November 2, 1981

Six hours had gone by, and the tabby cat had yet to move. She was perched on the brick wall that surrounded the property of No. 4, Privet Drive, her ears pricked up, her tail neatly coiled around her front paws. An unsuspecting observer might have wondered at the square markings around the cat's emerald eyes, or the rather stern expression on the animal's face. So far, however, the only people who had come by were the dustmen, who had paid the cat no attention whatsoever, and old Mrs. Figg out for an early-morning stroll. The old lady had petted the cat, who had borne it with the same stoic expression she reserved for the rest of her surroundings. After all, she wasn't here to draw attention to herself.

She was here to observe.

Four hours ago, the door to the house she was watching had opened. A woman in a pale-pink dressing gown had come out, milk-bottles in hand, and the cat had straightened even more on her perch, waiting. She had not been disappointed. The woman's eyes had widened as she looked down, her thin lips parting ever so slightly, and then she had screamed, a high-pitched sound that was quickly smothered by a hand clapped in front of her mouth.

The cat had not been surprised at the scream, nor at the furtive glance the woman cast up and down the street before she snatched up the bundle of blankets and disappeared into the house.

On finding her newly orphaned nephew on her doorstep, Petunia Dursley's first thought would of course be that the neighbors mustn't find out.

The cat had continued watching. Noises came from inside the house, which she identified as someone heavy clumping down the stairs, then the muffled voices of a man and a woman talking. The voices had been quietly furious at first, growing louder and louder until the cat's sensitive ears could pick up fragments of what was being said.

"... I never asked ... don't blame me!"

"... must be something... they can't just..."

"... outrageous... what if someone..."

"...not my fault!"

Eventually, the door was flung open again and a hefty man with a moustache left the house. The cat watched him carefully, but he wasn't carrying a bundle of blankets, nor any suspicious-looking bag or basket.

Petunia appeared in the door. "You saw the letter, Vernon! It's not going to work! They-"

Vernon unlocked his car, moustache quivering in anger. "I'm not having some ruddy freak -" he glanced around, lowering his voice as he continued. "I met Taylor's wife at the last office party. She works at St. Nicholas down in Ockham. They've got to take him in."

"Vernon-"

But the man had already slammed the car door shut and was backing down the driveway. The cat wasn't worried. This eventuality had been taken care of. The staff at St. Nicholas would politely explain to Mr. Dursley that handing a related minor over to the welfare system wasn't a matter of simply driving the brat to the orphanage. There was a great deal of hassle and paperwork involved, not to mention costly lawyer appointments, hearings at court and embarrassing visits by social workers. They would be kind and sympathetic, all the while making it perfectly clear that the only people who actually put their children in an orphanage were either teenage mothers, drug dealers, junkies or convicts - all of whom fell under the same category for Vernon Dursley, namely that of People We Do Not Associate With.

The cat sighed; a very human sound. After what she had witnessed during the last few hours, she was beginning to wonder if the orphanage might not provide a better start in life for the little boy who had made history simply by surviving the night. Muggles, as far as she knew, provided quite well for the young and helpless.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a movement in the corner of her eye. She was no longer alone. Another cat had joined her on the brick wall, jumping onto it in one elegant, slinky movement. The morning sun reflected on his sleek black fur. He was large and rather sinewy, with long dark whiskers that gave his feline face a strangely menacing expression. His eyes, unlike the tabby's green ones, were of the darkest amber imaginable in a cat, glittering derisively as he glanced at the door to No. 4.

The tabby wasn't impressed with his sudden appearance. The tip of her tail twitched back and forth, and her ears flicked back when she noticed the dead rat that was dangling from his mouth. Honestly! She could swear he was doing it for the sole purpose of annoying her.

He didn't seem to have noticed her disapproving stare. Sitting down next to her, he dropped the rat and yawned lazily. She could see the tiny flecks of blood discoloring his teeth and whiskers, and wished Albus had chosen someone else to keep her company during her night watch.

"Severus," she said sternly. A human would have heard nothing but a soft, angry hiss, but her black companion, she knew, understood her only too well. He didn't let on about it, though, and eyed the rat as if contemplating whether to have a little early-morning snack.

"Severus! Why you must insist on bringing these things back I don't know-"

He smirked - even the feline version of the expression could not be mistaken for anything else - and pushed the rat off the wall and onto the growing pile of dead rodents he had collected during the night.

"Surely I needn't remind you that a rat's liver, whiskers, ears and various innards can be used in many potions..."

"A simple Accio once we're back on Hogwarts grounds would gather you all the "ingredients" you need," she continued, her tail swishing angrily. "It isn't necessary to prowl around the Muggles' dustbins and - oh for goodness' sake, Severus!"

The black cat had plopped down on his hindquarters and proceeded to give his private parts a good cleaning with his tongue. At the tabby's outraged hiss, he glanced up, his long whiskers quivering.

"Just acting my part, Minerva. Isn't that what the Headmaster asked us to do?"

He resumed his tongue washing, and the tabby turned away in disgust. "I know you don't approve of the Headmaster sending you along, Severus, but there's no need to be quite so infuriating about it."

The cat next to her straightened up again. "It's not as if Potter actually needs two people looking after him," he sneered, and Minerva was secretly surprised how well his human expressions translated onto his feline face. "More likely than not, his relatives are fawning and gushing over him as we speak."

His ears flicked back at the revolting idea. Minerva turned to look at him, producing a rather convincing smirk of her own.

"You might find that you're mistaken, Severus. His uncle just left for the orphanage."

That made him blink. "I take it he left Potter at the house?"

Minerva's whiskers twitched. "He wanted to talk to the staff first. Probably to check if it's a suitable institution," she added, wishing she could sound more convinced. Inwardly, she doubted whether Vernon Dursley would hesitate to hand his wife's nephew over to any institution whatsoever, as long as it made sure the "freak" no longer intruded on their lives.

Severus snickered. "I'm sure that's what he is doing." After a long, thoughtful look at the door to No. 4, he began washing again, this time licking the tip of his long, shiny tail. "Not so dunderheaded after all, these Muggles, eh?"

Minerva shot him an angry look. "How can you say that? The boy's just lost both his parents-"

Severus abruptly stopped washing his tail and glared at her. "You do not need to remind me of what transpired last night, Minerva."

She paused, having seen the flicker of pain in his eyes, even though it was quickly suppressed.

"I know, Severus," she said quietly. "But try to think of the boy. He's all alone in the world-"

"Spare me your Gryffindor sentimentality," he snapped. "It's only natural that his relatives aren't overjoyed at being saddled with another mouth to feed. Has Albus ever considered asking them if they're willing to take in their nephew?"

"No," Minerva admitted. "I don't think so."

"Ah," Severus sneered. "Well, why would he? They're just Muggles, after all, aren't they?"

She whirled around, now truly angry with her colleague. "That is a foul and unjust allegation, Severus! The Headmaster would never-"

But Severus wasn't listening to her anymore. He'd turned his back to her and resumed washing; the portrait of a cat who didn't give a damn. Minerva huffed and turned back to No. 4, Privet Drive.

For quite a while, nothing much happened. After about half an hour, they heard the sound of loud and angry wailing coming from inside the house. Severus scathingly remarked that Potter was apparently beginning to feel right at home, but he was proven wrong when the door opened and Petunia came out, carrying a red-faced and rather pudgy toddler in a blue one-suit. The boy was screaming at the top of his lungs, and began to squirm and wiggle as his mother tried to put him in his pushchair.

"Come on, Diddykins, be a good boy. Mummy will buy you a nice ice lolly if you're good, what do you say, sweetums?"

Diddykins grabbed a fist of his mother's hair and yanked rather firmly. "Mine!" he howled. "Mi-i-ine!"

"Ow!" Petunia tried to pry the little fist open, her head awkwardly tilted to one side. "Don't, Diddy, bad boy! I know the playpen is yours - ow! - he won't be staying in there for long."

She finally managed to free her hair and resumed her cooing tone of before. "Mummy won't make you share your things, Duddydums. Now how about that ice lolly, do you want one?"

The word "ice lolly" seemed to have a calming effect on the boy, who stopped screaming and merely slouched in his pushchair, sulking. "Mummy bad."

Petunia continued cooing to her son as she headed for the street. "Let's hope Daddy gets home soon, he'll know what to do..."

Severus smirked after them, obviously unable to think of a comment sarcastic enough to express his feelings.
"I know," Minerva sighed. "I tried to mention it to Albus, but..."

"Well," Severus remarked, gracefully licking his paw, "if Potter comes to Hogwarts too obese to climb the stairs to Gryffindor Tower, I for one shall not be surprised."

Minerva glared at him. She'd known Severus for many years, and realized that this was how he dealt with upsetting news - lashing out at every guilty and innocent party available, and hiding his feelings behind a well-crafted mask of sarcasm. That didn't make his behavior any easier to bear, though.

A spiteful retort of her own was on the tip of her tongue - ‘His name is not James, you know' - but she kept silent. After a long night of mingled shock, grief and guilty elation, she didn't feel up to a verbal sparring match with her younger colleague.

After a while, Dursley returned, a sour expression on his face as he slammed the car door shut and went inside. Petunia came back from her shopping not long after, her son's chubby face smeared with the remains of his ice lolly. She and the baby went inside the house, and the two cats listened as Mr. Dursley informed his wife that St. Nicholas was not going to be an option. Minerva breathed an inward sigh of relief. Loath as she was to leave the little boy with his relatives, Albus seemed to think that it was the best place for him. Looking at the bright side, maybe the Dursleys would be softened by the prospect of receiving a generous stipend every month - more than they could possibly spend on the toddler, no matter how they spoiled him. The wizarding world, too, provided well for its offspring.

"Much as I enjoy spending my day lounging about on Muggle garden walls," Severus said, interrupting her thoughts, "I believe we've heard enough. Shall we return?"

Minerva nodded, glancing once more at the house. She thought of the baby in his cousin's playpen, unaware that he was the reason an entire world celebrated the death of one wizard and the survival of another. And it would remain so for the next ten years. For now, to all intents and purposes, little Harry Potter was on his own.

###

July 1, 1983

Petunia Dursley was having a bad morning; one of those mornings when she looked in the mirror and wished she hadn't. Bad hair day, they called in the magazines, although none of the women in the pictures looked as if they'd ever had a single hair out of place in their lives.

Vernon had been grumpy, hardly grunting two words at her from behind his newspaper, and Dudley had decided that the best way to eat his jam sandwich was flattening it on the tray of his highchair and licking it up. Cleaning up the mess, she'd gotten jam on her new blouse and had snapped at Dudley, only to feel guilty when she saw his large blue eyes fill with hurt tears.

And then, of course, Marge had called. That in itself meant two hours of listening to bulldog breeding tips (in case Petunia ever wanted to start her own farm), but what was more, Marge had announced that she would be coming for a visit. Petunia could hardly hold back a groan at the news. A visit from Marge meant a visit from Ripper, and Petunia shuddered when she thought of the last time that infernal dog had invaded her home. He'd laddered her stockings two minutes after he'd been through the doors, and in the next twenty-four hours managed to take a dump in Vernon's leather briefcase, eat her new slippers, bite the Potter boy and - Petunia still flushed with anger at the memory - he had been sick twice on her new living room carpet. The stain was still visible. Petunia was convinced that Marge could have stopped Ripper from any of these activities if she'd wanted to. She'd actually seen her smirk as the fat dog chased Harry through the kitchen and into the garden. Well, she wasn't the one who had to deal with a hysterical toddler afterwards. No, Miss Margaret would sit in the living room and talk politics with Vernon while Petunia struggled with a screaming Harry who did his best to squirm away while she cleaned and bandaged the bite. Why, the woman even had the nerve to remark on "coddling the whelp". The teeth marks had been quite deep, and the last thing she needed was the boy running around the house with an infected wound.

No, Petunia was not at all happy about the impending visit. And now, Marge's endless prattling had made her late for Duddy's playdate with Piers. Duddy, for one, seemed quite happy in front of the TV with a box of Chocolate Footballs, but Mrs. Polkiss took great pride in the fact that she was a working mother and had appointments to keep - which, of course, a mere housewife such as Petunia didn't have to worry about. Petunia hated being late to the Polkisses almost as much as she hated Marge's visits.

She went into the living room and coaxed Duddy away from the TV - never an easy feat, and today almost impossible. When he was finally dressed for going out, sulking because he hadn't got to finish watching his favorite dinosaur program, Petunia remembered with a start that the boy was still in his cupboard. With all the hassle this morning, she'd forgotten to take him out. Wonderful. As if she wasn't ten minutes late as it was. For a moment, she contemplated just leaving him in there; he was dressed in his night nappy, so he should be fine for a few hours...

"Wanna watch the dinos!"

Dudley stomped his foot, and Petunia had to smile at the cute pout on his little face.

"But sweetie, Piers and his Mummy are looking forward to you coming to play. Don't you want to play with Piers?"

"Watch dinos!"

His lower lip was beginning to tremble, and she knew from experience that he was only seconds away from a full-blown tantrum. Her little tyke had inherited his Daddy's temper as well as his mother's stubbornness.

"Diddyboy, Mummy will ask Piers' Mum if you can watch the dinos together, okay? Don't cry, sweetheart, Mummy just has to get Harry out and then-"

"NO!" Dudley stomped harder, his face reddening. "NO HARRY!"

"But Diddy-"

"I don't want him to come! I-DON'T-WANT-HIM-TO-COME!"

"He isn't coming with us, sweetie, don't worry. Mummy just..."

...just can't leave the boy in the house by himself. Because he can get out of a locked cupboard. Because he was sitting on the kitchen floor when we got back from Sea Life Park, munching biscuits that had been on a shelf where he could never reach them. Because he's a freak.

"NO, MUMMY, NOOOOOO!"

Face scarlet, Dudley threw himself on the floor, kicking the air and pummelling the floor with his little fists.

"NO HARRY!"

Not in the house, Petunia decided; who knew what he might do, all on his own. The garden should be fine, though. There wasn't much he could do out there, and it was a fine summer day. No reason why he shouldn't spend a few hours there by himself.

Leaving Duddy to wind down, Petunia went into the hallway. As always when she pushed back the bolt that locked the cupboard door, she felt a flare of annoyance. It wasn't as if the flimsy door or the lock could actually keep one of them inside. The biscuit incident last month had only proven what she'd known all along.

The boy was sitting on his cot, his thumb lodged firmly in his mouth as he looked up at her. A nasty habit he'd picked up lately; it seemed that he could spend hours sitting somewhere sucking on his fingers. All she needed was for Dudley to pick it up from him.

"Don't! I told you not to do that!" She slapped at the offending hand, and he quickly pulled his thumb out and hid it in his large sleeve, as if that would stop her from seeing that he'd slobbered all over it.

"Get out," she ordered and he slipped obediently off his cot. Petunia watched him with a mixture of resignation and annoyance. It wasn't as if she wanted him to fill her ears with constant chatter, but this continued silence was beginning to get on her nerves. It wasn't normal for a three-year-old, and God knew she was doing everything she could to raise this boy to be a normal person.

In the meantime, Dudley had calmed down again and was munching on the last of his Chocolate Footballs; his tantrums were mostly over as quickly as they came. Once again, Petunia was struck by the difference between the two children. Her Dudley was a healthy boy, his round, rosy face framed with blond hair, his blue eyes reminding her of those little cherub angels you saw on postcards. He laughed often, and when he did, his entire face seemed to light up. It was a joy to watch him grow, watch his delight when he was given a treat or a new toy.

Harry, on the other hand... a pale, skinny thing, with that rat's nest of hair on his head and those bony, spidery hands, so unlike her Dudley's cute little paws. His eyes, somber pools of green that were always watching... observing. And that horrible scar, of course. God knew what people thought how he got it. When asked, Petunia dutifully told them about the car crash, but she could see that they didn't believe her - and who would blame them? Anyone with eyes could see that the scar had been inflicted deliberately.

Vernon had not been home on the day of the biscuit incident, and at first she had been resolved not to tell him. No use in worrying him unnecessarily, was there? It was bad enough one of them had to deal with this kind of thing on a daily basis. That night, however, lying in bed and listening to the wind outside, she had been unable to go to sleep. How had he done it? Had the lock opened on its own, then locked itself again on its own account? Or had he simply... melted through the door like a ghost? Had the biscuits floated down from the shelf as soon as those uncanny green eyes spotted them? It seemed like a ridiculous thing out of the movies, yet it had happened in some way or other... had happened right in her house, her kitchen. Her hands had fisted the sheets. It might happen again. He might be getting out right now, coming up the stairs - not like a normal toddler would, mounting each step with difficulty, but gliding. Floating.

She had stopped right there, had rolled around and poked Vernon awake, just so she wouldn't have to lie awake in the dark any longer, imagining things no normal person should have to worry about. Unfortunately, he had noticed that something was amiss, and she had finally told him the whole story, just to get it off her chest. In retrospect, she wished she hadn't. Vernon hadn't been shocked or even unsettled. He'd been livid. Ignoring her protests, he had grabbed his dressing gown and marched downstairs, flung open the cupboard door and dragged a terrified Harry from his cot into the hallway. Petunia had stayed upstairs, trying not to listen to the sound of hands hitting bare flesh and the child's confused and desperate crying. After a while, Vernon had come back to the bedroom, had dressed without a word and left the house. She knew he was going down to the pub, and would not be back before the small hours. As quietly as possible, she went halfway down the stairs and listened. From behind the locked cupboard door, she could hear faint sobs and muttered words, although she could not make out what the boy was saying. Again, images filled her mind; the boy whispering words under his breath, and Vernon collapsing outside on the street... whispering, and the house bursting in flames... At that point, she knew she would never be able to go to sleep. She went all the way down the stairs and pressed her ear against the wooden door. There had been more sobs, then: "No... good boy... please no spankin'...  be a good boy, promise..."

Was she a bad person, to feel relief ? Probably, but knowing this changed nothing about how she felt. She had slept quite well that night.

Now, looking down at her nephew, all she felt was slight annoyance when she saw that his thumb had gone back into his mouth.

"Don't! Bad boy!" She slapped his hand again, harder this time. "Or I'll put vinegar on it!"

He lowered his hand.

"What do you say?"

"...sorry, Aunt ‘tunia."

Well, at least he could apologize, even if the words were hardly audible. She looked him over. He was in his pajamas - a t-shirt of Dudley's with a large stain on the front - and his night nappy. Well, it would do for a few hours.

"Come on." She took him by the forearm and led him through the dining room, past Dudley who had returned to the TV and was trying to switch it on by himself.

The garden behind the house was filled with sunlight. She'd have to water the flowerbeds later, she thought absentmindedly, hoping Mrs. Polkiss wouldn't insist on inviting them for lunch. Spending an entire day at the Polkisses, listening to Piers' mother complaining about her nagging boss was not Petunia's idea of fun.

She led her nephew to a corner of the lawn and made him sit down. "Stay," she said, and he did, watching her as she walked over to the garden shed. His hand slowly rose to his mouth again, and was quickly lowered when she scowled at him.

She got a rope from the shed and wrapped one end twice around his middle, tying the knot on his back. The other end of the rope was tied to the door of the shed.

"You be good," she told him sternly. "No shouting or running around, you hear me? Be quiet. And don't suck your thumb, you disgusting boy!"

His thumb slipped out of his mouth, and his eyes were lowered. "Good boy," he said quietly, and suddenly glanced up again, a hopeful expression on his face. "Come with you?"

"No," she said. "You're not. You stay here and be a good boy."

"Good boy," he agreed.

She nodded. Thankfully the brick walls were high enough to shield the garden from prying eyes. She should probably have taken the playpen outside, but there was simply no time now, and the rope did the job just as well.

Back inside, she scooped up Dudley (who hadn't managed to get the TV working) and grabbed her key, throwing a nervous glance at the clock. She really needed to get going. She'd still be late, but she'd tell Mrs. Polkiss about her sister-in-law who kept her on the phone forever, and they'd have a nice little rant about annoying in-laws. This, of course, would eventually lead to another tirade about Mrs. Polkiss' boss, but Petunia could live with that. As long as no one knew about the boy in the garden, the boy who couldn't stay in the house by himself because he might...

"Don't want pufchair, Mummy! Wanna watch TV!"

She sighed. If she hurried, she could stop to buy Dudders an ice lolly at the corner shop to keep him quiet. Wouldn't do to arrive at the Polkisses with a screaming toddler in tow.

Petunia didn't look back as she left the house.

###

The boy watched as Aunt went inside. The glass door closed behind her and he could see her picking up Duddy. She and Duddy were leaving. He was staying behind. Good boys didn't cry. He wanted to be a good boy.

His thumb went into his mouth without him noticing. Sucking on it calmed him, helped him sort the feelings that he had no name for. Good boy. Duddy was a good boy so he got to sit in the pushchair and go out. Duddy had many toys, and when Duddy held out his arms, he was picked up and cuddled and tickled until he squealed with happiness.

He loved Duddy because he was such a good boy. Because Aunt and Uncle smiled when they looked at Duddy. He loved Aunt and Uncle. He liked to see them smile, see them happy.

Sometimes he pretended he was Duddy. He made himself smile by doing so, because it was silly - Duddy was so much bigger than him. But it was nice, pretending the toy cars and the play guns and the TV were his. Sometimes he pretended so much that he forgot about the no-touching-the-toys rule.

No touching the toys.

No running. No shouting.

No making noise in the cupboard.

No whining.

No asking questions.

Why?

Because I say so. Bad boy. Bad boys don't get to have dinner.

He would have liked to cry right now, very much so. His tummy ached, his nappy was wet, and he wanted to put on his big boy pants that he got to wear during daytime. It was daytime, wasn't it? The sun was shining, people were up and dressed and he wasn't in his cupboard. So why was he in his nappy still? This unsettled him even more than the ache in his tummy, and he sucked harder on his thumb. He was sore under the nappy, and sitting on it made the hurt worse. He wanted Aunt to take it off and put some of the cool stuff on the sore place. He'd be brave for her and wouldn't cry. He'd be a good boy.

Good boy. Good boys got to sit at the table and have toast and milk. Good boys got the rest of the Choco cereal that Duddy didn't want.

Bad boys got no food. Bad boys stayed in the cupboard with the little window closed, and not a  sound out of you, boy!

He wouldn't cry, no. He'd be a good boy and wouldn't run around or shout. He'd just sit here and pretend. He loved pretending. This time he wouldn't pretend to be Duddy; he only did that when he was with Aunt and Uncle, who would smile at Harry/Duddy and tell him to get himself a treat from the fridge.

No, he'd be a dog this time. A big dog like he'd seen in town when Aunt had taken him and Duddy to the doctor's office; a dog with fur the color of chocolate cupcakes and huge floppy ears. The dog had been tied to a road sign outside a shop. He had sniffed the ground and sniffed Harry's hand (before Aunt had yanked Harry away from him) and then - Harry giggled as he remembered - he had gone poo poo on the pavement.

Harry/Dog began to sniff the ground and crawl around on all fours. His rope, no, his leash stopped him from going very far, but that was okay. Harry/Dog sniffed at the grass and barked when he saw a butterfly. He barked loudly, and remembering that he was supposed to be quiet, barked again quietly. He sniffed at the hand of a boy who came by to pet him, and wagged his tail as the nice boy fed him a bone.

The boy left and Harry/Dog sat down again, looking around the garden. It would be even better if he could crawl all the way back to hedge and curl up in the shade. Dogs did that when they were hot, didn't they? And he was very hot. The sun was shining brightly, and he'd love to have a glass, no, a bowl of water. Or just a bit of shadow to get cool. But his leash wasn't very long, and there was no shadow anywhere near.

Harry/Dog lay down in the grass. Soon the nice boy would come by again and maybe bring him something to drink. He'd pet him again and his mum would say, what a nice dog, he shouldn't be out here all by himself. The boy would beg his mum to take Harry/Dog home, and she would say yes, and the boy would pet him all the time and tell him that he was a good dog.

His eyes drifted closed. The sun was very very hot, and made him feel sleepy. Good boys probably didn't sleep on the lawn, but he was Harry/Dog, and dogs were allowed to go to sleep outside. And sleeping was being quiet, wasn't it? So it should be okay.

His hand slowly found his way to his mouth again, and he didn't even stop to think that dogs never sucked their thumbs, because they didn't have any. Sucking his thumb seemed to make the sun less hot on his face, and he pretended to use his big floppy ears to shield his face. Harry/Dog was about to go to sleep when he heard a rustle over by the hedge.

He opened his eyes.

Something was sitting there, sitting still like a statue next to the hedge and watching him.

A cat.

Harry - for he was no longer Harry/Dog, he had forgotten all about pretending the instance he had seen the animal - stared. The cat had not been there a moment ago.

As Harry watched, the amber eyes closed and the cat yawned, arching his back and stretching his legs. Then, idly as if he couldn't really care less about what he was doing, the huge black animal began to saunter towards the little boy who was sitting mesmerized in the middle of the well-kept lawn.

###

When Albus Dumbledore informed him that it was his turn to check on No. 4, Privet Drive, Snape was not pleased, but he did not argue. Only few of the staff were animagi, and Minerva and he were the only ones who could infiltrate the Muggle world in their animal forms, since few Muggles had ever seen a phoenix and Professor Vector as a Philippine freshwater crocodile might cause too much of a stir when discovered. So naturally, the job of looking in on the Brat-Who-Lived fell to him and the Transfiguration teacher.

That did not mean that he had to like it. Not that he minded spending a few hours in his feline body; he frequently transformed even at Hogwarts to curl up in front of the fireplace after a particularly trying day with the dunderheads. Being a cat was fine with him, nor was it the indignity of the job that he disliked (he had performed far less dignified tasks for Albus without a word of complaint). If the Headmaster insisted that the brat needed checking on once a year, who was he to argue? Even if Minerva had returned the previous year with little to report, other than lamenting the fact that Potter's clothes seemed to big for him. Snape snorted as he remembered. What a dire fate to befall the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Be-Spoiled, having to dress in less than perfectly fitting romper suit. His own petty trials, such as being tortured by the Dark Lord, certainly paled in comparison.

Yet Albus insisted that someone had to do it, and Snape went willingly enough. In fact, the only thing that really nettled him about the job was its mind-numbing boredom. Sitting on a brickwall for hours on end, with nothing to distract him but the never-changing activities of the Muggles who had chosen to live in this dull, cookie-cutter environment. How could one be content to do the same thing over and over again, getting up, having breakfast, going to work, sniping about one's boss, trying not to go insane from seeing the same dunderheads day after day after day... Oh well, so maybe his life at Hogwarts was not all that thrilling either, but at least he lived in an ancient stronghold of magic, not a house that looked as if it came from the same assembly line as all the others around it.

The most exciting thing that had so far happened at No. 4 was the fat Muggle Dursley leaving the house and driving off to work. One and a half hours of boredom later, Snape had decided to abandon the brickwall and continue his watch in the Dursleys' garden. If nothing else, he might come across a few rats and mice he could harvest for the Headache Potion he intended to brew later today. At least this time Minerva wasn't around to scold him for doing what cats naturally did.

A simple Abscondo charm made sure that none of the Muggles would notice the big black cat in their back garden. No doubt the Dursleys belonged to the sort of people who would douse him with a bucket of water and shoo him away.

However, mice and rats did not seem to enjoy the Dursleys' clinically groomed garden very much. For lack of anything else to do, Snape left a little something for Petunia to discover next time she pruned the hedges (he made sure to cover it up carefully so she would step in it) and then settled himself in the grass under a little bush. It almost came as a relief when the back door finally opened.

Snape watched as Petunia came out, dragging a little boy behind her. She had not changed much over the years; her face was still unattractive in its prissiness, her clothes too frilly and her voice too shrill. She seemed to be in a hurry, and deposited the toddler in a corner of the lawn not too far away from Snape's observation point. With a stern "Stay!" directed at the boy, she went over to the shed, and Snape wondered if she was getting some toys to keep the child occupied. Petunia came back out, carrying a length of garden rope. As he watched, she tied one end around the little boy's waist and secured the other end to the door of the shed. Potter let it all happen as if it were normal proceedings, and only seemed slightly disappointed that he wasn't allowed to go out with them.

Snape had never taken care of a young child - thank Merlin for life's blessings - but even he knew that tethering toddlers in your back garden and leaving them unsupervised was not considered proper child care. What if the boy accidentally strangled himself? Or ate some poisonous plant or insect? After all, children would put anything in their mouths as long as it looked colorful and interesting (coming to think of it, so would dotty old Headmasters). What was that woman thinking? She had been attentive enough to her own pudding of a son, even as the child threw one tantrum after another. Potter, on the other hand, was treated as if he were a nuisance at best.

Well, he probably was, Snape thought, how could James Potter's spawn be anything but. Maybe the boy had misbehaved badly enough to earn this kind of punishment, irresponsible though it was. It didn't seem likely, though. Potter behaved well enough for a child of three, Snape had to admit as he watched the little boy crawl around playing some sort of imbecile game. He had expected the tears and tantrum to start as soon as the door closed behind Petunia. Instead, the little boy had only sucked on his thumb for a while, looking sad and very much alone.

And no, Snape was not feeling sorry for the brat. He was merely making observations to report back to the Headmaster, whatever good it might do.

When Potter curled up on the lawn, still caught up in whatever game he was playing, Severus noticed that the boy was beginning to look rather unwell. His face had reddened to an unhealthy hue, and he seemed to wilt like a plant left out in the hot sun, too exhausted by the heat to do more than lie there and doze. In the middle of the sunny lawn no less, with no hint of shade in sight. If Petunia hadn't put sunscreen on the child - and Snape was willing to bet that she hadn't - Potter would soon be red as a lobster. He might even get a heatstroke.

And of course this would have to happen today, Snape thought resentfully. As if he had nothing better to do than cater to the brat. Back at Hogwarts, at least a dozen complicated potions were waiting to brewed, not to mention tests that wanted grading and the essay for the Practical Potioneer that he should have submitted two days ago. But no, here he was, about to rescue the Brat-Who-Lived from his relatives' irresponsibility.

Better not scare the boy, or he'd have a screaming toddler on his hands before long. Snape ended the Abscondo charm so he would become visible again, and deliberately brushed against the hedge as he stood up. Predictably enough, the boy opened his eyes and gawked stupidly when he noticed that he wasn't alone in the garden.

Merlin. Snape couldn't believe that he was about to do this; making contact with a Potter, not to mention one too young to control his own bodily functions. Stretching and yawning, he tried to appear as cat-like as possible while simultaneously stalling for time. Damn Petunia once and for all. Dimwitted though she was, even she should be able to foresee the consequences of leaving a young child out in the blazing sun.

Slowly, he began to approach the boy, who wasn't taking his eyes off the huge, black animal that had suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Potter had sat up again, and Snape got a good look at him for the first time. Dressed in a baggy old t-shirt and a nappy, the boy looked small and scrawny, his legs far too knobbly and thin for a child of three. His black hair was tousled and had obviously not been washed in a while.

Well, well, Snape sneered inwardly, hoping that James Potter's spirit was listening, watch who you call "greasy" now.

Then he thought of Lily, and her face if she could see her son like this. Better just get down to business.

He sat down at an arm's length to the boy and curled his tail around his front paws, wondering how to do this without scaring the brat out of his few remaining wits. Would a three-year-old be shocked if a cat talked to him? Would he scream in fear, alerting the neighbors? Well, if he did, they might come over to have a look, and the boy would be somebody else's problem. Snape had just taken a deep breath when the boy suddenly removed his thumb from his mouth and hesitantly spoke up.

"H'lo," he said softly. "H'lo, cat."

Snape remained silent. Really, what was he supposed to answer to that? "Hello, brat"?

"Can I pet you?" The boy stretched out a hand, and Snape involuntarily arched his back, hissing angrily. His reaction had the desired effect; the boy lowered his hand again, looking slightly disappointed.

"Don't sc'atch me, kitty," he said. "Tibbles at Mrs. Figg's house sc'atched my hand. He didn't liked it when I sat on his chair."

Snape settled back down on the grass. "Well, as long as you refrain from touching me, I see no reason why I should need to defend myself."

The boy stared at him, his eyes as wide as saucers, and for a moment Snape thought he would start screaming, after all. Then a rather confused look settled over the child's face, as if he were trying to sort several facts in his head and finding himself unable to do so. His thumb automatically travelled back to his mouth as he underwent what was obviously a huge mental effort.

Finally, he spoke again, lisping around the finger in his mouth. "Catf cam't talk."

Snape's ears flicked back in disgust. "Kindly remove your thumb from your mouth when you speak to me. This is disgusting to watch, and impossible to listen to."

The thumb was lowered quickly. "Cats can't talk."

"Do not tell me what I can and cannot do, Potter," Snape spat. "If I were unable to converse with you, we would not even be having this discussion, or has that thought failed to cross your mind?"

The child stared at him, and Snape had the feeling that he might not have made himself completely understood. Dunderheaded children, why did they find it so hard to comprehend words that contained more than one syllable?

The boy spoke again, unfazed by Snape's angry tone. "I'm Harry," he said.

"I know, Potter," Snape replied. "There's no need to tell me."

"No," the boy shook his head. "Harry."

"Your name is Harry Potter, is it not?" Snape didn't wait for confirmation, and continued, "Then do not presume to tell me how I am to address you."

"What's your name?" The little dimwit grinned as if he had not just been scolded by an adult. Well, a cat to be precise, but Snape knew that he made for a very imposing cat.

"My name is none of your concern."

"That's a funny name," Potter stated.

"No, you stupid child." Snape felt a headache start. "What I mean is, I'm not going to tell you my name."

"Why?"

"Because little boys shouldn't be so nosy," Snape snapped, feeling silly. None of his students ever questioned his motives; they were too cowed to do so.

"I'm a good boy," Potter said inconsequentially. "What's your name, kitty? Can I call you Tibbles?"

"Certainly not." Snape glared at him. "My name is Professor Snape, if you must know."

"Perfessor Snape," the boy tried. "That's a funny kitty name."

Privately, Snape had to agree, but he was certainly not going to admit it. "You should not tell someone their name is funny," he said instead, making an effort to use words the little dunderhead would understand. "That is considered rude in polite company."

Snape had not expected it, but the boy instantly ducked his head. "Sorry," he mumbled, his thumb hovering dangerously close to his mouth again. "Sorry, Perfessor."

"Well, as long as you mind your manners," Snape replied, and the boy nodded quickly.

"I'm a good boy," he said again, and Snape couldn't help but notice the pleading tone in the child's voice.

"I suppose you are." His words had a surprising effect, as the boy's entire face lit up.

"Harry's a good boy," he babbled, obviously telling himself as much as Snape. "An' Duddy's a good boy, too. Good boys don't have to go into the cupboard," he informed Snape. "Good boys get to sit at the table with Duddy'n Aunt."

"What happens to bad boys?" Snape asked, curious in spite of himself.

A shadow flitted over the child's face. "Bad boys stay in the cupboard. An'... an' they get no dinner. An'..." He looked down, plucking at something in the grass. "An' they gets spanked."

"Do they." Snape wasn't sure how he felt about this. The boy was too young to be spinning tales; even he could see that Potter knew only too well what he was talking about as he listed his punishments. Snape regarded the child in front of him, sitting there in his overlarge shirt, the rope wrapped around his small waist.

"Are you hot, Harry?" he finally asked, surprising himself by using the child's first name. Well, chances were the little idiot wouldn't understand him otherwise.

Harry nodded. "I was a dog, an' then I wented to sleep an' then I was hot." His thumb went back into his mouth.

"Don't suck your thumb," Snape admonished as he looked around the garden. Finally his eyes fell on the rope. Yes, that would do.

A wandless spell later, the rope came alive and unwound itself from the boy's middle, the knot on the shed door coming loose as well. Then, it rose into the air as if hypnotized by an Indian snake charmer, revolving around itself faster and faster until it suddenly turned into a huge green garden parasol. Snape levitated it over to where he and boy were sitting and made it bury its pole in the lawn. Then he transfigured a blade of grass into a green and silver picnic blanket and had it slip under the boy.

"There," he said stiffly at the child's wide-eyed stare. "That should be more comfortable."

The boy gazed up at the parasol, then down at the picnic blanket. "But... but that was magic." He whispered the last word, looking rather nervous. "Are you... are you a magic kitty?"

"Well, first and foremost, I am not a kitty." Snape sneered the last word. "And yes, that was magic. Close your mouth, Potter, you'll start attracting flies."

"I'm Harry," the boy said, somewhat indignant, and Snape sighed.

"Harry, then. Are you thirsty? Do you need something to drink?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah."

A moment later, the glass door to the house opened on its own account. A glass and a bottle of juice floated serenely across the lawn and settled down on the picnic blanket. The bottle unscrewed itself and began to pour orange juice into the glass, which waited until it was full before it rose into the air and inserted itself into Harry's hand.

"Well, drink it," Snape said when the boy only stared at him. "I thought you were thirsty?"

The boy did as he was told; he emptied the entire glass, and eagerly held it out for the bottle to refill it. Snape chose to ignore the dribble of orange juice that landed on the child's shirt.

When Harry was done, he carefully set down the glass, as if expecting it to take off the moment he let go of it. He looked almost disappointed when it simply sat there.

"Wow," he said. "You maked the juice fly."

"Obviously," Snape replied.

"Do more magic!" Harry cried. "Please, Perfessor!"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because..." Snape glanced at the child's enthusiastic face, and decided that there was no use arguing with a toddler. Or lecturing him on the proper use and function of magic. "Fine. But only one more time."

He transfigured the bottle into a tiny broomstick that whizzed around the boy's head - Harry giggled madly and ducked as the miniature broom brushed against his hair - then turned it into a little black dragon in mid-flight, which opened its mouth and breathed a cloud of green fire.

Harry laughed and clapped his hands. "More! More, Perfessor!"

The dragon turned several somersaults in mid-air before it vanished in a cloud of silver smoke. The smoke grew solid and began to bubble until it exploded in a myriad of little green stars, which rained down on the blanket and dissolved with a hissing sound.

Harry shrieked with laughter and tried to catch the stars before they disappeared.

"Enough of that nonsense, now," Snape said, but his words were drowned out by Harry's cries of "More, more!"

"No," Snape said firmly. "Absolutely not."

Half an hour later, Snape had made two miniature dragons race each other around the garden, had turned the parasol into a giant mushroom and back again, had performed Levicorpus on Harry (who had giggled delightedly at finding himself upside down in mid-air), had sent a cloud of colorful bubbles in the air that burst when Harry poked them, and had finally transfigured a pebble into a small golden snitch that zoomed here and there. This, it seemed, hit the nail on the head. Harry chased the tiny golden ball all around the garden, his skinny legs pumping as he ran for all he was worth. Realizing that there was no way he could bring the excited toddler to stay in the shade, Snape cast a quick Shield charm to protect the boy's sensitive skin from the sun.

"Look, Perfessor!" Harry came running towards him, clutching the snitch in his small fist. "Look! I caughted it!"

"You caught it," Snape corrected.

"Yeah, I did!" Harry smiled and plopped back down on the blanket. "Magic's fun."

Snape sighed. Well, at least the little dunderhead was exhausted now. Exhausted children, Snape surmised, eventually went to sleep, which meant a well-deserved quiet time for their poor babysitters. Not that he'd ever stoop so low as to babysit the Potter brat. He was merely doing his duty as the Headmaster had asked him to.

Harry was sucking thumb again, he noticed.

"Don't do that, or your teeth will become crooked," he said. "Are you hungry, P- Harry?"

Harry nodded. "I'm a good boy," he said quietly, repeating what was obviously his favorite sentence. It took a moment until Snape understood. "Bad boys get no dinner."

Another wandless spell, and the back door opened again. A cup of yoghurt floated towards them, accompanied by a banana and something that turned out to be a chocolate cupcake. Snape eyed it as it landed on the blanket. Children were supposed to eat healthy, weren't they? He recalled Pomona's complaining about the amount of sweet and greasy food served at Hogwarts. Wouldn't do to ruin the Potter brat's teeth, would it? He was about to send the cupcake back when he noticed Harry's expression. The boy was gazing at the little pastry as if Christmas had come early.

Snape met his eyes and the thumb was immediately inserted in the boy's mouth again.

"Duddy's treat," he mumbled.

"No," Snape replied curtly. "Duddy-" -he sneered the ridiculous name- "-obviously had enough treats to feed an infant hippopotamus. This is your treat - if you finish your yoghurt and banana first," he added ominously.

"Yeah, Perfessor!" Harry grabbed the yoghurt, whose lid peeled itself back and transformed into a spoon.

The boy ate with great gusto, and only a moderate amount of dribbling. The banana was gone in surprisingly little time, as well. Was Petunia so busy cramming sweets down her fat son's throat that she "forgot" about her nephew? Albus would not be pleased to hear this, Snape thought, smirking as he imagined the Headmaster's anger directed at Petunia Dursley. The stupid woman wouldn't know what had hit her.

"Finished!" Smiling, his cheeks splotched with strawberry yoghurt, Harry held up the empty cup. "Look, all done!"

Snape pretended to inspect it, and finally flicked his whiskers in affirmation. "You may have your cupcake now."

He had expected the boy to gobble down the treat like he had the rest of his lunch. Instead, Harry took small, careful bites, savoring each of them. Obviously, he was trying to make the most of the experience.

Snape knew very little about young children. From observing his Slytherin first-years, he had gained the impression that pre-teens lived in a world of momentary experience; the present and its woes and glories played a far greater role than it did for older teenagers and adults. He had never seen a first-year open a present slowly to make the pleasure last longer, or savor a piece of cake. Watching Harry, he caught himself wishing the boy would act his age and stuff the treat in his mouth like any child would.

Any child who knew he was not going to be deprived of his next meal.

Snape's sensitive nose picked up a rather unpleasant smell. It took him a moment to locate where it was coming from, then his ears flicked back in disgust. Of course, the nappy. Now that he thought about it, it had probably been wet before, the way it had sagged down when Potter chased the snitch around the garden. Judging by the smell, matters had just become far worse.

"Potter... Harry. Is your nappy... soiled?" he asked, wincing at the indignity of inquiring after such matters.

"Gotta go potty," Harry said placidly, as if he hadn't just taken care of business right there.

"It seems that you already did," Snape said dryly. He had no idea what to do about this latest development. Feeding and amusing the little dunderhead was one thing, but he couldn't very well Scourgify the boy's nappy, could he? He had a vague recollection of something called "parenting spells", and the fact that there was a whole section dedicated to them in Flourish and Blotts. If matters were as simple as casting Scourgify, no parent with half a brain would need all those books.

"I'm a big boy," Harry informed him, sucking cupcake crumbs off his fingers. Snape decided that children were indeed among the more disgusting creatures to roam the planet.

He thought fast. He knew he couldn't leave the boy sitting there in his own waste. This was Lily's son, after all.

"P- ...Harry," he said finally. "I believe it's time you took a bath."

The boy's face fell, as if Snape had suggested something very unpleasant. "No," he said softly. "Don't want bath."

Something about the boy's tone caught Snape's attention. "What is wrong with taking a bath?"

Oh, if James bloody Potter could hear him now. Snape could just imagine the kind of scathing remark his statement would have caused.

Harry's thumb had returned to his mouth. "'m a good boy," he mumbled.

"Good boys always take a bath," Snape lectured, wincing inwardly. Yeah, you must've been a really bad boy then, eh, Snivelly?

"Baf cowd," the boy muttered, the words almost inaudible behind his fingers.

"Don't suck your thumb," Snape said. "And what are you blithering about, boy? Of course baths aren't cold."

"Yeah," the boy said, obviously unconvinced.

Snape sighed. "How about a deal, Potter? You take a bath, which I assure you will be of an appropriate temperature, and I'll show you some more magic."

The thumb was pulled out, and the boy's face lit up. "Yeah, magic!"

"That is settled then, I suppose."

Mere seconds later, Snape had transformed the drinking glass into a small paddling pool, the kind he'd seen Hagrid use to acquaint baby Draklings to their natural environment. Casting Aguamenti, he filled the pool with warm water, only a few inches so as not to scare the boy. Harry clapped his hands, giggling when he suddenly found himself afloat in the air. Snape spelled away the dirty nappy and hovered the boy over to the pool, lowering him slowly so he wouldn't start panicking.

Harry tensed when his bottom first touched the water, but the cold, biting sensation he'd expected didn't come. The warm water felt soothing on his sore behind, and there was no Aunt to rub his face with a cloth and smack him for trying to squirm away.

He smiled tentatively. "I'm a good boy."

And even though no one would ever know, Snape was glad to see a smile appear on the boy's face. As he watched Harry splash happily in the warm water, he recalled the first time he'd come to this house in his feline form two years ago. There had been a cold, empty void in his chest, a feeling that translated into scathing sarcasm every time he opened his mouth. Minerva had been furious with him, but he couldn't have cared less. Lily was gone, and the thought had numbed everything else. He'd felt no pity for the orphaned baby boy, or relief that his former Dark master had been purged off the face of the Earth.

Lily was gone.

And she'd have smacked him round the head for abandoning her son in this place. He knew that now. She'd be as angry as the time he had called her... that name, and Snape was not about to make that particular mistake again.

If there was a chance that Lily was watching, he would not disappoint her.

"Yes, you're a good boy," he said softly, but Harry heard him. The child laughed, smacking his palms on the water and giggling at the splashing sounds. Snape resolutely did not smile.

"Look, Perfessor! Magic!"

Snape stared. A bubble of water floated in front of the boy's face, changing shape and revolving slowly in the sunlight. Magic indeed.

"Yes," he said. "That is magic. You're a wizard, Harry."

That is not a very nice thing to say to somebody, a little girl with red hair cried indignantly in his head, and for a second Snape almost - almost - smiled.

"You can do magic," he explained. "People like that are called wizards."

"Wizards," Harry repeated, and poked the bubble. It burst into a thousand little drops that sprayed everywhere, onto the boy's face and the cat's sleek black fur.

"Magic!" Harry laughed as Snape shook himself. "You're all wet, Perfessor."

"I've noticed," Snape replied tartly, licking his shoulder as any cat in that situation would. Trust Potter to use his accidental magic to annoy him.

"I'm a wizard," Harry said, and there was a questioning tone in his voice.

"Yes," Snape said. "But it's a secret."

"Secret," the boy repeated, obviously delighted at the idea. "I won't tell."

No you won't, Snape thought. Only a few hours later, the boy would be asleep, well-fed and dry and completely unaware that he'd spent the afternoon with a cat who had told him he could do magic. A simple Obliviate would take care of that.

But for now, Snape could indulge himself, watching as the boy floated water bubbles around his head and giggled when they burst. For now, he could imagine how Lily would have loved to see her son in the sunlight, happy that he could move things by magic.

It wasn't as if anybody would ever find out.

###

When Petunia came back in the late afternoon, she found her nephew asleep in the shade under the hedge, his small fist clutching the fabric of the green blanket he was lying on. He was no longer in his soiled night nappy, dressed in a pair of pants instead, and smelled distinctly of Duddy's baby powder and orange juice. There were crumbs strewn around him, and an empty yoghurt cup lay in the grass next to the blanket. Tightly clutched in his arms, the boy held a stuffed snake with glittering black eyes that seemed almost alive. A few days later, Duddy would try to touch the snake and get the fright of his life when the thing hissed and snapped at him.

"What..." Petunia trailed off when she saw the envelope. It was half-tucked under the blanket, obviously left there for her to find. For a moment she considered simply leaving it there, but she had the ominous feeling that this might be the worst thing she could do. Her hands trembling slightly, she pulled it out from under the blanket and held it as far away from her as possible. The dry paper seemed to breathe under her fingers.

Suddenly the letter's seal burst open and a horrible hissing voice filled the garden, resounding in her ears.

"I'm watching you... Petunia."

The voice sneered her name in a way that was frighteningly familiar. She could feel her heart thudding in her chest as she watched the envelope dissolve into thin air. No one must ever know about this. Not Vernon, not anybody. Maybe if nobody knew, she could pretend it had never happened.

She took the boy and his nasty new toy and carried him into the house. Steaks and mashed potatoes for dinner, she thought, and gave Duddy a chocolate bar.

As she cooked and listened to her favorite program on the radio, she thought about the letter and the thing inside it that frightened her so much.

Watching me. As if he'd dare.

And if there was a huge black cat perched on the garden wall when she left the house, following her down the street when she went shopping, lurking under the hedge when she watered the flower beds, then surely it was only a dirty stray.

No more, no less.

###

September 1, 1991

Harry sat on the windowsill of his new dormitory, looking out on the nightly grounds. The moonlight reflected off the calm lake below, and illuminated the serene landscape. Far away in the forest, an animal called; a long wailing note that seemed to echo away in the distance.

Harry reached out and stroked Hedwig's soft feathers. The owl was perched next to him, fast asleep on a stack of his schoolbooks. As he should be, but although he was tired, he couldn't seem to drop off. Things kept coming back to him when he closed his eyes - the train, Ron, Hagrid, the Sorting, more food than he'd ever seen in his life, a stern black-haired man, the school...

And what a school it was. Something out of his wildest dreams and the Dursleys' nightmares. They had ghosts here. Ghosts and pictures that moved, and food that simply appeared on the table. Well, maybe that was something Dudley would like, even if his parents wouldn't.

Ron snored in his bed on the other side of the window, and Harry smiled. He'd made a friend on his first day, and by a giant bit of uncharacteristic luck had managed to be Sorted into the same house. He'd get to sleep in the four-poster next to Ron's every night, and they'd laugh and talk and have pillow fights like friends did. No more Aunt and Uncle. And magic. Magic everywhere, people teaching it, learning it, using it to move stairs and open portrait holes.

For the first time in his life, he knew that he belonged, and it was a feeling he wanted to treasure and cherish, even if it meant staying awake a little longer on a school night.

Something moved on the grounds below, and Harry squinted to make out what it was. It wasn't big, no larger than a small dog or... a cat. Harry thought that it probably was a cat, unless there were magical creatures that merely looked like cats; much like the photographs that weren't really photographs or the jelly bellies that tasted like anything in the world. Harry watched the sleek black silhouette as it made its way across the grounds. The cat - if it was one - was prowling along the castle wall almost like a guard, looking out for potential threats. Maybe Hogwarts was guarded by cats, Harry thought. Why not? After all, they had the most dangerous stairs he had ever seen and classes that were taught at midnight, and everybody seemed to think that it was quite normal.

The Guard Cat had reached the edge of the field, where it stood for a moment, sniffing the air. Then it sat down and turned its head, and Harry had the distinct feeling that it was looking straight at him.

Maybe it wanted him to go to bed? Maybe the Guard Cats reported students who lingered out of bed after lights-out. He wouldn't want Professor McGonagall to catch him sitting here, or the stern-looking Potions Master, for that matter.

Nodding at the cat that was still staring at him, Harry climbed down from the windowsill and petted Hedwig one last time before he went over to his bed. Such a large bed, just for him. Snuggling under the sheets, he strained his head to see if he could still see the cat, but it was gone; probably checking the next dormitory window to look out for stragglers.

Harry closed his eyes. Somehow, it was reassuring to know that the cat was out there, guarding and watching. Somehow, it felt right.

Soon, his breathing evened out and there was no noise in the dormitory except for the occasional soft snore or sigh from the sleeping boys.

And if the cat had noticed that Harry Potter had been out of bed, he never did report him to any of the teachers.