The next morning, Harry was in the kitchen by 8 a.m. buttering toast and adding a thick layer of jam to each piece. Snape was puttering around upstairs (though Harry was relatively certain that Snape would not take too well to being accused of puttering). He'd come in to Harry's room at 7:45 and had tossed Harry a new backpack—surprisingly, it wasn't totally black—for his clothes for the trip.

Harry was finishing off his third piece of toast when Snape appeared. He was dressed in black jeans and a green short-sleeve button-down. Harry, who had never seen Snape wearing a color other than black or white (and one could argue that black and white were actually colors…), stared at him as he dropped a bundle on the kitchen table, poured himself some tea and picked up a piece of toast. He eyed the jam level disapprovingly and used a knife to scrape half of it off into the garbage bin.

"I did mention that we are going incognito, didn't I?" asked Snape, pulling the bundle he'd just dropped onto the table over toward himself.

"Yeah," said Harry, hiding a grin as he once again eyed Snape's green shirt. "You said something about that."

"We will be gone too long for Polyjuice potion to be practical—so we'll be resorting to a more conventional means of disguise. The intent is to make us blend in with the rest of the tourists."

"So we need a camera," said Harry. "And a map."

"Those are props," said Snape. "They won't hide your appearance. And yes, I have both of those items, as well as an obnoxiously large pair of binoculars and a plastic bag of bread crumbs to feed those infernal swans in Kensington Gardens." He took out his wand and faced Harry. "Hair first. Longer or shorter?"

Fifteen minutes later, Harry stood looking at himself in the mirror in the foyer at the base of the stairs. Subtle changes, Snape had said. Brown hair, slightly longer. Round glasses transfigured into rectangular, slightly tinted to mask the green in his eyes. An earring in his left ear—that had been his idea. His signature floppy trainers were gone as well, replaced with a pair of boots of soft brown leather. Those had been in the bundle on the table and fit perfectly. Harry wondered at that but didn't question the apparent good luck. The boot's heels gave him some additional height as well.

Snape tossed him a tan jacket with the Wimbledon football club's logo on the back.

Five minutes later Harry took hold of Snape's arm as they stood facing the gravel road in front of Shell Cottage and a few moments after that, following the still-disturbing squeeze of apparition, the two stood on Platform 9 ¾ of King's Cross Station. The platform, like the tracks it fronted, was empty. Harry dropped his hand off Snape's arm, feeling like he'd just been pushed through a sausage extruder.

"Maybe that's why I prefer thestrals," he said.

"You get used to it," commented Snape dryly.

They passed quickly through the barrier, through the always-crowded station where hundreds of Muggles stood in front of the big board waiting for their train's platform assignment (Harry glanced at it and noted that 9 ¾ didn't appear anywhere), out the street doors and then down a short escalator. Snape produced a roll of Muggle money, bypassed the automatic ticket machines and stood in queue to purchase two travel cards from a ticket agent.

"Are these going to work with … you know…?" asked Harry, fingering his wand in his pocket and watching a group of students in front of him press their cards against the scanner to open the gate.

"Perfectly," said Snape. He pressed his card against the reader and beckoned to Harry to do the same after he passed through. "Muggle technology works in Muggle locations, even if our kind are around."

They were at the tail end of peak hours but the trains were still crowded. Harry followed Snape, noting that Snape didn't even look at the maps and barely glanced at the line signs, maneuvering his way through the tunnels with both speed and confidence, deftly avoiding the tourists who insisted on walking on the right instead of the left. When they surfaced fifteen minutes later at Charing Cross Road, Harry recognized the exit and knew they were fairly close to the Leaky Cauldron. Snape, however, headed in the opposite direction, turning down a small side street then into a pub and up a set of stairs leading from the building foyer.

Harry followed, more and more curious about where they were going on this supposed "holiday." They climbed up two flights to a landing with two doors. Snape stood in front of the one marked 200, touched the doorknob and muttered something Harry could not hear. The door opened.

"Come on, Miles," said Snape.

"Coming, Uncle Millard," answered Harry. When Snape had stuck him with the unappealing name "Miles" (kids named Miles were always getting beaten up in primary) and said that he himself would be known as "Steven," Harry had rebelled and had decided instead on the moniker Millard for Snape. They would be posing as Uncle and nephew, with "Miles" being the son of "Millard's" sister "Iris."

"What is this place?" asked Harry when they were both inside and the door was closed. It was obvious they were in a cozy and comfortable flat, and that wizard's were accustomed to using it. The signs were everywhere if you knew where to look—pot of floo powder on the mantle, a set of robes hung on the coat rack just inside the door, an empty owl roost sitting on a table near the windows, a copy of The Daily Prophet on the mantle. Harry glanced at the paper. It was dated July 24th of this year. The headline read "Unspeakables Silent on Department of Mysteries Debacle."

"Professor Dumbledore maintains this flat for when he has extended business in London at the Ministry. Order members make use of it frequently when on assignment. We will be using this location as our base while we explore London. Choose a bedroom and leave your backpack."

Harry headed down the short hallway and opened the first door on his right. It was a small bedroom—but perfectly adequate—so he tossed his backpack on the chair beside the bed. The bed, though messily made, looked very soft and he flopped down on it, grabbing a pillow as he bounced. As his hand slid under the pillow, he felt something lacy and pulled out a handful of…

He was off the bed like lightning, grabbing his backpack and hurrying out into the small living room where Snape was sitting at the desk, paging through a London guidebook.

"WHO did you say was using this place?" he asked, holding up a sheer black very slinky garment with spaghetti straps. Tiny red bows lined the outside of the generous cups.

Snape looked over at him distractedly. He stared at Harry a long moment. Harry suddenly realized he was holding the garment at chest-level. He hurriedly balled it up in one hand.

"Hmmm…I believe Professor McGonagall was the last one here," Snape replied, then returned to the book.

Harry was torn between laughing and throwing the thing down in horror. "Fine, I'll put it back where I got it…in YOUR room," he said. "You might want to do a Scourgify on those sheets before you turn in tonight."

What followed was one of the most enjoyable days Harry had ever had outside of Hogwarts. They visited the British Museum, had lunch amid the ducks and swans in Hyde Park (Snape must have secretly erected some sort of waterfowl barrier around himself as not a single bird got within three feet of him), saw Buckingham Palace and Big Ben and then spent the rest of the afternoon in Westminster Abbey. They ate dinner on the way back at a tiny Indian restaurant near the flat. Harry decided that he could eat garlic-flavored Naan bread forever. It certainly helped quell the fire from the Vindaloo Snape ordered for him.

"We'll be taking a boat over to Greenwich and visiting the National Maritime Museum tomorrow," Snape told him as, back at the flat, Harry pulled off his boots and rubbed his sore feet. "The Tower of London is on the way back—we can get off the boat there and see that and the Tower Bridge."

"That sounds good," said Harry. "Does it involve walking?" Not only were his feet sore but his knees and legs ached as well.

"Quite a bit," answered Snape. He went into the kitchen and rummaged through a cabinet, returning with a large jar full of a white cream. "Try this on your feet."

Harry dipped his fingers in and spread the potion on his soles. The soreness vanished almost instantly. He scooped out more and rubbed it in to cover the entire surface of both feet.

"Wow. This is great stuff. What is it?" He replaced the lid, squinting at the handwriting on the label. Post-Cruciatus. "Oh. Wow." He put the jar down, sobered. Why did Snape keep a potion at the flat to help recover from the Cruciatus Curse?

"It is effective for all types of muscle and joint stresses," said Snape, "and has a mild nerve regenerative as well. Soothes mild burns, gets rid of psoriasis and increases the user's IQ."

"Really?" quipped Harry. "You mean it doesn't remove freckles and cure hangovers?"

"Be grateful it is here. You have a bit more than an hour before bedtime—time enough for journaling and meditation. Your legs had quite a work-out today so just do your arm exercises before bed."

Harry was only too happy to fall into bed less than an hour later. Images from his day exploring the city with Snape filled his mind—from Snape explaining the Rosetta Stone to him to the ease at which he navigated the Tube to his inability to hide his fascination with Poet's Corner inside Westminster Abbey. The last image he had as he dropped off into a dreamless sleep was of Snape trying to ignore a very raucous swan demanding bread crumbs from exactly three feet away while they ate lunch. Unfortunately, the dreamless sleep did not last long.

The pain this time was more gradual, building from a mild ache to a slow, steady burn. Harry woke up gripping his head but it took him a moment to recognize the pain for what is was. In the three intensive days at the cottage before they came to London, Harry had finished all his summer work, completed the Grindelwald book, learned to occlude in almost any location and succeeded in developing a visual trigger to pull himself from occlusion. But he and Snape had not yet resolved anything regarding their connection. Now, with the ache and burn starting to feel like a migraine out of control, Harry stumbled out of bed and opened the bedroom door. The flat was dark, but he heard movement in the other bedroom. The door flew open as he stared at it.

"What are you doing? Occlude!" hissed Snape. He was wearing floor-length black robes, more formal than the teaching robes he typically wore, and held something in his hand that looked like more fabric.

Harry took several steps backward into the room. The pressure and burn in his scar was increasing steadily. He squinted against it.

"But he's not…"

"There is always the chance he will use the link. He cannot know I am with you!" hissed Snape. "Do NOT leave this flat for any reason. Occlude now! Inside your barrier…I will return when I can."

Harry dropped onto the bed and quickly rolled onto his side. He heard Snape fumbling with something on the night stand and then he was gone, the bedroom door shutting softly behind him with a quiet snick. Focus, Harry told himself, sinking, with great difficulty this time, into the cocoon-like womb environment. He found his heartbeat and was able to center on it and gradually, gradually, surrounded himself with the protective waters. The burning pain and pressure disappeared with the outside world.

A shrill ringing noise kicked him out of his still-occluded state almost two hours later. He roused himself, his hidden consciousness rejoining the small part of him he'd left in the bedroom. He fumbled on the bedside table for the alarm clock and managed to turn it off, knocking his glasses on the floor as he did so. He groped around until he found them. As his vision cleared, he checked the clock. 2:10 a.m.

Snape! That's what Snape had done before he left—he'd turned on the alarm to give Harry a push back into awareness since he wouldn't be there to give the usual visual signal.

Harry got out of bed and walked slowly into the hallway. Snape had left the light on in the loo but the rest of the flat was dark. Snape's bedroom door was open. He peaked in, not expecting to find Snape back yet. The black negligee hung over the back of a chair beside the bed. The bed was still made and the Muggle clothing Snape had worn around London was tossed on it with the guidebook resting on top of the clothes.

Harry entered the room and picked up the book. The section devoted to the Tower of London and the Tower Bridge was marked with a scrap of parchment. He closed the door and walked into the living room. The room was illuminated only with the dim light from the street lamps below. And it was quiet…very quiet…save a sharp tap tap tap at the window. Harry took several steps closer. Perched on the outside window ledge was a very familiar white owl. He hurriedly opened the window and Hedwig hopped in, immediately flying to the empty owl roost. Harry reached out his hand and stroked her back. "What do you have for me, girl?" he asked. His insides were tight—he wasn't sure he wanted to know what message she'd have for him at two o'clock in the morning on a night when Snape had been summoned.

But oddly enough, Hedwig didn't have a letter or message of any kind.

Harry considered what this could mean. She could have been waylaid and the letter stolen. Or she could have lost the letter—though Harry suspected that post owls simply did not lose letters—ever. There was even the possibility that she had come to find Harry on her own—for whatever reason. Hedwig didn't seem inclined to go anywhere, roosting quietly on the perch and occasionally preening a feather or two. She looked, Harry thought, as if she'd settled in for the night.

He gave her a worried look as he settled on the sofa. The temptation to look for Voldemort through their link, to find Snape, was strong but he fought it down. Sparing one more look at Hedwig, already sleeping with her head tucked down, he picked up the guidebook and began to read about the Tower of London.