Three hours later, Harry once again found himself on the sunny porch, Mind Magic in hand. He felt like he'd run a half marathon, even though the physical therapy session had only lasted 30 minutes and had not involved running of any sort. The leg lifts Madam Pomfrey had prescribed were easy in the infirmary but infinitely harder with the small sandbag weights Snape had wrapped around each ankle. The calf exercises were simple toe stretches—standing up on his toes, holding for the count of three then slowly back down and right up again. These could be done anytime, most anywhere, and Madam Pomfrey promised Harry these particular stretches would help him with his stair climbing. Harry worried that the left leg seemed to be lagging behind the right, being generally weaker and more painful, and resolved to work it harder in the future.

He'd been on his feet for nearly an hour before the therapy, standing in front of a small cauldron set up on the desk in the unused bedroom upstairs—he imagined that it was Snape's "travel" cauldron—stirring a thickish purple paste in figure-eights every five minutes. The professor had had to apparate out to the apothecary at Diagon Alley to procure some of the required ingredients, including dried leaves that, when crumbled, released an aroma that reminded Harry vaguely of the Quidditch locker room after a tough match. Despite the smell of that particular ingredient, the potion itself has more of a medicinal smell. Harry wondered if you could call this purple glop a potion but didn't spend a lot of time considering the point.

And that was after helping to prepare lunch. One would think that a potion master would be a fastidious cook, but lunch had consisted of only sandwiches, crisps and cut-up raw vegetables. Harry had been given a knife, taught a sharpening spell and left to slice carrots, celery, cucumber and a red pepper. Snape made the sandwiches and to Harry's utter amazement, cut off the bread crusts, just like Aunt Petunia had always done for Dudley when they were small. Harry (who had always been hungry despite the fact that the Dursleys didn't actually starve him even though he ate much less than what Dudley did) had always eaten Dudley's left-over crusts along with his own sandwich, earning him, for a brief time, the very much unwanted nickname of "Crusty."

Now, resisting the very pressing urge to nap again (how many times could one sleep in a day, anyway?), Harry found a beach chair against the back wall and set it up facing the windows. It was low with a slightly reclined back but not as comfortable—and sleep-inducing—as the lounge he'd napped on previously. He settled into the chair, propped both of his feet on the window ledge and opened the book. Snape had directed him to read Chapter 1, but the book's preface immediately caught his eye: The Mind is a Magical Mystery by Albus Dumbledore. It had to be the same Albus Dumbledore…the very one famous for having defeated Grindelwald in 1945. Every Dumbledore Chocolate Frog card had that particular bit of information on it. Harry paged back to the title page looking for a publication date. He really had no idea if wizarding texts were constructed like Muggle books, but beneath the author's name was the simple caption "1901."

Did Dumbledore know Grindelwald?

Harry looked over to the door leading to the kitchen but there was no sign of Snape. Besides—this was Snape's book. He had said so. He must know about the preface—must have wanted Harry to read it. Without further thought, Harry turned back to the preface and began reading.

Eight pages later, he reached the end of a surprisingly well-reasoned defense of a variety of mind magics that Harry would normally have a hard time justifying. He simply couldn't see himself ever using the Imperius curse, though Dumbledore's preface somehow seemed to justify its use under certain circumstances. Or obliviate… another one he'd had personal experience with…what right would anyone have to erase a person's memories? Dumbledore seemed to suggest that its use could be justified if not using it would cause greater harm, such as alerting the Muggle world to the existence of magic.

He wasn't sure what he thought of all of this. He had to remind himself that the book had been written more than 90 years ago. Things were different then, people were different. Still mildly disturbed, he moved on to the first chapter, "Introducing Occlumency," the crashing waves of a restless sea outside the windows soothing his restless soul.

He had finished the Occlumency chapter and had gone back to re-read the preface when Professor Snape came onto the porch carrying a green bucket and a pair of black trainers. Harry closed the book and watched him place the bucket on the table then bend down to unlace his boots. Harry couldn't help but watch. Changing one's shoes was such an ordinary process, yet with Professor Snape it seemed an incredibly personal act. Snape didn't pay any attention to him as he pulled off one boot, then the other, lining them up carefully, heels together, against the wall beneath the window. They were made of leather of some sort, worn and comfortable looking, not at all like Harry would have imagined Snape's boots—not that he had ever given them a second thought before, of course. But now that he thought of it, he'd have been sure that Snape wore uncompromising boots of stiff black leather, with steel-tipped toes (useful for both protection against dropped cauldrons and for kicking the arses of wayward Gryffindors). Not surprisingly, Snape's socks, like the boots and the trainers, were solid black.

Snape finished tying the black laces on his trainers then stood.

"What are you waiting for? Come on, then," he said, picking up the bucket and walking toward the door that led to the narrow stairs going down to the shore.

Harry put down his book and stood up. His legs felt better after the hour he'd spent reading but he shook out the left one which was beginning to cramp. Snape already had the door open and Harry followed him out and down the stairs.

"Where are we going, sir?" asked Harry as the sea breeze blew back his hair and the salty air scoured his face pleasantly. He noticed for the first time that Snape had his own longish hair tied back at the nape of his neck with what seemed to be an ordinary rubber band.

"You will be helping me collect a species of shellfish—a mollusk—that is ubiquitous on these shores. When pickled—and yes, Mr. Potter, you will be helping me pickle them too—they are extremely useful in a variety of potions and unguents."

Harry followed the professor down another set of stairs, this one wider than the first and made of flat stones, then out onto a wide stretch of rocks and sand, littered with driftwood and debris. Snape walked closer to the water's edge and dipped the bucket in, partially filling it with sea water. He then set the bucket down and bent to pick up a small black and white striped shell from the beach which he tossed to Harry.

"You'll find these a few inches down in the wet sand. You will have to kneel close to the water." He showed Harry the bubbles that rose to indicate the creature's position, then found sticks for each of them to use as makeshift shovels. "I warn you—they are very fast and can dig down very quickly out of your reach."

They spent what was for Harry a very enjoyable hour probing the sand and scooping out the shellfish. Harry was essentially limited to one hand, as his right arm, though no longer in the sling, was stiff at the elbow and he had little strength in his grip. He had found a narrow piece of driftwood with a wide, spoon-like ending and had used it to fling the shellfish out of the sand. He had to move steadily outward as time passed as the tide withdrew. By the end of the hour, the bucket was more than half full. "Enough," said Snape at last, standing up effortlessly and tossing his stick out into the waves.

Harry gave up on the particularly elusive mollusk he'd been chasing and dropped his stick. He wiped his sandy hand on his pants legs. From his kneeling position, he got his right leg up and struggled to his feet. Snape put a steadying hand on his arm until he had righted himself but didn't offer a hand to pull him up or make any comment at all. Once Harry was steady, he picked up the bucket. "You should come in as well—get those shoes off and let them dry out."

Harry looked down at his shoes. He'd had this pair for several years now and they finally fit him, but were so worn that the stitching around the tongue and eyes was unraveling.

As they walked up the first set of steps to the cottage, Snape asked, "Did you finish your reading?"

"I got through the first chapter," said Harry. He paused a moment. "And the preface."

"Ah," answered Snape, continuing to walk up the path. "I imagine you have questions—I am surprised you have not already peppered me with them. You had plenty of opportunity this last hour."

"I'm not sure that I want the answers," answered Harry, quite honestly.

They climbed the stairs to the porch and Snape carried the bucket to the kitchen while Harry sat on the lounge chair and took off his wet trainers and socks. He flexed his toes then rubbed his aching calves. Stairs were going to be rough until he got his full strength back.

Snape came back out a few minutes later with two steaming mugs. He passed one over to Harry. The tea, topped with cream, was a rich caramel color. Harry sipped it—no sugar. How did Snape know? He glanced up at his professor. Snape had placed his own cup on the table and was trading trainers for boots. He began speaking as he laced up his boots.

"I had the same questions you have. I was 20 years old when Albus Dumbledore handed me that book."

"Did they know each other?" asked Harry, suddenly very much needing to know.

"The headmaster's story is not mine to tell," answered Snape. "But I will tell you that Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald were childhood friends."

"Oh." It felt like a swift kick in the gut. "Like my mum…and you."

Snape straightened up and stared sharply at Harry, and though he didn't say anything, Harry thought that he'd somehow gotten it right. Snape reached into his pocket and tossed him a small glass jar filled with purple cream. "Apply that twice a day, a small amount only."

Harry caught the jar one-handed and screwed off the lid. A thought crossed his mind suddenly and he looked up at Snape, a question on his lips.

But Snape had already guessed and shook his head.

"I'm afraid not, Harry," he said, surprising him with the use of his name. "Though it won't hurt to try." He turned and went into the kitchen. Harry could hear him running water in the sink as he lifted a purple finger and touched the scar on his forehead.