Another Halloween.

How he loathed them.

Hundreds of dunderheads filled the Great Hall with their excited, inane chatter.

All Severus Snape wanted was Quiet.

His temples throbbed as he sat at the Head Table, watching his colleagues smiling indulgently at the children's happy gabbling over the endless array of sickening sweets sprawling the full length of the four House tables. Another Halloween feast run amok.

He gave up entirely on his pretense of eating his broiled fish and haricots verts, and drained his wine goblet in several large gulps. Ignoring Minerva McGonagall's warning frown, he tapped the base of his goblet twice on the table and it magically refilled. He took two more sips before setting the goblet back down on the damask tablecloth. Let McGonagall frown. Halloween was the one day of the year that he would gladly spend in a drunken stupor, if that were possible. A second glass of wine with dinner was hardly going to put him under the table.

Untouched for some time, the plate bearing his fish and vegetables vanished from sight, causing Snape to smirk and revise his train of thought. Okay, so two glasses of wine in lieu of dinner might pose a problem for McGonagall. But hardly for him. He could go for a barrel.

Sipping again, Snape noticed the late arrival of the Golden Gryffindor himself. Obviously, Potter couldn't even attend the Halloween Feast without making the requisite entrance designed to attract attention from one and all. This was the scraggly brat's fifth Feast; you'd think he could manage to get to the Great Hall before the jack-o-lanterns burnt out. Or perhaps he'd been trolling for another Troll.

Snape snorted contemptuously as Potter slid onto the bench halfway along the Gryffindor table, seeing his cohorts greeting the boy with such expressions of concern. If Potter possessed any degree of self-respect, he wouldn't even show his face at a Halloween celebration. For him to stuff his face with sweets today of ALL days was downright disrespectful.

Draining his second goblet of wine, Snape stood abruptly and swept his robes dramatically through the side door near the end of the Head table.

-:- -:- -:- -:- -:-

Harry Potter almost hadn't come to the Halloween Feast at all. It seemed to get harder every year. Next year, he probably wouldn't even bother. He pushed a blob of pumpkin ice cream around in a melting puddle on his plate, the caramel sauce sliding despondently around in the spicy orange liquid.

Back in his First Year, it hadn't seemed that real. Yes, he'd known it was the anniversary of his parents' murders, but Hogwarts was so new, magic was so new, that the first Feast had overwhelmed him with its indescribable splendor. Mountains of sweets, floating jack-o-lanterns, and then came Quirrel, and the night ended with the battle against Troll in the girl's bathroom.

Aside from the Troll, Harry had enjoyed every bit of Halloween at Hogwarts. He'd never had such fun! He was sure that even Dudley'd never had such fun! Plus, he now had friends to share it with, making fun even MORE fun!

However, having experienced the Feast once, his Second Year's celebration had felt a bit off. Nearly-Headless Nick's Deathday Party had gotten him to thinking about his own parents' deathday. And suddenly, Halloween seemed a lot less fun.

He had felt a deep sense of guilt about the idea of having a good time celebrating on the day his parents had died. From then on, whenever Harry went to the Feast with his friends, the weight in his soul always kept him from enjoying the light-hearted banter back and forth across the House tables. Every year since had affected him even more deeply. And this year, after having witnessed Cedric's murder via the same Curse which had killed his parents, Harry could barely bring himself to enter the overflowing cheer pervading the Great Hall.

After sitting silently for half an hour, Harry finally excused himself, waving off offers from Ron and Hermione to accompany him. He just wanted to be ALONE. Somewhere ... Quiet.

Dodging a popcorn ball lobbed at him by Seamus, Harry trudged out of the Great Hall.

-:- -:- -:- -:- -:-

Potter!

It had to be!

He'd been late to the Feast, after all.

Snape stared at the empty spot where a paper packet had sat on the fifth shelf of the left-hand wall of his personal storage cupboard. Dehydrated Chinese damselfly eggs. Not rare in and of themselves, but an expensive import. That one packet had cost him a good month's salary. Domestic eggs were notoriously unstable in potions; the Chinese variety provided more leeway in temperature variance, and was less likely to cause explosions at higher temperatures.

But rarely did a potion require more than three to four eggs at the most; the missing packet had held two hundred and fifty!

Snape's furious scowl sent the occupants of several portraits diving for the sides of their frames as the Potions Master stormed from the dungeons.

What on earth did Potter and his little friends think they were brewing? The damselfly eggs were never used below N.E.W.T. level, and most potions requiring them were actually at the Master's level. Granger must have put them up to this…

With a growl that reverberated off the towering stone walls, Snape stormed up the marble staircase, the laughter issuing from the open doors of the Great Hall drifting upwards in his wake. At the seventh floor, he paused long enough to shout "Mimbulus Mimbletonia" at the affronted portrait of the Fat Lady.

-:- -:- -:- -:- -:-

For Ron and Hermione's sake, Harry hated leaving, but he was glad to be out of the happy hubbub of the Feast. He began climbing the marble stairs with no better plan than to seek refuge within the closed curtains of his four-poster.

High overhead, he heard a dim shout that seemed to end in "-onia"; he didn't even bother to shrug his puzzlement. It didn't matter if another Gryffindor had left the Feast. If another student happened to be in the Fifth Year boys' dormitory, he'd just find someplace else to be alone.

Leaving the din of the Great Hall far below, Harry climbed slowly toward the entrance to Gryffindor Tower.

"Mimbulus Mimbletonia," he murmured to the Fat Lady, and he failed to note her skeptical expression as he stepped past her portrait into his Common Room.

-:- -:- -:- -:- -:-

It hadn't been difficult to spot Potter's bed, given that the brat's Firebolt lay sprawling across the coverlet. A broom cleaning kit rested at an angle against his pillow.

Snape snorted in disgust. He searched the chest of drawers adjacent to the bed, then ran his hands beneath the pillow and the bedclothes. Nothing. It would be so much simpler if he could Summon the packet, but the eggs would be rendered useless if exposed to a magical Charm, and given what he'd paid for them…

A momentary image of Dumbledore's face if he knew that Snape was searching through the belongings of a non-Slytherin crossed his mind, but he pushed it away. Technically, he should have spoken with McGonagall, but she had such a blind spot where Potter was concerned… They ALL did.

He opened Potter's trunk, sighing at the disorganized jumble of detritus that the brat had shoved in there. Quickly, he felt his way through layers of wrinkled school uniform components, old textbooks, broken quills, an assortment of utterly dismal Muggle attire, rumpled sheets of written-upon parchment which had been marked and returned, the blasted Invisibility Cloak wadded into a corner… Nearly to the bottom of Potter's trunk, and no sign of the damselfly eggs… Perhaps he'd already turned them over to Granger?

Snape's fingers suddenly closed over a neatly-folded bundle of fabric and he paused. Why had Potter taken the time to actually FOLD this cloth? He'd certainly not given that degree of consideration to anything else in this trunk. Curious, Snape withdrew the cloth and unfolded it, carefully, in case the packet he sought had been concealed within it. The reverse side had been facing outwards, with the right side folded safely inwards, and when he flipped it over—

Merlin!

His heart nearly stopped.

He could only stare in shock. He KNEW this piece!

Lily's quilt…

The one she'd made when she was pregnant…

The delightful, hand-embroidered images—unicorns, a hippogriff, several dragons, fairies, a roguish blue pixie, mermaids, a squid, a red-haired little girl lighting a jack-o-lantern with her wand, while a black kitten gamboled about the pumpkin, Muggle puppies and kittens and butterflies, a brilliantly-metallic scarlet-and-gold phoenix, several owls, and…

Snape's breath caught.

…and a boy on a swing. A black-haired boy. His hair was overly long and straight, drifting in the wind as he swang back and forth, and he had black eyes… He wore a smock, and purple sparks shot from the wand that he held in his right hand as he clung to the swing's chain with his left…

The embroidered images had been spelled to move, like illustrations in a Wizarding book, and the unicorns frolicked gaily, tossing their horns and manes and tails. The hippogriff soared and swooped, while the dragons flapped their wings and alternately spewed embroidered smoke from their nostrils and embroidered fire from their open mouths. The other images were equally animated, all of them little more than stitched line drawings sewn in outline stitch, with a smattering of cross-stitch and satin-stitch detail. But the quilt as a whole presented a lively array of creatures from both worlds. A child would be captivated for hours on end, watching the antics of the embroidered animals and the embroidered children.

He could remember the night he'd watched her stitching the mermaids…

He knew when Lily had married—everyone did!

And later, he'd heard when she'd become pregnant…

Darkness had already fallen that evening when he'd left Spinner's End on foot, traveling silently along the well-remembered sidewalks between the old house which he'd inherited from his parents and the Evans family's home. Late spring, he remembered, with the barest hint of chill in the evening air. He'd paused some distance down the street before approaching the warmly-lit windows of Lily's childhood home.

He heard her laugh tinkling through the open window and stepped into the concealment of a blooming shrub of some sort which grew close to the wall of the house. On cat's feet, he crept toward the window from which her voice floated…

"—and they'll be charmed to move, once I'm done. Yes! Really! Like cartoon figures, but out of embroidery thread. And the quilt will be spelled to never get dirty, nor to tear or get holes or get burnt. Each spell will be applied individually, but once it's all done, an all-encompassing Perma-Charm will be overlaid to keep the other spells from ever wearing out. This quilt should entertain children for generations to come," Lily had boasted proudly to her parents, holding the quilt up to display the designs that she had already finished stitching up to that point. "Even my great-great-grandchildren will have the joy of using it, even if I were to die before they're born."

Mrs. Evans had exchanged a dubious glance with her husband. "Er—that's lovely, dear. More tea?"

Lily shook her head. "No thanks, Mum, but could you hand me the teal floss? I need to finish this mermaid's tail."

Mrs. Evans held out the small skein, and Lily pulled out a strand, the shining teal threads catching the lamplight and winding it betwixt her slender fingers. "Thanks, Mum. Oh! I forgot to mention—the quilt will also have a Permanent Homing Charm—it can never be lost! Eventually, the quilt will always transport itself back home to its owner, if it's left alone for too long. Sort of like how a Portkey works. You remember how I explained them?"

"Yes, dear."

Mr. Evans chuckled at his wife's wry tone.

Mrs. Evans took up the conversation as Lily sewed feather-stitch scales on the mermaid's tail, expressing regret that James hadn't been able to drop by with Lily for the visit.

And then, she'd asked about the pumpkin.

"Why on earth is a jack-o-lantern on the quilt, Lily?"

Lily had laughed aloud. "Simple, Mum. The baby was conceived on Halloween. Sooo, to celebrate our pregnancy, I decided to include a jack-o-lantern and a black cat—well, a kitten, anyway!"

Both parents had joined in with her happy laughter. Lily had sounded so happy. So alive…

"And the boy? I hate to say it, Lily, but I think you're better at drawing animals—and creatures—than people. It doesn't really look that much like James."

Lily had hesitated before shrugging. "Maybe it's a … friend … for my child, Mum. I want him to have a best friend. Or maybe it's my future son."

"Ah," said Mr. Evans with a smile. "Then he must take after his handsome MATERNAL grandfather, eh?"

The women had chuckled, but Snape had heard a wisp of sadness cross Lily's usual tinkle of laughter. A best friend. Lily had incorporated the image of her childhood best friend in the quilt intended for her son. And he'd understood … while Lily might be married, and their friendship long over, she'd still valued the friendship they'd shared many years ago, and wished such a friend for her son-to-be…

Snape's mind returned abruptly to the present and his entire body jerked reflexively at a sudden, shouted, "NO!"

-:- -:- -:- -:- -:-

Harry could NOT BELIEVE HIS EYES!

SNAPE—the filthy, greasy dungeon GIT—was in HIS dormitory, holding HIS MUM'S QUILT in his POTION-STAINED FINGERS!

"NO!" he shouted in absolute fury, rushing toward Snape, his wand suddenly in his hand, pointing directly at the dark-robed figure kneeling before Harry's trunk.

Time seemed to slow to an infinitesimal crawl as Harry crossed the dormitory. Images flashed through his mind, one upon another upon the next…

The quilt…

He'd had it for as long as he could remember.

In his cupboard.

In the gloom of his cupboard, he'd watched the animated figures cavort across the cream-colored fabric. They'd whispered their names to his mind and he'd whispered his name—his REAL name, Harry—into the consoling threads. They all called him "Harry", not "Freak" or "Boy" like the Dursleys always did. The animals and creatures and boy and girl were the only real family he knew. They laughed on the rare occasions when he laughed, and when he cried, they wrapped him in a soothing, warm embrace and absorbed his tears.

The quilt was his and his alone. It had never been anyone else's. It was the only thing he'd owned as a child that wasn't one of Dudley's hand-me-downs. The quilt belonged to him alone, and that made it special.

Unfortunately, that fact had made Dudley jealous and Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon furious. Dudley couldn't stand Harry's having something all his own that hadn't been Dudley's first, and several times, Dudley had tried to steal the quilt for himself. However, because his parents were incensed by the other-world creatures—not to mention the satin-stitch wands held by the embroidered children—they didn't want Dudley to even touch "that evil blanket", and on those occasions, they'd always wrested the quilt from Dudley's protesting hands and flung it back into the cupboard. The climax of the dramatic scene always came with their savage slamming of the cupboard door, which caused another sprinkling of dust to drift down from the underside of the stairs into Harry's wide green eyes.

Dudley was not to be deterred, especially after Harry had told him how the embroidered figures really moved when the quilt was in the cupboard. Several times, Dudley had squeezed into the dark space below the stairs to sit with Harry, who kept saying, "Watch it, Dudley! See them move? Well, wait a bit—they're sure to move soon." Dudley would stare and stare, but the figures never budged whenever he was watching them; Harry decided that the figures must not like his cousin, and he really couldn't blame them for that. They always moved when he had the quilt to himself…

No matter how closely Harry himself watched, the sewn images never moved in the slightest when anyone else was around to see them, making Harry wonder sometimes if he really just imagined them moving when he was privately shut away with his quilt. Several times, though, when the three Dursleys were out in the back garden, Harry had taken the quilt from the cupboard and dragged it from room to room, and the colorful threads went freewheeling across the expanse of fabric, just like they did when in his cupboard. Harry liked to watch them even better in the brightly lit rooms, since their colors shone brilliantly compared to in the gloom of his cupboard. The moment Aunt Petunia entered the lounge, however, the animation ceased, and Harry—caught red-handed with the forbidden item out of the cupboard—earned a sharp slap and got locked in for the rest of the day.

He was NEVER to take the quilt from the cupboard, he knew. That was the first lesson he'd learned after coming to the strange house. Harry was told that the creatures on quilt were "unnatural" and therefore "offensive" to the Dursleys' eyes. As a result, they'd tried to rid themselves of the quilt numerous times through the years, but somehow, the quilt always inexplicably turned up back in Harry's cupboard.

The first time it happened, he was almost too young to really remember it; he just barely had the sense of its happening. The frowning strange woman had pried the quilt from his tiny, grasping fingers the morning that he'd woken outside a strange house where the strange people lived. When he'd clung to the fabric, the frowning woman had slapped his hands, jerking his only familiarity out of his reach.

The quilt was then carried away from his frantic screams and out the back door. Through a window low enough that his uncomprehending eyes could just peek over the sill, he'd seen her cross the back garden and stuff his quilt into a tall container and slam down the lid. Upon her return, she'd announced in a satisfied tone, "Rubbish belongs in the rubbish bin. Now we'll have no more of your parents' unnatural nonsense."

Harry had been carried to a small door and shoved into a dark space beneath the stairs. The space contained little more than strange-smelling bottles, brooms, and a lumpy small mattress on the dusty floor with a tatty old blanket heaped upon it. He'd sobbed his heart out, and eventually he fell asleep. When he later woke in the darkness, he felt fearful for a moment, but then he recognized the familiar feel of his quilt beneath his cheek, breathed in its familiar faintly-floral scent, and detected the colored threads moving about beneath his sensitive fingertips.

Thinking that the strange woman must have changed her mind, Harry laughed for joy, hugging the quilt tightly to himself. His laughter attracted attention, and the door to the dark place opened abruptly, bright light slanting into the cupboard, falling across the unnaturalness bundled into the toddler's arms, causing the strange woman to emit a high-pitched shriek. Her shriek was still ringing in Harry's ears when the door slammed in his face once again.

The man and woman made many loud words outside the door to the dark space under the stairs. Then the door was yanked open, and the man jerked the quilt away from the tiny, bewildered child, sending him sprawling halfway into the brightly-lit room. Before Harry could even catch his breath, a large shoe had shoved him back into the dark space, and the slamming door had obliterated his sight of his quilt.

He'd sat quite still, trying to take it all in, trying to reason it out, and from another room in the brightly-lit part of the house, he'd heard another door slam, followed a few seconds later by the sound of a car's engine starting. Harry curled into a tiny ball, pulling the tatty blanket that smelled of dust and old porridge against his chest. His wide green eyes stared for a long time at the sliver of bright light running along the underside of the cupboard door. Eventually, exhausted from the first day in the strange house, tears welled up, blurring the strip of light, and his eyes blinked again and again. Finally, he gave up watching the light, and his eyes drifted closed. He fell asleep again, still clutching the tatty blanket.

A loud shout startled the child awake, a shout of mingled horror and fear, and he scrambled backwards away from the open door where the strange man was crouching, peering in at him with wide eyes in a fearful face. But no! The man wasn't peering at Harry—the man was staring in horrified disbelief at the QUILT! The QUILT was lying in a neat bundle on the floor of the dark space, one corner lit by the slanting light from their part of the house. In a flash, before the large, loud man could react, the toddler had plunged forward and latched onto the featherweight bundle of fabric. Lurching backward, he pulled the quilt into the farthest-away part of the dark space, tucking it securely beneath the lowermost step of the staircase. Turning around, he plopped his diapered bottom squarely on the cupboard floor and glared defiantly at the large man.

Now, the thin, slapping woman had bent forward, casting a frightened glance over the man's shoulder into the cupboard. Even the short, round boy had crawled forward to look in curiously at Harry. Harry glared at all three of them. He didn't know why the grownups kept taking his quilt and giving it back, and why they looked angry and scared after they'd given it back, but he wouldn't let them have it again! This was HIS quilt. He'd keep it SAFE!

The cupboard door slammed again, leaving him alone in the gloom of his victory, but he had his quilt for company, and he rolled himself up inside it that night. His fingertips could feel the unseen animals and creatures moving in constant comfort, and he fell asleep smiling.

Strangely, the loud man and slapping woman, whom Harry soon learned to address as "Yes, sir" and "Yes, ma'am", had permitted him to keep the quilt after that second incident, as long as he kept it well out of sight in his cupboard. That was the Rule. Once, several years later, when he'd been ordered to weed the flower bed on a chilly Saturday while the Dursleys were gone to the cinema, Harry had sneaked the quilt out of the house because he didn't have a jacket. He'd been making good progress, piling the unsightly weeds into a blue plastic bucket as he worked from beneath the quilt's warmth. Without warning, the comforting covering was peremptorily ripped away from his thin shoulders.

"What have we told you about this FREAKISHNESS, boy?" An irate purple visage leaned in toward Harry as he hunched in the garden dirt.

Harry gulped and stared at the quilt dangling from his uncle's angry hand, held a safe arm's length away from the man's broad body. "N-not to take it out of m-my cupboard, sir," Harry whispered. Then he added, "But I was so c-cold, Uncle Vernon. And I did the weeding…"

Vernon Dursley cuffed the eight-year-old on the side of his head.

"Don't talk back to ME, boy! I've had it with this FREAKISH—THING! All those FREAK—CREATURES! I'm getting rid of it once and for ALL!"

Harry trotted after him as Uncle Vernon stomped to the tool shed. The man pulled out a sharp sickle and began slashing away at the lightweight fabric. Harry's mouth twitched slightly—he'd witnessed similar scenes many times before through the years, varied only the angry man's choice of sharp implements… Scissors, steak knives, the bone-handled carving knife, a pair of hedge pruners, a double-bladed axe, a razor-bladed box cutter, a selection of sharp-toothed saws, even a small chain saw … and the end result was always the same: the QUILT remained undamaged, despite his uncle's best efforts to destroy it. Harry now watched the man's latest vain attempt with a solemnly-straight face, lest his uncle get the idea in his head to turn the sickle upon Harry himself, if the boy chanced a grin. However difficult it might be to repress his glee, Harry wouldn't have missed this show for the world!

The QUILT was an unexplainable mystery! Harry might have been tempted to think it was magic, but—as Uncle Vernon reiterated constantly—there was No Such Thing as magic. So, the mystery of the quilt remained unsolved.

Aunt Petunia had tried burning the quilt on three separate occasions, but the fabric never even so much as singed. She'd tried using the fuel for the outdoor grill for her first attempt, kerosene for the second, and finally gasoline siphoned from the car's fuel tank—nothing worked! Oh, of course she managed to start a Fire—and three jolly good bonfires, at that—but the QUILT remained unscathed through it all, a fact which never failed to strike horror and fear into Petunia's thin face.

And then, of course, were their repeated attempts to Get Rid of the quilt. First, in the rubbish bin near the alley behind their house. Then (as Harry had later learned), Uncle Vernon had tossed it into a dumpster behind a grocery store on the farthest side of Little Whinging. Both times, the quilt had mysteriously reappeared in the cupboard where toddler Harry had been locked in. Other attempts at disposing of the quilt had Petunia throwing it off a tall bridge into a filthy river, Vernon watching it being squashed and trapped in an industrial compacter beside the loading dock at Grunning's Drills, Petunia donating it to a refugee relief collection point on a day trip to London, Vernon digging a six-foot-deep hole and covering it with quick-dry cement—in all of these, and in every other of their various essays, they had failed.

The QUILT simply reappeared in Harry's cupboard, or wherever Harry happened to be when the Homing Charm decided it was time to send the quilt back to its rightful owner. Once, Uncle Vernon had driven the family all the way to Yorkshire, bringing Harry along—a treat for the boy, who never got to go anywhere except to school and to stay with Mrs. Figg—thinking that the quilt must always be homing in on the cupboard because Harry was IN it. His logic was nearly flawless. Vernon simply hadn't realized that the quilt was actually homing in on HARRY himself, and he nearly crashed the car into a picturesque stone wall when Dudley suddenly screeched, "It's BACK! It's BACK!" Sure enough, when Vernon and Petunia turned to stare over their seat backs, the QUILT lay smugly in Harry's lap. And they weren't even halfway home to Surrey!

Not a single one of the Dursleys' numerous efforts to rid themselves of the quilt had ever succeeded for long. The quilt had always returned in pristine condition to Harry because it was HIS.

And now, HIS QUILT—his MUM'S QUILT—was being held by one of his two most-hated teachers. To Harry's eyes, the very sight of Lily's quilt in Snape's potion-stained fingers constituted sacrilege.

"Give it here!" Harry shouted, his wand tip pointing directly into Snape's ugly face.

Two things happened simultaneously—as Snape whisked the quilt out of sight behind his back with his left hand, Harry's wand suddenly leapt into the Potion Master's outstretched right hand. The wandless Summoning proved to be the last straw for Harry's patience and good sense. He flung himself bodily at the thieving tall git, only to be blocked by a Shield Charm cast by Harry's own wand! The teen bounced off and glared angrily up at the Slytherin from the floor of the Gryffindor dormitory.

"Those are MINE," Harry grated. "MY wand and MY quilt. Give them BACK!"

"Not so fast, Potter," retorted Snape, still concealing the bundled quilt behind the voluminous spread of his robes while continuing to point the boy's wand at its rightful owner. "Before you may regain your possessions, you shall be required to return my own to me. Where is it?"

Harry stared at Snape. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Snape's thin lips compressed angrily. "My packet of Chinese damselfly eggs, Potter. I'll ask just once more—Where. Is. It?"

The boy shook his head, his unruly black hair flopping to emphasize his denial. "I don't know. Why are you asking me? I don't know anything about damselfly eggs…"

"Liar!" snarled Snape, and a single red spark shot from the end of Harry's wand, arcing out before dropping down to extinguish itself upon the cold stone floor. "You and your little friends are secretly brewing something and the eggs are missing from my personal stores. You are going to tell me exactly WHAT the three of you are up to, and you are going to return the eggs to me. IMMEDIATELY. Now, Potter—WHERE. ARE. THEY?"

Harry scrambled to his feet. "You're wrong! I never took your stupid eggs, and we're NOT brewing anything! You're WRONG!"

Snape's face became absolutely furious, and Harry suddenly felt very afraid. Nobody knew where he was—everyone else was still at the Halloween Feast, which might go on for another hour, at least—and he was ALONE with SNAPE… ANYTHING could happen…

After staring angrily at the boy for a moment longer, the man abruptly whirled in a blur of black wool and exited the dormitory, still carrying the quilt and Harry's wand.

"Hey!" Harry shouted in protest. "Where are you going with my things?"

The sound of boot leather thudding down the tower steps punctuated Snape's receding response: "You'll get them back WHEN you return my Chinese damselfly eggs, Potter. Until then, you may consider your 'things' as held hostage to ensure the SAFE return of MY belongings."

Harry trainers pounded down the steps in Snape's wake, and he pursued the billowing robes across the Common Room and through the Fat Lady's portrait door.

"I TOLD you! I DIDN'T TAKE THEM!"

The man's strides never slowed. "You shall, however, return them, Potter. Even if that means your purchasing a fresh supply, and trust me, they are not inexpensive."

The Gryffindor faltered a moment, then ran to catch up as Snape began descending the marble staircase.

"You mean you expect me to pay for something that I DIDN'T even take?"

Snape continued downwards at a rapid clip. "I mean to have my packet of two hundred and fifty Chinese damselfly eggs, Potter. Whatever it takes."

Harry's mind spun madly—where in Merlin's name did Snape get the idea that HE had stolen Chinese damselfly eggs, of all things? He'd never even seen a potion which required them as an ingredient. Frantically, he kept following Snape…

Down,

…down,

…down…

Past the Great Hall, past the uproarious din of the Feasters, past an irate Bloody Baron browbeating Peeves on the dungeon stairs for some transgression that the poltergeist had apparently committed in the Great Hall just moments earlier…

Snape strode ahead through the dungeons, feeling the softness of the cotton quilt beneath his fingers. The stitched figures continued their animated antics, and he couldn't help glancing at them as he passed beneath the flickering light of each torch bracketed upon the walls of the echoing corridors. As to why Potter kept dogging his footsteps, he had no idea. One would THINK that the boy would have immediately dashed off to retrieve the packet of eggs, so as to regain possession of his belongings. However, the past four years had convinced Snape that there really was no logic adequate to explain the brat's actions.

He tried to mentally block out the sound of that second set of footsteps, concentrating instead upon the touch of the fabric beneath his fingertips. The quilt reminded him so much of the feel of Lily's cotton jacket; her mother had made it for her in Fourth Year, and Lily had despaired at the way the quilted material had made her look "huge". Apparently, Mrs. Evans had made the jacket an extra size larger than Lily had been wearing at the time, to give her "room to grow". She had, eventually, grown into it, but her embarrassment had given him grounds to gently tease her, and an excuse to run his fingers across the soft sleeves as she'd rolled her eyes in exasperation at her mother's sewing skills.

Holding Lily's quilt now … it felt almost as if he were touching Lily herself. So much of her love and enthusiasm had been stitched into this quilt … he could sense the emotions still infusing her creation. Part of him hated to use her quilt as a hostage; the other part of him hoped Potter would have to order a new packet of Chinese damselfly eggs, so that Snape could keep the quilt to himself for as long as it took the order to be filled and delivered. He refused to feel guilty about it. It was no more than the brat deserved.

By the time they'd reached Snape's office, Harry was determined to force the greasy git to return his mum's quilt. Snape had NO RIGHT to take it, much less hold it hostage, especially in retaliation for something that Harry had never done in the first place!

The Potions Master ignored the boy as he unwarded and unlocked his office door, but it was not possible to ignore the fact that Potter had shoved past him to get into the office. From his superior height, Snape glowered down at the impudent brat.

"What, in Merlin's name, do you think you are playing at, Potter? You are not welcome in my office. You are not scheduled for a detention tonight. Therefore, you shall leave. AT ONCE."

Harry squared his shoulders. "I'm not leaving without my wand and my quilt, Professor. You had no right to take them."

"Indeed?" Snape's eyebrow rose mockingly. "Have you forgotten that you were pointing this wand at my face less than fifteen minutes ago, Potter?"

"Because you broke into Gryffindor Tower!" shouted Harry, his fists balling in rage. "Because you trespassed in my dorm and got into my private trunk and STOLE my mum's quilt!"

Snape shook his head, his long hair swinging against his set jawline. "I did NOT 'break in' to Gryffindor Tower, Potter. I am a teacher, a Head of House, and I have the authority to access ALL parts of Hogwarts Castle, if a situation warrants it."

Harry scoffed, green lightning flashing in his eyes. "Well, THIS isn't one of those situations, SIR. You falsely accused me of something I never did. I repeat, I did NOT take your Chinese dragonfly eggs. I don't know who did, but it wasn't me. And you have NO RIGHT to take my mum's quilt! That's just not—DONE!"

Snape smirked mirthlessly. "DAMSELFLY eggs, Potter. The females lay eggs. Dragonflies are the males. They are physiologically incapable of egglaying."

"I DON'T CARE WHAT THEY ARE OR WHAT THEY CAN AND CAN'T DO! GIVE ME MY QUILT! GIVE IT HERE RIGHT NOW!"

And Harry slammed his fist down on the corner of Snape's desk, producing an audible "crack". For a split second, he thought Snape would kill him for damaging his desk; then, to his horror, the sharp pain in the side of his hand made him realize that the "crack" must have been one of his own bones…

"Potter—"

"Hem, hem…"

The annoying cough, horribly familiar after two months, caused both professor and student to freeze. A true Halloween horror, the toad-like ghoul in bright pink stood upon the threshold of Snape's office door.

"Is there a problem, Professor?" Dolores Umbridge asked in a falsely-sweet voice. "I believe I heard raised voices as I was just passing by your open door?"

Harry glanced quickly at Snape, amazed to see how quickly the man's expression of anger had been masked at the appearance of the Hogwarts High Inquisitor.

"Not at all, Professor," returned Snape smoothly. "May I help you? I daresay you were not simply passing through the second dungeon level on an after-dinner stroll."

"That's quite correct," Umbridge simpered. "I did have something important which I wished to discuss with you."

"Indeed." Snape's eyebrow remained level with its twin. "Do go on."

Umbridge looked at Harry, who was cradling his hand with his opposite palm. She smirked, and Harry suddenly felt the back of his hand BURN with the painful scars inflicted by the toad's Blood Quill.

"I shouldn't care to discuss this particular topic in front of a student, Severus."

Harry saw an almost indiscernible tightening of Snape's features at the Inquisitor's unwelcome familiarity.

"I have not finished my—discussion—with Mr. Potter, Professor," Snape replied. "It may take some time yet."

Umbridge shrugged. "It's your decision, Severus, But I should hate to have to come all the way down here a second time tonight…"

Snape made a dismissive gesture. "Very well. Potter, you may leave. We shall resume our discussion at a later date."

Harry didn't budge. "Not without my wand and my quilt, sir."

"Potter—"

"Hem, hem!"

"Potter!"

"I'm NOT leaving!"

"Hem, HEM!"

Snape turned his glare full force upon Umbridge, who took a step backwards in spite of herself. "WHAT did you wish to say, Professor?"

Umbridge hesitated, then took a mincing step forward. "Well, as I said, Severus, I don't believe this topic is appropriate to discuss in front of a student, but since you INSIST—hem, hem—it concerns your drinking habit."

It was the closest Harry'd ever come to seeing Snape's eyes bug out. As if the man's face weren't unfortunate enough in appearance already.

"Drinking HABIT?" Snape repeated in a low, cold tone that Harry instantly recognized as highly dangerous. "What HABIT—EXACTLY—do you view as my DRINKING HABIT, Professor?"

"Hem, hem. Severus, you DID drink TWO full goblets of wine at dinner this evening. AT dinner—not WITH dinner. You barely played with your food. Two goblets of wine on an EMPTY stomach, Severus. What sort of example does that set for impressionable youngsters?" Umbridge tsk-tsked sadly before adding, "Highly UNPROFESSIONAL behavior, wouldn't you say?"

She suddenly whisked her ubiquitous clipboard from beneath her garish pink robes and made a quick notation. After a moment's pause, she muttered aloud while scribbling an addendum: "…and skipping meals…" Tsking again, she tucked the clipboard out of sight once more.

Harry didn't have enough Gryffindor courage to glance at Snape this time. In fact, he didn't need to … he could FEEL waves of rage pulsating from the man, although experience told him that Snape's impassive mask was probably set firmly in place.

"Was. That. ALL. Professor?"

Umbridge cocked her head, her doughy, toad-like face pouting a bit at her underling's icy attempt to dismiss her.

"Not quite all, Severus," she replied with a wide, false smile. "I couldn't help wondering whether your drinking habit might possibly have contributed to your breaking into Gryffindor Tower this evening. You're Head of Slytherin, are you not?"

Snape's lips described a flat line which would have done a carpenter's level proud.

"Of course you are! How silly of me!" Umbridge smirked unpleasantly. "Therefore, any personal issues you have with Gryffindors should be taken up with their Head of House. Correct? Or, of course, alternatively, you may come to me—in my role as Hogwarts High Inquisitor—with your problems." She gave Harry a scathing glance. "I should be MORE than happy to deal with Mr. Potter's thieving ways on your behalf."

"But I DIDN'T—"

"Potter!"

"Hem, HEM!"

A ringing silence filled Snape's office for a brief moment.

Umbridge continued at last. "As I was saying, I believe that your drinking habit must have clouded your judgment tonight, Severus. Trespassing in a Gryffindor dormitory? Going through a student's private trunk? Taking a student's personal belongings? Your WAND, Mr. Potter? And—did you also say—a QUILT?"

Harry looked stonily at the pink toad, his lips sealed tightly shut. He would not let Umbridge interfere in his personal life, not even with Snape. He would NOT give her the satisfaction, he WOULDN'T!

For his part, Snape also remained silent, waiting for the pink-robed terror to finish out her play … whatever that might prove to be.

"Is this it, dear?" asked Umbridge in that saccharine tone, looking at Harry while pointing to the quilt half hidden by Snape's flowing black robes. "ACCIO QUILT!"

"NO!" shouted Harry and Snape simultaneously as Lily's quilt flew across the office into Umbridge's ugly outstretched hands.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" screeched the High Inquisitor as a caustic-smelling smoke arose from her scorched fat hands. She dropped the quilt to the dungeon floor as she bent double in pain over her ruined hands.

Harry gagged as he saw the molten remains of her chunky silver rings dripping from her fingers where blackened skin was now peeling off, leaving oozing red flesh exposed.

What the hell had just happened?

And WHY?

"Potter!" Snape had to shout to be heard over Umbridge's screams.

"Professor—what—"

"Take your—"

"Severus! What in Merlin's name is going on?" Tiny Professor Flitwick had suddenly appeared in the open doorway, his wand at the ready, only to stare down at the Hogwarts High Inquisitor crouching almost flat upon the cold stones of Snape's office floor.

Umbridge continued to scream as her raw hands oozed bloody serum onto the sleeves of her robes, darkening the color of the fabric to a sickening wet fuchsia.

"Dolores Umbridge apparently ran afoul of a Charm cast upon Potter's quilt. The moment she touched it, it gave her third-degree burns."

"A Charm, you say?" Flitwick's professional curiosity was piqued. "Any idea which one? Offhand, there are four I can think of that would produce that result."

Snape shook his head. "I would assume it is a protective charm of some sort. Lily Potter made the quilt and cast numerous charms upon it, many to protect the quilt itself from various types of damage or loss, but I believe this particular charm must have been intended to disable someone who truly intended to cause serious harm to Potter himself."

"To ME?" Harry was dumbfounded. "But my relatives have handled that quilt many times and they never got burned. Or would the Charm only work on Wizards and not Muggles?"

Snape deferred to Flitwick's expertise for an explanation.

Flitwick frowned—it was hard to hear himself think over Umbridge's screeches! "Excellent question, Potter. Certainly, it would be effective on someone with a magical core, as you can see for yourself. However, its effectiveness might extend to Muggles, if you found one who truly meant you serious harm or death. Can you honestly say that is the case with your relatives?"

Harry thought long and hard. While the three Dursleys had made his life extremely unpleasant and downright miserable for years on end, in their case, it resulted more from ignorance and fear, rather than active hatred or sadism. Even Dudley's bullying and Harry-Hunting with his gang paled in comparison to Umbridge's Blood Quill.

"No," he said finally. "My relatives aren't as bad as Umbridge. Not by a long shot."

Flitwick looked at the toad, now reduced to a groaning pink mass quivering upon the stones. "I suppose you should fire-call the hospital wing, Severus. Get Poppy to take a look at her. As badly as her hands are burnt, especially given that the burns are magical in nature, she might decide to transfer Dolores to St. Mungo's."

Snape made the requisite fire-call, and after Madam Pomfrey had levitated the Halloween horror onto a stretcher for the trip up to the third floor hospital wing, he asked Flitwick curiously, "Is there something you needed, Professor? Or, like Professor Umbridge, were you just passing by my door?"

Filius Flitwick gave a squeaky chortle. "Oh, I just came by to return your packet of Chinese damselfly eggs, Severus. I only had to use two of them, but I thought if the potion went awry, I'd have to start over, maybe more than once, so I borrowed the whole packet. I'll certainly pay for the two I used—I realize they're very expensive. Just let me know what I owe you. And thanks for the loan."

Snape sighed. "I shall do so, Professor. However, in future, it would be prudent to alert me when you borrow from my personal stores. As it happens, I believed the culprit to be a student, rather than an esteemed colleague."

Flitwick glanced back and forth between Snape and Harry. "Ah—so you took the blame, Mr. Potter?" At Harry's nod, the minute Charms professor apologized, "I'm sorry about that. It IS my fault, actually. I do hope Severus wasn't too hard on you?"

Harry shuffled his feet uneasily. "Not really, sir."

"Good! Excellent! All's well that ends well, eh?" He cast a final glance at Lily's quilt. "Lily always did do excellent Charms work. You just need to apply yourself, Potter. I'm certain the ability is in your genes!"

"Yes, sir," mumbled Harry, not looking at either man.

With a cheery wave, Flitwick departed.

Snape laid Harry's wand down upon his desk.

After a moment's hesitation, Harry pocketed his wand, then leaned over to retrieve the quilt from where Umbridge had dropped it on the floor. He could barely bring himself to touch it after witnessing the damage which it had inflicted upon the High Inquisitor. Hearing Snape's derisive snort gave Harry the nerve to tap at the quilt lightly with one tentative fingertip, and upon receiving no injury, he proceeded to quickly fold the fabric, with the moving manifestations of Lily's love carefully concealed inside.

All the while, Snape watched silently.

Harry didn't delude himself that Snape would ever offer an apology for having falsely accused him of theft. It simply wasn't in the man.

However, as Harry stepped into the gloomy dungeon corridor, a thought suddenly struck him. He turned back to see Snape holding the edge of the heavy office door, ready to close it behind the student.

"Professor—the quilt didn't burn you?"

"Is that a question or a statement, Potter?" inquired the Potions Master sardonically.

Harry stared into the cold, black eyes which gave nothing away. "A statement, sir."

"Happy Halloween, Potter."

The oak door thudded shut.