat, reading the Daily Prophet and every once in a while glancing over at the window in the corner of the room. He'd stared out that window a lot as a child, watching the generations of birds that nested in the eaves trough where the garden wall met the house, but today that was not what had his attention.

The window just happened to be situated right next to the door-turned-bookcase that hid the alcove to the cellar stairs.

After fifteen minutes of silence, followed by a few annoyed grunts and some choice curse words, the bookcase opened and Snape lowered the corner of his paper very slightly. Over the edge of the paper he watched one Harry Potter stumble backwards out of the tiny alcove, looking rather ruffled and annoyed. He slowly walked backwards toward the hall door, cursing incomprehensibly in what Snape assumed was backwards English, and even his hand movements seemed reversed and awkward.

"What extraordinary talents you have, Mr. Potter." Snape said, eyes never leaving the top edge of the paper. He did notice Harry flip him off, his hand facing the wrong way.

"tig ydoolb citsidas"

"Language, Mr. Potter." Snape deadpanned, fairly certain he'd just been insulted. He smirked as the wrong hand flew up to cover Harry's mouth and nearly knocked the glasses clean off his face.

--

Harry stood over the back garden an hour later when the curse had worn off, carefully staying out of reach of the poisonous plants that he swore were leaning in to get closer to him. It was a hot summer day, and though Snape hadn't asked him to water the plants, he was doing so just out of, well Harry didn't exactly know the reason. It wasn't fully habit, as he'd never voluntarily watered Aunt Petunia's garden, but it wasn't something Harry was going to dwell on.

He heard a small buzzing noise getting louder as it circled around his hand, and waved it away without a second thought, preferring to stay out of the reach of the Venus flytrap that was standing rather tall today. That was, he paid it no mind until he felt a very sharp sting in his hand. Drawing it immediately towards him, Harry watched with horror as a bee struggled to dislodge itself. It finally flew off, leaving it's stinger behind stuck in Harry's hand, and the burning in his hand kept Harry from being too surprised to move. He burst into the kitchen, his face starting to flush very warm and his pulse starting to quicken. He'd never been stung by a bee before but as he suddenly shivered, Harry started to panic.

Snape was sitting in his chair in the library and immediately dropped the book upon seeing Harry's face.

"Snape." Harry's voice was a little distant, and he found it difficult to swallow. The panic level increased, and Harry started shaking with cold sweats. He offered his hand forward and didn't wince as Snape used magic to pluck the stinger out. Harry's hearing was starting to go fuzzy, and Snape took a strong hold of Harry's shoulders.

"Have you been stung by a bee before?" A cold hand was placed on Harry's swollen throat.

"No." Harry rasped, the room blurring outside his vision. He was agitated and nervous, the feeling of impending catastrophe not going away after seeing unguarded concern in Snape's eyes. Harry watched dumbly as Snape summoned the invisibility cloak and Harry's wallet, then took a quick thirty seconds to set strong wards on the house. The room started to fade and Harry suddenly felt himself picked up and disapparated away.

Harry remembered very little of the next four hours. He vaguely remembered Snape running into the A&E at a muggle hospital, tense and demanding help. He did remember a sharp sting to his thigh, and then his heart at first racing like he'd run a marathon. The shakes and cold sweats didn't stop as he lay in the bed for a long time, and Snape ran his fingers through Harry's hair as Harry drifted in and out of shock.

When he woke up, Snape was sitting in a chair by his bed, looking worn and inspecting a small yellow tube that he held in his hand.

"Where are we?" Harry said, squinting his eyes at the bright light and feeling parched.

"Stepping Hill Hospital. Just in time."

The second half of the sentence was exhaled, and Harry felt bad for his professor. In June the man had probably thought he was going to have a peaceful summer.

"What's that?"

"Shot of Epinephrine, as your abysmal self preservation tendencies dictate you'll likely be stung again."

Harry furrowed his brows as he tried to puzzle that statement out.

"Oh. You have to stab me with it?"

"Indeed. I assure you, it will be an absolute pleasure." Snape's tone was dry, but he sounded more relieved than sarcastic. Harry laughed tiredly anyway.

'No foolish wand waving to fix it?"

"Perhaps a potion. I can't fix everything, Potter." Snape was sitting straight in the uncomfortable hospital chair, and Harry watched him curiously. His black trousers were pressed and tidy as ever, but Snape seemed to have hastily transfigured his high collared shirt into a more modern muggle dress shirt, opened buttons and without a tie. Harry thought it was a good look, a bit more relaxed.

Harry's body felt rather worn out, but he lifted his arm up with concentration and saw that the hospital bracelet around his wrist was labeled Snape, Elliot F. For some reason, it made him smile.

"Why not St. Mungo's?"

"Life threatening bee allergies are not usual amongst wizards." Snape answered under his breath as a doctor came back in. The doctor stuck a sleeve around Harry's arm to take his blood pressure, counting to himself and not paying any mind to Snape, who was tapping the epipen tube against his leg and anxious to leave. Harry was only half paying attention and the doctor finally informed Snape that he could take his son home after the nurse had come in for the final checklist.

"I swear boy, once the war is over not even the headmaster himself will be able to stop me from strangling you."

Snape spoke the words softly as he stood to help Harry up, absent of any threat.

"No." Harry mumbled, taking Snape's help as he sat up. The nurse had arrived to give them the antibiotics Harry had to take later that day, and had approved his discharge. "Poison's more your style."

It only took fifteen minutes until Harry found himself being poured into the comfortable single bed in his bedroom at Snape's house. The room was warm and Snape opened the window a little, spelling a muffling charm on the sounds of the neighbourhood outside. Harry was sprawled in the bed where he'd dropped, shoes still on and glasses crooked on his face. He wasn't quite asleep, but Snape could tell it wasn't far off.

"So, allergic to bees. Huh." Harry murmured, in a strange attempt at a joke.

Snape moved over to the bed and yanked off Harry's shoes.

"How your dreadful relatives kept you alive all these years is utterly beyond me." Snape tsked, transfiguring Harry's clothes into pajamas.

"They locked me in."

Snape stiffened at the truth of that, but didn't question it. "Preposterous. If I locked you in here for the rest of the summer your room would be even messier than it is right now."

Giving a pointed look at Harry and then at the clothes piled about in front of the wardrobe instead of in it, Snape took the glasses off his face and put them on the desk, moving Harry's wand there too.

"I'm staying for the rest of the summer?" Harry asked, a tired smile on his face.

"I suppose." Snape grumbled, removing Harry's wallet from his own pocket and waving his wand over the health card he'd pulled from it.

"Brilliant. What're you doing?" Harry's grin was bigger than before, but he was unable to fight back his yawn.

"Muggle hospitals don't allow you in the room unless you are a relative." Snape explained, tossing the wallet on the table next to the wand and glasses.

"You saved my life again." Harry stretched, closing his eyes. Snape shook his head at the mismatched socks on Harry's feet.

"I know." He responded dryly. "Wretched, isn't it?"

Harry had already fallen asleep though, and Snape cast a light monitoring charm as he draped a blanket over the boy. Pausing as he looked at Harry's right arm, one finger traced the scar from the night in the graveyard. Snape hadn't been there, but he'd quietly applauded the boy for keeping himself relatively together after that horror. The scar crossed slightly over the more faded one from the basilisk that had bitten Potter as a twelve year old.

Irritating twit. Snape sighed at the thought and covered him a bit more tightly with the blanket. If a basilisk, a bee, a dragon, two dementors, and a psychotic ministry hag couldn't off Potter, the Dark Lord didn't stand a chance. He stood up and made sure the room wasn't too hot, before retreating downstairs with a small vial of Harry's blood that he'd swiped in the hospital, to work on the allergy potion he'd read about years ago in some muggle disease potion article. A fleeting thought occurred to Snape as he undid the wards to the cellar. If the Dark Lord had stolen Potter's blood, would he have the same allergy?

--

At nine pm the next night, Snape gave Harry a once over to make sure his outfit was suitable for their task. Harry wore ripped jeans and a faded band shirt for some muggle group he'd never even heard of, and his black hair had been spiked with gel and the tips spelled red. He felt and looked like a punk, and a small leather band around his wrist brought attention to his tattoo. A quick spell had put a layer of scruffy fuzz around Harry's chin, and a fake ring was snug on his ear. Snape had told him to dress like a rebelling teenager and act with a surly attitude for the night, as it suited their target.

Harry rolled his eyes minutes before they left, after reassuring Snape again that he was feeling fine and the fourteen hours of sleep after being in the hospital had definitely fixed him.

They apparated to a run down street in South London, one that Snape confirmed held a bar Dennis Bishop liked to frequent. Harry followed Snape, who did not lose his imposing stride even though he was without robes and wore a black muggle dress shirt and dark jeans.

The bartender had verified Harry's identification with a surly glance, before waving them both into the bar. It was old and derelict, murky light casting all the wrong shadows on old mismatched tables and burn marks on the bar top. It was the type of place that Billy Joel sung about, and Harry turned to the corner expecting to see a washed up scraggly piano man plucking out melancholic tunes. Snape scanned the patrons quickly to find that they were being pointedly ignored, before he led Harry over to a scruffy table in the corner.

"He's not here yet?" Harry asked quietly, his eyes alert as he surveyed the scene, paying much more attention than he ever did in school.

"No."

A waitress, who hadn't seen better days in at least ten years, worked her way over and glared at them while she waited for their order. Snape noted the dust-covered menu that had been tossed on the table, and with tight lips ordered two bottled beers.

Harry gave him a surprised look, but didn't say anything as the waitress stalked off toward the counter. Snape leaned forward and spoke a quiet threat.

"I doubt anything else here is sanitary, Elliot, and if you even think to order another, I will have you chopping onions all day tomorrow."

Harry coughed as the message was received, and watched Snape cast a quick sanitization spell on the bottles that had arrived before taking a sip. They sat in silence for a few moments, watching the door for Bishop to arrive. Snape had dryly confirmed to Harry he'd show up, and Harry had to admit that this bar was the kind of place only desperate regulars could love. Harry figured after another moment that their silence probably looked strange, and he hoped Snape felt up to conversation.

"Professor, why was Draco Malfoy such a prat to you? I thought he actually liked you."

Snape gave a twisted smile as he took a drink of his beer.

"No Malfoy has ever liked a Snape."

"But he's such a suck up to you in school." Harry countered, with a disgusted look on his face. "I mean, in first year it was like you were a god or something."

Snape kept the wistful smirk on his face and stared off at the wall. "Of course he did. I'm the one that ensured his creation."

"What!" It was blurted out a little loud, but Harry couldn't believe what he heard. It was not true, absolutely not. The white hair and the arrogance; that had to be all Lucius Malfoy, not Snape. And he was absolutely not jealous.

"I'm not his father, you idiot. Calm down." Snape seemed more relaxed than when he came into the bar, and kept sipping lightly at the beer. Harry fought off a scowl as he convinced himself that he had not gotten upset.

"Then why are you...you know." Harry tried to look nonchalant as he swept his eyes to the door to see if Bishop had stepped in.

"God like?" Snape offered with a dark glint in his eyes, and Harry suddenly found himself laughing.

"Yeah, maybe. If there were a god of sarcasm. But really, what happened?"

Snape took another drink and it looked like he was trying to decide whether to tell Harry or not. After a quick swallow, he put the beer down and started his tale.

"After he graduated, Lucius Malfoy did an apprenticeship at Hogwarts and was using his influence to sweet talk younger students into joining the death eaters."

Harry had noticed that a small privacy charm had been subtly placed over their table, but didn't question it as he could not for his life imaging Snape being sweet talked into anything, and wanted him to continue with the story.

"One day in the spring, on a non-Hogsmeade weekend, he arranged to have an illicit party in the Slytherin dorms where some of the older recruits could show some of the younger potentials what sort of pleasures could be gleaned under service to the Dark Lord."

Harry blinked as that information sunk in. Snape was still scanning the room for Bishop, and he didn't look particularly bothered to be sharing this memory with Harry. Obviously Snape had not fallen for the allure.

"I was rather insulted that Mr. Malfoy thought I would eschew my personal preferences for a night of 'unadulterated bliss' as he put it, and he tried to sully my reputation after I refused." Snape was smirking again and Harry wondered just what he'd done as retribution, as he'd never known Snape to be anything but vengeful.

"You've never cared much for your reputation, sir." Harry pointed out, not meaning it as an insult. Snape looked thoughtful though instead of annoyed.

"Perhaps I need to seem that I don't. Regardless, the day after the party, Lucius Malfoy was hit with a rather interesting curse, a permanent one that was essentially the same as a chemical castration."

"You didn't!" Harry demanded, mouth open in equal parts shock and awe.

Snape narrowed his eyes at Harry, but there was mischief in them. "I am merely recounting a story, as the perpetrator was never caught. I do know, however, that any time Mr. Malfoy wishes to engage in relations with his wife, that he needs to take a potion in order to do so."

Smug. There was absolutely no other word for how Snape looked right now, and Harry had a feeling he knew precisely why Snape was so smug.

"You're the only one who can brew the potion, aren't you?" Harry had taken a few sips of his beer, but did not want to drink it too fast lest he make an idiot of himself. Snape was trusting him again, and Harry was determined not to screw things up.

"Certainly not. But I'm the only one the Dark Lord trusts to make it for him." There was the eye glint again and Harry suddenly realized that Malfoy knew exactly who had cursed him. It was brilliant and absolutely evil and Harry wanted to learn how to have foresight like that. Just as he was beginning to imagine what he could do to Malfoy junior, Snape rapped his knuckles on the table and looked at the door.

"He's here."

They both watched as a man around seventy shuffled into the bar, favouring his right leg and glaring as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. His shoulders were hunched over, and his eyes darted warily around the room, as if expecting a fight to erupt. Harry saw that his hands were dirty, and he paid for his beer at the bar with a scrunched up old note that he'd pulled out of his pocket, not a wallet, before moving over to a table not far from theirs.

He sat down and started muttering to himself as he angrily peeled off the label from the bottle, which Snape oddly took as a good sign. They watched him for a good ten minutes as he argued angrily with himself and shot glares at whomever looked like they were approaching.

Snape warned Harry to stay in character, to act like an arrogant teen who'd dabbled on the wrong side of the law a few times, and told him that Bishop's anger was actually a good sign. If it was something they could successfully provoke, Bishop would be all but shouting out the information they needed. Snape seemed to be rather sure about this, but Harry was rather apprehensive. With that strange bit of advice however, Snape stood and steered them over to Bishop's table.

They sat down roughly and Bishop glared at them, demanding to know just who the hell they were to be taking seats at his table.

"Enjoy your vacation to the land of grey and steel, Mr. Bishop?" Snape opened, daring the man to rebuff them.

Bishop, wondering if Snape was a parole officer come to check up on him, merely grunted and gulped half his beer down. Harry noted that another was on short order.

"What's it to you?"

"More than you'll know." Snape muttered, signaling the waitress to bring another drink for him as well. "You have an impressive arrest record, it almost seems like your anger stems from some...traumatizing experience as a child."

It was said with a sneer and like most things Snape did when he had a goal, was cut quick to the point. Harry could almost see the exact second Dennis Bishop worked out what Snape was referencing, and Harry wasn't sure if he was going to smash the beer bottle and threaten them with it or not.

"Are you from the orphanage? What the fuck are you playing at?" Bishop hissed, spittle landing on the table between them. "And who the hell are you?"

"Severus Snape." Snape answered dryly, unimpressed by Bishop's anger. He nodded toward Harry. "My son, Elliot. And we're delightfully curious to hear what happened during your time there."

"Yeah, I'm sure you are, asshole." Bishop scoffed bitterly, emptying his bottle and waving for another one.

Harry looked at the lines on his face, those caused by age mixing together with the scars from fights making Bishop look older than he was. His was not a skinny man, but Harry figured the weight had more to do with the beer than proper nutrition. Harry had seen the arrest records and sketchy past of Dennis Bishop, and figured that whatever Tom Riddle had done to this man in the cave, he'd set off sixty years of anger with no proper outlet.

"My, my, such temper. Surely a few stories is worth a beer or two." Snape deadpanned, watching Bishop greedily sip from the new bottle he'd been given.

"Whole lifetime's worth more than a few beers, prick." Bishop growled, still eyeing them wearily.

"I don't care about your life." Snape stated bluntly, his arms crossed. "Tell me everything you know about Tom Riddle, and you'll have enough to buy yourself ten beers by the end of the night."

"How do you even know about him? You some sort of bastard relative of his?"

Snape stiffened beside Harry, and Harry figured it was his time to talk. "Yeah, that's it. We're just here to talk about good old cousin Tom."

Harry rolled his eyes at Bishop's responding scowl.

"Right little prat you are. In my day you'd have been whipped, boy."

Harry was ready to respond to that, but he saw Snape give him a very small shake of his head.

"Whips are hardly imaginative, Bishop, wouldn't you agree? I find nature itself provides many more interesting forms of...torture." Snape spoke in a very soft tone, but Harry thought he sounded rather dangerous.

"You're a sick fuck like him, aren't you?" Bishop hissed, white knuckles strangling the neck of the beer bottle. "Every time I start to calm down, my arm starts to burn like fire, because of him. He hissed at a snake to bite me, and then wrapped nettles around the wound. You think that's ever healed? You think the burning will ever fucking stop?" His spittle was spraying the table as Bishop attempted to look menacing, anger and injustice radiating off of him. Neither Harry nor Snape looked impressed.

"Do you want a cookie or something?" Harry asked, causing Snape to snort. Nettles stung, Harry would admit, but the cruciatus curse was a special level of hell. He felt much sorrier for Amy Benson than he did for Dennis Bishop.

"Think you're all big and tough do you, cause you've got him next to ya?" Bishop demanded, slamming his beer down on the table.

"He's fought a dragon." Snape said in a dismissive tone. "He can handle himself."

Harry felt warm inside at the praise from Snape, but kept the bored look on his face.

"Dragons don't exist." Bishop scoffed, but he looked unsure.

"And boys can't talk to snakes." Snape sneered back, uncrossing his arms and rolling up his sleeve. The dark mark stood out plainly on Snape's pale skin, a dark blotch of ink surrounded by a swollen red welt. It looked painful, and Bishop watched with a stupid look on his face as Snape moved his arm towards Harry, never taking his own gaze away from Bishop.

Harry took hold of Snape's arm, his own feather tattoo brushing against the warm skin as Harry held onto Snape's wrist from below.

"Theessaaaaah - haaishaaath haithsssa." Harry spoke in a regular tone, noting out of the corner of his eye that Bishop had dropped his beer when he heard the hissing. The tattoo had pulsed, the snake shuddering once through the skull, and then it went back to its slightly faded colour, minus the red swollen skin. Snape gave Harry a quick glance at this, but said nothing as Bishop had slammed his chair back from the table.

"You! You're the spawn of the devil!" He pointed the bottle straight at Harry.

"Obviously." Snape said, rising to glare at Bishop. "Now quit this foolishness. Where was the cave?"

"In Dover." Bishop gritted out, ignoring the bartender's warning for them to calm down. "You didn't think they'd take a bunch of orphans anywhere special, did you?"

"Save the self pity for someone who cares." Snape retorted, rather annoyed with Bishop's dramatics. Harry was starting to understand why Snape didn't have much patience for drunks.

Snape pulled Harry up out of the chair and threw some money on the table, ready to leave now that they'd gotten their information. Unfortunately, Bishop didn't seem to want them to leave, now that he'd gotten properly riled up for a row. Bishop smashed his bottle on the table, breaking it and holding it up menacingly.

"You wanna see what he did to me? Come see it, then, bastard."

Snape rolled his eyes at the drunken swaying, and held tight onto Harry's arm, putting him a bit behind Snape's own body. The bartender made his way over, and looked rather practiced at dealing with Bishop.

Within minutes, Bishop was cursing and being subdued by the bartender and doorman, while Snape and Harry were non-too gently being moved towards the door. Harry had never been thrown out of a bar before, but he found the experience slightly less exciting than he'd imagined. Instead of being bodily thrown out, they'd merely been threatened not to come back, which Harry was rather fine with.

--

"You need to borrow Potter? What is he, some sort of book?" Snape was standing in the kitchen, putting away dishes from earlier. Dumbledore had made himself comfortable on the settee.

"Just for a few hours, Severus. To see an old colleague of mine." Dumbledore looked around the room and noted two coffee mugs still on the table and a muggle camera on the windowsill. Snape pointedly ignored his gaze.

"Potter!" Snape finally called, warily regarding his employer.

Harry bounded into the room a minute later, barefoot, wearing scruffy jeans and a hastily put on shirt. His hair was still wet from his evening shower.

"Professor Dumbledore." Harry greeted, standing by a bookshelf and pulling at the hem of his shirt.

"The headmaster requests your company for an hour or two." Snape narrowed his eyebrows, and though Dumbledore was smiling at him, Harry could tell that Snape was not pleased about the outing.

Harry was busy looking between them to see what the cause of tension was, and blushed when Snape admonished him.

"You might find shoes to be more comfortable outdoors, Potter." The remark was dripping in sarcasm, though Harry didn't take it too seriously. Snape didn't mind that Harry went barefoot around the house, something that made Harry feel more comfortable.

"Yes sir." He stuttered, before going back up to his room and putting on socks, shoes, a jumper, and grabbing his wand.

"They grow up fast, don't they Severus?" Dumbledore said with a wink.

Snape looked at his mentor as if the man had gone slow in his old age.

"That is the entire point of the antidote."

Less than five minutes later he returned to the bottom of the stairs, where Snape and Dumbledore were waiting at the front door.

"We shall be apparating from outside, Harry." Dumbledore smiled Harry nodded, but before taking a step turned to look at Snape, who had his arms crossed.

"Curfew is at midnight, Potter."

Harry smirked and turned to leave, pausing when he felt a firm hand on his back.

"Behave." Snape gruffed out pushing Harry out the door.

--

Harry couldn't help but nervously check his watch as he sat in the Burrow kitchen enjoying the onion soup and trying to not show his irritation. Snape had definitely said curfew was at midnight, which was twenty minutes away, and Harry wasn't sure if the grounding from the Burrow had ever been lifted on him yet.

He'd blushed rather hard when he'd first gotten there, as Mrs. Weasley had sat him down at the table and looked like she was ready for a good long talk.  Harry supposed it was because she was worried about Mr. Weasley, but he hoped she wouldn't wake Ron and Hermione. He didn't want to have to explain why he wasn't going to be staying at the Burrow to them, even though it looked like he wouldn't be able to avoid the question from her.

"I've heard from Albus Harry, but I'd like to know your side of the story on how you ended up in Professor Snape's care for the summer."  Molly was smiling at him, but Harry wasn't sure if she was slightly insulted that he hadn't come to stay at the Burrow.  He wondered if she knew he preferred to stay in Stockport.

"Uhm, well he found me on a Friday night, in a park.  I was sort of drunk."  At her disapproving look he stuttered an explanation. "Believe me, I already got in trouble for it.  And then after I...well...recovered, Professor Dumbledore suggested I might be useful in a task for the order Snape had to do."

"Professor Snape." Molly corrected, giving him a piece of warm bread to go with his soup.

"Yes ma'am. He definitely didn't want to take me at first, but after he met the Dursleys, he decided it would be better to take me along than leave me there.

"Mmm. I've always wondered how Severus would react to them. Hated them as a teen."  She was talking to herself, but Harry was staring with his spoon above his bowl.

"He knew my uncle, too?  He barely talks about my mum."

"Oh yes."  Molly said with a slight chuckle.  "I believe he almost got your uncle arrested once, for instigating a brawl."

"That would explain the fight."  Harry grinned, taking another sip of soup.

"What fight?"  Molly sounded curious, and Harry relaxed a bit. He knew she held very little regard for the Dursleys, and seemed to be amused to hear about Snape's problems with them.

"Well, when Snape dropped me back off in Surrey, my aunt was a bit upset to see me."  He admitted, dipping his bread into the soup.

"Might it have something to do with that tattoo you're trying to hide from me?"  Molly asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Er... yes maybe."  Harry brought his arm up and showed off Hedwig's feather.  Molly just smiled and sipped her tea, allowing him to continue.  "Anyway, she said that she put up with me for Dumbledore's sake, but if I was going to go around and sully myself with tattoos, I obviously didn't need the protection of the blood wards. She threatened to sand off the tattoo, now that I think about it."

Mrs. Weasley shook her head but let him continue.

"Then Uncle Vernon started shouting about how wizards were freaks and deviants and liked to flaunt their eccentricities. Then he grabbed my shoulder, like he normally does when he puts me in...well he grabbed me anyway, near my neck." Harry fixed, blushing that he almost mentioned the damn cupboard.  "And when Snape tried to stop him, I guess he thought Uncle Vernon was going to strangle me, Vernon said that Snape was just there to protect his little catamite."

Molly gasped and Harry coughed.  "Yeah, I looked it up after we came back from the mission.  Professor Snape said something, I didn't really hear it over Aunt Petunia's yells, and all of a sudden Uncle Vernon punched Snape on the cheek.  He was busy trying to pull me back, so didn't see the punch coming."

"Is your Uncle still alive?"  Molly asked, only half joking.

"Yeah, well. Yes.  Professor Snape said he didn't want to use magic, because that would make the fight unfair.  He knocked Uncle Vernon flat down though, with one punch."  Harry grinned, wishing he had a video of that moment.

"Well I hope you don't start to think violence is the answer to everything, young man."  Molly was trying desperately not to laugh as she imagined skinny Severus Snape thoroughly putting Vernon Dursley in his place.  Of all people, she was rather pleased with whom had done it.

"Of course not, Mrs. Weasley. But you did ask what happened."  Harry pointed out, with a good natured smile. "Might ask Professor Snape to train me a little though, cause he's definitely strong."

Harry grinned, remembering the look of shock on his Uncle's face.  He also suddenly remembered Snape picking him up, not only as a six year old but also as a sixteen year old to take him to the hospital.  There was no doubt the man was very strong.  The door opened then, and Harry saw Tonks and Mr. Weasley walk into the room with the headmaster.

And so Harry sat at the Burrow table at 11.55 PM, listening to Dumbledore, Mrs. Weasley, and Tonks discuss what the best route of plans were for whatever mission they had next. His shifting in the seat must have caught Mrs. Weasley's attention, because after a minute she eyed Harry and gave him a small smile. It immediately had him feeling guilty for seeming to be unhappy to be there, but Mrs. Weasley didn't seem annoyed. After a minute of watching him Mrs. Weasley spoke, and Harry couldn't have been more grateful.

"Harry dear, why don't you go the living room for a few moments while we discuss this. Do be mindful of the floo powder on the mantle, sometimes a bit leaks out of the pot."

Harry stilled for a moment as he thought of what Mrs. Weasley had said, and then gave her a small grin before setting off to living room. Making sure no one was watching, Harry tossed some powder in the flames and stuck his head in.

"Spinner's End"

Snape was sitting at the desk in his front office, looking like he'd just been wrapping up some paperwork or his lesson plans for the coming school year. Harry felt bad for interrupting, but Snape didn't look angry so he took a breath and explained that he was at the Burrow and Dumbledore had stopped there after visiting the strange Slughorn fellow. Snape gave a slight nod and told Harry to step back, so he could floo through.

Harry did, feeling inexplicably better and without the skittish feeling he had had earlier, worried that he'd be in trouble for breaking curfew. It was a strange feeling, not one he'd ever had at the Dursley's before. Just as Snape stepped through the flames, Harry realized that Snape had already finished most of his lesson plans earlier in the week, and he must have been just staying up to wait for Harry.

"What have you done now?" Snape asked with a mock-exasperated tone, dusting off tiny specks of ash from his black jacket and trousers.

"Nothing! And I called you on time, I didn't mean to come here." Harry stuttered, getting annoyed with Snape's amusement.

"And nonetheless, you look guiltier than a kid in a sweetshop."

Before Harry could say anything, Mrs. Weasley called him from the kitchen and he shuffled back into the room. Snape followed, and seemed to only take Tonks off guard with his presence and sneer.

"Good evening, Severus. Coffee?" Mr. Weasley was smiling genuinely at him, and Harry noticed that in the scant times he'd seen them interact at Grimmauld place, neither the Weasley parents nor Snape seemed to actively provoke each other.

"No thank you, Arthur, Molly." Snape nodded, clamping a hand down on Harry's shoulder. He nodded towards Dumbledore as well and gave him a tiny disproving twitch of his lips, for making him come and fetch Harry.

"I believe we shall be going, unless there is something that needs to be discussed immediately?"

"Another time then." Molly smiled, giving a small nod. "Good night, Harry dear. And behave for the Professor."

Somewhere outside his bedroom window, an overly enthusiastic neighbour started up their lawn mower, an older gas model that had a high pitched whine to it that woke Harry immediately.  He stretched with a grumble and checked his watch, wincing when he noticed he'd slept in yet again.  Funny how Professor Snape didn't actually mind Harry sleeping late some days, the same man who took points for being thirty seconds late to class. Perhaps the potions master just enjoyed mornings to himself.

Harry shuffled downstairs and into the kitchen, wearing an old t-shirt, jeans, one black dress sock and one blue sports sock.  Harry yawned as he slid into his seat at the table, where there were two plates set and a plate of pancakes in the centre of the table.  It looked like he was just in time for breakfast.

"Mornin', Dad." Harry mumbled, rubbing his eyes. A second later he froze, blinking owlishly and ignoring the red blush he knew was creeping up his neck.  Snape had stopped mid turn from the kitchen sink, two mugs of coffee in his hands.

"Sor-sorry, sir. I didn't mean to call you that."  Harry kept his head down and scratched the back of his neck in distraction.  A mug was placed in front of him, and out of his peripheral vision, Harry saw Snape sit down.

"Potter, as decidedly less irritating that name is to what I originally imagined it to be, I fear the title may be misplaced and better suited for another person."

Harry looked up with a confused look on his face, trying to work out what the hell Snape had just said.

"I'm sorry, just got a little too immersed in the role." Harry lied, hoping Snape wouldn't notice.

"Potter, you can't lie at the best of times, don't bother now.  You've called me Dad here before." Snape sighed, getting some pancakes.

"While your presence this summer has been surprisingly tolerable, I am quite certain you can find more suitable persons to play the role of mentor and father figure to you than myself.  My position in the war leaves me in a rather precarious spot, and given your past experience with family and guardian members, I will not have you attaching yourself to another high risk individual without serious consideration."

Harry studied his plate and took a sip of his coffee, trying to blink his eyes clear from watering.  It certainly sounded like Snape didn't want him around, though he did say that Harry hadn't exactly been unwelcome for the summer.  Harry hadn't really thought it out specifically, but he realized, with the hollow feeling that had just appeared in his stomach, that Snape as a dad was exactly what he wanted. Snape was no-nonsense, strict, and strong.  And unlike Dumbledore or anyone else, Snape made it perfectly clear why Harry wasn't allowed to do certain things.   Harry thought back to the trip to Amsterdam, and working with Snape against Dennis Bishop.  He looked around the kitchen, at the little room he'd spent his time cleaning, doing the dishes, and eating real full sized meals.  The library with its books in several languages Harry didn't recognize, that had a couch he stretched out on in the evening while reading, and slightly warped wooden floors that warmed under his bare feet when the fire was lit.  Harry definitely wanted to stay here.

But did Snape want him to?  He did say ‘without careful consideration', which wasn't a no. And Snape had certainly cared for him when he'd showed up drunk, he'd stepped into the role of a dad when they needed to, and even when Harry had had nightmares, Snape had comforted him.  He'd also laughed at some of Harry's stupid comments, and definitely seemed pleased that Harry was learning to think before he spoke and acted.  And the man had nearly had a fit when the bee had stung Harry; he was even still working on a potion to cure the allergy.  Harry glanced up at Snape, who was mechanically cutting his pancakes into precise pieces, absolutely no emotion on his face whatsoever.

"You don't want to watch me die." Harry spoke to his glass, barely loud enough for Snape to hear.

The fork hovered over Snape's plate, the piece pancake dripping maple syrup very slowly.

"I do not." 

Harry put some food on his plate, though he felt anything but hungry at the moment.

"Dumbledore told you about the prophecy, didn't he?"  Harry asked, keeping his voice neutral.  He didn't expect Snape's small snort at the question.

"You have an interesting gift for irony, Potter."  Snape put his plate aside and drank some orange juice, ignoring the puzzled look on Harry's face.  "Yes, I know of the prophecy."

"That's why you don't want me, isn't it? Because you know he'll kill me."  Harry pushed the pancake around on his plate, feeling a bit sorry for himself.

"Don't play with your food." Snape admonished, exasperation in his voice. "He won't kill you, Potter. You're too damn resilient to die."

"I don't get it then, what are you saying? You don't want me to stay here?"

"Listen very carefully Potter, as I'll only say this once.  You're fifteen, and this is a choice you need to make as it will affect you for the rest of your life." Snape was looking at him intently, and Harry sat up straight in his seat, listening closely. Very few times had Harry been given final say in something important about his life.

"I do not mind you staying here. I believe you very much need a firm adult figure in your life to keep you in line and stop you from pulling the ridiculous stunts that take you to the infirmary at Hogwarts on a regular basis."  Snape nodded his head forward once, as if to cut off any arguments Harry may have had regarding that. Harry, however, remained silent.

"If I were to adopt you, however, it would only be..."

"Adopt?"  Harry interrupted, his voice rising with a bit of shock.

"I am not a quitter, Potter.  It would be permanent. I would raise you to be a responsible young man, no matter how long it took or how tempted I would be to throttle you."  Snape leaned back in his chair, inviting questions.

"I'm going to drive you to be a drinker, aren't I? You'll buy out the beer section at Sainsbury's."  Harry said with a slight grin, to cover his surprise.

"Please, Potter. If anything, you'd drive me to hard liquor." Snape rolled his eyes.

Harry smiled, but it was a nervous one.  He knew his answer already.

"I want to, sir. We'd have to keep very quiet, but I really want to live here."

Snape held up his hand though, to stop Harry.

 "Your godfather was murdered a month and a half ago, Potter. How would you handle another parent figure being injured right now? Or killed?"

"I don't know."  Harry huffed, trying to not get argumentative.  "But I would handle it."

"It appears we are at a stalemate," Snape said, standing to clear his dishes.  "As I do not agree.  At best, you'll inebriate yourself stupid."

"I only did that once."  Harry bristled.  "What good is it going to do to make me wait?"

Snape narrowed his eyebrows over his shoulder at Harry.  "You have a lot to consider, Potter, for once do not act like a Gryffindor."

"Sounds like you've thought this out a bit."  Harry said, pouring some syrup on his breakfast and pretending that they were not just discussing a real home for Harry.

"Some idiot put himself in a coma for four hours last week. I sat beside your bed, in a room with four other parents and two other sick dunderheads."  The sink filled with warm water and Harry started to eat his pancakes, biting back a laugh.

"You mean I've managed to worm my way into your heart a little? You actually care about me?"

Snape snorted and gave Harry a very dry response. 

"More like a parasitic infestation, but if you prefer the worm image, you may continue to employ that one."

"Lovely." Harry scrunched up his nose.

"Two weeks," Snape restated, sounding serious now.  "And I want you to actually think about it, Potter.  Think about who I am, what I have done, what I need to do.  You will not be able to tell anyone about the adoption while the war is on either, not even your two friends."

Snape managed to sound like a stern professor even as he was collecting crockery, which Harry watched with slight interest.  The pancakes were blueberry, and the fluffiest Harry had ever had. The box mix from the Dursleys had nothing on Snape's recipe.

"Alright, I'll think about it."  Harry agreed, dripping maple syrup on the table by accident.

"Two weeks."  Snape tipped the measuring bowl and spatulas into the water.

"Right, two weeks."  Harry said with a smile that was far from innocent.  "We'll talk about it after we get back from Dover."

"Who said you were going to Dover?"  Snape asked, wiping his hands on the tea towel hanging from the oven handle.

"I have to help you find the cave, don't I?" Harry replied, finishing off his pancake.  He could almost hear Snape swallowing.

"Do the damn dishes, Potter."  And with that, the professor swept out of the kitchen.  Harry didn't miss the tiny smirk on the man's face.

 ---

"Six cards, Potter. Keep four, and two for the crib."  Snape watched Harry clumsily shuffle the playing cards and deal them across the table.  On the counter a muggle radio tuned into a London station was playing a mixture of old Spanish music and lazy updates on world news.  Harry had thought the day had gone well, and after the breakfast speech on adoption Snape had corralled him to help sort books for the upcoming school year.  They'd acted as if nothing had been said earlier, though Harry had been distracted while in thought and thus found himself playing a counting game with Snape.

"What's this game called again? I'm rubbish at cards."  Harry screwed up his face as he studied the cards he'd dealt himself, trying to figure out the best four to keep in order to get the best points.

"Cribbage. And you're rubbish at math, which is why you're playing it right now."  Snape responded sternly, plucking two cards from his own hand and tossing them aside, next to Harry's glass of juice.  Harry finally chose his own two to add to the crib, and put them atop Snape's. As Harry dealt that round, Snape started first and put down a nine.

"Fifteen for two."  Harry replied, putting down a six he had in his hand.  He moved his marker up two spots on the cribbage board, feeling triumphant.  "They don't teach math at Hogwarts."

"Twenty four. That is no excuse."  Snape put a nine on his original nine and waited for Harry to play.

"It's a go." Harry replied, looking annoyed.

"Really?"  Snape asked, his smile predatory. He laid a seven down and took two points on the board. "Thirty one for two."

"Why do you play the game then?" Harry started with a ten, hoping that Snape didn't have a five as his remaining card.

"Eighteen." Snape let his eight drop and responded with sarcasm.  "To keep up my math skills."

"Ha ha. Twenty eight, and one for my last."  Harry moved the point with his marker, not even bothering to be annoyed that Snape was winning.  He expected to be thoroughly trounced.

Snape laid his cards out and drummed his fingers on the table.  Harry looked at his four and gave a small groan.

"Indeed, Potter."  Snape counted out his points and Harry watched as his marker went further and further up the board. Really, he'd be lucky if he didn't get skunked this round.  The game was interrupted by a phone call however, which Snape rose to answer. 

"Snape." It was said in a monotonous voice, and sounded like the person better know exactly why they were calling and make it quick.

"No, no other reactions."   Snape leaned back against the counter and listened intently into the phone, pausing to give one-word answers here and there.  Harry pretended not to be listening in, and instead arranged his pathetic four cards into as many points as he could see.  Finally, after ten minutes talking, Snape came back to the table.

"What other subjects are you floundering miserably in?"  Snape asked, nodding at Harry's measly six points before taking the cards to shuffle them.

"What? Weren't you just talking about me on the phone?"  Harry asked, a bit bewildered by the complete avoidance of the phone call.

"I was talking about chemistry. Answer the question."

"Divination and potions."  Harry said with a smirk, throwing two cards to Snape's crib.

"If you were excelling at divination, I would be concerned."  Snape admonished, playing an eight against Harry's opening nine.  "As for potions, once you have completed your summer assignment, perhaps you should practice in the lab."

Harry played a seven. "Twenty three. And I can't get to your lab, it's in the warded cellar, remember?"

"Twenty four." Snape tsked as he corrected Harry's count, moving his marker on the board. "And I'll take three points for the run you missed."

"Argh.  When can I go to Diagon Alley? I need to get next year's books." Harry played a four and hoped Snape didn't have any low cards.

"Later.  And you will not be allowed in the lab until you get there yourself, so I suggest you get to work on those wards."

"I'm a little reluctant, since the last time one of the wards turned me purple for three hours.  Where'd you get this board?"  Harry asked, running his finger along the side of the worn wooden score board and concentrating on adding his hand up, trying to find as many counts to fifteen as he could get.

"My grandmother."  Snape answered, moving his piece way up the board as he counted his hand and crib.  He was only sixteen points from 121, and Harry wasn't even over the skunk line yet.

"The Russian one?"

"The British." 

Harry nodded and concentrated on his hand.  Outside, laughter sounded from a group of kids running in the small alley between the houses.  Harry watched with a guarded expression as Snape laid out his hand, and plucked his marker gleefully from the board, jumping it to the end spot.

"Skunked.  We'll play again tomorrow."  Snape smirked, dumping the pieces off the board to put them back in the little notch on the underside.

Harry yawned and stuffed the cards back in the box, shrugging his shoulders.

"Okay.  I'm going for a shower." 

Snape waved him off and Harry shuffled out towards the stairs, thinking that this was the kind of home life he wanted.

"Potter."  Snape called in an amused tone, causing Harry to pause at the library door.  "Have you finished with those books that you're hiding under your bed? I know The Bent Broomstick has some interesting pictures, but if you have any questions I prefer you do come and ask."

"Good night, Professor." Harry cut off sternly, not turning around to prevent Snape from seeing him blush as he fled through the door.

--

Harry lay with his still wet hair on the bed in his room, listening to the neighbours across the garden laughing and jeering at each other.  Warm summer nights in Stockport seemed to bring out the booze and laughter late into the dark, but Harry didn't mind.  He felt rather warm and lazy, his body relaxed from the evening shower and his brain rather calm as he chose his daydream for the evening before nodding off. Harry thought of the little kitchen and the library downstairs, and what it would be like if they were slightly decorated for Christmas time.  He heard Snape walk down the hall and enter the bathroom to prepare for bed, and thought about running downstairs in the morning, one foot socked and the other bare, to see what gifts would be under the tree.

Water ran from the sink in the washroom and Harry smiled at the thought of having a full English breakfast made in the kitchen, perhaps in his dream the kitchen would be renovated, and it would be him for a change making the breakfast, moving around with fluid grace in the kitchen, flicking open cupboard doors and drawers like he owned -

Bloody buggering hell.  Harry sat up in bed, shivering a little when the blanket left his shoulder bare.  The drawer handle in the kitchen had been broken and Harry had repaired it.  Even though Snape had admonished him about the decree, no letter from the ministry had come.  Harry didn't think Snape would put wards on his house to prevent Harry from doing magic all together, as he'd previously stated that in the real world, Harry needed whatever advantage he could get.

Harry lay back down, ignoring the cold dampness on his pillow.  Snape had sat in this very bed, shooting down flies with his wand one summer when he was a kid; Harry had seen it in the man's memories. He looked to be about fourteen at the time, so not old enough to use magic outside of school. Was it the house that prevented the ministry from learning of the magic? Harry scratched his head absently and then his eyes opened wider to match the grin on his face. 

Hermione had used magic outside of school as a twelve year old, repairing Harry's glasses in Diagon Alley, where tonnes of wizards and witches could see them. No letter had come for her.  And Ron had told them, rather reluctantly, about when his brothers had changed his teddy bear for a spider.  Harry was certain that as a ministry employee, Mr. Weasley would have been admonished by the ministry, but Ron had not mentioned once a letter coming, and it was something he would have shared if only for justice against his brothers.

Harry allowed himself a very sly grin as he drifted off while planning his attack.  Tomorrow he would destroy the wards and pick the lock to the cellar.

--

There was nothing to hide in the cellar except Snape's fully stocked, and therefore dangerous, potions lab.  Two incomplete sets of outdated encyclopaedias, an impressive collection of records, and an old red tricycle that Snape hadn't touched since he was five also littered the dark corners of the large room, with a few other boxes filled with things Snape had long forgotten about.  Even so, he didn't even think Potter was stupid enough to enter his lab without him, as Potter had seen enough explosions at school to know what dangers lay there.

Nonetheless, he'd locked and warded the cellar door to make the boy think.  The Headmaster had mentioned a few years ago about Harry almost being sorted into Slytherin, and Snape thought it was well past the time that those skills were tapped into.  In a war like this, those skills would be useful.

He therefore bit back a little smile as a disgruntled Harry flung open the cellar door and walked down the steep wooden stairs towards Snape and the lab, a full week earlier than Snape had thought it would take Harry.  Hopefully the boy noticed the loose fifth step - Snape shook his head as he heard Harry stumble, grabbing onto the wall and railing for all he was worth and managing to keep himself upright as he slid down the last few stairs to the bottom and landed with surprised flourish that he'd managed to stay on his feet.

"Bloody menace."  Snape grumbled, grinding up doxy wings in an old cast iron mortar.

"I made it."  Harry announced with a silly grin.  "Now you have to teach me some spying tricks."

"Lesson one is to pay attention to old stairs, lest you announce the presence of twelve drunken hippogriffs entering the room." Snape dryly responded, keeping continual even twists of the pestle as he spoke.  The cellar was a moderate temperature, but Snape was wearing an old long sleeved blue shirt that had some stain splotches on the front and a few tiny holes by the top right shoulder where some caustic ingredient had splashed upwards.  His sleeves were rolled up, and his forearm muscles flexed as he ground the doxy wings, giving Harry a very clear idea as to how Snape had such strong arms.

"Lesson two," Snape continued, scraping out the mortar into a simmering cauldron nearby. "Is that my rule is above the ministry. They might not be able to tell who does magic here or be able to limit it, but rest assured, I can."   Snape levelled Harry a Look, which meant there would be hell to pay if Harry took advantage of that loophole in the underage decree.

Harry had just barely nodded when Snape pointed at a brand new muggle note pad that was sitting at the edge of the workbench.

"Third lesson.  I want you to dissect your friends."   Snape pulled down a jar of pine resin and placed it next to a tiny cauldron.

"Like, literally dissect?"  Harry asked, his eyes a bit wider than normal.

"Figuratively. Honestly, Potter."  Snape shook his head and spelled a measure of resin out of the jar and into the cauldron.  "I want a list of your friends and all of their attributes, with extra focus on the negatives and how each friend is a potential danger to you."

"Sounds rather paranoid."  Harry commented, checking out the line up of ingredients on the workbench. It looked like Snape was fine-tuning the bee allergy potion, though where he'd gotten the vial of Harry's blood remained unspoken, and he'd rather actually not know.

"The more thorough you are, the less room for surprises." Snape replied, shooing Harry over to a desk in the corner, with the explanation that he would be checking this assignment the next day on their outing.  Harry grinned to himself while he worked, trying not to appear too happy or smug about his upcoming trip to Dover.

--

Harry leaned over the sink in the bathroom, searching through the cabinet for a fresh bar of soap. The potion took care of any stubble Harry might have on his chin, but it was always nice to be freshly shaved, especially when going out.  Even though Snape had told him he'd have to de-age again for this trip, there was a chance of going out to London after at his regular age to do some exploring.

Fifteen minutes later Harry came downstairs, dressed in nice jeans and his favourite blue dress shirt.  It had been the first shirt that Harry had enlarged from his child wardrobe, and he figured it would transform back with little problem. 

Snape gave him a quick onceover before nodding. "You need a tie." 

"No I don't, it's summer and I'll be six years old."  Harry said, shoving his hands in his pockets and not taking a step anywhere.  He wasn't dressed in a t-shirt, and didn't see the need to go much more formal than he was.

"Besides, you're not wearing one either."  Harry said, looking smug in his observation.  Snape, of course, was wearing his regular black muggle outfit of dark trousers, a cream coloured dress shirt, and black knit jumper.  

"I am dressed properly, with my shirt tucked in. A skill you seem to have not picked up yet."  Snape's tone hadn't crossed over into his Obey or Else voice, but Harry knew it was close.

"Fine." Harry grumbled, pulling a tie out of his back pocket. He'd stuck it in there anticipating that Snape might have brought it up.  Harry draped the tie over his head and let it fall loosely, without tightening it up.  Looking down, he was quite pleased with how casual he looked.

Snape clicked his tongue in irritation and moved forward, hands reaching the tie in one swift motion. Harry tried to jerk back, but Snape held him still.

"Don't move, unless you want to be strangled." Snape warned, buttoning up the top of Harry's shirt and adjusting the tie properly.  "You may leave the shirt untucked, but the tie stays.  As long as you're..."

"I know, I know." Harry cut him off, rolling his eyes dramatically. "As long as I'm under your power, I do as you say."

"And I will not have some sloppy boy out with me in public." Snape confirmed, releasing Harry and moving toward the front door.   He summoned a knit pullover for Harry and handed it over, along with a small potion bottle.

"Why do I have to dress up, anyway?  You were fine with me wearing polo shirts and shorts in Amsterdam."

Snape crossed his arms as Harry put the bottle to his lips.

"I've heard that women find men with small children to be irresistible. I plan to test that theory today."   Snape replied, making sure Harry didn't spit any potion out.

Harry made a face that had very little to do with the taste of the potion, and then started to shrink.   Snape had a bizarre sense of humour and Harry still had trouble telling if he was joking sometimes or not.

--

The boat ride was a forty-five minute jaunt in a long blue boat that was lined with hard wooden benches and a glassed in seating area at the back.  It was not unlike the tour boat of the canals in Amsterdam, however Harry discovered in short order that the English Channel was a much rougher journey than smaller canals, and was soon feeling rather seasick.  While the other kids on the boat tour were bouncing around in the uncovered area in the middle of the boat, shrieking as they hit waves and splashed water up the sides, Harry sat on a bench in the corner of the enclosed area, waiting while Snape rummaged in the rucksack he'd brought for something.

"How you manage to not get motion sick on a broomstick is beyond me."  Snape pointed out without any malice in his voice as he gave Harry a small pastille to eat, which smelled strongly of ginger. 

Harry took it gratefully and kept his mouth shut as he chewed the tablet and willed the medicine to kick in immediately.   He didn't think Snape would be annoyed if he threw up, after all motion sickness wasn't something one could help, but Harry didn't want to test Snape's patience.

The cliffs came into view and Snape stood, picking Harry up and carrying him toward the open-air seats.  He'd explained to Harry earlier what they'd be looking for, to see what kind of cave Voldemort might have chosen, and Harry knew they'd have to sit close to the edge of the boat in order for Snape to get a proper look.  He just wished the damn boat would stop knocking against the waves so hard, and the other kids around him would stop yelling so loud.

Harry didn't expect Snape to sit down and keep Harry held against his chest though, his head tucked in and resting on Snape's shoulder and strong arms holding him tight.  Snape started rubbing small circles on Harry's back as he looked around at the cliffs, speaking softly in a rumbling tone that vibrated through Harry in a bizarrely comfortable way.

"Breathe in the salt air, Elliot. Your stomach is fine and calming down."

And Harry actually felt that it was.  He left himself completely relax, slouching shamelessly against Snape and closing his eyes.  He would not think about being sick.

"Tell me about your friends."  Snape was still cataloguing the large expanse of jagged white rock that lay ahead of them, his voice only loud enough for Harry to hear.

"Uhm.  Well Ron and Hermione are my best friends, which you know."

Snape nodded, and his fine black hair tickled Harry's nose momentarily.

"Ron was my first school age friend, I met him on the Hogwarts Express.  He's a really loyal friend, and his whole family are really generous, even though they don't have much.  He's not as smart as Hermione, and sometimes he says really stupid things before thinking.  But he always backs me up."

Harry moved his arms, which were previously slung loosely around Snape's neck, down in between his chest and Snape's to warm them up.  The air wasn't cold, but the water it carried made his skin damp and a bit clammy.

"Does he? I remember he seemed to take offense to your being chosen as the fourth triwizard champion."

"You noticed that? Yeah, I guess his jealousy can sometimes make us fight."   Harry closed his eyes and talked to Snape's neck. It'd be great if he could spend the rest of the boat ride in that exact same spot, without having to move. His stomach had finally stopped twisting with the crashing waves.

"Indeed.  Keep that in mind, as his jealousy will most likely drive him off again in the future. What have you made of Granger's attributes?"

"I don't think it will.  And Hermione is bloody brilliant.  I think she's the smartest in all my classes; actually I'm not sure why the hat didn't put her in Ravenclaw.  But if I ever need to find the answer to something, Hermione is always there to help research, and she can remember things better than anyone I know."

Snape harrumphed at that, and Harry looked up, a small grin on his face. "Except for you, sir. Your intelligence far surpasses even the combined IQs of all the professors at Cambridge University."

Harry received a light swat to the back of his head for that, but he could see by the glint of Snape's eyes that the man did like to receive praise, even exaggerated, for his studious nature. 

"Miss Granger is indeed above average, though her unyielding quest to know what is happening at all times may be detrimental to your personal life eventually."

"What do you mean?"

Snape suddenly stiffened, and Harry could hear him incant in Latin under his breath.  It sounded like a location spell, and Harry kept very still as Snape took an old fashioned compass out of his pocket, checking some bearings.   He tapped the top case of the compass, and Harry could barely see Snape's black wand edge peeking out from under the knit jumper sleeve.  Glittery numbers etched themselves into the case, and Harry figured they were co-ordinates.

"You found it?"

"I believe so."  Snape nodded towards an indistinct cropping of rock that looked the same to Harry as every other bit of coastline they'd passed so far.  There was a sudden jolt as the boat dropped down a particularly strong wave, causing three kids around them to screech and laugh, and Harry to groan as he dropped his head back down onto Snape's shoulder.

"Just close your eyes." Snape said, managing to sound nonchalant even as his fingers were drumming in a steady pattern along Harry's back.

"Sorry I'm ruining your plans to pick up women."  Harry offered lightly, as the boat turned for its journey back towards the pier.

 "Nonsense, there are four staring at us right now."  The drumming increased slightly in pressure and Harry found himself getting sleepy.

"Ha ha. Funny joke."  Harry commented, pulling off his glasses.

"Joke? By the end of the boat ride I'll have them wanting me to take them to London, instead of you."  Snape pocketed the glasses, sounding smug.

"Whatever you say, Dad." Harry yawned, closing his eyes.  "You wouldn't leave me here."

Snape made no response, other than a small grunt as he shifted to admire the rough waters and jagged white edges of his homeland.

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.

Harry's OWL results arrived the day after, delivered by a crotchety black owl who looked official and professional.  The owl begrudgingly accepted a few bits of bacon as payment, dropping the official parchment to the kitchen windowsill before taking off again in the early morning haze, over the tiny garden and slanted roofs of the terrace houses behind theirs.

Having spent an hour looking at the parchment and trying to distract himself from its implications, Harry had finally given in and opened it after Snape had threatened to send him to the cellar to skin flobberworms.  The results had taken Harry by surprise, a pleasant one nonetheless, but his stomach had also lurched at the potions grade.  He knew that Snape only accepted students with an outstanding, and he also knew that there was no way in hell he'd ask Snape for a special favour.

So being an auror was out.

Harry didn't quite know what to feel about that, as Professor McGonagall had vehemently argued for him to successfully become one the year before, but after the mishap at the Ministry, Harry had some serious doubts about his abilities in that field.  He'd felt high strung and jittery just before going to save Sirius, his nerves tingling as all senses were attuned for danger. It was not a stress that Harry wanted to deal with on a daily basis.

At least Snape had been rather decent about his marks, even begrudgingly congratulating Harry on the potions mark. It sounded pained from Snape's lips, but Harry could tell that Snape was marginally impressed that he'd managed an E.  Harry figured he'd done damn well, considering the environment he studied in, but figured it was best for his personal safety not to mention that little tidbit.

So he sat on the settee in the library room, idly flipping between his textbook and an old book of British family crests.  It was rather sunny outside, but Harry didn't feel like going out.   Now that he'd gotten his scores he could actually sit down and consider the many careers available to him, but he had no idea what he wanted to do. It did seem that career choices in the wizarding world were largely populated by two groups - working for the ministry or working for Hogwarts, and Harry didn't really want to do either.  Harry had his doubts on whether he'd actually survive the war, but he figured he should probably have some sort of back up plan for once he graduated.

It was still two years off, however, so perhaps he could worry about defining a specific job later.  For now, it would probably just be best to write down a list of things he didn't want to do, and maybe ask Snape for his opinion.  Harry figured there was a fifty-fifty chance the professor would make fun of his choices, but he had spent enough of the summer with the man to know by now that most of it was just teasing.

A noise sounded from the corner of the library where the window was, and Harry watched with pure curiosity as Snape suddenly backed out of the cellar alcove, levitating a bulky old TV that looked like it had been purchased in the early 70's.  The TV was settled down near the entryway to the kitchen, and Snape plugged it experimentally into the wall, giving himself a small upward twitch of his lips when it worked.

"You watch TV?"  Harry couldn't help but ask, dropping his list on the couch and leaning forward as Snape summoned a coaxial cable from somewhere in the basement.

"They used to have weekday afternoon movies."  Snape replied, answering a completely different question that Harry had not even thought about.  Harry blinked a little as he watched Snape screw in the cord, and he tried again.

"What movie do you plan to watch?" 

Snape stood and moved toward the back kitchen door, and Harry followed, now even more curious.  He watched with fascination as Snape popped open the metallic wirebox that was shared between their house and the neighbour's and, while looking around bored, yanked out a handful of wires.

"Are you stealing cable?"  Harry asked, barely keeping back a grin.

"I am borrowing it."  Snape corrected, splicing a cable and adding theirs to it manually, as if he'd learned how to do that when he was too young to use magic outside of school.  Through the kitchen window Harry heard some sort of sitcom announce itself with a track of fake laughter.

"And we are going to watch Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. I've had enough of your moping around the house over your grades.  If you want something to worry about, this will do."

"Worry about? I thought that was a kids movie."  Harry looked a bit uncertain but took his spot again on the couch.  "And I'm not moping. I just don't know what to do when I'm done school."

"Come now, you're a wizard, Potter.  Surely a boy who has ridden a thestral isn't afraid of small orange men and a demented chocolatier?"   Snape said with a light sneer, settling back into his favourite armchair and flexing his feet, cracking his toes.

"Not on your life."  Harry answered, crossing his arms strongly and glaring at his professor.

"We shall see."  Snape gave as a reply, summoning Harry's list from the couch as commercials went by on the TV.  "You no longer wish to be an auror?"

Harry coughed a little and looked at his own feet, scratching the back of his head absentmindedly.  The list was only a rough draft.

"No. Well, I can't now anyway. But I don't think I want to do anything with the war after it's over. No chasing bad wizards, no dealing with curses and hexes, nothing like that."

"For once you seem to be using your brain. I approve of this new development."  Snape gave a dramatic roll of his eyes, and Harry wrinkled his nose in mock displeasure.

"Thanks. I think it just what everyone expects, anyway.  The boy hero to become a world class auror."  Harry had no trouble making fun of that aspect of himself, as it was a part of his life that he hated.  Snape was giving him a strange look however, black calculating eyes narrowed and focused almost right through him.

"There is no boy hero here. There is no boy who lived, either. There is either Potter, or Elliot."  One short calloused finger was pointed at him, and Harry merely stared as something inside him clicked.  The movie started before he said anything though, and Harry decided to wait until later to voice his opinions.

Harry spent the rest of the movie looking between Snape and the television with a look of muted bewilderment, the problem of his future career completely gone from his mind as he tried to figure out what the hell was going on on the TV.

--

Harry heard the small chime in the library go off a few hours later and stood away from the fireplace, eying it like a hunter. The first time this had happened, on the first Thursday he'd spent at Spinner's End, Harry had been apparently obstructing the landing zone and had been bowled over by three heavy canvas bags.  Not wanting to repeat neither that particular oomph of having the wind knocked out of him, nor Snape's sarcastic comments upon finding him sprawled out on the floor, Harry had studied the timing and efficiency of the next three deliveries.  

A small fishing net had been placed in front of the fireplace, attached to the couch and Snape's favourite chair by magic.  Harry watched with glee as the three bags launched out, snapping into the net and colliding together.  He gave an immature "hah!" and pounced on his prize, struggling to get the bags out of the net.  It seemed every week that the elf that delivered the bags, a short and beefy runt who had half a beard, a blood red bandana and inexplicably went by the name of Twinky; aimed precisely for the stacked bookcase opposite from the fireplace.  The one with Snape's collection of old and expensive looking compasses, which Harry had yet to figure out how to bring into conversation. 

Harry was just standing over the bags, pulling the net off and half heartedly folding it when the fireplace whooshed again and a fourth bag hurtled out, thumping him squarely in the shoulder and knocking him arse over teakettle.  When he stopped swearing, one eye was covered with a hard plastic tag that Harry couldn't focus clearly on, and another spotted the mean smirk of Twinky in the fireplace. 

Harry angrily grabbed the tag in front of his face and scrambled to get up, managing not to trip on the drawstring of the bag under him. 

"Good afternoon, sir." Twinky said, without the slightest hint of respect in his voice.

Harry glared between him and the tag on the bag, which read "Potions Master S. Snape - Half Wit."

"My name," Harry growled, speaking slowly as if he was talking to toddler, "is Harry Potter. Not houseguest, not little runt, not half pint, and not half wit.  Harry. Potter. I have a...I am a full wit."

Twinky gave him a disapproving look-over and looked disdainful. "Twinky is generous on the half part."

Harry sucked in his breath and wondered just how mad Snape would be if he hexed the little tosser. 

The elf gave him a nasty little smile reminiscent of a garden gnome. "Is Master Snape wanting his bill today?"

"Hell if I know."  Harry growled, crossing his arms and glaring at the elf. He had yet to win a staring match.

"Twinky is not surprised you don't." Twinky said with a smug voice, his face flickering green in the fireplace. "I is seeing you next Thursday, Half Wit." 

Twinky managed to disappear from the fire just as Harry cast a jet of water at it, laughing as he went.    A voice from the corner of the room made Harry jump suddenly, holding his wand out and looking guilty.

"Well, well, Mr. Potter. I never knew you had such trouble with canvas sacks as well. I thought your deficiencies were merely restricted to terrycloth towels."

Harry felt like flinging one or two of the bags toward Snape, but he knew that was a bad idea for two reasons. Snape would definitely not be pleased, and his displeasure was normally expressed in menial labour, but primarily, Harry couldn't lift the bags that high to throw them.

"Only you would have laundry service with a firm of liberated, unbelievably rude and greedy house elves."

"I believe they prefer the term ‘capitalistic'."  Snape corrected, raising his eyebrow in a semi-smug way like he usually did in class when Harry was dead wrong.  "Though why you picked a fight with Twinky I'll never know."

"I don't like other people washing my clothes."  Harry grumbled, standing up straight and ignoring the teasing look on Snape's face.

"Indeed. So because famous Harry Potter doesn't want ex-house elves washing his smalls, he picks..."

"They're mine! I can wash my own clothing during the summer!"  Harry was inches away from stomping his foot like a toddler, if only the wooden floor wouldn't be so hard on his stocking feet. One foot had a thick athletic sock on, but the other had a thinner argyle one and would probably sting more.

"Not while you live here."  Snape replied with a slight twist of his head, and with his wand he flicked three of the bags upstairs.  The last one, full of Harry's clothes and labelled Half Wit, he left on the library floor.  "Put them away in your room, and stay out of trouble until dinner."

--

Harry was in the kitchen when Dumbledore knocked on the front door, clearing the table from dinner.  His punishment from going out in Amsterdam was long over, but as if an unspoken rule, Harry had continued cleaning up after dinner most evenings.

Snape had just welcomed the headmaster into the library room when Harry turned to grab the broom as the sink filled.

"Hello, Professor." Harry greeted, keeping his voice neutral. His eyes flicked down to the headmaster's hand involuntarily, which looked as shrivelled and black as the last time he'd seen it.

The sink filled and Harry stopped it just in time to prevent the bubbles from spilling over on the counter.  He listened as the headmaster discussed private lessons for him over the year, staring with unfocused eyes as he scooped the top layer of soap foam from the sink and dropped it in the trash, a habit of his since he was seven and learned that it made rinsing the plates faster.

"And congratulations on becoming quidditch captain." Dumbledore said with a smile, which Harry returned with a soft thank you, finally meeting Dumbledore's eyes.  The man looked older than when Harry had last seen him, either that or Harry was looking at him from a different viewpoint.  His beard was not as thick and white as it used to be, and even though his eyes were smiling, Harry could tell that they were somewhat troubled.  And yet, he still beamed at Harry, still spoke to him about stupid things like quidditch in his ‘everything is fine, the weather is fine, the war effort is fine, everything is just going grand' voice.

It made Harry want to take the glass in his hand and fling it against the wall, smash it into brittle miniscule pieces.  He wanted to destroy it, and then magic it back together, only to destroy it again.  Everything was not fine.  Harry imagined the glass being repaired each time with a small part missing, until it became weaker and weaker.  He stared at the glass as Snape called Dumbledore, feeling oddly in tune with it.

Snape and the headmaster went back into the library and they had a short discussion on the summer tasks and Harry's upcoming lessons.  Harry tried to not listen in, instead focusing on a daydream of going back to Amsterdam as he scrubbed the dinner glasses. He barely noticed the silencing spell that was cast as they moved on to discuss things Harry was not to know of. Harry figured it was probably regarding the meeting with Narcissa and Bellatrix, which made his face flush with anger.

He was sixteen, and supposed to be having the time of his life in a magical school in Britain.  All he felt, however, was that he was just a passenger on a rollercoaster.  The ride had officially begun with the very weekend Snape had rushed out to aid the headmaster with his cursed hand.  All those previous years had just been the building anticipation, waiting in line while the rollercoaster got closer and closer to loading them up from the station.

Harry slid Snape's favourite blue dinner plate in the water, taking care not to snag the chipped edge on the dishrag. He began to scrub the lasagne bits off, picturing hundreds of nervous people ready to board, at an amusement park.  Albus Dumbledore stood as the conductor and flicked the switch, starting the coaster down the rickety wooden track.  There was no turning back now, no matter how scary the ride was.  Other events had been set in motion already, cascading like dominos. Harry started on his own dish, a green one with tiny white flowers along the edge, scrubbing furiously.  Fortunately Snape had been able to avoid making a vow to kill the headmaster in place of Draco, but what other demands would be made before it was over?

"If you scrub any harder those flowers will come clean off the plate."  Snape's voice broke through the din hum of the overhead ceiling light, startling Harry.

"I'm not tall enough to ride." Harry blurted, still thinking about the rollercoaster war. 

"I...see."  Snape responded, sounding rather bemused.

Harry stared down at his water-wrinkled hands and pulled the plate out, blushing a little with his back still turned to Snape.

"You caught me off guard."

"Daydreaming?"  Snape asked lightly, pulling a tea towel off the oven rack and starting to dry the dishes.

"Er, a little."  Harry admitted, surprised that Snape didn't seem annoyed by his confession.

"Good."  Snape was fast at drying, even though he did things the muggle way, and did not explain his retort any further. It only served to confuse Harry, but he was tired and preferred the silence.

--

Harry woke up in a cold sweat, his t shirt clinging to his back and the blankets twisted around him. According to the clock on the desk beside him, it was twenty to two in the morning.   Harry shivered to himself and pulled the loose knit throw on the top of his bed around his shoulders, rubbing his arms gently and telling himself that the little orange men in his dreams were not real, and they were not there to steal Dumbledore from Harry. They were not. Not even by preserving him in a vat of colour change food dye for the newest Wonka candy.

After shaking his head to clear the images from his mind, and admonishing himself on the foolishness of believing his illogical dreams, Harry lay back down and tried to fall back asleep.  He gave up after ten minutes of tossing and turning; standing and wrapping himself in the blanket as he opened his door and walked down the hall to Snape's.

There was no light spilling out from under the door, and Harry had second thoughts about coming to wake Snape.  He'd probably just snap at Harry to go back to bed, but Harry couldn't shake the unease from the dream and he thought the risk might be worth a few minutes' talking until he could drift off again.  Lifting his blanket covered hand up, Harry knocked on the door.

No answer came from inside, and Harry wondered if Snape was either a heavy sleeper, or if he hadn't heard the knock. Or perhaps he had, and he was ignoring it.  Or maybe getting up and covering himself.  Harry stared at the door, wondering in polite etiquette how long one was supposed to wait before attempting to wake their professor in the middle of the night again over a bad dream.   Harry scoffed at himself as his second knock landed on the wood, and he decided to go back to bed and try to handle his dreams like a grown up.  He suddenly heard footsteps from the other side of the door, and stepped back a little when Snape opened it.

Snape was dressed in his nightgown only, no robe wrapped around him.  The gown was a deep red shade, almost wine red, and Harry blinked as he took in the unexpected colour.   Snape looked like he'd been woken from an uneasy sleep, and his normally straight hair was crooked at points from where he'd slept on it.  His dark eyes searched Harry's face to see what the problem was, and Harry felt more stupid than he had when he'd decided to go back to his room.

"I'm not six anymore."  Harry said by way of explanation, which only took Snape a moment to understand.  He reached out and put a hand on Harry's shoulder, pulling him into the bedroom and steering him toward the unmade bed; the only soft spot to sit in the room.

"I can't say the nightmares will go away." Snape answered in a flat tone, giving the straight truth like he usually did.  Snape was searching for something in the top drawer on his dresser, and Harry took the chance to look around the room.  It was painted in a brown colour, and the accents were done in simple earth tones. It was a very masculine bedroom, dark and made for relaxation.

Snape returned to the bedside with a jar, kneeling down and scooping out enough to cover two fingers.  He leaned forward and rubbed the cream briefly along Harry's forehead, and then spread a little more along the back of Harry's neck.  Harry blinked at the contact, and the strange cooling sensation of the cream settling in.

Snape stood up again and leaned against the wall, waiting to see if Harry would explain his dreams.   Harry chose to ask a completely unrelated question instead.

"Why do you want to adopt me? I don't imagine you'd be very popular if the news ever got out." Harry plucked at one of the loose threads on Snape's duvet, taking a deep breath and noticing the faint scent of fresh rain from some of the candles on the dresser.

"I imagine I'd receive a few howlers, yes.  Amongst the death eaters it would merely be considered icing on the cake."

"Yeah.  Not very popular with them, are you?"  Harry paused as he flicked a longer thread. "Do we have cake? I wouldn't mind cake."

"Focus, Potter." Snape rolled his eyes.  The cream was working faster than he'd remembered. "There is no cake."

"Maybe I'll make some.  But really, why do you want me?  No offense sir, but you've always kind of hated me."

"I did not ‘kind of' anything, Potter. Speak proper English.  And I have many reasons, most of which I will not justify."

"Because of my mother?"  Harry asked the question with barely a shrug, not seeming to notice how Snape's eyes snapped up at his perceptiveness.

"I haven't spoken to your mother in more than sixteen years."  Snape looked uncomfortable with the line of conversation, and Harry for once decided to tread lightly.

"She defended you though, against my dad. And the tree in the park, you knew her.  I would do it for that reason."  Harry yawned and sat forward, resting his head in his hands and his arms on his knees.

"Gryffindors."  Snape muttered.  "Perhaps I wish to stop you from letting your fame get to your head, with early bedtimes, lots of chores, and a one galleon per week allowance."

Harry looked up and gave Snape a sleepy mischievous look.

"Right. Otherwise I'd end up with a different girl on my arm every night, jewels and diamonds hanging off me, and my name on a star in Diagon Alley between Wendelin the Weird and Indiana Jones."

"Precisely."  Snape answered, checking his pocket watch and noticing Harry's eyes starting to shutter.

"Or maybe you're jut being selfish and want me around so that when you get older, someone will pay for you to go to a high-class nursing home.  Some place with senile wizards grumbling about the Queen of England, firing off random charms that change lamps into sockeye salmon, and demanding more instant pudding by the hour."  Harry's mouth seemed to still be perfectly awake, and he was rather amused at his own comments. Perhaps his sarcasm only came out when he was really relaxed.

Snape didn't seem nearly as amused as Harry was.

"Yes well, as unfamiliar as I am of this ‘instant pudding' you speak of, if you ever dare think of introducing me to one of said institutions, your demise will be newsworthy. And do bear in mind Potter, that you may judge both your popularity and my wrath by how long it takes for your body to be found."

Harry giggled and lifted his head up with a smile on his face.  "You've always struck me as the quiet and creative type."

Upon hearing the giggle, Snape stood straight and moved over to the bed, helping Harry stand up again.  He figured it would only take five minutes until the boy was fast asleep. Shuffling him to the door with one around his shoulders, Snape thought very carefully about what he was going to say next.  Harry would have much more restful dreams if he was in a good mood when he fell asleep, and considering the upsets that had been happening at Spinner's End in the week, Snape figured some praise might work well enough.

"Perhaps tomorrow we shall work on refining your occlumency skills."  Snape murmured, catching Harry's attention.

"Rubbish at that." Harry replied, his eyes closed as he trusted Snape completely and leaned on him during the walk back to his room.

"Hardly," Snape said, barely stopping himself from rolling his eyes.  He manoeuvred Harry to his own bed and pulled the throw blanket from Harry's shoulders.  "You've been studying occlumency since you've arrived here."

"No I've not."  Harry blinked, shoving his feet under the covers as Snape held up the duvet.

"The daydreams, Potter. You learned to do that, and I've not been able to access your mind for a few weeks.  The basis of occlumency."  Snape dropped the duvet up near Harry's chin, and checked that both Harry's wand and his glasses were on the desk.  There'd been a panicked morning in July when Harry had woken and thought he'd snapped his wand rolling over in his sleep, and Snape had no desire to revisit that series of events.

"Slytherin."  Harry yawned out with a smile on his face, proud he'd finally mastered occlumency. He knew he'd never be as good as Snape, but at least he could do it now.  Harry briefly wondered just what dreams Snape would have seen when he tested Harry, but decided that he was too relaxed to worry about them. 

Harry heard Snape move to the door after summoning a glass of water to sit beside Harry.

"Thanks, Dad."  Harry mumbled, not realising that Snape had paused at the sound, and then gone back to his own room in a slightly better mood.

--

Snape banged on the bedroom door at eight am to make sure Harry was up in time for his trip to Diagon Alley.  Though he'd be flooing directly to the Weasleys and returning straight after, the boy had been ridiculously excited to go shopping with his friends for the day.   He continued downstairs, spelling open the blinds and starting the stove in the kitchen, setting oatmeal to start cooking.  It was an overcast day, and Snape was of the belief that a good warm breakfast in the morning was a proper way to start the day.

Harry came bounding downstairs ten minutes later, hair sticking up on all ends, half a zippered jumper put on, his wand between his teeth and one sock on his foot.  Snape turned around with the pot, to fill the two bowls on the counter, and froze when he saw Harry. 

"You are sixteen years old, Potter.  Do you need to learn how to dress yourself again?"

"Mmfne."  Came the reply as Harry struggled to get the other sleeve of his jumper on, before taking the wand out of his mouth.  "I don't want to be late."

"Are you aware of the muggle saying ‘Do not run with scissors in your hand'?"  Snape asked, setting the bowls down and returning the retrieve the coffee.

"Yep. Aunt Petunia said it to Dudley all the time."  Harry grinned, in a great mood due to his trip.

"The same theory applies to holding one's wand in one's mouth."  Snape glared reprovingly before pulling his own wand out from his sleeve.

"Accio Potter's sock." 

Harry spun his head toward the library and waited thirty seconds before a bright blue sock came flying into the room.  He snatched it out of the air and put it on, looking up with a serious look on his face.  "How did you know which one I wanted?"

Snape, who did not dignify that with a response so early in the morning, merely pointed at the porridge and ignored the fact that Potter's socks never matched.

"Eat.   There's two galleons on the table if you want lunch out; you're not to let the Weasleys pay."

Harry nodded as he pocketed the coins and took a mouthful of cinnamon oatmeal.

"Yes, sir."

The rest of the meal passed in a blur and before Harry knew it (though he'd waited long enough), it was time to floo out.  Harry flashed Snape a grin, and paused before taking some powder from the bag on the mantel.

"Tonight's the two week deadline, right? For the adoption?"

Snape was trying to find a book on the shelf and turned to look at him, startled by the question.

"Yes."

Harry wasn't certain, but he thought he saw a brief flash of anticipation in Snape's eyes.

"Great, see ya then.  Have a nice day, Professor!"  Harry called, his smile causing dimples in his cheeks as he stepped into the green flames and headed out for a day on the town.

Harry arrived back to Spinner's End at four in the afternoon, very quiet and looking for the entire world like he'd done something wrong.  Arthur Weasley refused the invitation in for tea, which Snape had merely extended in mock politeness, and gave a quick update on the state of Diagon Alley before apparating off home again.

Harry kicked off his shoes and left them by the front closet, following Snape into the library and flopping down on the couch.

"Do you have a pensieve?"

Snape stopped in the threshold of the kitchen and turned to give Harry a speculative look.

"Oh, what have you done now? Your face is etched in guilt."  Snape crossed his arms and stood with menacing air.

"I've not done anything. You know, you're very quick to accuse me."  Harry ran his fingers through his hair and glared at his professor.

"Yes, Potter, because you've been so well behaved thus far."  Snape was rolling his eyes, but he didn't sound nearly as vindictive as he usually did at school when he made similar comments about Harry. Indeed, he sounded almost amused.

"Never mind that. Something happened on the trip today and I want to show you."

There was silence in the room for a moment before Snape summoned his pensieve from somewhere upstairs, and after it came trailing into the room, he placed it on the coffee table. He showed Harry how to extract his memory of the day and put it into the shimmering liquid.  With a nod of approval, Snape followed Harry into the memory.

Diagon Alley was dark and dreary, despite the sunny August day that was scorching the rest of London.  Snape stood beside Harry and watched as one by one carrot topped Weasleys bounded into their view, followed finally by a messy mop of dark hair.  Surrounded by Mr. and Mrs. Weasley along with Hagrid, Harry felt slightly embarrassed to watch how his earlier self had seemed so skittish.  Perhaps, however, having Snape standing right beside him and knowing that he was safe in a memory was helping raise his bravery level.

Harry shrugged sheepishly when he glanced at Snape twenty minutes later, apologetic that he'd started the memory transfer a bit too early. Snape merely waved him off, and seemed to be rather interested in the surroundings of the shops on the streets and the merchandise inside Fred and George's shop.  Harry was willing to wager that Snape was taking an inventory of things to ban at Hogwarts for the upcoming year, and only managed not to snicker at himself when he noticed his memory self glancing out the shop window.

"Here's where I see him. Look."  Harry watched as outside the shop Draco Malfoy appeared to be sulking at his mother to the point of throwing a small tantrum.  Harry waited as he and his two friends slipped under the invisibility cloak and stepped outside, suddenly feeling a very strong grip clamp down on his shoulder in a not very supportive way.

"Just wait, I don't do anything too stupid."  Harry replied, hoping to deflect some of Snape's annoyance.

They followed the group to the corner of Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley, where memory Harry slid an extendable ear out from under the cloak and towards Draco, who was taking to someone in the shadows against the wall.

"It has to be me!"  Malfoy hissed, anger flashing through his blue eyes.  "You can hunt in the school after I'm done, but for now stay out of it!"

Snape gave a sharp intake of breath when he realized that Draco was talking to Fenrir Greyback.

"Tsk, too proud to accept my help, Draco? I heard your mummy went and asked old Snape to babysit you."

Draco stiffened at this, as did the three under the cloak. "Four days, Greyback. All the potions on that list, the dagger and the chalice, and I want them before I leave for King's Cross."

Draco shoved himself away from Fenrir and started to stalk off down Knockturn Alley.

There was hesitation under the cloak for a moment, as the three seemed to be deciding something, before they finally turned and headed back towards the twin's shop. The painful grip on Harry's shoulder loosened considerably and a few seconds later they landed back in the library.

"I'm the one who decided to go back."  Harry commented, steadying himself by a bookcase as the dizziness slowly left him.

"Did you now?"  Snape put the pensieve on his bookcase and warded it.

"Yeah, Hermione wanted to see where Draco was going, and Ron wanted to go with her, safety in numbers or something like that."  Harry sat back down on the couch and looked thoughtful.  Snape was now in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil.

 "Of course. The thirst for knowledge and the curse of loyalty. Did I not say..."

"You did."  Harry interrupted.  "This means though that by predicting how they'll act, I can use those traits against them, can't I?"

"Don't interrupt. And yes, you are able to manipulate reactions to situations in the way that you desire." Snape answered in a smooth voice and smug tone, which caused Harry to burst out laughing.

"No wonder you're head of Slytherin.  Do your students get away with anything?"

"Very little." Snape acknowledged with a small smirk.  The kettle clicked off and Snape busied himself making tea.

Harry fished around in his pocket and pulled out three tiny boxes that were wrapped in brown post paper and held together with twine.  He put them on the floor and expanded them to their normal size again, just as Snape sat down in his chair with the mail he'd collected from the table and his tea.

"What did I tell you about abusing the underage loophole?"  Snape asked in a bored voice, reading a bill and not even glancing up.

"Practicality, sir. If I shrunk them and kept them in my pocket, there was no way I could lose anything."  Harry replied, trying not to grin.

Snape raised an eyebrow over the paper.  "Fast answer, Mr. Potter."

This time Harry did smile as he began silently counting his books and comparing them to the crumpled up course list in his pocket.  He held up one book for inspection and flipped through it.

"Whoever this year's Defense teacher is, seems to know his stuff. This is far better than Umbridge's book was."  Harry traced his finger over the cover of Confronting the Faceless and looked up just in time to see the amused twitch in Snape's lips.

"What? You're looking at me like I'm being particularly daft." Harry scrunched his face and drew his feet up on the couch, sitting cross-legged.

"Almost any volume would be an improvement upon the drivel that was enforced on the class last year."  Snape sneered, his distaste for Umbridge rather evident.  "Though I suppose I should be consulting with you to see what was actually covered in defense last year, Professor."

Harry jerked his head up and his face flamed.  "You knew about the DA?"

Snape put his papers down and cracked his toes with a small stretch.

"The entire staff did, Potter. The day Umbridge found out about it was a three wine glass day."

"Hah, I'm flattered."  Harry put the book down on his pile and checked that he had all his other necessary school supplies.  "Wait a minute. You said you would consult me? Are you the new defense professor?"

Harry had a look of pleasant surprise on his face, as he checked to see Snape's reaction.  The smug look he got in return was enough to answer his question.

"I now have sufficient cause to hex you in class." Snape confirmed, nodding his head slightly.

"Like that would have stopped you before."  Harry quipped, suddenly feeling in a very good mood.  "Congratulations, Dad."

His smile was genuine, and Harry held his gaze as Snape's eyes searched seemingly right through him. After a moment he seemed satisfied with Harry's honesty and intent.

"You've made up your mind, then?"  Snape stood and turned to face the fireplace, scanning the bookshelf that ran along the wall beside it.

"Yes, sir. Do you need the reasons?"  Harry was trying to sit relaxed on the couch, but Snape could tell he was tense.

Images flashed through Snape's mind of another small boy, one who had grown up in the very same house, who had known loneliness, known ridicule, and craved acceptance.

"No, Potter. Tell me when I'm prisoner in that nursing home of yours, I'll need a good laugh then."  Snape pulled a small blue-ish purple book off the shelf and turned around, raising his eyebrow at Harry's snort.

"Shouldn't you be calling me Snape now?"

Snape eyed him with consideration.  "You wish to take the name, too?"

"Yes, sir. I'm not a Potter, not any more than Dudley is.  The only memory of my mum and dad I have is the night they died."  Harry scrunched his hands together in his lap, tapping them nervously.  "Almost the whole wizarding world knows of my parents, they won't be forgotten.  And they all know the boy who lived, the great Harry Potter, or at least they think they do.  But once the war is over, that will be done.  And I'll want to be normal, like I have been this summer."

"You are far from normal."  Snape replied in a dry tone, breaking the seriousness of their conversation.

"Maybe so," Harry agreed with a smirk, "but if I'm going to be dysfunctional, I'd rather set my own terms. And I know we have to keep the adoption a secret."

"Indeed. You will be Harry Potter at school and in the public at least until the war is over."  Snape looked a bit perturbed by this, and Harry grinned.  

"This is for my safety as much as it is for yours."  Snape warned.

"Don't worry, sir, I'll always be little idiot to you."

"Undoubtedly."  Snape drawled, before handing the book over.  "Even though you no longer wish to be an auror, you will continue your study of potions."

Harry accepted the book and looked up towards Snape, where he saw that the words were more of a command than a suggestion. Which would make sense, if he was going to be the kid of a Potions Master.

A small black cauldron, which appeared almost dainty, peered back up at him, dull silvery smoke rising from the cauldron and curling around the title of Advanced Potion Making.  The corners were well worn, and the pages looked like they'd been thumbed through many times.  Harry opened the book and found, in rather familiar writing, a notation that proclaimed the book to belong to the Half Blood Prince.

"This was yours?"  Harry asked, flipping through the pages and finding Snape's tiny scrawl all over the book.

"It was. As you are to be my...son, I suppose it is now a family heirloom."  Snape was watching Harry with narrowed eyes, as if he were waiting for Harry's verdict.

Harry, who had never known hand-me-downs to be anything but demeaning, closed the book gently. He placed it on top of his school pile, intending to study it later.

"Thanks, sir."

"Keep in mind," Snape warned; pointing a finger, "there are some spells in there that are not to be tried without supervision. And if you ever use anything that is marked for enemies on anyone but other death eaters and the Dark Lord, you will become the test animal for my future potion creations."

Harry swallowed hard.  "Noted."

......

"So wait, it's three days till term starts, and you've decided today to go to the mall and buy new linens and things for the house. Isn't that a little late?"

Harry put his breakfast dishes in the sink, scowling at the scrub brush that splashed him with water as he did so.

"Are you questioning my decisions?"  The voice was silky and dangerous and Harry recognized that as the ‘shut up now and save yourself' cue. Which he ignored, as usual.

"Just your timing, Dad."  Harry replied, smiling to himself at the name. He had a dad now, and even the small swat to the back of his head didn't damper the warm feeling.

"I thought perhaps you might wish some new things for the room you've been sleeping in as well."  Snape was doing his eyebrow raise again, which Harry was determined to learn by the end of the year.

"Really? But it's your room, and your stuff."  Harry didn't want to let his hopes rise too much, as Snape's old bedroom was a lot nicer than Dudley's second bedroom had been.

"It was, however it has been said that establishing your own room helps with the feeling of permanency and settling in."  Snape replied, pushing Harry towards the front hall.

"Who said? You sound like you read a book on adoptions or something."  Harry stumbled forward, reaching for his shoes.  "You did, didn't you?" Harry stopped, asking with surprise at Snape's silence.

"Yes, Potter. I read a book about how the local zoo deals with new animals that have arrived."  Snape rolled his eyes with practiced elegance.

"Elliot."  Harry corrected, shoving on his shoes. "So does this mean that you love me and I'm now part of the family?"  Harry asked, with a very cheeky look on his face.  Snape glared at him.

"It means if you decorate the room in pink and kittens that I'll disown you."

Harry grimaced at the mental image of Dolores Umbridge's office transformed into his bedroom.

"Ugh.  Though I don't understand why you can't just wave your wand and like, change the paint colour or expand the bed."  Harry stood with flourish, both feet properly attired.  Snape removed his regular black jacket and uncuffed his shirt, rolling the sleeves just enough to be casual and not show the dark mark.  It was warm enough out not to need any additional layers, and Harry wondered what muggle place they were going to that Snape was dressing down.

"Just wave my wand? Do you pay attention in any of your classes?"  The sarcasm was thick like most of Harry's failed potions, but Snape grabbed his arm before Harry could reply.

Harry had no idea how Snape knew of the little alcove in Merseyway shopping centre, but it was the perfect spot to apparate to.  Before he'd had the chance to sprint to the map of the mall to decide what stores he wanted to go to, Snape had already started dragging him towards Marks and Spencer, citing that he'd need to start on furniture before he could move onto arbitrary trinkets and knickknacks.  Harry assured Snape that his furniture was fine (though he did not admit that he liked using Snape's old desk because it had character and sleeping in the old bed because it was familiar), but that perhaps a new mattress might be nice.  Snape agreed to this, and pointedly refused to let Harry choose the cheapest mattress, instead making him try all the ones at the store.

They spent twenty minutes arguing with the shop clerk that yes they were fine to pick the mattress up on the way out, and then while checking out different linens for the bedroom, Snape started into his lecture voice on the theory of magic.  Harry had heard lessons before on said theory, given by either McGonagall or Binns, and they were much less interesting or logical than Snape was making the theory seem.

"I'm not quite sure I understand. Professor McGonagall has been teaching us transfiguration since year one, what good is that if the effect is only temporary?"

Snape held up a black duvet cover and Harry shook his head.

"Temporary transfigurations are still useful. You could transfigure yourself a pan to cook food in, a pillow to sleep on for the night, a blanket to cover yourself with."

"And in the morning they'd be gone?"  Harry pulled an emerald green sheet set out of the bin and Snape blinked at the brightness.

"More or less, depending on the power of the wizard.  Magic is fluid, not stationary and confined.  As one cannot concentrate on the spell forever, the residual link is broken, and the object reverts." 

Harry threw the green sheets in the trolley with dark blue pillowcases, leaving Snape to wonder just what the boy had in mind for his room.

"So if you transfigured me a bookcase for my room, it would only last as long as you paid a small amount of attention to the spell?"

"An oversimplification." Snape responded with an exasperated breath.  "But fairly accurate."

"Hmm." Harry became lost in thought as Snape steered him towards the bookcases.

.....

Snape was glad to be home after their three hour shopping trip to Muggle Land, as he had sarcastically called it.  Harry had been rather well restrained considering the lack of restrictions Snape had levied, and had been practically gleeful when Snape told him to go shopping for his own knickknacks while Snape browsed through Waterstone's bookstore.

Lunch had been a hot stew at home, and Snape had barely managed to keep himself from laughing at the boy's eagerness to go upstairs and set up his own stuff.  Snape had eaten his stew very slowly and made Harry do the dishes, before finally sending him upstairs.  Save for a few strange bangs and a muffled oof or two, all had been relatively quiet in the four hours that Potter had been up there.

Suddenly, the acrid smell of burning wood drifted down through the open windows of Harry's room and the library, making Snape look up from his newspaper and glare at the ceiling. He flicked his wand and two loud smacks hit the ceiling, vibrating through the upper floor.

"Potter! If you burn my house down I am not adverse to killing you!"

A thump was returned, but no other response was given. Snape went back to his paper, suppressing his curiosity to see what Harry made of the tiny bedroom he'd been staying in the whole summer.  As a child, Snape had used the room as a hideaway, his own place to shutter himself in and while away hours as he waited for September and his life at Hogwarts to start again.

Harry, on the other hand, saw the room as a sanctuary in a completely different light.  He reveled in the comfortableness of the dark walls and the worn furniture.  It was clean and cozy, and Snape had caught Harry wrapped up in one of his old knit sweaters more than once.  He'd even seen some of the photos Harry had put up on the inside door of his wardrobe, pictures of his friends from school and the results of his OWL exams.

The burning smell drifted in the window again, and Snape threw his paper down in irritation, rousing himself from his seat and heading for the stairs.

......

Upstairs the smoky scent was a little stronger, and Snape paused at the top of the stairs to open the hallway window wider. He took a glance at the closed bedroom door before opening it slowly, spelling fresh air into the room as he went.   Harry sat hunched over his desk, a candle beside him as he carefully carved away pieces of a rectangular and thin piece of pinewood.  He held a small wooden handled tool in his hand, which had a sharp metal edge to it. It may have come from the shed in the back garden, Snape wasn't sure, but Harry was using it rather masterfully as he drew shapes out of the wood with smooth movements.

On the wall that shared with the neighbours Harry had put up a huge world map wallpaper, bright blues and varying shades of greens strongly standing out as they defined countries, continents, and oceans.  The other three walls were painted blue, slightly lighter than the original, and looking fresher.  Harry's bed was a jumble of colour, dark blue sheets mixed with the emerald green one and a duvet that was white with tiny green circles all over it.  And a throw blanket on top, knitted in different coloured stripes.  Somehow the haze of pattern and solid came together in a match, though Snape wasn't sure if Harry had a gift for decorating or had merely hit upon luck as he flung things together.

Snape's Slytherin pennant still hung proudly on the wall over the bed, and there was a Gryffindor one underneath.  A poster of the Appleby Arrows quidditch team, which Harry had most likely purchased in Diagon Alley, was tacked up next to one for the Ballycastle Bats, and the coaches glared at each other as the players preened to look the most impressive team. 

On the bookcase that stood next to the wardrobe sat Harry's schoolbooks and a few of the muggle books he'd nicked from downstairs, along with a few tokens from the Quidditch World Cup, tricks from the Weasley's Wizard Wheezes shop, and what looked like some old broken children's toys that Snape guessed were from Privet Drive.  Four photo frames stood on the top shelf - pictures of the Potters, Weasley and Granger, one of the little defense army Harry had taught the year before, and surprisingly one from the Triwizard tournament, taken by the annoying Creevey boy in all likeliness. In the photo Harry was flying ‘round the staff seating section, the dragon barely fitting it's snout in the frame as it chased after the small teen.  In the background, Snape himself sat rigid in the stands, his black eyes fixed steadily on Harry as he flew, a mixture of concern and what looked like a bit of pride projected in them. The rest of his face betrayed nothing, but Snape knew his own emotions well enough to recognize them.

He walked over to the desk to see what Harry was working on, obviously the cause of the smoky smell as the wood upon closer inspection had a few burn marks on it.  It was only about thirty centimeters long, and about fifteen high, but it had been carved very elegantly with a steady even hand.  Elliot, written in cyrillic, was highlighted in the centre, and Snape wondered for a moment how Harry had figured out the translation of Elliot until he remembered that there were some Russian translations amongst his collection of T.S. Elliot works. Snaking out from the name in the centre were seemingly random lines that swerved and crisscrossed each other, similar to a layered spider's web.  Caught in the web of lines were little carvings, one of a broom, a snitch, three foot prints of a different size, two paw prints, what looked like a large egg, a tiny cauldron, an owl, the Potter family crest, and to Snape's surprise, the Snape family crest as well.  There was no colour to it and it was a simple outline, but it was indeed the family crest of a peregrine falcon clutching a crown in its beak.

"This is very good." Snape murmured, running his fingers along the wood and watching as the black ink that had been very carefully applied ran through the crevices by magic.  "Did you plan this out or carve by feeling?"

"Just went with it."  Harry shrugged, putting the tool down on the desk and cracking his fingers.  "The lines I just did, and then fit in the small pictures where I could."

"I was unaware of your artistic capabilities."  Snape responded, inspecting the tool that Harry had used to impress the wood.

"I can't draw." Harry pointed out, nodding towards the old animal sketches of Snape's that he'd pinned up to a corkboard on the wall.  "But it's different to carve, the patterns and pictures are already there."

Snape looked at his own drawings and gave Harry a smug little smile.

"I do believe we shall find you a career yet.  Now, stop setting fire to things and come downstairs. Dinner is ready and afterwards I shall best you at cribbage once again."

"Pfft. Everyone knows you cheat at cards."  Harry blew out the candle and ducked to avoid the hand that came swinging to give him a light cuff to the back of the head.  He put his tools away with a smile on his face and followed Snape to the door.

"Does it meet your standard?"  Harry asked, hoping that Snape didn't think he'd taken too many liberties.

Snape paused in the doorframe and ran his finger along the wall, where the blue paint had just dried.  "It is a suitable room, yes.  Exceeds Expectations, I should think."

......

To be fair, Harry hadn't counted on the rain. Well, he knew it was there, could see it plainly out the window, but he hadn't expected the rain to actually be fun.  And really, the red rubber boots he was wearing were just too tempting.

That was probably why he was being carried right now, Harry reflected, but he still wished he were on the ground and jumping from puddle to puddle.  But no, after Snape had cast an aggravated drying spell over both of them, paying specific attention to their pant legs, Harry had been picked up to prevent any further incidents.

They were headed to the Ministry of Magic to have the official paperwork signed, which Snape had confirmed to Harry four times already that the press would not find out about.  Harry had his doubts, as the new Minister that had taken over for Fudge sounded even more ruthless in his quest to create a better image of the Ministry.  Harry had absolutely no desire to be used as a poster boy or a puppet, and he assumed that the identity of his new guardian would not exactly sit well with either the Minister or the public.  Pardoned or not, Snape had been a death eater and was spying again now that Voldemort was back, giving himself a rather dubious reputation.

And so, Harry had downed the potion with breakfast, shrunken to his six-year-old self, and dressed up in some tiny dress pants and a Slytherin green jumper.   Snape decided to leave the tattoo uncovered, as to anyone except the director in charge of adoptions and family relations, Harry would be pretending to be Snape's nephew. It was the easiest way to go in and out of the Ministry, without raising too much suspicion.

Getting into the Ministry proved to be no problem, as most people either ignored Snape or gave him a wide berth as they passed through.  Harry's hair had been cut short, so he looked like he had black puppy fuzz over his head, and his eyes glittered black like Snape's. The lightning bolt scar had been covered by muggle makeup again, and Harry walked a bit taller beside Snape as they headed up to the office, confident no one would recognize him.

Except perhaps Dumbledore, who was standing outside the office and grinning at them like he'd had too many sugar candies.   The headmaster had a bundle of papers in his hands, which Harry assumed were the guardianship ones that he'd gotten the Dursleys to sign when Harry was just a baby.

Snape lead Harry to an empty office two doors down and pulled a second set of clothing out of his pocket, enlarging it to normal size and placing it on the desk.  He turned his back while Harry stripped down to his underpants, swallowed the antidote, and shot back up in height.  Harry shook his head as the full effects settled in and he became his sixteen-year-old self again. It only took him a minute to get dressed, after which Snape spelled away the make up on Harry's forehead.

"Why couldn't I stay as a six year old while we do the paperwork?"

"Answer that yourself, Potter, and keep in mind we have to be in the office for at least an hour and a half."  Snape straightened Harry's collar before unfolding the invisibility cloak and holding it out.

Harry's confused face disappeared with the rest of him as the cloak flowed down and they left the office.

.....

If Fisher Bennington was surprised to see his old Head of House and Headmaster appear at his door for the two pm appointment, he made no outward appearance of being so. However, upon ushering the men into his obsessively tidy office, he did show a flicker of surprise when a third person appeared seemingly out of thin air, the famous Harry Potter.

"Polyjuice."  Harry announced with triumph, as he sat down between Snape and Dumbledore.  "Nice to meet you, Mr. Bennington."

"Likewise, Mr. Potter."  Fisher stated, extending his hand. 

"Mr. Bennington," Snape began, his voice still commanding authority over the younger man who hadn't been his student in a few years.  "Do you remember the situation of the first year Slytherin student I approached you regarding about, oh, two years ago? Whom you placed with your cousins?"

Bennington nodded, his eyes becoming guarded.

"Very well.  Mr. Potter here is facing a similar...dilemma at his relatives, and he shall be moving into my care."

Snape kept a very hard gaze on Fisher while he said this, and Harry decided it was best for all to just keep his mouth shut.   They had at least an hour to wait so Bennington could verify that Harry was actually himself, and not some random person pretending to be Harry Potter, and that time would pass by a lot easier if Snape wasn't annoyed with him for saying something stupid. 

A bundle of papers was slid across the table and Fisher snatched it up, his eyes widening a little as he started to read.  Dumbledore fidgeted around one of his cloak pockets before withdrawing a handful of wrapped Honeyduke candies, offering Harry one with a smile.  Harry shook his head no, but his eyes followed Dumbledore's blackened hand as he rested it in his lap.  Harry's questioning glance was met with the same response he'd gotten all summer. 

"A story for another time, my boy."   Dumbledore smiled as if carefree and turned to admire the certificates and paintings on Bennington's wall.

Harry slowly crossed his arms as he bit his lip to keep from blurting out something that he would probably regret a few seconds after.  He wasn't sure if Snape had told the headmaster what Harry knew, but it was irritating regardless to be treated like a small child and kept in the dark.  Harry had thought Dumbledore had learned over the death of Sirius how dangerous it could be to withhold information, but apparently he was still choosing to risk it.

"Mr. Potter, are you aware that this is a permanent legal adoption Professor Snape is applying for?"

Harry looked up and gave a small smile.  "Yes. That's what I asked for."

"Everything seems to be in order then.  We can proceed with the paperwork while we wait the required time for the Ministry polyjuice verification."

Suddenly a wand was pulled quickly from under the desk and Harry felt his heart leap to his throat as it was pointed between his eyes. Within two seconds he had his own wand brandished, as did Snape.  Dumbledore, who seemed to be the only one amused by this display, hadn't moved except to chuckle.

"Gentlemen, lower your wands. I believe Mr. Bennington was just checking to see if Harry was under any sort of compulsion spell or hex, as is part of the Ministry's requirements."

A soft finite incantatem was spoken and Harry sat completely still, knowing nothing about himself would change. He'd lowered his wand a little, but Snape had still kept his up.

"Satisfied?" Snape asked, raising his eyebrows.

"I have to check, sir." Bennington explained with a cough.  He cast his eyes down at his desk and began stamping the papers, all business.

"Mr. Potter is a half blood, do you have the muggle forms as well?"

"We do."  Dumbledore happily unwrapped his bundle of paperwork and Harry barely caught a glance of his aunt's signature at the bottom of one page as it was handed over.

"And Professor Snape, are you registered in the muggle world?"

"Yes."

"British citizen or subject?"

"Citizen.  The muggle procedure has been done and approved, as far as they know Harry Potter is a full legal ward of Severus Snape."

"And the name change?"

"Fully processed as a muggle, we shall be receiving all new identity cards and the like within a few weeks. As for the wizarding world, we wish to retain the identity of Harry Potter for as long as the war lasts.  The identity of Elliot Snape will be protected and secreted until he wishes to reveal it."   Snape had finally lowered his wand to his lap, and was tapping his leg impatiently with it.

"Complete confidentiality clause? Not even the minister?"

"Complete. He would like his own life to live, and you can imagine the press should this become public."

Fisher actually laughed at this and continued to fill out a few more things. Harry hoped they'd be done soon, as his stomach had started to grumble and Snape had promised afternoon tea in muggle London. 

Harry idly traced his finger along the feather tattoo that had become visible with the finite incantatem, something he did when he found himself bored or thinking. He wasn't aware that Dumbledore was watching him, or that Snape was having a glaring contest with a spot of wall above Dumbledore's head.

"Harry, I would prefer if you used a glamour back at Hogwarts to cover the feather."  Dumbledore's voice brought Harry out of his thoughts and he narrowed his eyes.

"Why? Lots of wizards have tattoos." 

"Yes, wizards of age. However, you are not yet seventeen, and the tattoo is in a rather conspicuous area."

Harry's lips were almost white by the way he was holding them together to keep himself from saying what was really on his mind.  Instead, he turned to look at Snape, who seemed to be calculating a response as well.

"What do you think, Dad? Should I hide my tattoo?"

Across the desk, Bennington emitted a half snort half cough at the appellation, and then continued with his paperwork as if nothing had happened.

"Harry Potter, the golden Gryffindor, does not have a tattoo."  Snape stated, glaring at the headmaster before looking down at Harry.

"Harry Potter needs to get out more." It was muttered low, but Snape heard it and twitched his lips slightly in amusement.

"I am trying to not show favouritism, my boys. Had it been any other student underage, I would have spoken to their parents and asked them to conceal the tattoo until they are of age."  Dumbledore admonished lightly, popping another candy into his mouth.

Harry didn't believe that for a second, but if he'd learned anything that summer, it was how to pick his battles.

"Regarding tattoos," Snape continued, sounding suddenly curious. "What did you say to the dark mark in front of Dennis Bishop, that made it react so?"

Harry flushed red as he remembered their trip to the bar.  "Just nonsense snake words."

"Mmm, nonsense indeed. Curious how immediately the ache from the mark disappeared."

Dumbledore this time was paying full attention to Harry, as apparently he'd not been told that particular detail of their interrogation of Bishop.  Fisher, on the other hand, had just finished the paperwork and brought his quill out to sign the forms.

"Where does stuff go when you banish it?" Harry blurted, desperate to change the topic. "I mean, where does it really go?"

Snape narrowed his eyes and gave Harry a strange look.  " Did you inhale floo powder when you were fooling around near the fireplace this morning?"

"No." Harry grumbled, shaking his head.

"I believe it goes to the space between spaces, Harry." Dumbledore answered, giving him an all-knowing smile.  "Where lost socks go."

Harry just stared.

.....

The house had a different look to it upon returning, a warmth and familiarity that Harry had never really felt at Privet Drive.  He walked in with a smile on his face and his eyes closed, only missing the stair banister by inches as he moved into the library. The library was as always, the smell of books lingering very faintly in the air, old ash from the fireplace settled to the bottom of the grate and spilling out in tiny specks here and there on the hardwood.  Snape's favourite chair sat in its regular spot, the frayed edges in a strange pattern from where Snape had rested his arms while reading. 

In the kitchen Harry spotted his favourite red mug sitting next to the coffee machine, and Snape's bag of Dutch coffee sitting beside it. Dad's bag of coffee, Harry corrected in his mind.

"Are you finished being sentimental?" Snape asked, his tone teasing.  "We're leaving early for King's Cross tomorrow, and if you're late, the howler Molly Weasley sent after your little car experiment will seem like a pleasant Christmas greeting in comparison to how annoyed I'll be."

"I can't see you sending a howler. You'd send a snarker, maybe, but I've only seen you really yel...ow!"

Harry made for the stairs, grumbling and rubbing the back of his thigh, where the light stinging hex had hit.

.....

Harry finished washing up for bed, in what would be his last night at Spinner's End for a while. He padded into his room, admiring the wooden sign on his door, and dropped his clothes in the canvas bag by the wardrobe.  There was a hand stitched E. Snape on the middle of it, which had appeared only after a twenty five minute conversation with Twinky, Snape, and a bribe of five new bandanas.  Snape was sitting at Harry's desk, pointing his wand at his own teenage sketches and animating the beasts in them.  There was a murky green potion in a clear bottle on the desk, which Harry was willing to bet half his Gringotts vault tasted vile.

He flopped down on his bed and stared at the bottle, trying to vanish it with his mind.

"Quit making faces and drink it. This is to prevent you from dying from a bee sting for the next three months."  The bottle was thrust at Harry, who held it and stared at it, avoiding having to actually drink it.

"Can we go back to Amsterdam sometime?"

"Is this speech pattern of non-sequiturs a Gryffindor trait, or is it limited to yourself and the headmaster?" Snape sounded like he was losing his patience, so Harry popped the cork off and swallowed as fast as he could, grimacing.

"Never noticed." Harry shrugged, filling an empty glass on his desk with water.

Snape said nothing against the magic and took the bottle back, satisfied.

"If you maintain Exceeds Expectations in all courses, we shall see about going to Amsterdam over the Christmas holiday."

"Even potions?" Harry asked, shoving down the covers and sticking his feet under.

"Especially potions."  Snape leveled, giving Harry a stern look.  He stood and pulled up the covers over Harry, holding out his hand for Harry's glasses.

"This is going to be the year, isn't it?"  Harry asked, a bit hesitantly.  Snape was staring out the window over the identical rows of roofs, towards the centre of town where the sun had set over Stockport.

"Most probably." Snape acknowledged, tension etched into the lines on his forehead.

"I'll survive."  Harry said, with a cocky grin.  "I usually do."

"Make sure that you do. Bloody cockroach."  Snape closed the blinds in the room and walked towards the wardrobe, pulling a book he'd bought from Waterstone's out of his pocket.  He spelled The Traveller's Guide to Amsterdam to be read by Harry only, and dropped it into Harry's open trunk, before moving to leave the room.

"Good night, Dad."  Harry said, turning over to his side and closing his eyes. At the door, Snape paused before turning out the light.

"Good night, Elliot."