Unpacking took only minutes. Harry left most of his things in his trunk, removing only his clothing and toiletries. He looked longingly at his Firebolt. Snape would likely have a conniption fit if he knew Harry had brought it along so he tucked it into the back of the cupboard in the bedroom he had chosen. He explored the upstairs first, peaking into a modest bath but avoiding the closed door of the bedroom that looked out over the garden. Snape had disappeared into that room after enlarging Harry's trunk and warning him—again—to stay away from the rocky shore. He had looked critically at Harry's legs while issuing the warning—though perhaps he was actually studying his worn and too large trainers with their knotted laces.

Downstairs, Harry discovered a small loo, a sunny kitchen and best yet, the glorious porch with windows on three sides. Ahead of him was the ocean. Harry Potter was 16 years old and had grown up within an hour or two's drive of the ocean yet this was the first time he'd seen it. The day was unusually clear, but what drew Harry wasn't the sight of the ocean but the sound of it. It echoed in his head, calming him, and though he didn't know it, drowning out some of the residual noise that had settled there over the past two very stressful years.

The porch was filled with comfortable lounges and chairs and a wicker table for tea. A door led off the porch to the yard below, but the stairs were steep and the railing low, so Harry wisely chose to go out the front door and explore the garden. He could just imagine slipping or falling on those stairs and having to wait for Snape to come help him. He would much rather live to see 17, thank you very much.

The front garden was contained inside a short white picket fence. Perennials bloomed everywhere in riotous color. Unlike the sterile rows of Aunt Petunia's garden, this garden seemed to create its own wild order. Beds of brown-eyed Susans pushed into shasta daisies and day lilies and a bed of oregano overflowed the brick border into a wide path. Far beyond the fence, fifty meters or so away, was a gravel road, though there was no connecting drive coming up to the cottage itself. Harry considered exploring outside the fence but his legs were aching already and he wasn't sure how far the protection of the fidelius charm extended. Sighing, he went back into the house and explored the sitting room. The fireplace was the dominant feature. It was built into a corner of the room and featured a semi-circular opening surrounded by shells embedded in the mortar. The mantle was a wide slab of granite, adorned with driftwood and a box of floo powder. He gave the bookshelves a passing glance then returned to the porch and settled on a lounge. In the 24 hours since Dumbledore had informed him he'd be going away with Snape, he'd tried very hard to simply go about it without thinking. Gone was the uncontrollable anger of last year, the feeling that an unfair world was set to ultimately destroy him. He'd burned out the anger with Sirius' death and with the enormity of the prophesy. Funny how the prophesy put everything else into perspective.

He must have dozed off because a firm hand was suddenly on his shoulder, shaking him awake. He opened his eyes and sat up quickly. Snape had joined him on the porch and was laying out supplies on the tea table next to Harry's lounge chair. Harry recognized the topical potion that had made his skin smoke the day before as well as a muscle relaxant and a pain potion. A fourth jar, squat with a screw-off lid, was new. While Harry watched, the potions master removed a pair of scissors and a role of gauze from the medical kit he had packed in the infirmary.

"Sit over here, please," instructed Snape, indicating one of the three remaining chairs around the table. No snarky comments about being a "lie about" or disparaging remarks about his parentage. Harry was puzzled. He didn't exactly like this new Snape, but found it much harder to hate him outright.

He eased his legs over the side of the lounge and used one of the chairs next to Snape to steady himself as he got to his feet. He sat where Snape indicated and Snape immediately picked up the scissors and began to cut through the bandage on his arm. Holding Harry's elbow, he rotated his lower arm slightly to each side. Harry winced softly but Snape didn't seem to notice. Instead, he poured on some more of what Harry now referred to as the "smoke" potion then passed Harry the muscle relaxant. Harry downed it without comment, wrinkling his nose a bit at the medicinal, bitter taste.

"Do you feel you need a potion for pain now?" asked Snape. He seemed to be reading over notes in Madam Pomfrey's handwriting. Harry could make out "as needed" as he attempted to read the parchment from his side of the table.

"No, I'm fine now," he stated and Snape put the potion containing the pain suppressant back into the kit. He wrapped up Harry's arm again, quickly and clinically, but did not replace the sling. He then settled back into his chair and looked directly at Harry.

"Mr. Potter, I have been asked by the headmaster to speak to you about the scar on your right hand." He picked up the squat potion jar as Harry clenched said hand, sending pain shooting up to his shoulder, and drew it closer to his body. He had grown accustomed to the faint scarring on the top of his hand from Umbridge's quill, a torturous device she'd used on him during his frequent detentions last year that wrote with his own blood. He had not exactly tried to hide it from anyone but he hadn't confided in any adults either.

Snape handed the jar to Harry and Harry took it with his left hand, eying Snape curiously.

"Rub this cream on the scar every evening at bedtime. I…the cream was developed to help minimize scarring. It may be too late to totally erase it but it will certainly fade."

Harry pocketed the jar. "Thank-you," he said quietly. He had a feeling that "speaking about the scar" would involve more than discussing how to get rid of it.

He was right.

"When Madam Pomfrey discovered the scar and informed the Headmaster, he came to the infirmary himself to see it. He then called in your head of house. Professor McGonagall knew nothing about it and suggested that Mr. Weasley and Ms. Granger should be questioned. The Headmaster considered that course of action but ultimately decided that it could wait until your other injuries had healed." The professor was watching his face, Harry realized, and he suddenly understood. They didn't know about the blood quill…they thought he had done this to himself.

"Look—it's not what you think," he said, fingering the jar in his pocket. Snape's cool gaze did not waiver as he spoke, remaining focused on his face, bright but emotionless. "I…I didn't do this myself." Snape's eyebrows raised a fraction.

"It's from detention….with Umbridge," he continued. He didn't understand why he was still so reluctant to talk about it. After all, Umbridge seemed to be well and good out of the picture after her encounter with the centaurs.

"Detention . . ?" repeated Snape, his voice rising to a question, encouraging Harry to continue. He moved his chair back and angled it so that he was facing Harry. Harry noticed suddenly that the potions master was wearing black trousers and a collared white button-down shirt with long sleeves, buttoned at the wrists. He'd removed his robes and looked decidedly less threatening without them.

"Look—it wasn't just me, you know, though I don't think she used it more than once on anyone else." He shrugged. "I guess they learned their lesson faster than I did…"

"Mr. Potter, while I appreciate that you recognize your stubbornness, I'm still waiting to hear what precisely gave you that interesting scar." Harry knew it must be costing Snape quite a bit to remain relatively calm and so determinedly neutral. He was surprisingly glad that he had let some of his habitual sarcasm slip into that last statement.

"Lines," supplied Harry at last.

"Lines?" Again, the fractionally raised eyebrow.

Harry sighed. In for a penny, in for a pound. "Look, she had this special quill she made us use for lines. It didn't use ink…."

But Snape's face had just morphed into an expression that Harry would have found humorous had they been in potions class—well, anywhere but here actually. If he had to describe it he'd have said that Snape looked as if had been unexpectedly punched by his best friend, managing to look both angry and horrified at the same time. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet and almost menacing.

"She made you use a blood quill?" He hissed the last two words as he grabbed Harry's hand and turned it toward the bright light from the oceanside windows.

"Yeah," said Harry, wincing slightly as his arm was manipulated. "I guess you could call it that. I had nightly detentions for several weeks...for claiming that Voldemort was alive."

"And you told no one?" hissed Snape, abandoning the reserved, emotionless demeanor he had been maintaining and not even bothering to tell Harry not to use the Dark Lord's name.

"I told my friends!" retorted Harry. Snape's wilting control was affecting Harry's as well. "I couldn't tell anyone else. Wouldn't have done me any good if she thought I was getting special treatment from anyone. Probably would have made me practice knot tying with my intestines next!"

"Mr. Potter, I am not criticizing your choice. I am simply trying to confirm that no one else at Hogwarts—no adults anyway—knew of this particular brand of discipline."

Harry shook his head.

Snape stood, pushed his chair in and walked over to the windows, looking out at the crashing waves for several moments while Harry remained quiet, wondering where this was going. At length, Snape turned back to face him.

"This may surprise you, Mr. Potter, but I do understand why you chose not to talk to someone—perhaps your head of house—about these incidents. It was not only the students who felt terrorized by the toad—yes, Mr. Potter, that nickname was not only used by the students." He smirked at Harry and Harry found his own mouth forming a half-smile. Snape stared at him a moment longer and Harry wondered if he really believed that fear of Umbridge was the reason Harry had kept silent about the blood quill. He looked away then, back out the window, as he continued speaking.

"But this is a serious offence. Blood quills are dark objects. They have been banned for at least a hundred years. How that…woman…" he practically spit out the word, "acquired one is beyond me. It must have come straight from the ministry vaults." He turned back toward Harry and glanced at an old-fashioned clock on the wall behind him.

"I must contact the Headmaster…he will want to pursue this matter further. Stay here and begin reading your book—first chapter only. You will read only in this room or down at the shore when you are steady enough to navigate the rocks."

Harry nodded his understanding and made his way back to the lounge chair he had been sleeping on when Snape woke him earlier. He had left Mind Magic on the small wicker table there.

Snape walked back to the kitchen door and opened it but stopped and turned before exiting. "After lunch we will begin brewing a more powerful unguent for that scar. The salve I gave you earlier is not strong enough…not nearly."

He closed the door behind him and Harry sunk into the comfortable lounge, picked up the book and without opening it, gazed out the windows before him. He was suddenly reminded of his friends…by now on their way across this very ocean to Boston. Ron and Ginny would be gazing out the windows of the aeroplane at the sea below, Hermione reading (she'd be insanely envious of the book Harry was about to open). He turned his right hand over and looked at the scar etched in his skin. I must not tell lies. He'd lived with scars all his life, and he'd lived with lies. Personally, he rather preferred the scars.