“Vernon?” Petunia called, her voice trembling nearly as much as her hands. “Vernon, can you come here a minute?”

“What is it, dear?” answered a gruff voice as its overly large owner stepped into the master bedroom of Number Four, Privet Drive.

“Take a look at this,” Petunia said, handing her husband a piece of paper as her heart beat fast in anticipation. She waited on pins and needles for her husband to finish reading it.

“Does this mean…?”

“Yes!” she nearly shrieked, nodding frantically. “Finally!”

 Vernon grinned widely, a look of gleeful anticipation on his face. “Where is the freak anyway?”

“Tending the garden,” Petunia said, stuffing the faded cards, letters, and photos back into the shoebox she’d found at the back of her closet. She’d been looking for baby pictures of Dudley when she stumbled upon the forgotten box of unanswered and mostly unread letters from her long dead sister.

“And you know where this, this guardian lives, do you?”

“I assume he lives in the same house he grew up in. Two houses down from ours in that wretched, old neighbourhood,” Petunia said, shuddering at the memory of her childhood home.

“Well, pack his things, love,” Vernon said, rubbing his meaty hands together in glee. “There’s no time to waste! Set his cases by the front door and I’ll put them in the boot. Then we’ll call him in from the garden and drop him off straight away.”

Petunia looked up adoringly at her husband. “Dudders will be so happy to have his second bedroom back.”

Vernon Dursley puffed up with pride at the mention of his son. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, he replied, “Of course he will. And he deserves it after all he’s had to put up with.”

Petunia watched her husband stride away, his fading words echoing her own thoughts: “Why we ever agreed to take that boy in, I’ll never know.”

 

---

 

“Where are we going?” Harry asked.

“Never you mind,” his aunt replied curtly. “Just get into the car and be quiet.” His uncle was already at the wheel, humming along to an upbeat tune on the radio.

As the houses streamed past, Harry settled back into the seat and looked out the car window, trying to ignore his cousin Dudley who sat stuffing his face with potato crisps while playing some violent game on his Nintendo Game Boy. Dudley hadn’t bothered to put in headphones, so the sounds of people shooting each other and their victims’ tortured screams echoed through the backseat.

As Harry stared sullenly out the car window, he couldn’t help but notice the festive mood of his relatives, nor could he imagine the cause of it or why he’d been brought along. While his relatives were dressed in church clothes, he’d been dragged in from his chores in the garden. His hair was matted with sweat and plant debris, his face and hands were caked with dirt, and his clothes—aside from being three sizes too large—were covered with mud and grass stains. His relatives didn’t like to be seen with Harry in public in the best of circumstances; he couldn’t imagine where they were taking him now.            

As he watched the scenery speed by, he noticed a gradual shift in the feel of the neighbourhoods. They’d gone from clearly well-kempt, to progressively more run down and economically challenged. Gone were the manicured lawns and meticulously tended rose bushes. In their place pouted increasingly tired old brick houses, with shutters hanging off their hinges, garbage strewn lawns, and broken down cars on blocks. What bushes there were hid broken or boarded up windows. The dodgier the neighbourhoods became, the more suspicious and anxious Harry grew. Where were they going? Or rather, since he couldn’t imagine the Dursleys willingly coming to a place like this, where were they taking him?

“Turn right here, Vernon,” Petunia said.

Harry looked around dubiously. A large, ominous chimney loomed in the distance. It belonged to a factory that seemed to have gone out of business years ago. Most of the building’s windows were broken, and its large parking lot sat empty. A chain link fence surrounded the property, with faded and peeling Keep Out signs plastered to it at various intervals. Turning away from the eyesore, Harry focused his attention on the dead-end street they’d just turned onto. A sign hung limply over the road. It read “Spinner’s End.” Harry swallowed. Whatever was going on, it couldn’t bode well for him. The malevolent smile his uncle shot him through the rear-view mirror made his stomach turn over in apprehension.

“Where are you taking me?”

“You’ll see soon enough,” Vernon replied.

“Right there,” Petunia said, pointing with a long, pale finger. “It’s the one with the green shutters.”

Harry looked around frantically as the car drove past dilapidated and deserted houses. He wondered if anyone lived here at all. Finally, they came to a halt in front of the very last house on the street.

“Get out,” Vernon commanded, a triumphant sneer on his face.

Harry looked at him agog. “Here?” he asked. “Where are we?”

“Don’t ask questions,” snapped Aunt Petunia.

“This’ll teach you to complain about how good you’ve had it,” Vernon snarled.

Harry looked at his relatives, unable to believe they were ditching him in some strange, rundown neighbourhood. His uncle merely grinned wickedly at him. His aunt’s eyes were riveted straight ahead, her lips pursed, hands clenched, as if she couldn’t wait to be away from this place. His cousin Dudley sat playing his Game Boy, supremely oblivious to everything around him.

“But…” Harry began.

“Get out now, boy, or I’ll drag you out by your ear,” Vernon bellowed.

“And take this with you,” Petunia said, shoving a manila envelope at him.

Reluctantly, Harry took the sealed envelope and turned it over in his hands. There was nothing written on the outside. Stunned by the unexpected turn of events, Harry’s mind reeled. What was he going to do?

 His door was jerked open and his uncle roughly grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and dragged him from the car. Unable to get his feet under himself in time, Harry stumbled to his knees on the uneven cobblestones.

“Get up!” his uncle commanded. “And give that letter to the freak who answers the door.”

Harry got to his feet, picking up the mystery envelope as he did so. Vernon shut the car door and leaned against it, preventing Harry from climbing back in.

Slowly, Harry walked up the overgrown path to the house. A sickly, rancid smell assaulted his senses, and from the sound of rushing water nearby, he assumed the stench arose from the dirty river they’d driven past a few minutes earlier. He looked back once to see his uncle still leaning against the car door, arms crossed smugly over his chest.

Harry turned back to face the unknown house and took a deep breath. He had no idea where he was or who lived here, if anyone did at all. His hand repeatedly went to his jeans pocket where his wand should have been—but wasn’t. He had left it on his bedside table while he’d worked outside in the garden. In hindsight that had been a mistake, but he hadn’t expected to be ferreted away without even being allowed in the house to clean up first, much less grab his wand and pack his meagre belongings. His aunt and uncle had long ago forbid him from keeping it on his person, though he did so as often as he could.

He felt his legs tremble as he took the last few steps to the door. What if his uncle had been paid to deliver him to the home of Death Eaters? He looked quickly around the neighbourhood and saw no immediate signs of life. It both looked and felt empty and deserted. No one would ever know what had happened to him.

He jumped when he heard a loud click. Whirling around, he saw that it was only his uncle, opening the boot of the car. His heart racing, he turned back and stared at the heavy wooden door. Small, curtained windows framed it on either side. He raised a hand and knocked, softly at first, and then a bit harder. His palms were sweaty. Restlessly, he passed the envelope from hand to hand.

Harry heard some thumps in the distance, but as he’d just seen the curtains flutter, he didn’t turn around to see what had caused the noise. He held his breath as the door was unlocked and cracked open a fraction of an inch to reveal part of a suspicious dark eye framed in a pale face.

“What do you wa…”

The deep, familiar voice—which had cut off quite abruptly at the sight of him—sliced the air, sending a rushing wave of icy dread through Harry’s veins. His head swam and he reached out to grasp the door frame for support. Just as the door to the small house was flung open, he heard a car door slam. He turned around in time to see his relatives speed away, a garbage bag, Hedwig’s empty cage, and his Hogwarts trunk in a haphazard pile on the cobblestones near the curb.

Dread and anger battled one another as he turned back to face the one man he hated more than any other: the man that had made his life a living hell since he’d first stepped foot in Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. And from the looks of it, the man his relatives had just foisted him upon.

 

 

“Snape,” Harry seethed, glaring at the man who now stood erect in the doorway, arms crossed, his face a mask of anger and loathing. The man’s nostrils were flared and his eyes were obsidian beads of fury.

“Potter,” he spat, as if Harry’s name tasted of acid. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“Beats me,” Harry said, thrusting the manila envelope at Snape.

“What is this?”

“No idea,” Harry replied. “My aunt told me to give it to whoever opened the door.”

“Your aunt,” Snape spit, still not taking the envelope. “Petunia Dursley.”

“You know her?” Harry asked, surprised.

“Unfortunately,” Snape drawled, pulling the envelope from Harry’s fingers and tearing it open.

Harry watched as the man’s eyes scanned the page, his face paling more and more the further he read.

“What in Merlin’s name was she thinking?” he hissed.

“Who?” Harry asked. “My aunt?”

“Never mind,” Snape rejoined, hastily stuffing the letter back into the envelope. “Get inside and shut the door behind me. Touch nothing.”

“Where are you going?” Harry asked, as Snape swept past him.

“To get your belongings. Now do as I say.”

Harry stepped inside and shut the door. He pulled the faded green curtain aside in time to see Snape reach his pile of belongings. Snape hastily grabbed the empty cage and rubbish bag in one hand. With his other hand, Snape dragged Harry’s trunk up the walk, a scowl firmly in place. Harry stepped back as Snape burst through the door.

Setting Harry’s things on the floor, Snape locked the front door, and then looked Harry over. Snape’s scowl deepened.

Harry looked down to see his baggy, dirty clothes and his mud-caked trainers. He studied his hands, which were equally filthy. Compared to Snape’s pressed black trousers, dark green button down shirt, and black polished boots, Harry felt out of place.

“Explain yourself,” Snape said through gritted teeth. “Why are you here?”

Harry stiffened. “I… You…” Harry clenched his fists. “If you could just lend me a few knuts, I’ll take the Knight Bus to the Burrow. I’ll pay you back as soon as I get to Hogwarts.”

“I think not, Potter,” Snape said, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the door. “Now explain to me how you came to be here.”

Harry had the insane urge to shove Snape aside, grab his belongings, and storm out the door. Instead, he looked daggers at his professor and said: “For your information, I was doing chores in the backyard. My uncle came out and told me we were going somewhere and that I was to get into the car. The next thing I knew, we were nearing this neighbourhood, my aunt handed me an envelope, and my uncle tossed me and my belongings out on the street.”

“And what reason would they have to treat you like this?”

Harry glared at Snape. He didn’t care what the man thought of him; he just wanted to get out of here. His right hand twitched at his side. He felt at a definite disadvantage without his wand, and he hoped beyond hope that his aunt had packed it for him.

Snape heaved a deep, frustrated sigh. “Very well, Potter. Take your things upstairs, first door on your right. Get yourself cleaned up. Then we’ll discuss your predicament.”

“Sir, if you’d just see me to the Burrow, I’m sure that the Weasleys…”

 “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I said so. Now go, before you track more dirt into my house.”

Harry froze. “This is your house?”

Snape raised an eyebrow. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“No,” Potter replied. “I just thought…”

“You just thought what, Potter?” Snape mocked. “That everyone is as wealthy and spoiled as you are?”

“I’m not…” Harry protested.

Snape gestured upward. “You are trying my patience, Potter. Now go!”

“Fine,” Harry snapped.

“And take off those filthy shoes before you step foot on my rug.”

Harry toed off his shoes, grabbed his things, and stomped into the small sitting room which had a modest grouping of furniture consisting of a threadbare sofa, an old armchair, and a rickety table. Overhead, a lamp hung from a tarnished brass chain, three of its four candles burned almost to their nubs. Books of all shapes and sizes covered three of the four walls from floor to ceiling. An old wooden ladder skidded along on rails to make the higher books accessible. Newspapers and magazines littered the floor in tottering stacks and piles. A large fireplace, which Harry presumed was connected to the floo network, dominated the remaining wall. Harry stood, stymied, and wondered if Snape was trying to trick him.

Snape made an impatient sound and stepped past him, pulling out a large, leather-bound volume on a bookshelf behind the arm chair. The bookcase sprang aside to reveal a narrow, winding staircase. Snape held the door open while Harry made his way through it and onto the rickety stairs.

“Sir,” Harry asked. “What about Hedwig, my owl?”

“She’ll find her way here, I am sure,” Snape replied before letting go of the concealed door, which promptly swung back into place, leaving Harry alone on the staircase.

Annoyed, Harry made his way to the top of the stairs, each step creaking ominously under his weight. Of all places to live, Harry would never have guessed that Snape, The Great Git of the Dungeons, lived in a place as cramped and decrepit as this. Although he hadn’t thought about it before, if he had, he would have envisioned a high class, ritzy neighbourhood with servants, or house elves at the very least. He would not have imagined a small, shabby dwelling greatly in need of a new coat of paint among other things.

As he reached the landing, he found a narrow hallway illuminated only by a single grimy window at the end of the hall. There were two doors on the right, and only one on the left. He reached for the first door on the right and found it unlocked. It opened into a small, Spartan bedroom, furnished with a single bed against one wall, a wardrobe against the other, and a desk with a window above it in-between. The room was painted pale green and looked as if it hadn’t been occupied in years as a thick layer of dust coated every surface.

Harry left his trunk right inside the door, and placed Hedwig’s cage atop the wardrobe. Then he dumped the rubbish bag upside down on the bed. A cloud of dust rose from the coverlet, prompting him to sneeze several times. When his sinuses finally cleared and his eyes stopped watering, he was relieved to find his wand among the various articles of ragged clothing that had once belonged to his cousin. He also discovered a box of Hedwig’s favourite owl treats, the copies of The Daily Prophet that had been on his bed, a few spare quills and pieces of parchment, the letter he’d started to Ron but hadn’t finished, a folder full of childhood drawings from his primary school days that he had saved, a Ziplok bag containing his toothbrush, comb, razor, and deodorant, and last but certainly not least, his Firebolt. A quick look in his trunk showed him that everything was in order there as well. Harry sighed with relief; at least they’d packed all of his belongings.

He rummaged among Dudley’s old clothing looking for something that didn’t have stains, tears, or holes in it. Finally, he found a grey drawstring pair of sweats, a light blue polo shirt, and a badly faded black T-shirt with a rock band insignia on it that hung nearly to his knees. Then he grabbed his bag of toiletries and headed back into the hallway. Since there was only one door on the left, he guessed that to be the master bedroom. He tried the second door on the right, next to his room, and found it to be a small bathroom, complete with a toilet, sink, and a claw foot bathtub. A shower head and curtain had been installed at some later date, which Harry was thankful for. He locked the door behind him and set his toiletries on the sink.

“My, my, aren’t we a mess?” said the mirror over the sink. Looking up, Harry was startled by his reflection. He was covered with dirt, there were sweat tracks running through the grime on his face, and a fine red line of dried blood marked his left cheek where a branch had scraped him earlier that morning. His neck was equally dirty, though luckily the dirt hid the bruises there. His T-shirt was splattered with dried mud and he had sweat stains under the arms. A quick sniff had him recoiling. He was amazed that Snape hadn’t commented more on his abhorrent appearance.

Quickly he stripped, leaving his dirty clothes in a pile on the floor. Then he turned on the hot water, and stepped inside the tub, pulling the curtain closed. The steaming water beat on his skin, washing away the dirt and grime, though it did make the open cuts on his back sting something fierce. Working bent over in the garden was always a sure-fire way to reopen those wounds, hence why’d he’d been sure to wear dark colours. Still, he basked in the ability to shower without a time limit. He didn’t think Snape would barge in on him and berate him for using too much hot water. Then again, this was Severus Snape. He found some soap and lathered himself up, then borrowed the shampoo as well to wash his hair. As he turned off the water, he realized that he didn’t have a towel.

Frowning, he peered around the modest bathroom. The walls were white and without decoration. The countertops held piles of books, newspapers, and periodicals. Stepping out one-footed onto his pile of dirty clothes, he opened a cabinet under the sink, relieved to find a stack of freshly laundered towels. He dried himself with the towel then wrapped it loosely around his waist. In the drawers he found toothpaste and shaving gel, as well as a plethora of glass vials containing a variety of coloured liquids and gels that only Snape would know the purpose of. He also found some Muggle hair gel. Harry laughed aloud, and then quickly snapped his mouth shut. No wonder Snape had greasy hair if he used stuff like this! Suppressing a smile so as not to cut himself, he lathered on shaving gel and shaved, then brushed his teeth, and combed his hair. He pulled on clean clothes, dropped the dirty ones in the rubbish bag that Aunt Petunia had used for his belongings, and headed downstairs.

Pushing through the hidden door, he found Snape kneeling in front of the fireplace, head firmly implanted in shimmering green flames, speaking to someone Harry couldn’t see. As he waited for Snape to finish the conversation, he spotted the manila envelope on the small, rickety table. He picked it up and slid the yellowing parchment out from inside. A faint floral scent wafted into the air as he unfolded the parchment. It was vaguely familiar, reminding him of summer and something he couldn’t quite place. Carefully, he unfolded the letter to reveal a graceful, feminine script. As he read the first line, his eyes widened in shock. His legs buckled and he sat down clumsily on the threadbare couch, his head swimming once again. 

 

Herein lies the last will and testament of Lilian “Lily” Anne Potter (nee Evans).

I hereby declare that if myself and my husband, James Alexander Potter, precede our son, Harry James Potter, in death before his 17th birthday, that his guardianship be transferred to Sirius Orion Black. If Sirius Black is unable or unwilling to care for Harry Potter, then his guardianship will pass to Frank and Alice Longbottom. If Frank and Alice Longbottom are unwilling or unable to care for Harry Potter, then his guardianship will pass to Severus Tobias Snape.

I decree that all individual and joint possessions and finances of Lily and James Potter be transferred to the sole ownership of Harry James Potter, and that their use and dissemination be overseen and administered by the discretion and wisdom of his guardian until Harry Potter reaches the age of 17, at which time, control of said assets will revert to his sole discretion and control.

Lilian Anne Potter             1 October 1981

 

 

---

 

Snape scowled at the shocked look on Potter’s face. It served the boy right for snooping. He reached out, intending to wrest the letter from the boy, but there had been no need. Potter’s fingers were numb; he put up no resistance.

“No.”

“No, what, Potter?”

“No you are not my guardian,” Potter exclaimed jumping to his feet. He ran his hands through his abominably messy black hair—James Potter’s hair—and shook his head. “Sirius. Sirius was my...” Potter swallowed and looked distraught. “This can’t be happening to me.”

“I assure you it is not a picnic for me, either,” Snape replied coldly.

“Why? Why would my mother pick you?”

Snape smirked coldly, ready and willing to deliver the blow. “Your mother and I were friends. We grew up together.” At Potter’s incredulous look, he decided to bait the boy further. “Right here in this very neighbourhood, in fact.”

“You’re joking.”

Snape shook his head and reached for the curtain on the window. Pulling it aside, he pointed to an old, ramshackle house, two doors down on the left side the street. “That was where your mother and your aunt were raised,” he said.

He watched with satisfaction as Potter took in the crumbling bricks and peeling paint, the door hanging off its hinges, the broken windows, the yard overgrown with bramble and weeds. Snape didn’t bother telling the boy that twenty-some years ago, this was a respectable, middle-class neighbourhood, nor that his grandfather had been a foreman at the mill. It wasn’t until the mill closed that the neighbourhood had fallen into disrepair as all of the former employees moved away and hooligans moved in and vandalized the place.

“Not everyone is as spoiled as you,” Snape said instead. He didn’t bother to enlighten the boy that he had the means to live elsewhere, but considering he only spent two months here a year, it hardly seemed necessary to relocate.

Potter whirled on him. “I want to leave. Now. The Burrow. Or Lupin’s. Or Headquarters.”

“Anywhere but here?” Snape implored silkily.

Potter’s gaze was stony, his lips a thin, insolent line.

“I assure you, Potter, I do not like this situation any more than you,” Snape said, returning the boy’s glare. “However, after speaking with the headmaster a moment ago, it seems that we will be forced to endure each other’s company until he returns.”

“Where is he?”

“That is neither your concern, nor your business, Potter.”

“I want to speak with him.”

Snape laughed without humour. “And whine to him about how unfair your life is?” Gesturing around the room, Snape said, “In case you haven’t noticed, Potter, you are not the only one whose life has been unfair.”

Feeling the crackling of energy in the room as Potter’s silent anger and frustration mounted, Snape needled, “Furthermore, your wants are not important to me. I have better things to do with my time than play nursemaid to an arrogant, disrespectful brat who can do nothing but complain about his lot in life.”

There was a beat of silence before Potter exploded. “You know nothing about my life. And I have never complained about it to anyone, outside of my friends.”

“Potter, the martyr,” Snape mocked. “Potter, the hero, wasn’t enough for you?”

Snape saw Potter’s arm twitch. Snape had his wand out and pointing at Potter before the boy could fully extract his wand from the waistband of his detestable sweat pants.

“Expelliarmus!” Catching Potter’s wand easily in his free hand, Snape seethed, “Don’t ever draw a wand against me in my own house again.” Stepping closer, he raged, “Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” Potter hissed, eyeing his wand which Snape now held loosely in his hand.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir,” Potter replied, his hands clenched into fists at his side, his eyes blazing.

“Go to your room. Dinner is at 6pm. I don’t want to see you before then.”

“What about my wand?”

“You can have it back when I can trust that you won’t use it against me,” Snape replied, stashing both his wand and Potter’s up his sleeve. “As long as you are in my house and under my care—whether I am your guardian or not—you will follow my rules and you will show me respect. Is that understood?”

Snape watched Potter’s ragged breathing and marvelled at the amount of anger Potter was directing toward him.

“When is Dumbledore getting back?” Harry finally asked.

“Two weeks,” Snape replied.

Potter looked incredulous.

Snape rolled his eyes. “I am sure your relatives will be back long before then. Likely, they dropped you off here to teach you a lesson in appreciation.”

 Snape smirked at the outraged expression on Potter’s face as the boy turned on his heel, fuming. He almost laughed as the boy fumbled with the bookcase before finding the hidden door and stomping up the stairs.

“Potter,” Snape called. The boy froze mid-step, but did not turn around. “I expect you to wear something appropriate to dinner. A dress shirt and pants will do. I will not be having you walking around this house looking like some impoverished street urchin.”

 

---

 

Back inside the small bedroom, Harry slammed the door and kicked the wardrobe, which served only to give him a sore toe. Cursing loudly, he limped around the room, looking for a quill and parchment to write Ron and ask for help. He had never been so furious in his life. He was trapped in the dilapidated house of his vindictive potions master who’d probably poison him at dinner if he didn’t hand him over to Voldemort first. And without his wand, there was little he could about it.

He flung his belongings to the floor and flounced down on the bed, wincing in discomfort. His stomach rumbled loudly; he hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday morning. He comforted himself with visions of revenge against Snape, willing the anger to distract him from the pain in his stomach and his back.

 

 

Snape tapped his watch. Potter was two minutes late. He was about to begin eating without the boy when he heard thundering footfalls on the stairs. Did the boy have no skill in subtlety whatsoever?

Snape had left the concealed door to the kitchen slightly ajar, sure that Potter was too dim-witted to be able to find it without help. He had toyed with the idea of letting the boy fumble around for a bit on his own, but Snape’s patience was already wearing thin. It evaporated entirely when the boy strode into the room.

Potter walked over to the table and seated himself opposite Snape, spreading a linen napkin across his lap. He saw the boy inhale the heady scent of Snape’s beef stew, and swallow, as if willing his salivary glands to be patient.

“I thought I told you to wear something appropriate to dinner.”

Potter’s blazing gaze met Snape’s, but he said nothing.

“Well?” Snape demanded.

When Potter did nothing but stare impertinently back at him, Snape’s temper flared. He stood up so fast that his chair toppled over behind him. Leaning forward, he slammed his hands onto the table. Snape could tolerate a lot of things, but disrespect was not one of them. “How difficult is it, Potter, to follow one simple instruction?”

Potter jumped to his feet, his chest heaving, hands clenched by his side. He’d flinched badly when Snape had flown out of his chair, and Snape had registered this, but pushed the irksome behaviour aside as a sign of the boy’s arrogance and eagerness to fight.

 “If you don’t want to follow my simple instructions, then you can go hungry. I don’t want to see you at this table again until you see fit to wear decent clothing.”

Potter picked up the linen napkin off the floor and flung it on the table. Then he stormed out of the room. Snape heard the second floor’s bedroom door slam once again. Gritting his teeth, he settled back into his chair to eat dinner alone.

 

---

 

By mid-afternoon the next day, Snape was livid. Potter had not presented himself at breakfast or at lunch. This battle of wills had gone beyond childish and ventured into the range of downright infuriating. He’d have to put an end to it immediately. He could not believe he’d been saddled with his nemesis’ stubborn, self-important spawn.

“Potter, open this door at once!” He could have used magic, but he wanted the boy’s obedience. To his surprise, he heard the lock click. Snape threw open the door to find Potter standing rigid by the desk. He was wearing the same detestable clothing as he’d had on the day before.

“Stop this childish behaviour at once,” Snape ordered. “Change your clothes and come down to lunch. I will not have you starving yourself to prove some asinine point.”

Potter’s expression flickered, but still he did not move. Snape stalked closer. “What is the problem?” he asked in a dangerous voice.

Potter’s jaw tightened. “I don’t have any appropriate clothes.”

Snape sighed in exasperation. “You forgot to pack them? How convenient.”

“I do not own any appropriate clothes,” Potter clarified through gritted teeth.

“That is a lie, Potter! I’ve seen you wear dress clothes under your robes at school. How do you explain those?” Snape demanded, taking a step closer. Potter leaned instinctively away from Snape but then straightened, determined to hold his ground. He saw the boy’s wand hand twitch as if looking for a weapon.

When Potter did not reply, Snape yelled, “Answer me, boy! I’ve had enough of your games.”

Potter’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Don’t. Call. Me. Boy.”

“Fine. Potter then,” Snape spat. “You expect me to believe…” Snape’s voice trailed off. He had raised his hand to push a wayward lank of hair from his face and Potter had tensed his muscles, as if expecting to be hit. Snape dropped his hand and looked around the small room. He hadn’t believed the boy when Potter had said that his aunt had packed his belongings, but why else would the boy arrive in such a deplorable state with everything in a plastic rubbish bag for a suitcase? Noticing the small pile of clothing stacked neatly on the desk, he said, “Lunch is on the table. Go and eat. We’ll continue this discussion later.”

After Potter had left the room and Snape was sure he’d arrived in the kitchen, he started going through the clothing in the pile. It was all two or three sizes too big for the boy, and all in sorry condition. The fabric was worn and often stained, with rips and tears in various places. Most of the shirts were dark colours, but one light shirt in particular sported suspicious brown stains across the back. A particularly distasteful thought entered Snape’s mind. The Dursleys were unpleasant, righteous Muggles, but surely they wouldn’t… Snape shook his head at his own foolishness. As he was refolding an especially revolting threadbare sweater, he heard the unmistakable sound of breaking glass.

Snape strode quickly out of the bedroom and down the stairs to the kitchen. He found Potter with his back against the counter, his hands behind him.

“I’m sorry,” Potter stammered. “I didn’t mean to break it.”

Snape disregarded the shattered glass on the floor and instead studied the guilty looking teenager. “What are you hiding behind your back?”

“Nothing,” Potter replied, too quickly and defensively.

“Let me see your hands,” Snape ordered. When Potter did not respond, Snape said, “Show them to me, now.”

With growing irritation and suspicion, a vile thought entered his mind. “Are you stealing from me?” Snape asked. Potter was a lot of irreprehensible things, but he’d never cottoned him as a thief.

“No!” Harry stated, both shocked and outraged by the accusation.

Snape took a step forward, but then stopped. The water in the sink was an unnatural shade of pink, and a red soaked rag lay on the counter. Looking down at the floor once more, he saw a steadily growing pool of crimson red growing behind Potter’s left leg.

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing.”

The paleness of the boy’s face told another story. Snape yanked out a chair from the wretched kitchen table, and with a hand on the boy’s shoulder, pushed him into it. As Potter sat, he brought his hands in front of his body, protectively leaning over and shielding the injury from Snape’s view.

“It’s nothing,” Potter repeated.

“If it’s nothing, then you won’t mind letting me look at it,” Snape replied silkily.

Potter stared at him through his fringe of black hair for several moments before finally relinquishing his left hand, which was wrapped tightly in a blood soaked towel. Snape raised an eyebrow at the amount of blood. As he unwrapped the towel and saw Potter’s mangled hand, he growled.

“What in Merlin’s name were you doing, child?”

“I was doing the dishes in the sink,” Potter said. “I was washing the inside of a glass with a rag when it shattered. I felt it cut my skin so I yanked my hand out of the water. But I accidentally knocked the other glass off the counter with my elbow.” Harry pulled his hand back. “If I could use magic outside of school, I’d fix it for you,” he murmured.

 “I don’t care about the stupid glasses,” chided Snape in frustration as he got to his feet. He wrapped Potter’s hand in a new towel and raised it into the air. “Keep your hand above your head and wait here while I get my healer’s kit.”

Snape hurried upstairs, more than a little concerned. Snape could heal cuts well enough, but if the boy had severed a major artery in his hand, they’d be making a trip to St. Mungo’s. He found his healer’s kit, grabbed a few more clean towels, and hurried back downstairs.

“What are you doing?” he asked, irritated to find the boy kneeling on the floor with a rag in his right hand, his left hand poking absurdly in the air.

Potter looked up. “Cleaning up the blood. Otherwise, it’ll stain your floor.”

Snape rolled his eyes in exasperation. Grabbing the boy by his good elbow, Snape steered him back into the chair. “I can do magic. It works for cleaning floors and mending broken objects. Now, you need to learn to follow orders. Sit still and rest your arm on the table here while I clean you up.”

Snape filled a glass bowl with lukewarm water from the sink and used a clean washcloth to sponge off the blood. He dripped Essence of Dittany onto the wound to cauterize the arteries and stop the bleeding. The cut was deep and circled the back of Potter’s hand, as well as the side of his palm and his thumb with deep gashes.

Frowning, Snape summoned the broken glass from the sink. Indeed the glass, now half as tall as it once was, was rimmed with sharp jagged edges. Potter must have been rotating his hand inside of it when it broke, thus slicing all the way around. “Bad luck, Potter,” he said, sponging off the remaining blood on Potter’s hand. “Next time, leave the dishes. They can be charmed to wash themselves, you know.”

Glancing up, Snape saw the pained expression on Potter’s face. “I’ll be done in a minute,” Snape murmured. Relieved that the Dittany had stopped the bleeding and no major arteries had been severed, Snape raised his wand and uttered a few healing incantations. Potter’s face relaxed as the skin knitted itself back together. When Snape had finished, he applied an anti-scarring balm to the newly healed cut and wrapped Potter’s hand in gauze.

“Keep it dry and clean, and avoid using that hand for a couple of days. You’ll need to reapply the salve three times a day, and rewrap it with gauze to keep it from scarring. See me if you need assistance.”

Potter nodded.

“Now, drink this,” Snape said, setting a blood replenishing potion in front of the boy, “and then go up to your room and lie down. I’ll bring your dinner up when it’s ready.”

For once, Potter did as he was told without comment. He swallowed the potion in one long gulp, grimacing at the taste, and then pushed to his feet. He took one step, and swayed alarmingly.

Snape grabbed him by his good arm to steady him. Seeing Potter’s sickly complexion, Snape guided the boy back to the chair. The boy’s face had gone nearly translucent, his pulse was racing, and sweat had popped out on his forehead.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Potter uttered.

Snape promptly pushed Potter’s head between his knees, while conjuring a bucket just in case. “Breathe, Potter,” Snape said. “Take slow, deep breaths.”

Potter hung his head, breathing unsteadily. Snape waited for the boy to regain his sense of equilibrium.

“Do you always get nauseous when you lose this much blood?”

“Sometimes,” Potter muttered.

Potter’s answer gave Snape pause. He’d expected the troublesome teen to say that he’d never lost this much blood before. Deciding the boy must be referring to some Quidditch accident, Snape shook it off, until he noticed the faint, but unmistakable butterfly-shaped bruises on the back of Potter’s neck, previously hidden by the collar of the Polo shirt he’d been wearing. Instantly, Snape recalled the two smudges on the front of the boy’s neck that he’d attributed earlier to dirt. Something dark and dangerous uncoiled in Snape’s gut. “Potter…”

Potter looked up, his expression hang dog. Snape reeled in his impatience for answers and focused instead on the situation at hand. The rest could wait. “To bed with you. Do you think you can walk now?”

Potter nodded.

“Let’s take it slow this time, then, okay?”

Potter was still unsteady on his feet and Snape wondered if a trip to St. Mungo’s might be in order after all. As he guided the boy up the stairs by the elbow, he considered his options. Dumbledore had strictly warned against Potter being seen. It was best, the headmaster had said, if everyone believed the boy was still staying with his relatives. Snape could change the Potter’s name and appearance if need be. Just then, Potter stumbled, but caught himself on the stair railing.

“Almost there,” Snape coaxed, guiding Potter up the last few stairs and into the small bedroom. With a flick of his wand, the bed sheets turned themselves back and Potter sat heavily on the bed.

Snape grabbed the top shirt on the pile of clothing and shook it out to reveal a hideous, faded polo that was at least three sizes too big for the boy. Throwing it to Potter, he said, “Here, put this on.”

Potter caught the shirt with his right hand but shook his head.

Growing with impatience, Snape snapped, “The one you are wearing is covered in blood. Now stop being stubborn and put on a clean one.”

“I… “ Potter paused, cleared his throat. “I’ll change in a minute. You can go now. Thanks.”

Snape studied the teen. Something was wrong, though he couldn’t say what it was. Something in the boy’s demeanour spoke of secrecy and stubbornness and something else he couldn’t put his finger on. “Very well,” he said at last and turned to leave the room.

 

 

Harry sat on the bed, exhausted. His head throbbed and he felt dizzy and nauseous. He didn’t have the strength to change his shirt. He lay back on the sheets instead, glad they were dark green instead of white, and closed his eyes. He wondered vaguely if Snape would let the subject of his wardrobe drop. He’d rather die than tell Snape that he’d raided Hogwarts’ lost and found at the beginning of each school year to find dress clothes that he could wear under his school robes. Shielding his eyes with his good arm, he rolled onto his side. His lunch weighed heavily on his stomach. Gritting his teeth, he focused on his breathing. A moment later, he felt the tell-tale warning sign of heat racing just beneath his skin before he leaned over and vomited his lunch into the small garbage can wedged between the desk and the bed.

Feeling marginally better, he lay back down and drifted off to sleep to the sound and feel of his still too rapid heartbeat. He was only vaguely aware of someone stepping around him, cursing softly, touching his forehead, taking off his glasses, banishing the vomit, freshening the air, pulling the blankets up around him, and finally, the soft click of the door being shut before silence fell once again.

He awoke next to the sound of his door being opened and the aroma of something earthy.

“You need to eat,” Snape said, setting a tray of food on the desk. “But drink these first.”

Harry sat up, took the two proffered vials, and drained them. From their taste and colour, one was a blood replenishing potion, and the other was a stomach calming draught.

“Rinse your palette with this,” Snape said, handing him a mug of something hot and steaming.

Harry sipped at the tea, which was a refreshing blend of spices and mint and erased all traces of the aftertaste of vomit and the awful potions. “Thanks,” he murmured in surprise.

“I am not a potions master for nothing,” Snape replied, taking away the tea and exchanging it for the tray of food.

Harry rearranged his pillows and blankets and set the tray in his lap. There was barley soup, bread, and some sort of pudding. Harry felt his stomach rumble in appreciation.

“I expect you to eat your fill and then rest some more. I will stop back later this evening with the remainder of the potions you’ll need to take. There are some books in the wardrobe if you feel up to reading. Do not forget to reapply the salve to your hand one more time this evening.”

Harry nodded, grateful for the respite.

 

---

 

 Harry awoke the next morning to the sound of knocking. Then a deep baritone voice said: “Breakfast is in fifteen minutes.”

Harry stretched languidly, and then grimaced at the throbbing pain in his hand and his back. He found his glasses on the desk and slid them on. Then he undid the gauze and examined his wounds, turning his injured hand around and admiring Snape’s spell work. The once deep cuts were now pink lines which seemed to be fading even as he watched. He found fresh gauze and more scar salve on the desk and promptly reapplied it before making his way to the bathroom.

“Got into a bit of a scuffle, did we?”

Harry startled and looked up. “Who asked you?” he grumbled at the mirror, before taking in his own appearance. His hair was a mess and his glasses were askew, but that was nothing new. His hand was wrapped in fresh, clean gauze. His shirt, however, was rumpled and stained with dried blood. Snape had wanted him to change it the night before. Harry vowed to put on a clean one before presenting himself for breakfast, less Snape have yet another reason to comment on his inability to follow the simplest of instructions.

 

---

 

Snape looked up from the Daily Prophet as Potter entered the small kitchen. He noted that the boy’s cheeks were tinged with pink and that his bearing was stronger. There was no trace of the deathly pallor from the previous day’s blood loss, and the exhaustion that had been Potter’s constant shadow as of late seemed to have lessened some. The boy had finally changed his shirt as well. Nodding inwardly with approval, Snape merely said, “You have one last dose of blood replenishing potion to take, Potter.”

He saw the teen’s gaze shift to the seat opposite Snape where a place was set, and next to it, two glass vials.

“What is the other one?” Potter asked.

“Pepper Up potion,” Snape replied, “in case you needed it.”

“Oh,” Potter said. “I think I’m okay, thanks. I slept well last night.”

Snape snorted, but ignored the curious glance Potter shot him. Potter had slept like the dead, and Snape hadn’t even given him a sleeping draught. Snape had checked on him several times, changed the gauze and applied the scar salve twice in the night, checked for fever, and even made him drink a dose of blood replenishing potion, and still Potter hadn’t done more than moan groggily.

Snape served himself from a platter of poached eggs, ham, and toast with honey and then shook out the Daily Prophet, pretending to read as he covertly watched Potter eat. The teen ate with forced slowness, chewing each bite deliberately and washing it down with cold milk. Yet the boy’s body language screamed restraint, as if it took all of his will not to wolf down the food as if it might be taken away from him at any moment. That niggling sense of wrongness lingered, though he still couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

“You may have seconds if you are still hungry,” Snape commented. Snape noticed the hollowness of the boy’s cheeks and wondered just how much food he got at his relative’s home.

“Er, thanks,” Potter said, tentatively filling his plate half full and proceeding to eat every last morsel.

Noticing Potter had finished, Snape said, “You may wait for me in the sitting room. I will join you in a moment.”

Potter piled his drinking glass and cutlery upon his plate and carried them to the sink.

“And Potter?”

The teen paused. “Yes?”

“Leave the dishes for me.” Snape thought he caught the barest hint of relief skitter across the boy’s face.

“Do you want me to help clear the food from the table?”

“Not today,” Snape said, watching as Potter nodded before hastily leaving the room. Snape drank his coffee and had just finished cleaning up the kitchen when there was a knock at the front door. He strode into the sitting room to find Potter sitting in the threadbare armchair, hands between his knees, looking anxious.

“Keep your hair over your scar, Potter,” Snape said. “And you are my nephew for today. Your name is Henry Prince.” He saw Potter grimace; he didn’t bother to add that Prince was his mother’s maiden name.

 

---

 

Harry stood as a flamboyantly dressed man stepped into the sitting room. His blond hair was styled into a spiky wave, a silver hoop earring dangling carelessly from one ear. He wore tight black jeans with large metal eyelets down the outsides of the legs, a shimmering lavender button down silk shirt, silver-tipped black heeled boots, and coal eyeliner. A black leather travel case hung at his side. Harry glanced between this man and Snape, unable to reconcile any sort of relationship between two men so clearly different from one another.

“Mr. Maclain, I’d like you to meet my nephew, Henry Prince.”

Harry reached out his good hand, speechless.

“Call me Les, as in less is more, the motto of the family business,” he said, clasping Harry’s hand in both of his and shaking it with gusto. “Mr. Maclain was my father, God rest his soul.”

Harry wondered what kind of business this man was in.

Les stepped back and took a good look at Harry. “Hmmm…” he murmured, stroking his chin. Then he glanced at Snape. “I see what you mean.” Snape merely nodded.

Harry watched the byplay with growing unease.

“Alright then, Henry. If you’ll just take off your shirt and trousers, I’ll get you all taken care of,” Les offered.

Harry took a step back. “What?”

“Les is my tailor,” Snape interjected coolly. “He is here to fit you for a new wardrobe.”

“A new war…” Harry spluttered. “But I don’t need a new wardrobe.”

Snape raised an eyebrow.

Les stepped forward and pinched the thin, fraying fabric of Harry’s T-shirt, rubbing it briskly between his fingers. “Of course you do. These are but rags.” Shaking his head and tsking in disapproval, Les took a step back and unclipped the straps on his travelling case.

Momentarily distracted, Harry watched, mesmerized, as the case promptly unfolded itself into a portable tailoring station, complete with measuring tapes, pins, chalk, needles, thread, fabric samples, clothing catalogues, a sewing machine, and a small work table.

“Now, if you’ll just remove your shirt, we can get started,” Les said, picking up the measuring tape which curled and uncurled like a snake about to strike its next victim. “Then we can discuss colours, fabrics, cuts...”

“No,” Harry said, crossing his arms tightly across his chest and taking another step back. The room was so small he was nearly against the bookshelf.

“Henry…” Snape warned.

Harry felt the heat in his cheeks as his heart began to pound. He had that cornered feeling he always got when his uncle closed in on him, his face purple with rage, for failing at some unreasonable task or unjustly accusing him of something he hadn’t done. Unconsciously Harry raised his hands in front of him, warding them away.

Les looked confused and glanced at Snape for direction.

“Henry, stop this childish behaviour at once. As long as you are under my roof, you’ll follow my rules...”

The dam holding back Harry’s emotions broke. “I didn’t ask to come here!” he shouted. “I didn’t ask for new clothes and I don’t want your charity!” He shouldered his way between the two men, and made for the hidden staircase.

“Po... HENRY! Get back here this instance and apologize!”

“Go to hell!”

 

---

 

Snape took several deep breaths in an attempt to control his temper. If there was one thing he would not tolerate, it was being disrespected in his own house. He wanted to strangle Potter for making him look like a fool. Instead, he cleared his throat.

“My deepest apologies for my nephew’s behaviour, Mr. Maclain. His mother and father sent him here hoping that I could instil some reason into the boy. I am presently doubting the wisdom of that plan.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it. Kids at that age can be particularly difficult. I remember when I brought home my first boyfriend…” Les said with a wistful look on his face, “my parents didn’t know I was gay, see? Well, let’s just say that it didn’t go over so well.”

Snape raised an eyebrow. He’d always known Les was gay; if his parents hadn’t seen it, it was wilful ignorance on their part.

“Anyway, they came around, my parents did,” Les said as he expertly repacked his tailor’s case. “Give the lad some time to get settled in. He’ll be fine.”

Snape raised a doubtful brow but didn’t protest. His fists were still clenched at his sides.

“Oh, and here,” Les said, pulling a tape measure from his pocket, charming it, and handing it to Snape. “Just owl me the measurements and I’ll be happy to make or procure whatever you need.”

“Thank you,” Snape replied, seeing Les to the door and locking it behind the wizard before stalking up the stairs to confront the ungrateful whelp that had arrived, unwelcome, on his doorstep.

 

 

Snape flung open the door, relishing in the thud it made as it bounced off the wall. He vaguely recalled his own father doing the same thing. “How dare you disrespect me in front of my associates,” Snape seethed aloud, all of his venom directed at the insufferable brat.

Potter, who had been shoving his meagre belongings into a pillowcase, turned to face him. Instead of cowering in the face of Snape’s rage, the obstinate teen squared his shoulders. “I didn’t ask to come here, I didn’t ask you to take me in, and I certainly didn’t consent to being held prisoner here,” Potter responded, anger flashing in Lily’s green eyes. He grabbed the pillow case with a flourish, holding it tightly in his good hand.

“Prisoner,” Snape sneered. “You call being fed three square meals a day, being required to do no chores whatsoever, and being offered clothing that actually fits you, a prisoner?” Snape watched with satisfaction as Potter’s conviction faltered.

“Guardian or not,” Snape snapped, “Dumbledore has entrusted me with your well-being until an appropriate placement can be found for you.”

“The Weasleys…”

“Are not an appropriate placement,” Snape retorted, “and I will not tolerate being disrespected in my own house.” Snape stepped forward, closing the space between the two of them. His anger grew at Potter’s silent defiance. “You have two seconds to explain your behaviour downstairs or I’ll…”

“You’ll what?” Potter interrupted. “Kick me out on my arse? Don’t bother, I was just leaving,” Potter said as he flung the pillow case over his shoulder and made for the door.

In less than a second, the bedroom door banged shut and Snape was nose to nose with Potter. On instinct, he had slammed the boy against the wall, holding him in place with rough hands on the boy’s shoulders. The impulse to throttle some sense into the insolent teen was overwhelming. As he raised one hand off the boy’s shoulder, Potter flinched and turned away, exposing the purplish yellow fingerprint bruises on his neck.

Snape froze, images and memories assaulting him from all directions: Potter flinching away from an innocently raised hand, himself as a boy cowering before his inebriated father’s fist, the brown stains on Potter’s too-large clothing, the brown stains on the sheets of his boyhood bed, Potter’s over-the-top apology for breaking the glass and injuring himself, the way he had tiptoed around his father so as not to set off his temper, the way Potter paled and stepped back when asked to take off his shirt, the excruciating pain of his father lashing him with a belt.

Snape took a deep breath and stepped back from Potter, dropping his hands to his sides.

“Perhaps you’d like to tell me the real reason you don’t want to be fitted for new clothing.”

When Potter did not respond, Snape said, “No? Well then, let’s get this over with. Take off your shirt so I can measure you.”

“No.”

Sighing, Snape said: “I know about the scars on your back, Potter.”

Snape expected Potter to ask him what the hell he was talking about. He expected an immediate denial. He did not expect the haunted expression that crossed the teen’s face.

“How did you… I never told anyone…”

Snape quirked an eyebrow. “Not even Weasley or Granger?”

Potter shook his head.

Snape watched him closely. “It was an educated guess on my part, Potter. Your behaviour indicated that something was amiss.”

Potter looked away.

A few moments passed in uneasy silence before Snape spoke again. “Your uncle?”

Potter nodded.

“I see. I may have some potions that will lessen the scarring.”

Potter glanced up at Snape. “Were you serious about the clothes?”

“The new wardrobe? Yes, of course. Why do you ask?”

“I was just wondering if that was a ruse to confirm your suspicions,” Potter muttered.

Snape scoffed. “Hardly. You need new clothes, and I am prepared to have you fitted properly. You’ll also need new footwear from the looks of it. And when was the last time you had your vision checked by a qualified opti-wizard?”

“Er...” Potter stammered.

Snape shook his head in disgust at the Muggles who had raised the boy. Lily must be rolling over in her grave.

Potter stood rooted to the spot, watching Snape nervously.

“Here,” Snape said, tossing Potter the charmed tape measure. He stepped over to the desk and fumbled in its drawers, extracting a piece of parchment and a quill. He tapped both items with his wand. “Take these too,” he said, handing them to Potter. “They will record your measurements. Bring them to me when you are finished.”

With that, Snape left the room and shut the door behind him, leaving Potter to his task, and pondering all that had just happened.

 

 

Harry sat on his bed, his head spinning. It was all happening too fast. Snape, the man he hated more than he’d ever hated anyone, was being decent to him. Too decent. It didn’t make any sense. As Harry stared at the pile of new clothing stacked on the desk—trousers and dress shirts, T-shirts and polo shirts, jeans, sweaters, socks and underwear, pyjamas, two belts, a tie, shorts and a set of swim trunks, a lightweight jacket—not to mention the two new pairs of shoes—one pair of dress shoes and one pair of athletic shoes—an ugly suspicion crept into his mind. People didn’t do things for nothing, and certainly not Snape of all people. Snape, who couldn’t stand him. Snape, who never missed an opportunity to criticize him, chastise him, humiliate him, punish him. What did Snape expect in return? What would these new clothes cost him?

Harry’s stomach turned over at the thought. He couldn’t accept the clothing. Wouldn’t accept it. But as he stared at the heap of expensive fabrics, feeling revolted by their very presence, he realized that Snape would never let him return them either. Snape wouldn’t let Harry off the hook so easily. And being beholden to the potions master was the very last thing Harry wanted or needed.

Harry put his head between his knees, fighting the queasy feeling that had taken up residence in his gut. He had to get out of here before Snape decided to call in this favour. But Snape hadn’t given him his wand back yet. Of course he hadn’t. He wanted Harry to be trapped here, for reasons Harry didn’t want to fathom. Desperately, Harry looked out the window, searching the sky for any sign of Hedwig. If only she’d come so he could use her to send a message. And how was he going to escape without his wand anyway? Surely Snape had wards surrounding his property that would alert him if anyone came or went. Without his wand...

A knock at the door startled him. Quickly pulling himself together, he croaked, “Come in.”

Snape entered the small bedroom, opened his mouth to speak, and then paused. He looked suspiciously around the room, seeming to have sensed Harry’s disquiet. Watching Harry closely, he said, “I have made an appointment for you to see an opti-witch tomorrow in London. We will travel by train disguised as Muggles.”

Harry nodded mutely, rapidly running through his options. They would be in London. He wondered if they’d be anywhere near Order Headquarters. But Order Headquarters would mean Sirius, and Sirius was dead.

“Is something the matter, Potter?”

Harry quickly shook his head. Snape looked unconvinced.

“Very well, then. I will expect you at dinner in two hours’ time.” Snape looked pointedly at the new clothes. “Wearing appropriate clothing,” he added, before stepping out of the room and shutting the door behind him.

 

---

 

“Something wrong with your food?”

Potter startled, glancing up quickly, “No, it’s fine.”

“Then eat it,” Snape growled. He hadn’t failed to notice that the boy had put on black jeans and a polo shirt. Snape would have preferred the boy wear dress pants and a dress shirt as a sign of respect, but held his tongue for the moment. Something was definitely wrong with the boy. He thought he’d gained a modicum of Potter’s trust the night before, after the whole clothing debacle. He’d even managed to get a new wardrobe delivered the very next morning. And, if he hadn’t expected childish glee from the boy, then he’d at least expected gratitude. Instead, Potter had looked bewildered, as if he’d never been given anything of his own before. And since then, Potter had seemed nervous and withdrawn. The boy continued to pick at his food, barely eating anything.

Irritated, Snape finished his meal. “You may clear the table when have finished everything on your plate, Potter.” Rising from his chair, Snape added, “Leave the dishes for me.” Then he stalked out of kitchen.

 

---

 

The next day, Harry dressed in some of the new clothes Snape had purchased for him: blue jeans and a grey T-shirt. He pulled on the new lightweight jacket for good measure. When he arrived in the sitting room, he found Snape in black dress pants and a grey button down shirt. Snape frowned at him, and Harry looked down at his chosen attire. He gathered Snape would have preferred him to dress less casually, but Harry did not want to take anything more than he absolutely needed to from Snape, and these clothes were the most versatile and least expensive, he hoped. He raised defiant eyes to his temporary guardian. “I’m ready.”

“Very well,” Snape muttered. He cast concealment and notice-me-not charms over himself and Harry. “As I said yesterday, we will be travelling by train. I do not anticipate any problems today, but just in case...” And much to Harry’s surprise, Snape handed Harry back his wand.

A flicker of hope and an overwhelming wave of relief filled Harry. He had his wand back! “Thanks,” he said, quickly pocketing the sorely missed magical tool.

Snape nodded, and together they headed out.

They walked several blocks in silence; past decrepit, deserted houses; past litter-filled fields and run down flats; past a couple of parks with playground equipment that had seen better days. Harry wondered why they hadn’t apparated to a point near the train station.

Finally, Snape raised his hand to signal Harry to stop. “We will be taking the train to Piccadilly Circus. The opti-witch is an acquaintance of mine, Potter. I advise you to behave yourself.”

Harry swallowed. The insinuation was clear. If Potter dared pull a stunt like he had with Snape’s tailor, Snape would make him pay. Harry didn’t relish the threat, which he knew was not an idle one, yet he had more important things to consider. He nodded.

At Snape’s satisfied expression, Harry added, “I haven’t been to London much. Is where we are going near Order Headquarters?”

Harry hoped Snape would find the inquiry innocuous, but from the sudden look of suspicion on Snape’s face, he feared he’d been too transparent. He kept his features schooled in an innocent expression.

“No,” Snape said. “And we won’t be visiting. Though why you’d want to go there now is beyond me.”

Harry looked away. Leave it to Snape to bring up his dead godfather and the pain and guilt that subject stirred up. If Sirius were still alive, Harry wouldn’t be stuck here with Snape. If Sirius were still alive...

“Stop moping, Potter. Your godfather’s death was not your fault.”

“No, it was yours,” Harry shot back.

Snape stopped and turned to face Harry, pinning him with an incredulous gaze. “What did you say?”

“I said,” Harry seethed, “that it was your fault. If you hadn’t constantly taunted Sirius with being useless and doing nothing for the Order, he wouldn’t have left that night.”

“And if you and your little friends hadn’t recklessly run off to the Ministry, your godfather wouldn’t have needed to come after you!”

Harry turned away, saying nothing. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest, refusing to budge.

Sighing in frustration, Snape grabbed him by the upper arm and propelled him the last 200 feet to the train station. “Hold your tongue, Potter, I don’t want to be overheard and we’ve got an appointment to keep.”

The two wizards sat in silence, an empty seat between them, for the 40 minutes it took them to arrive at Piccadilly Circus. A casual observer, had they been able to actually study the pair, would have noticed that both men, the younger one and the older one, sat like mirror images of one another: postures rigid, with their arms and legs crossed, heads turned away from each other.

By the time the train stopped, Snape’s temper was still on edge. The boy was infuriating. He was sullen and moody, hard to predict, and impossible to please. Snape only hoped that his veiled threat was enough to keep the boy in line until they made it back to Spinner’s End.

As they exited the platform, Snape surveyed the crowd, his wand at the ready. He did not think they’d have any problems, for the spells he’d cast on them were sound, but taking chances was for fools. “This way, Henry.”

 

---

 

Harry bristled at the name. He hated being called Henry. It wasn’t that far from Harry, actually, but Snape never called him anything other than Potter. And Harry had the feeling that Snape was calling him Henry just to irritate him. Harry kept his reaction in check and instead focused on their surroundings. He needed to devise a plan.

In a matter of moments, though, they’d arrived at the opti-witch’s office, which was in a small brick building just South of the station. Silently, Snape held the door for Harry to enter the lobby. Once inside, Snape announced that his nephew was here to see Dr. Rutgers.

A few moments later, a middle-aged witch stepped into the lobby. “You must be Henry Prince,” she said brightly. “I’m Dr. Rutgers,” she said, extending a hand, “ but please call me Sarah.”

Harry shook her outstretched hand, relaxing a bit at her easy manner.

Then she turned her gaze to Snape. “My but it’s been a long time,” she murmured, looking him up and down. “The last time I saw you, you were but a small child.”

Snape nodded and Harry wondered at the discomfort that flitted across Snape’s normally placid features.

“How is your mother doing?” the witch asked softly.

“She’s dead,” Snape said, his voice and face suddenly flat.

“Oh dear boy,” she cooed, grasping one of his hands in hers, “I’m very sorry to hear it. She was a good woman. Did her best for you two boys.”

Snape nodded stiffly and Harry was struck by several realizations at once. Harry had never considered that Snape had a family. Of course he did, everyone did. And clearly his mother’s death had affected him. He wondered how she had died, and if his father was still alive. He hadn’t known that Snape had a brother, either.

“Well, Henry,” the witch said, “let’s take you back to the examination room and get a look at those eyes.”

Harry nodded, too distracted to speak. He ignored the strange, considering look that Snape gave him. 

 

 

Harry had never been to an opti-witch, and before long, he was marvelling at how cool magic was. The smallest things often brought this realization, like when he’d first seen dishes washing themselves at the Burrow, or when their tiny tent at the Quidditch World cup housed several large rooms on the inside. Now he smiled in childish wonder at the various instruments that danced around the room, zooming this way and that, innocuously tracking his gaze, measuring his depth perception, gauging the strength of the prescription he needed.

“First time to a magical optician, I see,” Sarah commented to Snape. “You were the same way, you know. Fascinated by all the magical gadgets.”

Harry turned in time to see Snape’s sour expression.

Sarah laughed and patted his arm.

“Well then, Henry,” she said, striding towards him. “Let’s take a look at your results.”

Harry watched as she retrieved a piece of parchment that he had barely noticed before. A quill had been scribbling on it as the various charmed instruments zoomed around the room. Apparently, the results had all been recorded in an orderly fashion.

Sarah picked up his glasses, the ones she’d taken from him when they’d first entered the exam room, and tapped the lenses several times, muttering incantations that he didn’t understand. Then she tapped the frames once and slid them onto his face.

“There,” she said. “Try these.”

The first thing Harry felt was the metal of the frame glow warmly before twining and shifting around, like liquid metal solidifying, before finally settling comfortably on his face and ears. Then his eyes focused and he looked out through crystal clear lenses. “Wow,” Harry breathed. “I can see! And they fit perfectly! These are brilliant!”

Sarah laughed heartily. “Yes, indeed,” she chirped. “It’s amazing you could see anything at all with the prescription you had.”

Harry looked around, astonished at the clarity of objects, their sharp clean edges and distinct colours. His radiant smile encompassed the room, until it landed on Snape and faltered. Harry hesitated, then looked away. This was yet another thing he’d owe Snape for.

“You’re all finished,” Sarah said, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. “I expect to see you back in eighteen months’ time.”

Harry nodded and murmured, “Thanks.” He missed the concerned look that passed between the doctor and Snape.

“Is something wrong?” Snape inquired as they left the office.

“No,” Harry replied quickly. “The glasses are great.”

He felt Snape watching him closely.

“Thanks for them,” Harry added lamely, watching his feet as they ambled along the street past various shop windows. “I’ve never had a real eye exam before.”

Harry missed the startled look that flitted across his professor’s face. He felt suddenly sick with nerves. If he was going to make a break for it, it was now or never.

“Er... I need to use the loo,” he said, shading his eyes from the sun and looking around for one.

“There’s a public toilet up ahead a little ways,” Snape replied.

Harry was torn as they walked in silence. He would have loved to believe that Snape had given him these wondrous new glasses out of unadulterated kindness. But what reason could Snape possibly have to be this nice to Harry Bloody Potter, son of James Bloody Potter? Harry shook his head with regret. The only possible reason could be on Dumbledore’s orders, but even then, Snape had never been like this before. And surely Snape could have met Dumbledore’s demands without buying him an entirely new wardrobe and fitting him with new glasses. There had to be some ulterior motive. With the bathroom now in sight, he made up his mind.

“I’ll wait here for you,” Snape said as he leaned against a column of the building and surveyed the street for signs of danger. “Don’t take all day.”

“Right,” Harry said and slipped into the bathroom.

 

---

 

After nearly ten minutes, Snape went into the bathroom to see what was taking Potter so long. It was utterly and entirely empty. Snape cursed loudly and looked around for any traces of Potter being taken against his will. There were no fresh signatures of magic here; Potter had left of his own accord. Snape slammed his fist into the nearest stall, leaving a large dent in the cheap metal frame. “Damn you, child!”

Rushing out of the bathroom, he searched the streets desperately. He hadn’t lied when he’d said they were nowhere near Order Headquarters and he doubted Potter would have any idea how to get there. Nonetheless, he ducked into a space between two buildings and sent a message via patronus to Tonks, who was living at headquarters with Lupin, to keep an eye out for the boy. Then he strode off, searching stores, alleyways, and side streets for any sign of the teen.

Anger crawled up his spine and menace radiated from his pores. Even with the notice-me-not charms, passers-by felt an odd sense of alarm when they neared him and crossed the street. Snape gritted his teeth; he’d be hard pressed not to strangle the boy when he found him.

 

---

 

It had been easy enough to slip away from Snape. As the potions master guarded against any potential threat, Harry had tiptoed out of bathroom and stolen into the narrow space between the public toilet and the adjacent building. He’d run along behind the various businesses before hitting a dead end. His exit was blocked by a 6 foot high chain link fence that enclosed some sort of factory. Shrugging, Harry climbed the fence and made a run for it.

Nearly an hour later, after roaming through residential streets without being able to come up with a reasonable solution to his dilemma, he sat on a swing in a deserted playground. He stared off into the distance, not sure what to do next. The only things he had on him were the clothing on his back and his wand. He’d considered signalling for the Knight Bus, but then what? Aside from the fact that he didn’t have any money to pay, with Voldemort tracking him, anywhere he went would put the people he cared about most in danger. He couldn’t do that to the Weasleys, not after Arthur had just been so seriously injured by Voldemort’s snake. He knew the address for the Order of the Phoenix, but it didn’t do him much good. He had no idea how to get there from here, and even if he did, Grimmauld Place would be a grim reminder of Sirius’s death and he wasn’t ready to face that yet. In truth, he had nowhere to go. Cursing his lack of foresight, he kicked at the dirt at his feet.

 

---

 

An hour and a half later, Snape was sweaty, dishevelled, had a headache, and was in a fouler mood than even he thought possible. He was going to wring Potter’s scrawny neck for this. Did the boy not have any sense at all? If a Death Eater ran across him, Potter was as good as dead. The only thoughts that comforted Snape now were that Potter didn’t yet know how to apparate and that if Death Eaters had gotten a hold of Potter, he’d be one of the first to know. Nothing had come back from headquarters either, so clearly the boy wasn’t there.

Snape stopped a moment to consider his options. He’d been searching for over an hour in an increasing radius of where he’d last seen the boy. He’d make one more sweep, and if he couldn’t find Potter, he’d have to call in the Order to help search. He didn’t relish that idea at all. Aside from looking like a complete fool in front of the other Order members, he had no desire to tell Dumbledore that he’d lost the headmaster’s favourite student.

Resuming his search, he walked around an older neighbourhood, thankful that the streets branched out in concentric squares, making it easier for him to keep track of where he’d been. He looked for any sign of Potter, any tinge of his magical signature. The problem was, he’d only recognize Potter’s magical signature if the boy actually used magic, and he didn’t think even Potter was stupid enough to do that, not with both Voldemort and the Ministry breathing down his neck. He noticed a grassy lot with what looked like some playground equipment on it, and crossed the street to get a better look.

There, sitting on a swing with his back to Snape, sat Potter; alone and dejected from the looks of it. Snape snarled inwardly, increasing his pace. When he got through with Potter, the insolent, idiotic child would wish he’d never been born.

 

 

 

Potter did not move as Snape approached. Snape didn’t doubt that Potter suspected it was him, but still the boy should have checked. Was he truly that blasé about his safety? As if reading Snape’s mind, Potter looked over his shoulder, and then away; the boy seemed resigned to his fate. As Snape got closer, he could see Potter’s wand gripped tightly in the boy’s right hand.

“Not a word, Potter,” Snape hissed as he shoved a jagged rock into the boy’s hand and port-keyed them both back to Spinner’s End.

They landed in the garden behind Snape’s house. Snape frog-marched Potter through the back door and into the sitting room.

Turning the miscreant to face him, Snape dropped his hands before he could give into the impulse to shake the boy senseless. Breathing heavily, he ground out: “Give me your wand.”

“What?” Harry gasped. “No!”

“You obviously cannot be trusted,” Snape seethed, holding out his hand with impatience. It took everything he had not to throttle the boy right then and there, or at the very least, rage at him for being such a bloody fool. “You have ten seconds, Potter, to hand over your wand or have it forcibly removed from you.”

Snape watched as the teen struggled with indecision. In the end, Potter pulled out his wand and thrust it at Snape, resentment burning in his eyes.

“Now, go to your room and stay there until I come for you,” Snape said through gritted teeth.

Potter promptly spun around and left the room. The thumping of his feet on the stairs matched the pounding in Snape’s head. He winced when he heard the door slam. Aiming a well-placed kick at a piece of furniture, Snape vented some of his frustration at the wayward teen before finding and downing a headache potion and a calming draught. It wouldn’t do to interrogate Potter in the mood he was in. He’d rip the boy to shreds and get no answers for his efforts.

Snape paced restlessly around the small sitting room. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this furious. He needed to calm down. Potter was upstairs. Potter was safe. That was what mattered. Not the rage that threatened to boil over into violence. He had to get himself under control. He would not be his father. He would not be Vernon Dursley. He would never hurt a child out of anger. He would never do what had been done to him. And Potter certainly did not need another abusive adult in his life. A little voice in his head whispered: ‘Can you really blame the boy for not trusting adults? Who has he had in his life that he could trust? That he could count on? Who has had solely his best interests in mind? Who has not left him prematurely?’

Snape scoffed. The same could have been said for him when he was Potter’s age.

‘Yes, and look how you turned out¸’ the voice added sadly. ‘A bitter, angry man, middle-aged and alone, death-eater-turned-spy, brewing lethal potions for both sides.’

“Shut up,” Snape hissed. He put his fingers to his head and rubbed his temples, willing the damn stress headache to recede. Potter was enough to drive anyone insane. And whatever the boy’s asinine reasons for running away...

Snape felt the walls and ceiling shudder as Potter slammed the doors to the wardrobe in the small bedroom above. Irritated, Snape yelled toward the ceiling: “Knock it off.” Next he heard the bed springs creak loudly and imagined Potter throwing himself on the bed in a fit of temper.

What reason could Potter possibly have to be angry? After all that Snape had done for him—saving his ungrateful hide more times than he could count. And after all that everyone else had done for him as well—his mother making the ultimate sacrifice, the members of the Order of the Phoenix guarding him night and day. Potter didn’t even know the half of it.

‘Perhaps that is the problem,’ the niggling voice said, ‘no one tells the boy anything.’

“That is neither my decision, nor my concern,” Snape retorted.

‘Isn’t it? You are his guardian.’

Snape scowled. He wasn’t fit to be anyone’s guardian, much less the headmaster’s golden boy and son of his schoolboy nemesis.

‘He’s Lily’s son too, Severus.’

“He has her eyes, nothing more.”

‘He has much more than her eyes. He has her pure, generous heart, her determination, her stubbornness, and her reckless adventurous streak.’

“And no common sense!” Snape bellowed.

‘He is still a child. A child who’s never known a parent’s love, guidance, understanding, or wisdom. You could give him that, Severus.’

“You are out of your mind,” he snapped.

‘I am your mind,’ retorted the voice.

“Yes, well, for your information, I never invited you in.”

‘No, you never would. Your mother left me here as a gift to you.’

“Some gift,” Snape retorted.

 ‘ Just remember what I said.’

 

---

 

Harry sat on the single bed and stared at the door. He felt edgy. The only other time he’d ever seen Snape so angry was when he had entered Snape’s Penseive earlier that year. Today, Snape’s obsidian eyes had blazed with fury, his voice cracking under the strain of trying to keep himself from shouting, or worse. The potion master’s hands had clenched and unclenched at his side, as if it was all Snape could do not to release some of his wrath on the very person who’d caused it. Harry knew it had been stupid to run off as he had. He’d spent all of his time planning his escape, and not enough time thinking about where he’d go once he had managed to get away. His original plan of going to the Burrow had rapidly dissolved when he realized how much danger his unexpected presence would put the Weasleys in. Sighing, he leaned his head back, banging it against the wall a couple of times in frustration.

Thinking back to the way Snape had dismissed him when they’d arrived back to Snape’s house had surprised Harry, but he knew better than to disobey someone in a towering mood. Even so, the wait for his punishment was killing him. What kind of nastiness would Snape dream up? What pain-inducing potions might the man have in his own home? Harry shuddered at the thought. He just wanted to get this over with. Like a chess match, he wanted to know what Snape’s next move would be so he could make his. Glancing longingly out the window, he studied the barren sky as he had since he’d arrived, searching fruitlessly for Hedwig—his one beacon of hope.

 

---

 

It had taken Snape over two hours to calm down enough to approach the boy. He’d have held out longer but he was starving, and he imagined the teen must be too. They had skipped lunch after all, and it was nearing dinner time.

Snape made his way silently up the stairs. He knocked at the door, but there was no answer. He was not surprised to find the door locked.

“Potter, I am coming in.”

With a wave of his wand, the door opened to reveal a scrawny teenager with messy black hair and glasses that actually fit sitting on the bed, his knees pulled to his chest, arms loped around them. Much to Snape’s surprise, the boy had changed back into the oversized, ragged clothes he had arrived in. He neither said anything nor looked up at Snape’s entrance.

Snape sighed. He’d stay here until he got answers, no matter how long it took. Only after would he allow himself to wring the boy’s neck for scaring the daylights out of him. Breathing deeply to keep his calm, he pulled out the rickety wooden desk chair, spun it around, and straddled it so that he could place his arms on its rounded back. Then he leaned his chin on his hands and studied Potter.

‘Be gentle, Severus. He’s like a wounded animal—lost and in a lot of pain—and likely to bite the hand that tries to help him.’

Snape hissed in his mind for the voice to be quiet.

“Potter,” he said, his voice even. “Please explain to me why you ran off today.” It took all of Snape’s well-earned restraint not to scream at the boy for his idiocy. When Potter did not respond, it took even more of Snape’s patience to wait him out. Yelling and screaming might produce answers, but more than likely, it wouldn’t produce truths, and it most certainly would not build trust.

And so Snape waited. He could wait all day. He had nowhere else to be. As he watched the boy, he let his mind wander. He started running through all of the things he needed to have ready before he returned to Hogwarts in autumn to teach. There were potions to be brewed for both Pomfrey and Dumbledore, entrance exams to be evaluated, lesson plans to be updated, correspondences to be kept...

“I don’t want the new clothes.”

Snape stilled. “What?”

“I don’t want the new clothes you got for me.”

Snape longed to yell: Speak sense, boy! But instead he said, “You prefer the clothes you arrived in?”

“No.”

“Then I am afraid I do not understand.”

Potter pushed himself into a fully upright seated position, crossing his legs Indian-style, and bracing his hands on his knees. Snape watched Potter rub his sweaty palms against the tattered and stained sweat pants he wore. Then the teen’s eyes flashed.

“You hate me. You always have. Since day one when I was taking notes in your class. I was writing down what you were saying and you thought I wasn’t paying attention. You never bothered to actually check though, did you? You were too busy comparing me to my father, a man I can’t even remember.”

Snape kept his face expressionless as he registered the accuracy of Potter’s assessment. The truth wasn’t always welcome.

“So why,” Potter continued, “would you of all people want to help me? Why would you buy me all of these clothes? Why would you take me to get new glasses? It doesn’t make any sense.”

Snape was about to respond when Potter’s next words hit him like a sucker punch to the gut.

“What sort of humiliation are you planning for me as a means of payment? What will I owe you if I accept these things?”

Snape felt the all too familiar Potter-induced fury crawl up his spine. “Owe me? OWE ME?” Snape bellowed, jumping to his feet. “How dare you insinuate that I would do such a thing.” His voice was a vicious snarl. “I have bent over backwards to protect your ungrateful, oblivious hide, put my own life in danger to protect yours, provided you with food and clothing and shelter at cost only to myself. And you accuse me of...”

‘...of being the only man he’s ever known. One who humiliates him and takes pleasure in knocking him down a notch. Really, Severus, what did you expect?’

Snape promptly shut his mouth and ran his fingers through his hair in exasperation. He had a lot to answer for in Potter’s eyes; he could see that now. Rightly or wrongly, he knew how inflexible the teen mind could be. He also knew that if there was ever a chance of Potter trusting him, he’d have to address some misjudgements and dispel some misconceptions, and soon. And he’d have to control his instinctive reaction to the insufferable Gryffindor.

 

 

 

Snape sighed and sank back into the chair, resting his arms over the back once again. “I admit I may have misjudged you, Potter. In my eagerness to identify your failings, I may have overlooked your strengths. Indeed I overlooked the possibility that your relatives did anything other than dote upon you.” Snape shifted uneasily in the wooden chair. “Nevertheless, I have done my best to see that no harm has come to you while you’ve been at Hogwarts.”

“On Dumbledore’s orders,” Potter retorted.

 “If it were only that simple,” Snape muttered gazing moodily out of the window. Turning back to the teen, he said: “It is more complicated than that, Potter. Suffice it say that I have my reasons.”

Potter looked dubious. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

“Nor have you answered mine.”

At Potter’s continued silence, Snape acquiesced. “You owe me nothing, Potter. If Dumbledore arrives tomorrow to take you off my hands, the clothes and shoes and glasses would be yours to keep, no strings attached.”

Potter looked unconvinced.

“The only thing that I require is that you treat me, as you should all of your elders, with respect. A modicum of gratitude would not go amiss either.”

Potter paused, seeming to think something over. “Why?” he finally asked.

“Why what, Potter?”

“Why do you care if I have clothes that fit? Or if I can see? Why do you care if my relatives treat me like the Malfoys’ treat their house elves?”

“Common decency dictates that you be provided with appropriate clothing, food, shelter, and medical care.”

“But why you?” Potter persisted. “You could have pushed me off onto another member of the Order.”

Snape closed his eyes for a moment, weighing the situation. Potter would not trust easily. Sighing, he pushed up from the chair and went to the desk. Pulling out the bottom left drawer, he pried up the false bottom and pulled out an old, discoloured manila envelope. Carefully, he extracted a piece of A4 paper. On it was a faded, worn drawing, one he hadn’t looked at in years. He studied it a moment before handing it over to the teen.

At Potter’s confused expression, Snape elaborated. “I drew that when I was a child,” Snape said softly, recalling the assignment clearly. His teacher had asked the children to draw a family portrait. He had drawn his mother, his brother, and himself, all huddled together. Towering over them, large and menacing, was his father; one arm outstretched over the three of them as if to beat them down, the other holding a large, long-necked bottle. It didn’t take a genius to interpret the child’s quavering marks: an overbearing, alcoholic father; a cowed, abused mother and her children, equally terrified of the towering over them.

 “If I’d had any idea of how your relatives treated you, Potter, I assure you, I would not have left you in that situation. Abusing a child is both cowardly and intolerable.”

“Did anyone know about how your father treated you?” Potter asked timidly.

“Only my mother and brother, as he treated them the same. And your mother, Lily. She knew about some of it.” Snape had never meant to tell Lily, but Lily wasn’t stupid. She had always noticed the fresh bruises that Snape had tried to hide. It wasn’t long before she’d put two and two together.

Snape watched as a look of surprise dawned on Potter’s face at the mention of his mother Lily.

“You really did grow up together?” Potter asked. “Here, in this neighbourhood?” At Snape’s nod, the boy continued. “I thought you were just saying that to get a rise out of me. I thought you met at Hogwarts.”

Snape waited as the teen seemed to struggle for words.

“You must have been close to my mother, if she named you as my guardian.”

“Once upon a time, we were, yes.”

“What happened?”

Your father, Snape wanted to say. Instead, he replied, “It’s a long story, fraught with mistakes and misunderstandings. In the end, your mother went her way and I went mine. It is one of the few decisions I’ve never stopped regretting.”

“Will you tell me about her sometime? My mother?”

Snape noticed the light of hope in the boy’s eyes. “Perhaps,” he responded, his throat tightening at the thought of Lily. He had never gotten over losing her; he suspected he never would.

Potter handed back the fragile child’s drawing, and then asked, “What happened to your mother?”

 “My father was driving drunk and wrapped his car around a tree. My mother and brother were killed instantly. I was nearly 16 at the time, and at Hogwarts.”

“And shortly thereafter,” Potter filled in, “you joined the Death Eaters.”

Snape nodded but said nothing.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

Snape waved away the boy’s sympathy. His father had only gotten worse after his mother and brother had died. Unable to deal with the self-recriminations and blame, Tobias Snape had turned his rage outward, at his remaining son. Snape, who had lost everything—first Lily, and then his mother and brother—had turned to Voldemort and the Death Eaters to fill the void.

The two of them sat in amicable silence, both lost in their own thoughts, until Snape spoke. “I am loathe to admit this, Potter, but you remind me somewhat of myself when I was your age. Though I was never as reckless and short-sighted as you,” Snape added with an admonitory glare. “You are, however, in need of a stable adult role model, one that cares not only for your basic human needs, but also gives a damn about you as a person.”

Potter looked up, startled. “Other than the Weasleys, and... and Sirius,” here the boy paused to clear his throat before continuing, “there haven’t been a lot of volunteers.”

“I see,” Snape said. “Let us get your basic needs in order first then.” Snape glanced briefly at the neat pile of new clothes on the desk. “You now have appropriate clothing. And you can see properly, am I correct?” Potter nodded. “That leaves a visit to the dentist, and perhaps a full physical examination.” Snape was not surprised to see the boy’s panicked look at the mention of a physical exam. He suspected the boy was hiding more than bruises beneath his overly large shirt. “Am I missing anything?”

When Potter shook his head, Snape continued, looking derisively at his attire, “And perhaps we should burn everything you brought from the Dursleys. Unless you are attached to it?” Snape asked with a raised eyebrow.

Potter shuddered. “No, definitely not attached.”

“Good. The next time I wish to see those rags is when they are smouldering in a fire pit.” At Snape’s questioning expression, Harry nodded. “Now, get changed and come down for dinner. We will discuss the consequences of your irresponsible actions later this evening.”

 

 

“Have you ever gone camping, Potter?”

“Camping?” Harry asked. “Er, no. My relatives said that was something only uncivilized people did.” Harry looked up quickly, afraid he might have said the wrong thing. But Snape didn’t seem perturbed.

“They would,” Snape mused, bringing a forkful of sausage to his mouth. “Never had a bonfire then, either, I suppose?”

Harry shook his head. Where on earth was Snape going with this conversation?

“After dinner, you may change into jeans and a sweatshirt. Bring everything you wish to dispose of from your previous place of residence.”

Harry nodded. He was worried about what sort of punishment Snape was going to inflict upon him for running away earlier that day. He paused from pushing his food around and looked up in the vain hope that Snape might have forgotten.

“Potter, rearranging the food on your plate is not going to convince me that you’ve eaten it. We are going to discuss your actions today, and starving yourself will not improve the situation, I assure you.”

Grimacing, Harry forced himself to eat. The meal was quite good, even if his stomach squirmed with nerves. As cruel as Uncle Vernon had been, Harry always knew what was coming. But Snape was an enigma. Harry was sure the man had once hated him. Now he didn’t know what to think. Harry found the uncertainty equally unsettling.

As soon as his plate was clear, Harry went to his bedroom to change. His back was aching more than ever. It had been since morning, but he’d stoutly ignored the warning signs it had been giving him the last few days. He removed his shirt and bent his arm at an awkward angle to feel the welts. He sucked in his breath at the pain. One welt in the middle of his back felt particularly hot to the touch—too hot. As a wave of dizziness assailed him, he sat down on the edge of the bed. He’d been dizzy on and off all day; he wanted to believe it was just low blood sugar from a lack of food. Then again, he wanted to believe a lot of things. Unfortunately, his life had never been that simple. Gritting his teeth, Harry pulled a sweatshirt over his head and steeled himself to face his former nemesis.

 

---

 

Snape observed Potter as the teen trudged toward him carrying the same rubbish bag he’d arrived with five days ago when the boy had been dropped off on his doorstep, Lily’s will in his hand. The word guardian swam unbidden in his mind, Lily’s looping script demanding something of him he not only wasn’t ready to be, but something he wasn’t sure he ever would be ready for.

“Sir?” Potter asked, standing uncomfortably beside the fire.

“Have a seat, Potter,” Snape said, gesturing toward the lounge chair opposite his.

Potter sat on the edge of the lounge, his back rigid. Together, though clearly both in their own worlds, they watched the flames dance in the stone fire pit.

Snape reached down beside him and lifted a bottle of Butterbeer. With only the word “Catch” as a warning, he tossed it to Potter. Firelight glinted off the brown glass as it sailed through the air. With the reflexes of a Seeker, Potter reached up and caught it effortlessly.

“Thanks,” Potter mumbled before popping the cap and taking a deep swig.

“While you dispose of those things,” Snape said, gesturing towards the rubbish sack, “you can tell me about your relatives.”

Potter swallowed and lowered the bottle. His expression was one of wariness. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” Snape said silkily.

Snape watched as Potter dug into the rubbish sack, grimaced, and pulled out an oversized lime green T-shirt. “They hated magic,” he began, balling up the shirt in his fists. “And, like you,” Potter said with a challenge in his voice as he tossed the shirt onto the fire, “they hated me because of who my parents were.”

The two wizards stared at each other a moment before Snape spoke. “I never hated your mother,” he said evenly, determined not to rise to Potter’s bait. “As for your father, I had good reason, as you well know.”

At Snape’s arched eyebrow, Potter had the good sense to look abashed. Snape watched as the memories that Potter had seen in the Penseive in Snape’s office played across the teen’s expressive face. Deflating as quickly as he’d risen to taunt Snape, Potter said, “Sorry about that, sir. I never meant... I shouldn’t have...” Potter shook his head. “Just... I’m sorry. And I’m sorry, too, for the way my father treated you.”

Snape studied the boy a minute longer before saying, “Apology accepted. Now, about your relatives...”

Taking another fortifying sip of Butterbeer, Potter continued. “They never wanted me. They were afraid of witches and wizards, I can see that now. But I didn’t know that then. I didn’t even know I was one,” Potter proclaimed, reaching into the bag and grabbing a pair of oversized jeans and some socks, which he promptly threw on the fire. The flames were first dampened by the onslaught of material, and then leapt with abandon as the fabric took light, sending sparks and the scent of singed cotton into the air. “Sometimes things would happen, especially if I was scared. Like the time my cousin Dudley and his gang were chasing me and I ended up on top of the school. I didn’t even know how I got up there, but Uncle Vernon was furious. That was the first time he... he...”

Snape raised an eyebrow in question.

Potter bowed his head. “The first time he hit me with his fists.”

Snape felt his hackles rise. “And his belt?”

Potter shook his head. “No, he’d been using that for a while by that point.”

Snape gritted his teeth. “Was it your uncle that choked you?”

Potter looked up, surprised. Subconsciously he rubbed at the bruises on his neck before looking down at his feet. “Yeah,” he mumbled.

Seething inside, Snape asked, “And what was your offence?”

“My cousin stole some food,” Potter said, pulling out a tattered pair of overly large trainers and chucking them into the fire. “I got blamed for it.” The shoe leather hissed and spit and an acrid scent suffused the night.

 “Did he ever abuse your cousin?”

“No, never,” Potter said, fishing some more things from the bag and adding them to the blaze.

“I see,” Snape said, fury growing with every image that danced across his mind—his own father and Potter’s uncle equally interchangeable. “And where was your dear aunt in all of this?”

Potter shrugged and reached for some more of Dudley’s old clothes. “She didn’t care. Her only concern was that I cooked the meals and cleaned the house and tended the garden. As long as the beatings didn’t interfere with my chores...” Potter shrugged again, and then winced at the movement.

Snape studied him closely, but Potter didn’t look up. The teen was watching the fire consume the memories of his childhood.

After a moment, Snape asked, “How did your cousin treat you?”

“Dudley?” Potter snorted. “He was a git. When he and his friends weren’t beating me up, they were beating up some other neighbourhood kid.” Potter reached in and grabbed another handful of garments, hurling them angrily at the growing inferno.

Snape felt his blood pressure rise. In a quiet but deadly voice, Snape hissed, “And you told no one?”

Potter raised defiant eyes to his professor. “Who should I have I told?” After a moment, Potter added, “I tried once. I told a primary school teacher. Well, she noticed the bruises on my arms actually. Social services paid a visit, but my aunt and uncle convinced them I was an accident-prone kid who liked to make up stories for attention.”

Snape noted Potter’s involuntary shudder at the memory. “And I presume you paid dearly for that?” Snape asked, though he already knew the answer.

Potter nodded and finished off his Butterbeer. Snape tossed him another.

“Why didn’t you tell someone at Hogwarts?”

Potter looked up with a haunted expression. “I wanted to. But my uncle threatened that if I breathed a word to anyone, he’d pull me out of Hogwarts faster than I could say ‘go’.”

“I see,” Snape breathed, anger stirring every protective instinct he’d ever had. He would make the Dursleys pay for what they’d done to the boy—if not for himself, then for Lily.

Snape waited for Potter to throw the last of his former meagre belongings onto the fire, followed by the rubbish bag itself. “Feel better?” Snape asked.

“Loads,” Potter responded, watching the remnants of his life with the Dursleys turn to ash. “Does this mean,” Potter asked tentatively, “that I won’t have to live with them again?”

“Certainly not,” Snape replied. “Where you will live has not yet been decided, but I can assure you it will not be with your vile relatives.”

Potter heaved a sigh of relief and drained his second Butterbeer. He seemed to consider something a moment before speaking. “Sir, about today...”

“Yes?” Snape prompted.

“I’m sorry.”

“You should be,” Snape said, feeling the familiar Potter-induced annoyance flare inside of him. “Do you have any idea what could have happened to you? Did you even think...”

“I said I was sorry,” Potter interrupted, piping up as well.

“And you think those two words are enough to absolve you of all responsibility for your actions?”

“No... I mean...” Potter clenched the empty bottle of Butterbeer tightly in his hands. “I just thought...”

“You didn’t think, that was the problem. You never think about the consequences of your actions. You just do the first thing that pops into your head, regardless of the rules and restraints that have been put in place for your protection!”

“I...”

“Tell me, Potter, how many times did you break the rules at school?”

“Sir, I...”

“How many other unqualified, underage wizards do you know who took on a mountain troll all on their own? And then went in search of the Philosopher’s Stone?” Snape paused. “None? What about brewing Polyjuice Potion and breaking into the Slytherin Common Room? Or facing untold risks in the Chamber of Secrets?” His ire rising, Snape continued. “No? What about going after Sirius Black—a man suspected of wanting to kill you? And let’s not forget the highly dangerous tournament designed for much older witches and wizards.” At Potter’s glare, Snape added, “To top it off, not only did you fly all the way to London on thestrals of all things, but you did so to confront none other than the Dark Lord himself!”

“I asked you for help,” Potter interrupted defensively. “And you did nothing!”

“Nothing?” Snape hissed. “I verified that your Godfather was indeed safe and sound, and when you did not return from the Forest, I alerted the Order.” At Potter’s mutinous glare, Snape added, “What exactly did you expect me to do, standing there in front of Umbridge? You could have come to me before breaking into her office, but instead, you left with me no choice but to make you look like the fool you were being!”

Potter was about to interrupt but Snape cut him off.

“Your blatant disregard for your safety, as well as the safety of others, astounds me, Potter.”

Potter jumped to his feet. He opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and turned on his heel to stalk back toward the house.

“Sit down, Potter, I’m not finished.”

Potter stopped and glared angrily at Snape. Reluctantly, the sullen teen sat back down.

“And then today,” Snape persisted, “you ran off without a single thought for what could have happened. I was moments away from summoning the entire Order to search for you.”

Snape saw Potter blanch in the firelight.

“I’d have thought, after the debacle at the Ministry, you’d have learned your lesson about charging heedlessly into danger without a moment’s forethought.”

Potter looked away, his jaw and fists clamped tight.

Snape shook his head in frustration. “What is it going to take to get through to you, Potter? The Order has spent countless hours in a futile attempt to ensure your safety, and you throw it in their faces every chance you get.”

Potter continued to stare defiantly into the fire.

Pushed beyond endurance by Potter’s refusal to take responsibility for his actions, and exasperated by the boy’s seeming indifference, Snape snapped. “How many more people that you care about are going to have to die before you learn?” 

 

 

Snape’s words hung like blood-drenched daggers in the air: “How many more people that you care about are going to have to die before you learn?” They were the exact same words that Lily had thrown at him after he’d become a Death Eater. It was those words that had made him turn spy for the Order of the Phoenix.

Snape turned to look at Potter. The boy’s expression was a study in regret and agony. Snape was sure that if he’d had a mirror, Potter’s tormented expression would have matched his own.

Snape scrubbed at this face with both hands. “This is getting us nowhere,” he growled. Taking a deep breath, he met the teen’s tortured eyes. “Listen, Potter. I know that you have no reason to trust adults. But you need to trust someone. Someone who has more life experience than you. Someone who can help you think through things. Someone who can reign in your impulsive nature.”

Potter shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The glow of the fire caught his face and Snape saw that the boy’s skin was covered with a sheen of sweat. That was odd considering that the evening air was breezy and cool, not damp and sticky.

“And who do you suggest?” Potter asked sarcastically, diverting Snape’s attention.

Snape closed his eyes for a moment before opening then again. “As long as you are here, I am your only option. When you are with the Weasleys, Mr. or Mrs. Weasley would be an appropriate choice. And when you are Hogwarts, most any teacher will do.”

Eventually, Potter nodded. “When can I have my wand back?”

Snape snorted. “We haven’t even discussed your punishment and you are asking for your wand?”

Potter stiffened at the rebuff.

“You can have your wand back when you’ve shown me that you are both trustworthy, and that you are able to trust an adult. In other words, I want you to speak to an adult before you act upon any of your hare-brained schemes. Is that understood?”

At Potter’s stiff nod, Snape continued. “As for your punishment, I admit I’m finding it difficult to select something suitable. You have no privileges as of yet that I can remove and your wand is already in my possession.” Snape raised an eyebrow at the boy who was watching him with attentive dread. “Thus, for starters, you will write an 18 inch essay on the foolishness of your actions and all of the things that could have gone wrong with your little stunt today. After you’ve analysed your impulsive behaviour, you will detail how you will handle the situation the next time you are struck by such a reckless urge, for surely it will happen again.”

Potter relaxed visibly in his chair.

“Furthermore,” Snape said, waiting to catch Potter’s eye before he continued, “considering the nature of your offence, you will hand over your Firebolt to me.”

“What?” Harry exclaimed. “You can’t take my Firebolt!”

“As a matter of fact, I can.”

“But...”

“Were you planning on using it this evening, Potter? Another escape attempt perhaps?”

“No,” Potter said, wiping sweat from his brow. He opened his mouth to speak, then promptly shut it again. He looked sullen and agitated.

“Spit it out, Potter. Trust, remember?”

Potter brooded for a moment before he uttered one word: “Sirius.”

Snape wanted to growl in irritation. “What in Merlin’s name does your Godfather have to do with this?”

“He gave it to me, as a gift,” Harry uttered. “In my third year.”

Snape shook his head in disgust. “Leave it to Sirius Black to give a thirteen year old the fastest and most dangerous broom on the market.”

Potter began to protest, but Snape raised a hand to silence him. “Prove to me that you are trustworthy, Potter, and I’ll return both your wand and your precious broom.” Snape toed a wayward log back into the fire with his boot, causing sparks to shoot into the air. “Give me reason to doubt you, however, and you won’t be seeing either of them until school starts in September.”

 

---

 

It was only 9 pm but Harry felt both feverish and exhausted. He considered changing into pyjamas, but instead, lay face down on his bed, breathing heavily. He knew he should go to Snape. He knew Snape would be livid if he waited. But Harry’s pride stung at the thought of admitting weakness to anyone, let alone his de facto guardian. Closing his eyes, he willed sleep to come. If he wasn’t better by morning, he’d ask Snape for an antibiotic potion.

Harry woke up disoriented and confused. He was shivering and soaked in sweat. His back felt like it was on fire, and his mouth felt like someone had stuffed it with cotton. When he tried to sit up, the room spun and nausea careened through him. As he hung his head between his knees and tried to breathe through his nose, apprehension skittered through him. This wasn’t going to be able to wait until morning.

When the nausea passed, he tried to get to his feet, but the world whirled around him and his legs threatened to buckle. Instead, he crawled on his hands and knees toward the door, feeling utterly ridiculous. He stopped periodically to catch his breath as his heart raced in protest. He realized then that Snape was going to be livid no matter what. Trust, Snape had said. And once again, Harry had been reckless.

Cursing himself, he made it across the landing, where he collapsed against the wall beside Snape’s closed door, breathing heavily. The moon hung low in the sky, casting long shadows down the narrow hallway from the single window at the end. Just then, the clock on the wall chimed once, twice, three times.

“Snape,” he called, his voice no more than a hoarse whisper. “Snape!” he tried again, but his mouth was bone dry and trying to talk made him feel like he was choking. He swung his arm out, instead, pounding on Snape’s door with the side of his fist. A mixture of relief and trepidation swept through him when he heard the man’s footfalls approaching.

As the door beside him swung open, Harry saw the hem of a dark robe and slipper clad feet. A gravelly voice sounded from far above: “What is it, Potter?”

“Sick,” Harry croaked, and in the next instant, Snape was kneeling in front him, tipping his chin up to look into his eyes, putting the back of his hand to Harry’s forehead.

“You’re burning up,” Snape murmured.

“I think it’s my back,” Harry forced out. “Infection.”

Snape scowled. Harry tried not to think of how angry Snape would be at him for not letting Snape look at his back sooner. Harry closed his eyes. It was too late now to worry about that. He just needed some antibiotics and he’d be fine. He’d been through this before.

“Let’s get you back to bed where I can take a look at it.”

Harry didn’t move.

“What is it, Potter?” Snape asked with impatience.

“You’re going to be really mad.”

“Why is that?”

“I should have told you sooner.”

Harry heard Snape hiss in frustration.

“Move, Potter, now. We can discuss your lack of faith in adults later.”

 

---

 

Snape didn’t bother trying to get Potter to undress after he’d gotten the boy to lie down on the bed. With a wave of Snape’s wand, the teen was naked, save for his skivvies. Potter made only a faint protest, which was a testament to how ill he was.

One look at Potter’s back had Snape’s blood boiling anew. The Dursleys would definitely pay for this. He’d see to it that they experienced every sliver of pain that Potter had ever been subjected to and more. Unclenching his hands, Snape studied the new lash marks overlaying the older scars. Then he traced the crisscrossed ribbons of fresh wounds with his wand, murmuring basic cleaning and healing charms as he went. He would have to debride the infected wounds to get them to heal properly, and that would be painful. The infection had to have been brewing in the boy’s body for some time to have gotten to this point. Snape was amazed that Potter had held up as well as and for as long as he had. He was going to have to have another talk with the boy after the infection was under control.

Snape poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the desk. Then he helped the boy to sit up and handed it to him. Potter drank deeply, emptying the cup in one long gulp.

“You should have told me sooner, Potter.”

“I know,” Harry said, his voice raspy.

Snape took the empty glass from Potter’s shaky grasp. “Go ahead and rest. I’ll be right back.” Snape left the room to gather the necessary supplies: disinfecting soap and warm water, gauze, bandages, warm compresses, his silver knife, ointments, and a variety of potions. When he returned, he pushed the water pitcher aside and arranged his tools within easy reach on the desk. Then he instructed the insufferable teen to roll onto his stomach.

“This is going to hurt, Potter.”

“Because I didn’t tell you sooner?” Potter asked, his words muffled against the pillow.

“No, because you let the infection progress this far,” Snape clarified, charming the compresses to heat up.

Potter whimpered as Snape laid the hot compresses on the infected wounds. Leaving them in place to do their job, Snape lit a candle and picked up the silver blade. He ran it through the flame several times to sterilize it.

“Take a deep breath, Potter, and hold it.” With a precision born of chopping innumerable potions ingredients, Snape used the hot blade to slice open the pus-filled abscesses. Potter keened in agony through gritted teeth, his whole body fighting against the need to pull away from the excruciating pain.

“Be still,” Snape commanded, using a gauze pad to soak up the thick yellow discharge.

Potter bit the pillow and squeezed his eyes shut.

“The worst part is almost over,” Snape murmured. He worked quickly to drain the abscesses and clean the wounds. Then he packed them with a gauze that was impregnated with various healing and anti-scaring ointments and charms. When he was finished, he helped Potter sit up. The teen’s face was ashen and streaked with sweat and unbidden tears. His limbs trembled.

Snape handed Potter a cool washcloth, which Potter used to wipe his face, and then handed the boy another glass of water.

“Thanks,” Harry uttered.

When Potter was finished, Snape instructed: “I need you to put your hands on your head.”

Potter set the washcloth and glass aside and did as he was told.

“Next time,” Snape said, as he wrapped long strips of cloth around the boy’s torso, “I suggest you come to me before the infection sets in.”

Potter made a non-committal sound in his throat that Snape took for assent.

When Snape had finished securing the gauze in place, he took Potter’s wrists in his hands and lowered them down to the bed, checking Potter’s pulse inconspicuously before letting go.

Potter looked both startled and childishly vulnerable at Snape’s unexpected gesture.

Snape ignored the bewildering feelings of protectiveness that flared inside him at Potter’s vulnerability and promptly motioned toward the desk. “There’s a fever reducing potion, pain reliever, and antibiotic tincture.” Annoyed by the sudden gruffness in his voice, Snape cleared his throat. With his customary scowl firmly back in place, he said sharply: “Drink them in that order, then get some rest.”

Potter downed the bitter tasting potions as Snape rummaged in the wardrobe for a button-down pyjama top and matching bottoms which he handed to the boy.

“Thanks,” Potter repeated. He slipped on the bottoms first, and then winced as he slid his arms into the sleeves, before flopping back onto his stomach, exhausted. Snape watched as the boy struggled to find a comfortable position.

“Try your side,” Snape suggested.

Potter rolled onto his side, his back to Snape. Silently, Snape cast a muscle relaxing charm on the stubborn teen, and observed the boy visibly relax.

“The pain reliever potion will get stronger over time. It should help you sleep. I’ll need to change the gauze in three hours, though, so don’t get too comfortable.”

Potter murmured something indecipherable and reached for the covers. Snape retrieved them from the bottom of the bed and tugged them up. As he made to hand them to Potter, he realized that the troublesome child had already fallen asleep. Sighing, he settled the sheets and blankets over the boy, careful to leave a cushion of space around the boy’s inflamed back. He wondered for the hundredth time what on early Lily had been thinking to name him of all people guardian of her son. 

 

 

At 6am, Snape made his way back to the room Potter was in. Snape had slept on and off during the intermittent three hours since the boy had come to him for help, but he had found no reprieve. His dreams were plagued with images of his own abusive father and tortured childhood. He cursed Potter for bringing up the memories, and cursed the Dursleys even more for their role in the whole fiasco.

Snape entered the small bedroom and lit a lamp on the desk. The teen lay on his side facing Snape, his arms akimbo, his mouth half open in slumber.

“Potter,” Snape called.

There was no response, save for the rhythmic rise and fall of the boy’s chest and the periodic fluttering of his eyelids.

“Potter,” Snape said, louder this time. He reached out and lightly shook the teen’s shoulder.

Potter startled, his eyes flying open in panicked response. “What...?” Seeing it was only Snape, Potter mumbled something incoherent and promptly shut his eyes again.

“Potter...” Snape growled. “You need to sit up. It’s time to change your dressings.”

After a moment, the teen moaned in reply but still didn’t move. Snape knew from the boy’s slow reaction time that Potter was caught in that place between sleep and alertness; likely the pain relieving potion had something to do with that as it had a strong sedative effect on some individuals.

Sighing, Snape slid his hands under Potter’s armpits and dragged him into a sitting position. Potter opened his eyes again, and tried to focus—without much success—on the potions master.

“Stay with me, Potter, this won’t take long.” Once Snape was sure the boy wouldn’t fall over, he let go.

“Ok,” the boy mumbled, swaying slightly.

“Take off your shirt,” Snape directed, gathering the supplies he needed to remove the current wrappings and replace them with fresh ones. He pulled the desk chair in front of the bed and sat on it, facing the boy.

Potter’s reaction to the command was delayed, but eventually, he drunkenly shrugged out of the pyjama top. Then he mumbled something Snape couldn’t understand.

“What was that?”

“I’m tired,” the boy grumbled, his eyes closing as he yawned. He started leaning to one side, and Snape had to catch him to keep him upright.

“Potter! Stay awake!”

The teen managed to stay upright long enough for Snape to cut off the strips wrapped around the boy’s chest.

As Snape stood to remove the folded squares of gauze and get a better look at the boy’s gashes, Potter toppled forward, startling Snape and almost knocking him over.

“Potter...” Snape hissed, but it was no use. The boy was out cold. Cursing under his breath, Snape held the boy by the shoulders, allowing Potter’s head to droop forward, as he studied the boy’s back. The wounds that had been infected were bright red, but clean. And they were healing at the expected rate.

Snape stood for a moment, undecided. He needed to do some minor spell work on Potter’s back before redressing the wounds, but if he laid the boy down, he’d just have to get him back up again. Finally, he leaned Potter’s head against his chest, and quickly uttered the necessary healing charms. Then he repacked the wounds with the medicated gauze, using a sticking charm to keep the pads in place until he could get the straps of cloth wrapped back around the boy.

Once again, he took the teen by the shoulders and steadied him as he sat back down on the chair in front of the boy. Frowning, he considered the situation. He needed both of his hands to complete his work. Finally, he let the boy fall forward against him. Potter’s forehead came to rest against his left collarbone. Snape scowled. He was not a leaning post. But there was nothing for it. Gritting his teeth, he lifted Potter’s arms by the elbows and hoisted the boy’s forearms over his broad shoulders.

Quickly, he wrapped the cotton strips around Potter’s torso and secured them, ensuring that the gauze would be properly held in place. As Snape muttered the last set of charms, Potter turned his head and nestled his cheek against Snape’s chest. Snape stiffened.

Then the insufferable boy looped his arms around Snape’s neck in a loose hug and, in a childlike voice, murmured: “Dad?”

Quickly, Snape disentangled himself from the sleeping teen and pushed him roughly back onto the mattress. “I am not your father.”

Lily’s green eyes looked up at him from the face of an obviously confused and still half-asleep child. “Huh?”

“I said... “ Snape stammered. “Never mind. Go back to sleep.”

“Ok,” Potter said as rolled onto his side and promptly drifted off.

Snape stood there, watching the boy sleep and feeling completely gobsmacked. He scratched the back of his neck, feeling as if an irksome fly had landed there to torment him. He had never had a paternal feeling in all his years, yet having this insufferable brat call him “dad” in his sleep was enough to make the normally restrained and impassive professor crave a very strong alcoholic beverage. Unfortunately, it was only 6 am, and even he couldn’t justify a stiff drink at that hour of the day. But no more could he go back to sleep either.

“Lily,” he growled as he closed the door to the small bedroom behind him, “why did you do this to me? I don’t need this, you interfering, meddlesome witch.”

Snape shook his head as he walked down the staircase and headed to the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee. Lily had a way with involving him in things that she thought would be good for him, like the time she introduced him to Gobstones. He’d thought the game a complete waste of time before she’d forced him to learn it via bribery, pouting, and outright blackmail. They’d ended up spending the whole summer playing the irksomely entertaining game together. He’d never been happier. Only many years later, when he’d cleaned out his mother’s things, did he realize that his mother, Eileen Prince, had been captain of the Hogwart’s Gobstones Team while she was a student. Lily must have discovered that fact at Hogwarts, and had once again done what she could to inconspicuously build ties between mother and son. The fact that Lily had managed to reach from beyond the veil this time to show him yet another side of himself that he had no wish to discover was both astounding and infuriating.

 

 

When Harry awoke, he was startled to find the sun already high in the sky. Checking the clock on the desk, he found it was nearly 11:30am. He jumped up in surprise, only to cringe in pain from his back. At least his hand had completely healed. He used it to scratch at the dressings that had started to itch. He tried to recall what had happened after Snape had originally treated the infected wounds. He grimaced at the knowledge that Snape had seen his back, but there was nothing he could do about it now. Instead he tried to remember when he had had his dressings changed last. It had been around 3 am when he’d originally went to Snape’s room. The next dressing change was supposed to be at 6 am, but he had no recollection of waking up that early. He did remember Snape coming in sometime when the sun was up, probably around 9 am. Snape had been brisk and efficient, waking Harry only long enough to do what needed to be done, having him drink some potions, and then leaving him to rest.

Harry shook his head. He didn’t know what to make of Snape. The wizard had done more for him than any other adult in his life—providing him with basic necessities and tending to his injuries. Yet his manner was not nurturing like Mrs. Weasley, nor solicitous like Dumbledore, nor even childishly eager and curious like Mr. Weasley. Instead, Snape was detached, though not indifferent. It was as if he kept everyone at arm’s length. Just like you, a voice whispered inside his head.

Harry pondered that. Was Snape really as distrustful and leery of getting hurt as he himself was? Had Snape experienced pain and loss like Harry had? Harry knew Snape’s childhood was more like his own than not, and that he had lost a mother and brother, but beyond that, he knew next to nothing about the wizard. He supposed Snape had reason enough to be bitter and vindictive given what the man had been through. Vaguely Harry wondered if his own future held the same bleak fate.

“Potter?” a voice said through the door, accompanied by a light knock.

“I’m up,” said Harry, getting to his feet.

“Lunch will be in 20 minutes. Get cleaned up and come eat and then I’ll redress your back.”

 

---

 

Lunch was a relatively silent affair. Harry munched on his grill cheese sandwich, and even ate the pickle, which he wasn’t overly fond of. Snape seemed more interested in the Daily Prophet than conversing with Harry, so Harry spent his lunch memorizing the layout and decor of the small but tidy kitchen. There was nothing much of interest, with its whitewashed cabinets, narrow countertops, and two small windows—one which overlooked the back herb garden which was severely overgrown and badly in need of weeding. Longingly, he studied the skies beyond; there was still no sign of Hedwig.

“Finished?” Snape inquired.

Harry pulled his attention back to the present. “Yes, sir.”

“Let’s take a look at your back then.”

“Ok,” Harry said, averting his gaze. He knew it needed to be done, but that didn’t make the experience any more pleasant. He wasn’t worried about the pain as much as the shame of having Snape view his scar-riddled back in broad daylight.

“Off with your shirt, then,” Snape said, as he cleared the table of lunch things to make room for his healer’s kit. “And sit backwards so I can get a better look.”

Obediently, Harry pulled his shirt over his head and turned away from Snape to straddle the chair, linking his hands atop its curved back. It was actually easier this way, Harry decided. He could stare at the bland kitchen cabinets instead of seeing the expression on the potion master’s face. As he sat there waiting, a violent shiver racked his body. A moment later, Harry heard Snape mutter something under his breath and felt a wave of warmth blanket his skin. Harry relaxed a little, wishing he knew even a quarter of the spells that Snape did.

Gathering his courage, Harry took a deep breath. “Sir?”

“Yes?”

Harry braced himself as Snape began to remove the dressings, but there was no pain. Finally he let his shoulders sag. “About your question...”

Harry felt Snape’s fingers still for just a moment. Harry closed his eyes and waited for a snide remark or biting comment. Instead, Snape began his administrations again, and Harry knew that Snape was giving him space to voice his thoughts.

“I was feeling trapped. I know it was immature, but I felt like I’d lost everything and I didn’t have control over anything in my life. Sirius was dead and my friends were hurt...” Whispering, he added, “and all because of me.” Harry bit his lip. This was harder to talk about then he thought it would be, but he knew Snape would never trust him if he didn’t give the wizard a straight answer about why he’d run off.

“Just before I left Hogwarts for summer break, Dumbledore told me about the prophesy. And then he just abandoned me at the Dursley’s without another word.” Harry sucked in a sharp breath as Snape applied the gauze pads to his still raw wounds.

Acclimating to the painful sensation, Harry continued. “My relatives, in turn, dropped me off here—without any warning. And I ...” Harry hesitated and laid his head on his clasped hands, trying to sort out his thoughts and ignore the pain in his back. “I didn’t know whose side you were on, but I didn’t think it was mine. I didn’t want to stay with another person who hated me and resented my very existence.”

For a long moment, there was silence. Snape’s fingers had disappeared from Harry’s back and Harry wondered what the wizard was thinking, but didn’t dare look over his shoulder. Then he felt Snape’s cool hands slide around his chest, applying the cotton strips he used to hold the medicated gauze pads in place.

“That is... understandable,” Snape replied as his fingers deftly guided the strips to encircle Harry’s torso.

“It is?” Harry asked, surprised that his words hadn’t made Snape lose his temper.

“Given the circumstances and your age, your perceptions were not out of line with what I would have expected.”

The comment about his age chafed, but Harry wisely kept his mouth shut. He felt like he should say something else, but he didn’t know what.

Harry sank against his forearms and listened to Snape’s low voice as the potions master murmured incantations in what sounded like Latin. With each new spell, the pressure and heat of the lashes on Harry’s back lessened, giving him immediate relief. Harry was nearly in a trance when Snape spoke to him again.

“You do know that the prophesy is just that, don’t you?”

Harry sat up a bit straighter and looked over his shoulder. “What do you mean?” he asked, realizing that Snape was finished and turning around completely in his chair to face the man.

 Snape stood, his arms crossed over his chest, a look of irritation on his face. “A prophesy is a prediction. Nothing more. The Hall of Prophesies is filled with predictions. Less than 10% of those ever come true, and some percentage is bound to come to fruition based solely on chance.”

“But Dumbledore said...”

“Albus Dumbledore has an agenda, Potter,” Snape said, sounding impatient as he handed Harry his shirt. “Dumbledore is fighting a war. He will use any and every tool available to him—including you.”

“But Voldemort killed my parents!” Harry exclaimed, feeling a prickle of sweat break out on his skin as his temper rose.

“Indeed. But it is neither your job nor your responsibility to avenge their murders, regardless of what the Headmaster would like you to believe.”

“Are you saying you don’t want Voldemort killed?”

“I am saying,” Snape replied, “that you are not personally obligated to do the killing. There are many more qualified and capable Witches and Wizards engaged in this war. You are an underage, unqualified wizard who...”

“Doesn’t stand a chance?” Harry challenged, feeling the slow burn of anger building in his gut.

Snape ran his hands through his hair, a gesture Harry now understood to be one of exasperation. “Do you have a death wish, Potter?”

“No, I...”

“You have a choice, that is all I am saying. Do not let anyone tell you otherwise.” Snape met Potter’s eyes. “You said to me a moment ago that you felt that you didn’t have control over anything in your life, correct?”

“Yes, but...”

“You do have control, Potter, you need only exercise it. Do not let Albus Dumbledore, or anyone else for that matter, dictate your destiny. It is your choice.” Snape gazed hard at Potter, his expression harsh. “Do not forget that.”

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but Snape had already left the room. Stunned, Harry remained in his chair, wondering just how and when Snape’s choices had been taken from him, for only that could have provoked such a strong reaction from the normally stoic and controlled wizard. 

 

 

“Potter, I need to run a few errands. Do you need anything while I am out?”

Harry looked up from perusing The Daily Prophet that Snape had finished with earlier that day. There was a witch missing in Norwich that was drawing some attention, and there had been an attack on a Muggle family that was likely the work of Death Eaters.

“Er, nothing I can think of.”

Snape raised an eyebrow. “You have five minutes to tell me if think of something.”

Snape left the room, and Harry returned to his perusal of the Wizarding newspaper. When Snape returned, he was dressed in casual Muggle attire, his robe draped over one arm. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, studying Harry carefully.

“You are not to leave this house while I am gone. Is that clear, Potter?”

Gazing up at the older wizard’s unyielding expression, Harry nodded.

“Do I need to ward the premises against any escape attempts?”

“No, sir, I’ll stay put,” Harry answered, though he guessed that Snape would ward the place anyway.

“I have your word?”

“Yes, sir,” Potter said, feeling as if his every response were being precisely weighed and measured.

“Trust, Potter. Do not forget it.”

“Right.”

Nodding with what Harry could only guess was acceptance, or perhaps resignation, Snape slid Harry’s wand from his sleeve and held it out to him. “I do not anticipate that you will need this, Potter, but if this house should come under attack, or if your life is endangered in any way, you have my permission to use whatever means necessary to defend yourself.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, rolling his newly returned wand reverently along his palm. When he looked up, Snape was gazing at him in a disconcertingly direct manner as if trying to determine the degree to which he could trust both Harry and Harry’s decision making abilities.

“If you must retreat for your own safety, you are to use the floo. It is connected to my quarters at Hogwarts.” Snape extracted his wand and waved it in the air. A small square of parchment popped into existence, glowing brightly for a moment. Snape snatched it and handed it to Harry. “This is the password to my quarters. Memorize it.”

“Nux Myristica,” Harry read as he took the note, committing the rare potions ingredient, which was etched in black ink in Snape’s spiky handwriting, to memory, before sliding it into his pocket.

“Furthermore,” Snape continued, “You are not to answer the door or enter my bedroom under any circumstances. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You may eat if you are hungry. Also, if you could start dinner, I would appreciate it. There is chicken in the refrigerator, as well as rice and vegetables. You may use any ingredients you find.” Snape paused a moment, considering. “Do you require further instruction?”

“No,” Harry responded. “I’m used to cooking the meals.”

Snape looked at him oddly, but only nodded. “Very well. Do keep yourself out of trouble, Mr. Potter. I will be back before dinner.”

Harry watched as Snape let himself out the front door, locking it behind him. The fact that Snape had left him alone, and for several hours, stunned him. He wasn’t sure if the situation had been reversed, if he’d have done the same. After all, it had only been yesterday that he’d run off on the wizard.

Surprised by his good fortune of having the house to himself for the afternoon, Harry idly wondered what errands Snape needed to do. He doubted Snape would have told him even if he had asked. Harry guessed they must have been important for Snape to have risked leaving him alone so soon. Even so, he’d bet all the gold in Gringott’s that Snape had warded the property several times over to prevent Harry from leaving and to notify him immediately if Harry tried. As Harry considered the situation, he came to the conclusion that this was some sort of test. Snape wanted to know how good Harry’s word was and to what extent he could trust Harry.

That idea did not bring him comfort, but he couldn’t say that he blamed Snape, not after the way Harry had acted during the brief time he’d been in the older wizard’s care. Feeling resigned, he got off the couch and wandered into the small kitchen to see about dinner.

 

---

 

Four hours later, Harry was just pulling the chicken casserole out of the oven when Snape returned. Snape looked both aloof and oddly satisfied.

“I see you did not burn the house down while I was gone,” Snape said in recognition of the heady scents that filled the small kitchen.

“I see you made it home in time for dinner,” Harry replied cheekily.

Snape cocked an eyebrow but said nothing. He hung his robe up on a hook on the kitchen wall and proceeded to set the table with plates, cups, and silverware. Seemingly out of nowhere, Snape produced a bottle of something Harry didn’t recognize, and two small silver boxes. Snape set a box next to each of their plates without comment, and then poured a couple inches of a smoking burgundy liquid into a set of wine glasses.

Meanwhile, Harry set the casserole on a cooling stone on the table, and then uncovered a loaf of steaming hot bread he’d just taken out of the oven. He placed salt, pepper, and butter on the table as well. Then he poured himself a glass of milk, and sat at his place at the table, waiting for Snape to join him.

Snape sat and served himself a portion of the casserole Harry made. Harry was amazed to find that he was actually nervous about Snape’s reaction. Harry had been anxious before about his cooking, but in an entirely different context. With the Dursleys, he’d had to face their wrath if the meals weren’t precisely to their liking. But with Snape, Harry sincerely wanted the potions master to like his cooking. He wanted to prove to the man that he was capable of doing something right. For once, Harry wanted to be “good enough” in Snape’s eyes, something he’d never managed to achieve before.

“I hope you like it,” Harry rambled, uncomfortable with the silence. “It’s just chicken and rice, with a few vegetables, but...”

Deadpan, Snape replied, “Am I to infer that you are not actually trying to poison me?”

Harry felt momentarily taken aback, before he realized that Snape was mocking him. “Very funny, professor.”

Snape raised an eyebrow and then took a tentative bite of the steaming casserole. Savouring the morsel of food, he chewed slowly. “Pepper, sage, thyme, and...” Snape frowned. He chewed some more, carefully cataloguing the feedback from his taste buds. “Anise?”

Potter nodded. “You were out of fennel,” he added, in defence of his use of the more unusual spice.

“Very interesting.” Snape took another bite. “I’ll have to try that it in my own recipes. It has a distinctive, yet pleasing, flavour.”

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. Snape’s words were the closest he’d likely ever get to a compliment from the taciturn wizard. As Snape continued to eat, Harry felt an unanticipated warmth spread through him. He was proud of the meal he’d cooked and happy that Snape seemed to be enjoying it.

Harry sliced the loaf of fresh bread, the scent of rosemary wafting into the air. He spread a fair amount of butter on his piece and took a bite with eager anticipation.

“You look like the cat who has swallowed the canary,” Snape observed.

Harry nearly moaned with delight. “This is my favourite kind of bread.”

“So I see,” Snape commented, taking a piece for himself. After a taste, he remarked, “It is indeed quite good. I will have to make you my grandmother’s Five Seasons loaf. I am sure you would enjoy it.”

Harry felt a pang of something small and desperate flutter against heart. This dinner, this conversation, was remarkably close to what he’d imagined having a meal with a parent, or at least relative who loved you and enjoyed your company, must be like. He put down his bread, his appetite wavering in the midst of feelings of loss and regret.

When he looked up, he saw the older wizard not only enjoying the meal that Harry had cooked for him, but relishing it. The Dursleys had eaten the food he’d prepared, demanded it even, but not once had they ever expressed appreciation for his efforts. Nor was he invited to eat at the table with them. He was but a servant there, and cooking the meals was one of his many expected duties. Here, though, he was beginning to feel a small bit welcome, like an unexpected but reluctantly accepted house guest.

“I will have to have you cook more often,” Snape said, wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin.

Harry grinned. Coming from Snape, that was a huge compliment. “I make a wicked steak and kidney pie.”

“Perhaps we should have a contest, then. My steak and kidney pie is legendary,” Snape challenged.

“Ah, but I have a secret ingredient,” Harry replied, intrigued by this new and different side of Snape. Harry wanted to laugh out loud at the absurdity of it all; he couldn’t believe he was actually bantering with the man.

Snape reached out and raised the wine glass with the frothing red liquid in it: “To culinary delights.”

Harry raised his own glass in response: “To gastronomic pleasure.”

Snape looked at him strangely, and then snorted with amusement, before taking a sip of the wine.

Harry smiled. He sniffed the bubbly liquid and then sipped tentatively. It was fruity and rich, a little sweet, but tart also. He’d never tasted anything like it before. “What is this?” he asked, taking another sip.

“Red currant rum.”

“I like it,” Harry responded. “It’s very good.”

“Don’t drink it too fast,” Snape warned. “It will go straight to your head.”

“And if it does?”

“You’ll be too drunk to stand up and you’ll start singing lullabies to boot.”

“You’re joking!”

“Ask the Weasley twins,” Snape said. “I had them both in detention their fifth year for a raucous rendition of Swing Low, Sweet Chariot at the Halloween Feast.”

“I’d have loved to see that,” Harry said with a smirk. He could just imagine their baritone voices belting out the well-known lyrics.

Snape looked amused.

They continued eating in silence, Harry reminiscing fondly about the Weasley twins and their antics. When they’d finished dinner, Harry pointed to the sliver box beside his plate and asked, “What is this?”

“Dessert,” Snape replied, slipping the cover off of his own box to reveal four chocolate truffles.

“Oh,” Harry said. “I made an apple torte as well.”

“Good,” Snape responded. “We can have it for a bedtime snack.”  Snape popped a truffle into his mouth, clearly enjoying it. Then, his expression turned serious. Swallowing, he said, “I paid a visit to your relatives this afternoon.”

Harry paused in mid-motion, his hand raised halfway to his mouth, his second chocolate truffle clutched between his fingers. “Why?”

“I wanted to hear their side of the story.”

Harry set down his truffle, his stomach churning with sudden anxiety. “And?”

 “It was as pathetic and cowardly as I had expected.”

Harry watched a myriad of emotions cross Snape’s face—disgust, anger, loathing, impatience—before Snape’s expression became impassive once again. Harry felt a wave of shame go through him at the thought of what else Snape had discovered about his pitiful existence in the home of his aunt and uncle.

“Have no fear, Potter,” Snape said. “You will not be returning to that disgraceful excuse of a home.”

“Until Dumbledore intervenes,” Potter muttered, looking away.

“Choices, Potter. You have them,” Snape said. “And, incidentally, since I am legally your guardian, the headmaster cannot overrule my decision with regard to your placement.”

Harry looked dubious.

“Furthermore,” Snape continued, “As your guardian, I am required to provide you with a suitable place to live.”

Harry felt a measure of uncertainty mixed with anxiety. “What are you saying?”

“In simpler words, Potter, you are welcome to spend your summers and holidays here if you wish.”

“Here? In this house? With you?”

“Do you have a problem with that?” Snape asked, his black eyes boring into Potter’s.

“No. Yes. I don’t know,” Potter stammered. “I just thought...”

When Harry didn’t continue, Snape prodded, “You thought what, Potter?”

“I didn’t think you’d want me here. I mean, this arrangement is just temporary, until Dumbledore finds someplace else to put me.”

Snape scowled. “You are not a pawn, Potter. I will not allow the headmaster to shuffle you around to suit his needs. Nor treat you like a lost dog in need of foster family. You need a stable environment.”

Harry stared at his potions master, stunned. Since when did Snape care one way or the other what happened to him?

“Okay,” Harry replied, feeling as if the earth had just shifted beneath his feet. It was one thing for Snape to make that obvious statement, it was another thing altogether for Snape to offer his home as the stable environment.

Harry scratched the back of his neck. He didn’t know what to think about living with Snape long term. The last few days had been an emotional maelstrom, and though tonight had been tolerable, even comfortable in some respects, Harry didn’t know if they could truly be in one another’s company for more than a couple of hours, much less days, without everything falling to pieces.

“You needn’t decide anything this instant,” Snape said, interrupting Harry’s train of thought. “There is something else I had in mind for this evening, though I am not sure of the wisdom of this endeavour.”

Intrigued, Potter watched as Snape produced a tiny box, which he enlarged with a wave of his wand. A battered and dusty shoebox appeared. Carefully, Snape pulled off the lid to reveal an untidy stack of letters and cards. An envelope on the top of the pile was address to Petunia Dursley, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. Confused, Harry looked up at Snape. “What are these?”

“Letters,” Snape replied. “From your mother.”

 

Harry stared in stunned silence at the shoe box filled with envelopes of various sizes and colours, all addressed to his aunt in an elegant, looping script.

“May I?” he asked.

“Of course,” Snape said, nodding.

Harry reached out and took the pink envelope that lay on top. As he slid the card out, he saw Snape reach for the next missive in the box. 

 

 

Dear Tuney,

I just finished my first week at Hogwarts. We took the train to a village up north and then we took boats across a lake and arrived at this huge castle! They brought us inside and then sorted us into one of four houses. I’m in Gryffindor. Severus is in a different house called Slytherin. We sit according to our houses and eat at these really long tables where food appears out of nowhere! There is more food than I’ve ever seen before in one place, and all different kinds too. I wish you were here with me to see it. Being a witch is so much fun! It’s only the first week, but I’ve made lots of new friends. The classes are really interesting even if we have a lot of homework. I can’t wait to tell you more about it over winter break.

I’m sorry that Severus and I read your letter from Dumbledore. You were right. It was yours and we shouldn’t have. I know you don’t like Severus, but his life is really hard and he has trouble making friends. I think he’s just jealous of you. I keep telling him that he doesn’t need to be. You’ll always be my sister, just like he’ll always be my friend.   

Please write back soon.

Love,

Lily

 

 

Harry stared in awe at the letter. It had been his mother’s first week at Hogwarts. Considering she’d been raised a Muggle just like he was, he knew exactly how she felt when she stepped into Hogwarts for the first time. He smiled in remembrance at the awestruck feeling of seeing the gigantic castle, of stepping inside and looking around in wonder, of walking its enchanted halls and navigating the moving staircases, of the sorting hat’s song, of the amazing spread of food at the welcoming feast.

Snape made a noise of disgust and Harry looked up to see Snape pushing the letter he was reading aside. Snape promptly reached into the box for another, and pulled out a folded sheet from the middle of the stack. Spreading it out before him, Snape bent his head to read. Harry’s hand shook as he set aside the card he’d been reading, a crooked grin still on his face, and reached into the box for another. 

 

 

Petunia,

Happy Birthday. I hope you like the sweater I made you. A girl in my class taught me how to knit, and I know that peach is your favourite colour.

I wish you’d write to me. I know you are still angry with me for the prank that Severus and I played on you this past summer, but that was two months ago and it was just a joke. You know I’d never really do something like that. You’d been so serious all summer. Really, Tuney, I thought it would make you laugh. Granted Severus might have gone a little too far with the fake blood and all, but you have to admit, it was funny.

Anyway, all of the 5th years have a test coming up to prepare us for our really big exams at the end of the school year so I need to study. Please write back.

Lily

 

 

Harry looked up to ask Snape what prank they had played, but the wizard’s eyes looked glassy and unfocused. His hands were clenched on the parchment and they trembled slightly. Feeling like he’d interrupted the man in the midst of something personal, Harry set his letter aside and made a mental note to ask Snape about it later. He was about to reach for another letter when Snape abruptly pushed back from the table.

Harry watched as the potions masters rummaged through cabinets, finally returning with a tumbler and a bottle of firewhiskey. From the looks of the dust that covered both, Harry guessed the wizard didn’t drink very often. As Snape polished and then filled the glass, Harry noticed the first letter that Snape had set aside. Surreptitiously, he reached for it, curious about what had made Snape so unhappy. 

 

 

Tuney,

Severus and I had a fight today. We’ve been fighting a lot lately, but not like this. He said something unforgiveable today. I know you think he has a mean streak and that I’m blind not to see it, but I know Severus. Or at least I thought I did. You always get mad when I defend him, but I know what his home life is like and I always thought that maybe somehow I could make up for how his father treats him. Plus, he doesn’t have it easy here at school. Kids from the other houses pick on him because he’s in Slytherin, and he’s poor, and his father is a Muggle. I’ve tried to be understanding, but I don’t know anymore. He seems so angry all the time. And he’s started hanging out with some really bad kids from his house. He doesn’t see the negative influence they are having on him. I’ve tried to talk to him about it but he won’t listen. Please don’t say you told me so. Severus was my first real friend and I care about him deeply, but I can’t support what he and his friends are doing. I just don’t think I can hang out with him anymore.

I hope you are having a better week than I am. Write soon.

Lily

 

 

Harry slid the letter back to where Snape had left it, feeling shaken. He wondered what Snape had said to his mother. Could it have been the time he’d seen in the Penseive where Snape had called her a Mudblood? And the bad Slytherin kids she had mentioned, could they have been the start of Voldemort’s followers? Or were they just bullies? Harry looked up to see Snape immersed in another letter, a look of fierce concentration on his face. Harry didn’t dare ask what had happened; he wasn’t sure he really wanted to know. A little more leery this time, he reached into the box and pulled out a card with a picture of a stork on the front. 

 

 

Petunia,

I wanted to share the news with you. James and I are expecting a baby! We are so excited. We’d only just begun to try and I conceived right away. I’d have told you sooner, but with mom and dad travelling, I had a hard time finding your new address. Congratulations on the buying a house in Surrey by the way.

I know you’ve never forgiven me for marrying a wizard, but James is a really great guy and I’m sure you’d like him. I understand why you didn’t come to the wedding, but you are my sister, and soon you are going to be an aunt. I am hoping we can let bygones be bygones. We are family after all.

Anyway, back to the baby. I’m 30 weeks pregnant now and I feel great! I was a little sick in the beginning, and tired too, but that’s all passed. Only six weeks left to go! The World Quidditch Cup is approaching and James wants to paint the Chudley Cannon’s mascot on my watermelon of a stomach, but I won’t let him. I said he had to let our son or daughter make his or her own choice about what team to support.

I hope you and Vernon are well. Please write and tell me how everything is going on your end.

Best wishes,

Lily

 

 

 

Harry’s heart raced at the words. His mother had been pregnant with him. And his mum and dad had been excited for his birth. Clearly Petunia had not approved of his dad, but Harry ignored that part. He didn’t have time to worry about why his mother had kept trying to have a relationship with her inflexible and prejudiced sister. Instead, he tore through the missives in the box, looking for some mention of his birth. Surely Lily would have let her sister know. And she probably would have sent pictures too.

Harry’s fingers brushed something cool and smooth. Eager with anticipation, he pulled out a photograph. It was a picture of Lily as a young girl in her Gryffindor robes. Second or third year, Harry guessed. Standing next to her was a pale and thin Slytherin boy. Harry looked closer. Was that Snape? The boy was slightly shorter than Lily. He had straight black hair and a chagrined expression on his face. Next to Lily’s rosy red cheeks, sparkling eyes, and glowing smile, the boy looked positively ill. Harry rolled his shoulders and stretched his stiff neck, uncomfortable with the knowledge that Snape’s childhood had been no better than his own. Frowning, he set the image aside, and reached back in the box.

His fingers soon grasped another photograph, and this time, he pulled out a picture with two images on it. On the left was a baby with dark hair, huge pale eyes, and pursed pink lips. Next to that was an image of a toddler with the same huge eyes, now a bright green, a mop of unruly black hair, and a mischievous grin on his face. Harry studied the pictures for a long time, wishing he could remember what it had been like to be the child of James and Lily Potter. Finally, he flipped the picture over. A handwritten note on the back read: Harry at 2 months and at almost 14 months. It’s amazing how much he’s grown! In the last two months, he’s gone from scooting between pieces of furniture to chasing the cat at top speed. He’s also talking up a storm. Sirius says that he looks like me, but I think he looks more like James. How’s Dudley? Mum and dad say he’s a real charmer. I’d love to meet him. Please send pictures. Lily

Harry turned the photo back over and studied the pictures of himself once more. His mother and father had loved him. He was sure of that. If only Voldemort hadn’t killed his parents, he’d still have a family. He’d have a home. He wouldn’t be the bloody boy who lived, he’d just be another wizard kid. Or maybe not. Perhaps Voldemort would have taken over the Wizarding World by now and neither he nor his friends would be alive. He set the picture down on the table in front of him and sighed.

Swallowing against the sudden tightness in his throat, Harry looked up to see Snape staring at him. Their eyes met for a moment in silent understanding. Harry wondered if his own expression looked as tortured and desolate as Snape’s did. Harry understood, then, that he was not the only one who could claim loss and regret at the death of his parents.

 

---

 

Over two hours later, Harry and Snape were still sitting at the table, a bottle of firewhiskey nearly empty at Snape’s elbow. Pieces of parchment in every colour of the rainbow lay spread across the kitchen table in disarray.

“And then,” Snape said, wiping tears from his eyes, “she threw her wand down and...” Snape paused to gasp for breath, “she punched him in the nose.”

Harry moaned and held his gut. It ached. Harry had never heard so many words from the normally taciturn wizard at one time. It seemed alcohol loosened the man’s tongue. Perhaps that was why he rarely drank it. Harry took a deep breath, trying to gain control. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so hard. And he’d never seen Snape smile, much less hoot with laugher. Yet here they were, Snape’s harsh barking laughter filling the room, Harry chortling alongside the older man, as Snape told of his and Lily’s many misadventures together. Lily Evans sounded like a combination of Hermione’s intelligence and cleverness, and Ginny’s self-possession and fearlessness. Harry grinned at the heady thought.

It hadn’t all been funny, though. There’d been some tense moments, and plenty of cursing. Harry had watched Snape’s usually blank face run through the gamut of emotions, from sadness to joy, astonishment to fury, regret to painful acceptance. Harry knew how Snape felt; he’d experienced the same feelings in the same short time span.

“I wish I could have known her,” Harry said.

Snape’s eyes focused and he looked straight at Harry. “She was extraordinary,” he said with reverence. “The sun shone brighter when she stood beneath it.”

Harry smiled sadly, and closed his eyes. He wanted more than anything to remember his mother’s warmth, her scent, the sound of her voice. He clutched the picture in his hands more tightly, and opened his eyes to gaze at a picture of himself with his mother and father—James and Lily—dated exactly one month before they had been savagely murdered. Harry couldn’t help stare into his own green eyes in the angelic face of his mother. Her hair was the same colour as Ginny’s and her smile was contagious. She glowed with sheer happiness and pride as she held Harry in her arms. James stood protectively alongside them, his arm around his wife, his hand on Harry’s shoulder. He looked for all the world like the proud husband and father that he was. Struck by a thought, Harry asked, “Did you ever reconcile with my father?”

Harry knew the second those words slipped from his lips it had been a mistake. He looked up in time to see Snape’s expression transform into one of scorn and contempt.

“No,” Snape said, his voice suddenly hard and brittle.

Harry bit his tongue to keep from asking any other stupid questions. He didn’t really blame Snape. He couldn’t imagine ever forgiving his cousin Dudley, or Draco Malfoy for that matter. Harry sighed with resignation. Just the mention of Snape’s childhood nemesis had fractured the fragile strands of camaraderie that had momentarily formed between them.

“The letters are yours,” Snape said abruptly. He pushed a wayward pile of correspondence toward Harry. “Thank you for letting me read them.” With that, Snape stood and left the room.

Harry stared after him, all feelings of warmth and happiness draining away to be replaced by a forlorn sense of bereavement. Shaking his head in regret, he gathered the letters which had given him a needed glimpse into his mother’s life. His father’s name caught his eye, and Harry paused, thinking. Then, he separated out all of the cards, letters, and pictures that mentioned or showed him or his dad, and stuffed them into an envelope which he placed in his back pocket. He put the rest of the missives back into the box, carefully placing the picture of a young Lily and Snape at Hogwarts on top, and left them on the table. Those years with Lily were Snape’s, and Harry didn’t want to take them away from the wizard who had already lost enough in this war. 

 

 

Harry awoke to the sound of raised voices. Or rather, one raised voice, he realized, as he picked out the tones of Snape’s deep baritone. Getting out of bed, he hesitated. It might not be safe to be seen. Quickly, Harry rummaged in his trunk for his invisibility cloak, slipped it on, and crept cautiously out of his room and down the stairs, wand in hand.

“I did what needed to be done,” Snape’s voice echoed.

“Be that as it may, Severus, at his relative’s, Harry has the protection of blood wards.”

“Had,” Snape retorted. “Those wards fell when they abandoned him on my doorstep.”

Harry peeked through the crack between the bookshelf and the wall. Snape was kneeling in front of the fireplace. The professor’s back blocked Harry’s view of the wizard with whom Snape spoke.

“Hmm...” the warbling voice replied. “How did the Dursley’s react to your visit?”

Harry paused. Was that Dumbledore speaking?

Snape snorted is disgust. “They denied everything at first. Then they blamed the boy.”

“Do I want to know what you did to them?”

Harry leaned in closer. He heard a mixture of exasperation and resignation in the other wizard’s tired but familiar voice.

“Nothing less than they deserved,” replied the potions master. “I used a reverse chronos charm in conjunction with a three-way equivalence spell.”

There was a long pause. Harry held his breath. Finally, the other man spoke. “A reflection of their treatment of Harry, then, distributed thricefold.”

Under cover of the other wizard’s voice—he was almost sure it was Dumbledore—Harry pushed the bookshelf open wider. Stepping sideways, his guess was confirmed; he could see the headmaster’s wizened old face in the greenish flames.

“And what are the conditions under which the curse will break?” Dumbledore asked.

“The curse will expire,” Snape said curtly, “after an equal amount of time has passed since they took the boy in.”

“Nearly sixteen years from now then,” Dumbledore observed.

Harry froze with realization. Snape had cursed his relatives for harming him. Snape, the man who had hated him for longer than Harry could remember, had come to his defence.

“Indeed,” Snape replied. “There is only one other way the curse will cease. If one of them feels genuine remorse, then the curse will be broken for that individual.”

Harry watched, stunned into inaction, as Dumbledore stroked his beard while perched in the flames. “And how likely is that?”

“Not very, from what I’ve seen,” Snape remarked. “The cousin is still young. I would say he has the best chance of realizing the error of his and his parents’ prejudiced ways. But that is no longer my concern.”

Harry felt the tension in the room inexplicably rise. He stepped out from beneath his invisibility cloak. It was not his wish to eavesdrop unseen. Just as he planned to announce himself, Snape’s words stilled him.

“My concern relates to what happens next to Potter. Do you truly believe I am unfit to be his guardian? Or are your objections based upon your plans for him?”

“Severus, my dear boy...”

“Do not insult me, Albus. Answer the question.”

“I do not underestimate your ability to do anything you set your mind to. I am sure you would be more than an ample guardian to Harry. However,” Dumbledore said, raising a handmade of ash to stop Snape from interrupting him, “we must consider the greater good. Potter’s role in this war cannot be underestimated. The prophesy says...”

“To hell with the prophesy!” Snape interrupted, shouting in the same tone that had awoken Harry in the first place. “You will not play Potter like some chess piece in whatever elaborate game you’ve schemed up. I won’t allow it.”

“Won’t you, Severus?” Dumbledore said in a deceptively calm voice. “You gave me your word.”

“I gave you my word to keep Lily’s son safe! And I have kept that promise since the boy set foot in Hogwarts. I will not have you...

“Severus, listen...”

“No, you listen!” Severus bellowed. “Lily appointed me his guardian, and as such...” Snape stopped mid-sentence. In the next instant, he whirled around, his eyes pinning Harry in place, his face darkening.

“Potter! Go to your room.”

Harry shook his head, his own anger flaring. “Why? So you can decide my future without me? Weren’t you the one who told me I was in control of my life? That I had a choice?”

“Potter...” Snape warned.

“You said I had to earn your trust. Well you need to earn mine, too, professor.”

Snape took a deep breath. “I am asking you to return to your room. I will come discuss this with you after the headmaster and I have finished our conversation. I assure you that no decisions will be made without your input.”

Harry hesitated. The word trust hung unspoken in the charged air between them. Could he trust Snape? Did he really have a choice? After long moments of gazing into the unyielding obsidian eyes that watched his every move, Harry nodded. Reluctantly, he turned on his heel and trudged back upstairs, shutting the bedroom door behind him before flopping down on the bed to wait for Snape.

 

---

 

Snape’s spine crawled with apprehension as he climbed the steps to Potter’s room. Of course the boy would be angry, but that was the least of his concerns. He was walking a tight rope between remaining in Dumbledore’s good graces and protecting Lily’s son. He’d made promises to both, and for the first time, those promises had become incompatible.

“Potter,” Snape said as he first knocked on, and then opened, the bedroom door.

The boy watched him closely. He looked both sullen and expectant.

Snape swung a lank of hair from his face and stepped farther into the room. He pulled the chair out from the desk, turned it around, and straddled it. Gazing at the boy, he said, “It seems we have a problem.”

“When don’t we,” Potter muttered.

Snape almost smiled but restrained himself. “The headmaster does not believe my residence is a fit place for you to stay.”

Potter looked up, his eyes shadowed with distrust and suspicion. Sighing while avoiding Snape’s gaze, he said, “So, I have to go back then. To the Dursleys.”

“No.”

“No?” Potter said, looking up.

“No. I gave you my word that you would not be returning there; blood wards or no blood wards. We will make other arrangements.” Potter stared at him with such a desire to believe what he was saying that Snape had to look away. With his gaze focused elsewhere, he said, “Where do you wish to spend the rest of your summer?”

“At the Burrow,” the boy responded without hesitation.

“And if that cannot be arranged?”

“Why can’t it be?” Potter demanded.

Snape looked back at the determined teen who seemed ready to fight for his rights.

“Calm yourself, Potter,” Snape said, “I merely said if it could not be arranged.”

“Oh,” Potter said, thinking. “Well, er, where does Lupin live?”

“Lupin is a werewolf, Potter. He is hardly fit to look after you.”

From Potter’s expression, Snape could see that the boy wanted to argue the point about needing to be looked after.

Snape quirked an eyebrow. “You are an underage wizard. You also happen to have a large price on your head. Did you think we’d let you wander London on your own until classes begin?”

Potter looked away, unhappy with his circumstances.

“In any case,” Snape continued, “Werewolf Lupin lives at Grimmauld place when he is not otherwise... afflicted.”

Potter grimaced. Snape suspected it was too soon after his godfather’s death for the boy to want anything to do with that place.

“What about the Granger’s?” Potter asked.

“As in Hermione Granger?” Snape inquired incredulously.

“Well,” Harry said, “I know they are Muggles, but it’s the last place the Death Eaters would look. They think I am being well guarded by Wizards. They wouldn’t think to look in the Muggle world.” Potter paused, looking expectantly at Snape.

Snape scratched his chin absentmindedly. “I must admit, the idea does have some merit.”

Potter remained still and watchful, waiting, Snape supposed, for the rug to be pulled out from under him.

“Regarding your removal, Potter, I must confess that I do not like it. However, the headmaster has a valid point. If the Dark Lord ever discovered that you and I had a...” Snape hesitated—relationship was too strong of a word, “an association with one another...”

“We’d both be dead,” Potter said.

“Correct,” Snape returned. “It seems we have another problem as well. We believe that the Dark Lord suspects that you are no longer residing with your relatives.”

“And what does that mean?” Potter inquired.

“It means the Dark Lord will be looking for you. I will lay a false trail, of course, but we need to be on our guard all the same.”

Potter nodded. Seeming to accept the inevitable, he asked: “When will you know where the headmaster will send me?”

Snape looked sharply at Potter. “It is not entirely his decision. I am your guardian and he cannot overrule me. He can only try to persuade me that his way of thinking is superior to my own.”

Potter pulled his knees up to his chest and stared over his linked hands at Snape. “Where do you think I should stay?”

“Right where you are,” Snape replied. “You attract trouble like Veelas attract Wizards.” Snape paused, studying the sceptical expression on the boy’s face. “However, if I cannot keep my eye on you here, I would prefer someplace that kept you in line.”

“The Weasleys?” Potter asked hopefully.

“While I have no doubt that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley are more than willing to take you in, Potter, the Weasley children’s penchant for rule breaking predisposes me to find them an unsuitable arrangement at present.”

 Clearly disappointed, Potter looked away.

“I believe,” Snape said in a more subdued voice, “that Miss Granger would have an adequate appreciation for the problem at hand. I sense that she would also temper your impulsiveness and invite you to think about the consequences of your actions before you act.”

At Potter’s frown, Snape knew he was correct in his assumptions.

“Very well, then,” Snape said, getting to his feet. “If you are amenable to spending the rest of the summer with the Grangers, I will work with the headmaster to obtain their agreement and construct the appropriate wards.”

“Sir?” Potter said.

Snape paused, standing beside the chair, his hand resting on the top of it as he had been about to push it back under the desk.

“Thank you for not making me go back to the Dursleys.”

Snape nodded. Seeing that Potter had something else on his mind, he waited.

“May I ask, what sort of curse did you place on them?”

Snape sighed. He had a feeling this would come up sooner or later. Sitting back down on the chair, he inquired, “How much of my conversation with the headmaster did you overhear?”

“Not enough to understand what you did, sir.”

That was a very Slytherin response, Snape thought. He cleared his throat. “The curse was designed to make the Dursleys experience every injustice they forced you to endure, starting from yesterday afternoon and extending back in time—or forward in time from their perspective—until the day they took you in.”

Potter stared at him, stunned incomprehension on his face. Finally, he stammered, “What does that mean?”

“It means that if your uncle broke your nose, he will feel the blow and suffer the damage. If you knew it was coming, he’d feel the fear you felt prior to being attacked. If your aunt didn’t feed you, no matter how much food she puts on her plate, it will disappear, and she will suffer your every hunger pain. If your cousin humiliated or taunted you, he will experience the same.”

Potter looked gobsmacked.

Snape didn’t bother to add that if his aunt made Potter go hungry, the ‘thricefold’ quality of the spell would ensure that the entire family went without food for as long as Harry did. From the looks of it, Vernon and Dudley Dursley could afford to lose some weight, but that was hardly the point. Injustices did not happen in a vacuum. Everyone in the family knew how the Potter boy was treated, and they either chose to ignore it, or they actively participated in it. Now they would suffer the consequences of each other’s actions on the boy as well.

“So, er,” Harry faltered. “They will experience their treatment of me for the next sixteen years?”

“Do you think that is unfair?” Snape inquired silkily.

“Well, it’s just... that’s a long time.”

“No longer than you had to endure,” Snape said.

“Wow,” Potter said, still looking shocked. “So, is there any way they can break the spell?”

“Only if they show true remorse,” Snape replied, repeating what he’d said earlier that day. “Do you think that’s likely?”

Potter shook his head as if to try and snap himself back to reality. “I don’t know. They’ll probably end up blaming me and hating me even more.”

“That’s one possible outcome,” Snape allowed. “There are others.” Getting to his feet, Snape pushed the chair back under the desk. “Only time will tell,” he said, leaving the boy to contemplate the implications of the curse Snape had placed on the Dursleys.

 

 

Harry sat at the desk in the room he’d started to think of as his own, staring out over the front walk. Snape had left a few hours earlier to speak with the Grangers and had instructed Harry to pack his belongings. So far, he’d managed to clean out his trunk, discarding broken quills, spare bits of parchment, empty ink bottles, candy wrappers, stale owl treats, old socks, and whatnot else he no longer needed. Then, he’d neatly repacked his books and his too small robes which he planned to donate to the Hogwarts Lost and Found for other students who might need them like he once had. He’d have to get fitted for new robes when he went to Diagon Alley to get his school books for the coming year.

Harry ran his finger along the grime on the window pane, leaving a streak behind. He’d only been at Snape’s house for seven days, and yet so much had changed in that short time. He was fed three healthy meals a day—and he didn’t even have to cook them. He was allowed to take showers with hot water and no time limit. He had clothes that fit. He had a roof over his head and he was not constantly being reminded of what a burden or a freak he was. Sighing, he took off his glasses and exhaled moist air onto the lenses, then rubbed them with his T-shirt to clean them.

“Here, give them to me.”

Harry turned, startled. He’d been waiting for Snape to return, but hadn’t heard him come up the stairs. “What?”

“Your glasses, hand them to me.”

Perplexed, Harry handed them over.

With a flick of his wand, Snape muttered, “Occulus evanesco continuum.” Handing them back, Snape said, “That will keep them clean from now on.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, sliding them back onto his face.

“And why, might I ask, aren’t you finished packing?”

Harry swallowed. To avoid answering, he said defensively, “Why, are you kicking me out?”

Snape raised an eyebrow. “I see you’ve stowed your books and your robes...” Snape paused, an odd expression crossing his face. “Do your robes still fit?”

“Er,” Harry stammered.

“Potter,” Snape snapped, “I can hardly ensure that you have appropriate clothing if you do not inform me when you are in need.”

“My parents left me money,” Harry said in defence.

“That money is your inheritance. It is not meant to be used for daily expenses.”

Harry fidgeted with a quill, reflecting that no one else had ever paid for his daily expenses before. He barely caught Snape’s utterance of “foolish child.”

“I will contact Mr. Maclain, my tailor, and have him send new school robes to you at the Grangers.”

“You don’t have to do that, sir,” Harry mumbled, not meeting Snape’s eyes.

“Actually, I do,” Snape replied, crossing his arms over his chest as if daring Harry to debate him on this point.

“Er, ok, thanks,” Harry said, rolling the quill between his fingers. Apprehensively, he looked up at the older wizard. “So, they agreed then? The Grangers?”

“Of course,” Snape said as if that were a foregone conclusion.

Harry wondered how the Grangers had actually responded. He watched as Snape looked around the room, suspicion growing in his expression.

“Why have you not packed your clothes?”

Harry felt his cheeks heat and bit his lower lip.

Snape sighed. “Potter, I told you the clothes were yours, all of them. I insist that you take them with you.”

“I thought I might leave some here,” Harry said, trying not to sound presumptuous. Why this suddenly mattered to him, he wasn’t sure.

“Did you?” Snape seemed to consider this for a moment. “If it is that important to you, then I shall have Mr. Maclain send additional clothing for you to keep here.”

“No,” Harry replied quickly. “That won’t be necessary. You’ve gotten me plenty of clothes already. I can bring them back here with me if... if I need them.”

“Potter,” Snape said looking at him steadily. “Need I remind you that it was not my idea for you to leave?”

“No, it was Dumbledore’s,” Harry muttered darkly.

“Indeed. And while I admit that I was... caught unaware... when you first arrived, I have accepted your mother’s choice.” Snape uncrossed his arms and reached out to straighten the coverlet that lay over the single bed. “In other words, Potter, this is now your... home... if you wish it, and as such, you are welcome to stay here any time that it is deemed safe for you to do so.”

“Oh, okay,” Harry said, feeling relieved that he hadn’t misread the situation. It was odd how the one place in the world he’d have least wanted to come was suddenly one of the few places he felt safe.

“Now finish packing and then you can help me with dinner.”

 

---

 

Late that evening, Harry sat perched atop the desk in his room, knees drawn up to his chest, huddled against the cool window. The house was quiet; he was sure Snape was asleep. Harry drew circles on the grimy pane, adding to the line he’d made earlier, while he counted the minutes to midnight. He sighed knowing that no owls would knock on his window at 12:01am this year. Even Hedwig had not been able to find him here. He felt a mixture of disappointment at that thought and self-recrimination that it mattered so much. His relatives hadn’t celebrated his birthday in 15 years; why should his 16th birthday be any different? Surely Snape didn’t even know it was his birthday, or would be in 20 more minutes anyway.

Shaking his head at himself, Harry hopped off the desk and changed into his pyjamas. He crawled beneath the covers of his bed and stared at the moonlit ceiling. Fifteen more minutes and he’d be one year closer to being a legal adult in the Wizarding World. Ten minutes. Five. Feeling maudlin, he waited as the clock downstairs chimed twelve times. With each stroke, his hope was extinguished just a little bit more. Finally, there was silence.

“Happy birthday,” he whispered to himself, swallowing against the lump of bitter disappointment in his throat. He swiped at his eyes in anger. Why the hell did it matter if anyone remembered anyway? What Harry had been hoping for, he wasn’t sure. But the silence that marked this birthday, as it had many birthdays before, hurt as much as it always had. Harry punched his pillow and tried to will himself to sleep. July 31st was just another day after all.

 

 

Harry awoke to the sun streaming in through his window, its rays much higher up on the walls than normal. Confused, he looked at the clock. It was nearly 9:30am. Startled, he jumped out of bed. Snape always woke him at 7am for breakfast. He changed quickly into black trousers and a white button down shirt which were at the top of his trunk. Then, he threw open his door and rushed downstairs, buttoning and tucking as he went.

He skidded into the kitchen and froze. There, at the table, sat Snape, reading the Daily Prophet. A pile of parcels sat at his elbow. And on his shoulder was...

“Hedwig!”

Hedwig blinked deliberately in affirmation, ruffled her feathers, and flew to her master. She landed gracefully on Harry’s outstretched arm.

“She arrived last night shortly after midnight,” Snape said, brushing off his shoulder where Hedwig had been perched. “She made quite a racket until I dropped the wards enough for her to get through.”

Harry smiled, stroking Hedwig with undisguised pleasure.

“And then,” Snape continued, “three more owls flew in along with her. It seems they were quite intent on delivering these,” he said, gesturing to the parcels.

Harry studied the mound of packages on the table, dumbfounded. “For me?”

“I do not see anyone else in this room that has a birthday today.”

“Oh,” Harry said as he continued to pet his beloved owl.

“Eat your breakfast first, and then you may open your gifts.”

Harry scanned the table and noticed a plate of eggs, bacon, and toast with jam. Snape must have put a warming charm on the food since steam was rising in characteristic swirls from the plate. Suddenly, he felt ravenous. Harry sat down at the table and coaxed Hedwig to perch on the back of the chair next to his. “Have you eaten, sir?”

Snape raised a sardonic brow. “Hours ago, Potter.”

“Oh. You could have woken me.”

“Indeed, I could have,” Snape said, shaking the Daily Prophet out for a better view and burying his nose in it while Harry ate his breakfast.

 

---

 

Snape stole glances at the boy as he ate. By the way Potter was inhaling his food, Snape could have sworn that the child had never gotten presents before. On second thought, perhaps he hadn’t. That thought left a bitter taste in the potion masters mouth.

“Potter,” Snape said. “Do try and chew before you swallow.”

Snape nearly laughed at Potter’s caught-in-the-act expression. The boy slowed his pace, but only barely. Snape rolled his eyes and returned his attention to the paper. The mention of mounting Death Eater activity was disturbing. The fact that the death eaters were being caught was a mark of their carelessness and stupidity.

The next time Snape looked up, Potter had finished his breakfast and was staring longingly at his gifts.

“Go ahead then,” Snape growled.

Potter hesitated, unsure of where to start. Finally, they boy settled on a small package wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with twine. Fascinated despite himself, Snape watched as the boy tore into his gifts. Potter received a set of collector’s cards of famous Quidditch players from Weasley, a pair of spectrespecs and an accompanying Quibbler from Lovegood, a curious carnivorous plant from the Longbottom boy, and a book on The 101 Most Useful Defensive Spells by Delaney Dogooder from Granger. That left a large wicker hamper.

Potter reached for it and slid it aside. “I, ah,” Potter stuttered. “I know what this is. There’s no need to open it right now.”

“Potter,” Snape intoned suspiciously. “Need I worry about its contents?”

Potter shook his head and sighed, shoving the hamper in Snape’s direction.

Snape was tempted to take out his wand and check for curses, but resisted the urge. Instead, he opened the lid, astonished to find an array of food—meat pies and breads, fruits and jellies, desserts and puddings. “What is all of this?” he asked sharply.

“Mrs. Weasley,” Potter muttered. “She, er, sends me food. Every summer.”

Snape studied Potter closely. “How long has this been going on?”

Potter grimaced. “Ever since Ron and his brothers rescued me from the Dursleys the summer I was twelve. Mrs. Weasley realized that the Dursleys weren’t...” Potter trailed off. He cleared his throat. “Well...,” he continued, “she said I was too skinny.”

Snape felt his nostrils flare as anger rose within him. He balled his fists and clenched his teeth to keep from exploding. No wonder the child was so short and thin. Those damned Muggles had starved the boy! The only thing that had him relaxing slightly was the knowledge that the Dursleys would soon be as hungry and desperate for food as Potter must have been. It would serve them right. Breathing deeply, Snape said only, “I see.”

Potter made a non-committal noise.

“I see,” Snape repeated, a bit louder, “that we won’t be going hungry any time soon. I presume Mrs. Weasley is a superb cook?”

“The best,” Potter replied, breathing a sigh of relief.

“Good,” Snape replied. “I was growing rather tired of kitchen duties. It will be a welcome reprieve. Now, I believe you have one more gift to attend to?”

Potter looked confused as he studied the table now littered with the trappings of the gifts he had opened. With a wave of Snape’s wand, a large package wrapped in dark green paper with tiny twinkling stars appeared.

Potter met Snape’s eyes with surprise. At Snape’s nod, Potter reached for the gift. Snape had directed the merchant to leave off the shimmering silver bow, not wanting to overdo it, and was glad that he had. This was uncomfortable enough without making an even larger deal out of a simple birthday gift.

Snape suppressed the urge to pick up the Daily Prophet and pretend not to notice or care about the boy’s reaction to his gift. He was entirely uncomfortable with the unwelcome anxious feeling that had taken up residence in his midsection. It was Miss Granger who had reminded him of Potter’s birthday, and Snape had made a quick detour on his way back to Spinner’s End the day before to pick up something for the irksome lad. Now he sat watching the teen, feeling tense and ill at ease.

Without saying a word, Potter began removing the paper from the box. The boy had gone from giddy excitement at the prospect of his friend’s gifts to cautious reserve in light of Snape’s offering. Potter glanced up in question only once, before slowly extracting the box from its wrappings and lifting the lid. Unconsciously, Snape held his breath.

For a few moments, Potter stared at the contents in complete incomprehension. Then his face lit up like the sun obliterating the night. “Wow,” he murmured as he pulled out a thick black winter travelling cloak made of the finest, and warmest, boiujon fox fur. Reverently, he stood, wrapping the cloak securely around himself. “I’ve never had a travelling cloak before,” Potter said admiringly. “I’ve never had any winter clothes, come to think of it.”

Snape would have commented on that disturbing statement, but Potter hadn’t seemed to notice what he’d said. Instead the boy continued to gaze in awe at the cloak, running his fingers along the soft warm fur on the outside, and the warm velvet lining on the inside.

Finally, Potter directed his attention back to the box. “Are these dragon hide gloves?” the boy asked as he reached into the box and pulled out a pair of thick gloves that shimmered purple, green, and pale gold in the subdued light of the kitchen.

Snape nodded. A slow kindling of warmth and pride seeped through him. He’d never understood all the hoopla around gift giving before, but Potter was giving him a new appreciation of the practice. Funny how a skinny, deprived kid who’d he once thought was a spoiled rotten brat had changed his attitude.

Potter studied his dragon-hide hands as if they belonged to someone else. “These had to be really expensive.”

Snape was mildly offended, but one look at the boy’s face told him it wasn’t an insult. The boy was merely stunned at his good fortune.

“There are matching boots as well,” Snape commented

Potter glanced into the recesses of the box and then looked at Snape as if the man had lost his mind. Then the boy shrugged and dug into the box. He pulled out the dragon hide boots and slid them over his sock clad feet. Potter’s eyes widened with pleasure. A moment later, though, his lips compressed into a frown.

“Too small?” Snape inquired.

“No, it’s just... They feel...” Harry looked up, worried. “Odd.”

Snape snorted. “Let me guess. You aren’t used to wearing heeled boots.”

Potter looked at the footwear, and then back at Snape. “Everyone in the Order wears boots like these, don’t they?”

“Indeed,” Snape replied. “The boots worn by the Order have a homing device in them. If an Order member is seriously injured or in danger, he or she need only click his or her heels together three times to be transported directly to Order Headquarters.”

 Potter’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Like in the Wizard of Oz? You’ve got to be kidding!”

“The headmaster has an odd sense of humour,” Snape replied dryly.

Potter stared at Snape for a moment, and then burst out laughing. He wiggled a boot-clad foot and murmured, “Kansas, here I come.”

Snape rolled his eyes.

Sobering, Potter asked, “Will these boots work like that for me too?”

“Yes, Potter. Should you find yourself in trouble—as you too often do it seems—you can click your heels together to be transported to Order Headquarters. Now,” Snape said, pointing his wand at the boots and casting a nonverbal sizing charm on them, “take three steps forward and four steps backward.”

Potter did as he was told. The boy’s gait was awkward as he shifted his weight from heel to toe, and side to side, to find his balance. When Potter stopped after the last backward step, the dragon hide glowed silvery green, shivered slightly, and then settled into place.

“Wow,” Potter repeated, gazing at the boots. Then he held out his hands and studied the gloves and cloak as well. “These are amazing,” Potter breathed. “Thank you, sir,” he said sincerely, his eyes meeting Snape’s. “You didn’t have to do this. To get me anything, I mean. I don’t... well... I don’t deserve it. I haven’t made your life easy.”

“I haven’t made your life easy, either, Mr. Potter,” Snape replied. He didn’t mention the years of misconceptions and prejudice that he suddenly felt the need to make up for.

“No,” Potter agreed. “I guess that means we’re even.”

Snape made a reluctant sound of agreement.

Potter flexed his gloved hands again and clicked the heels of his dragon hide boots together. “Wait until I show Ron and Hermione these!”

“Okay, Dorothy,” Snape uttered as he shook out the Daily Prophet once again. He nearly cracked a smile at Potter’s bowled over expression. 

 

 

“Headmaster,” Snape said, nodding as the regal wizard stepped out of the fireplace.

“Severus,” Dumbledore purred in response as he brushed off his long violet robes. “I trust you and Harry are both well?”

“Indeed,” Snape said through pursed lips. He had still not reconciled himself to this unnecessary relocation.

“Ah, Harry,” Dumbledore said with a warm smile as Potter entered the room, dragging his trunk behind him. “I see that you are packed.” Dumbledore pulled out a pocket watch and checked the time. “The Grangers are expecting you in 15 minutes.”

Snape watched as Potter glanced around the small sitting room.

“Looking for something, Potter?” Snape asked in his characteristic scornful tone.

“No, sir,” Potter replied quickly, schooling both his features and his gaze.

“Well, then, Harry,” chimed in Dumbledore, “I can escort you—“

“There is no need, Headmaster,” Snape interrupted. “I am more than capable of delivering Mr. Potter to the agreed upon location.”

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow and surveyed his potions professor, meeting the man’s steely gaze. “Very well,” he sighed. “I will leave you to it, then, Severus. Please give my warmest regards to Miss Granger and her parents.”

Snape nodded once before turning his back on his employer in favour of his ward. “Potter, do you have everything you need?”

“Yes, sir.”

“There is an apparition point one-quarter of a mile from here,” Snape said as he walked toward the rear of the house. He paused at the back door and spoke to Harry, who had followed him without complaint. “Hold out your hand.”

Potter looked momentarily puzzled but complied.

With a flick of his wand, Snape cast a non-verbal shrinking spell on Potter’s trunk. The miniaturized version landed efficiently on Potter’s open palm. “Do not lose it,” Snape said, leading the way out the door as Potter stuffed his now tiny trunk into the pocket of his jeans. “Remind me to resize it for you when we arrive.”

 

---

 

Harry walked quickly alongside Snape in an effort to keep up with the man’s long, purposeful strides. Snape walked as if the hounds of hell were at his heels. Dread tingled up Harry’s spine. Had Snape’s true allegiance been discovered, or even suspected? Would Death Eaters, or the Dark Lord himself, be waiting for them? Harry shuddered at the thought and nearly knocked into Snape when the wizard stopped abruptly.

Snape steadied him with a firm grip on Harry’s upper arm. “Retrieve your invisibility cloak and put it on.”

Harry did so, leaving his head uncovered.

“In a moment, we will be stepping beyond the bounds of my property. When we do so, the wards will fall. We will apparate immediately.” Snape paused and seemed to consider something. “Have you ever experienced side-along apparition before?”

Harry shook his head.

“Are you prone to motion sickness?” Snape inquired.

Harry pondered this. He used to be able to spin on the merry-go-round for hours, but no more. As long as he was in control of the motion—such as when he swooped and dove on his broomstick—he was fine. But put him in the backseat of a car on windy roads, or let him swing on a park swing one too many times, and he was doomed. “Yes,” Harry finally answered.

Snape rolled his eyes. “Of course you are. Can anything be easy with you, Potter?”

Harry felt a wave of irritation, but for once, Snape’s face was not marked with derision at Harry’s shortcomings. Instead the older wizard seemed only mildly chagrined.

 “Very well,” Snape sighed. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. I will leave the choice up to you.”

“Sir?” Harry asked, confused.

“In order for side-along apparition to be successful, both persons must maintain physical contact. The more physical contact they achieve, the less the discomfort for the witch or wizard being transported.”

Harry bit his lip. “What sort of discomfort?”

“In short, you will feel as if you are being sucked through a small tube while your insides are being turned inside out. I would be surprised if you managed not to get sick on the other end.”

Harry swallowed. “Is that the hard way or the easy way?”

“Neither. That is reality. However, the greater the physical contact between us, the more I can shield you from the uncomfortable sensations.”

“How?”

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose in what Harry suspected was impatience. “One does tend to develop a tolerance after a while. Now, what will it be, Potter? Physical discomfort before or after?”

“Er,” Harry stammered, clearly not understanding what Snape was referring to. He had the feeling that Snape didn’t much want to explain the situation either.

“Typical side-along apparition between... acquaintances... involves the person being transported to hold tightly to the apparating witch or wizard’s arm.”

“And for others?” Harry prompted.

“For close friends and family members, a tight embrace allows the witch or wizard to transport their loved ones in a much more comfortable manner.”

“In other words,” Harry said, grimacing, “I can do an impression of an octopus now, or puke all over the Grangers’ front doorstep when I arrive.”

“Precisely.”

Harry was about to say he’d take his chances with being sick when Snape’s words came back to him: Trust, Potter. It’s all about trust. You need to trust someone. Harry closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “All right. Let’s try the easy way. The octopus way.”

Snape nodded once. “You will cover yourself entirely with your cloak and grasp my arm tightly. Then we will exit through the back gate. If I sense any sort of danger or attack, I will apparate us immediately to safety. If not…”

“How likely is an attack?” Harry interrupted, his pulse quickening.

“If not,” Snape continued forcefully, ignoring Harry’s question, “then you may move into my arms and grasp me tightly around the middle. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Snape looked sharply at Harry. “Whatever happens, Potter, hold on.”

Harry nodded. Snape suddenly reminded him of Mad-Eye Moody, the words constant vigilance echoing in his head.

Harry slipped the invisibility cloak over his head and reached for Snape. He grasped Snape’s right forearm firmly, feeling a solid mass of muscle ripple beneath his touch. Together, they strode through the back gate, Harry walking in step beside Snape such that a casual observer would not notice anything amiss.

The moment they stepped beyond the wards, Harry’s ears buzzed and his eyes stung. Harry felt Snape on full alert next to him. Heart hammering painfully in his chest, Harry tightened his grip on Snape’s arm. He ached to reach for his wand, but Snape’s instructions had been clear: Whatever happens, Potter, hold on. 

 

 

His body tense, Harry waited for an attack as he stood outside Snape’s wards, holding onto the older wizard for dear life. A warm breeze stirred his invisibility cloak while Snape stood rigid beside him. Harry saw a squirrel run up a tree while birdsong echoed all around them. Slowly he relaxed, realizing that an ambush was not imminent. The muscles beneath his tight grip, however, were just as taut. Clearly Snape was not one to let down his guard.

Snape mustn’t have sensed any immediate threat either, though, because he opened his arms wide. Harry stepped inside of them, wrapping his arms loosely around Snape’s middle.

“Closer,” Snape growled.

Harry felt Snape’s arms snake around him and compress Harry’s body tightly to his own. Harry instinctively tried to pull away, but all of the air was being squeezed out of his lungs. He wanted to tell Snape to loosen his grip, but everything was whipping by and the world was spinning. He closed his eyes and buried his head against Snape’s chest. The scent of clean linen and potions ingredients filled his nostrils. He tried to focus on the steady beat of the other man’s heart and the solidness of the wizard he held onto in this indeterminate and unstable place.

When Harry’s feet touched ground, he stumbled, remaining upright only by the grace of Snape’s fingers digging into his upper arms to steady him. He felt his invisibility cloak slip off his head.

“You can open your eyes now,” Snape’s said, his voice sounding far away. “And please do try and refrain from vomiting on my boots.”

Potter sniggered at the thought and worked to regain his sense of equilibrium. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. He looked up in time to see Snape’s raised brow at his choice of words. “Sorry, sir,” he said quickly.

“By Merlin there is a first time for everything,” Snape uttered sardonically.

“Excuse me?” Harry asked.

“A Potter apologizing to a Snape.”

Before Harry could argue the point, Snape had strode away. Harry jogged to catch up. The weight and bounce of his feet pounding the pavement helped to ground him. For the first time, he noticed that they’d apparated into some sort of alley between two commercial buildings. “How far to the Grangers?” he asked when he caught up to Snape.

“About a mile,” Snape replied.

As they approached the exit of the alley, Snape stepped into the shadows behind a large dumpster overflowing with paper products. “A word, Potter,” he remarked, beckoning Harry to follow.

Harry waited as Snape fumbled for something in an inner pocket. A couple of cars whizzed by on the street beyond, but no pedestrians could be seen or heard. When Snape finally removed his hand from inside his jacket, it was fisted around something. Harry met the calculating gaze of his guardian without flinching. He wondered what Snape was about.

Snape’s nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply, as if to steady himself for some unpleasant task. “This,” he said, holding out his hand, “was your mother’s.”

Instinctively, Harry reached out, holding an open hand beneath Snape’s clenched one.

Slowly, Snape’s fingers unfurled and a golden chain rained down onto Harry’s palm. An oval-shaped gold pendant came to rest atop the coiled chain. Harry picked up the pendant and studied it. “It’s the Gryffindor crest,” Harry murmured, sliding the cool metal oval back and forth between his fingers. “My parents...”

“Were in Gryffindor, yes,” Snape finished for him, rubbing irritably at the centre of his chest.

“Where did you get it?” Harry asked, enchanted by the knowledge that his mother Lily Evans had worn this.

“Your mother left it in my possession.”

As Harry caressed the smooth metal, he looked up and saw the deepening frown lines between Snape’s brows.

“It is meant to be worn, Potter, not idly played with,” the older wizard said crossly.

Chastised, Harry pulled the long chain over his head and dropped the pendant and chain beneath his shirt. The pendant hung to a point just below his sternum. Meeting Snape’s gaze, Harry noticed that the man’s features had relaxed into their usual impassive expression.

“Thank you,” Harry said, humbled by Snape’s gesture.

Snape nodded once. “It was always meant to go to you,” Snape remarked as he stepped out from the shadows and headed for the street.

Harry stood rooted to the spot, thinking over what Snape’s statement meant, when Snape’s voice drifted back to him: “Put your invisibility cloak on, Potter, and get a move on.”

 

---

 

“Harry!” Hermione shrieked.

Harry had just pulled off his invisibility cloak and didn’t have time to brace himself before Hermione threw herself at him in greeting. Snape caught Harry by the upper arm as Harry took a faltering step backward to counterbalance Hermione’s overenthusiastic embrace. He nearly stumbled again when he backed into his trunk which Snape had returned to its original size.

“Miss Granger,” Snape scolded, “Control yourself.”

Hermione pulled back immediately, looking abashed but still smiling.

Mr. and Mrs. Granger stepped forward, heartily shaking Snape’s hand and then turning to Harry and introducing themselves.

“We are delighted to have you here, Harry,” Mrs. Granger said. “Won’t you both please come inside?” she asked, gesturing to both Snape and Harry.

“I appreciate the invitation,” Snape said, “but I must be on my way.”

Harry watched the exchange with fascination. Hermione, he noted, was equally entranced.

“Really, dear, I must insist,” Mrs. Granger replied. “You’ve been so kind to us and we have a birthday cake for Harry and tea. Do take a moment and join us, won’t you?”

Snape hesitated, though Harry thought it was only to spare Mrs. Granger’s feelings.

“I am honoured by your offer, ma’am,” Snape replied, “but I am afraid I must decline.” Snape made a show of pulling out an ornate silver pocket watch that Harry had never seen before and checking the time. “Unfortunately I am expected elsewhere at present.”

Mr. Granger put his hand on his wife’s shoulder. “You are welcome here any time, Dr. Snape. And thank you again for all you have done for my family.”

Harry darted a look at Hermione. “Doctor Snape?” he mouthed to her.

Hermione shrugged and returned her attention to the conversation at hand.

“It is I to thank you for opening your home to Mr. Potter,” Snape replied.

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Granger said. “It is no trouble at all. We’ve heard so much about Harry. It will be a pleasure to have him with us for the remainder of the summer.”

Snape nodded and turned his gaze to Harry. “I will send Hedwig to you this evening. If you need anything, send her with a message. I will key my wards to let her through.”

Harry nodded.

“I will return in a fortnight to take you and Miss Granger to Diagon Alley to purchase your school supplies. Your new school robes should have arrived by then.”

“Thanks,” Harry said.

Snape turned his attention back to the Grangers. “Once again, you have my gratitude,” he said. “Should you have any questions or need any assistance, please do not hesitate to contact me.”

As they said their good-byes, Harry found the charm of his mother’s necklace through his T-shirt and fidgeted with it. He looked up to see Snape frowning at him and promptly dropped his hand.

As Snape took his leave, Hermione led Harry into the house.

“He seems quite reserved,” Mrs. Granger lamented. “I wish he would have stayed for cake and tea.”

Harry snorted. “Can you imagine Snape singing Happy Birthday to me?”

“No, I can’t,” Hermione said, giggling. Suddenly, she sobered. “Then again, Snape has been full of surprises lately.”

Harry looked over at her serious expression and wondered what she meant. Before he could ask her, though, he found himself being herded into the dining room where a large birthday cake sat in the middle of an antique maple dining table. The cake was covered in white frosting and decorated with gold stars and brightly coloured candles. Written in a decorative script, it read: Happy 16th Birthday Harry.

“Wow,” Harry murmured, “I’ve never had a real birthday cake before.” Harry was so enamoured with the cake that he missed the concerned glance that passed between Mr. and Mrs. Granger, as well as the sad but knowing nod that Hermione gave her parents.

Hermione touched Harry lightly on the shoulder. “Should we light the candles?”

“Yeah,” Harry said wistfully. He wished Snape were here to see this. Then he froze. Did he really just think that? Shrugging, he ignored that train of thought and focused on counting the birthday candles as Hermione lit them—all sixteen of them.

“Happy birthday to you...” Hermione started singing. Her parents promptly joined in. Two light female voices balanced by a deeper male tenor filled the room. Harry felt his cheeks warm at the attention.

“Happy birthday dear Harry...” Hermione sang, bumping her shoulder against his in emphasis, “Happy birthday to you.”

Harry shuffled his feet. “Thanks,” he muttered.

 “Make a wish,” Hermione invited.

As the candles flickered, Harry glanced at his best friend, who stood beaming beside him, and then at Mr. and Mrs. Granger, who stood arm in arm across the table, smiling and nodding encouragement at him.

“Go ahead, son,” Mr. Granger said.

Closing his eyes, Harry thought: I wish for a home as welcome and loving as the Grangers or the Weasleys.

Then he opened his eyes and blew out the candles.

 

 

“That is my room,” Hermione said pointing to the open door at the end of the hall, “my parents room is here,” she said, pointing to the next room, “then the bathroom,” she continued, gesturing to the open door at the top of the stairs, “and then the guest room, which will be yours.” Together they walked to the end of the hall where the guest room was located.

Harry stopped in the doorway, taking in the average-sized bedroom with a double bed, pale blue walls, and two white trimmed windows which let in the late afternoon sunlight and a refreshing cross breeze.

“What’s wrong?” Hermione asked.

“Nothing,” Harry replied, stepping into the room. He might miss Ron’s rambunctious, fun-loving family, but this serene, peaceful home had a charm all its own. Then he noticed the Gryffindor banner that Hermione had hung over the bed’s headboard for him. He turned to her and smiled. “It’s perfect.”

As Harry unpacked his clothes, Hermione sat on the bed and chatted about her summer. Finally, she asked the question that Harry had suspected she’d been leading up to all afternoon.

“Harry, what happened this summer?” At Harry’s frozen expression, Hermione stammered on. “I mean, I’m really glad you’re here, but it was quite unexpected. Yesterday, Professor Dumbledore and Professor Snape showed up on our doorstep and had a private conversation with my parents. I don’t know what they said exactly, but then my parents said that you’d be coming to stay with us for the rest of the summer. Professor Dumbledore left, but Professor Snape stayed.”

“Snape stayed?” Harry asked. “What for?”

“Well, he placed a bunch of protective spells and enchantments around our property. I’d already done that, of course, but he knows a lot more than I do.”

“Wait,” Harry said as her words sunk in. “You put wards around your home?” At Hermione’s nod, Harry said, “But what about the restriction for underage magic?”

“Well, I petitioned the Ministry for special permission to place defensive spells around my house at the beginning of summer. Now that Voldemort is out in the open, and as he has a history of hunting Muggleborns, and I’m known to be...”

“A friend of mine,” Harry finished for her when her words had trailed off. She gave him an apologetic look.

 Looking at her feet, Hermione said, “I suspect Professor Dumbledore had something to do with it. I got an owl the next day with permission.” She glanced up tentatively at Harry. “Anyway, as I was saying, the odd thing about Professor Snape was that when I went outside to see if I could help, I expected him to make some derisive comment about how inadequate my wards were.”

When she didn’t immediately continue, Harry prompted, “And did he?”

“No,” she said thoughtfully. “That was what was strange. He actually complimented me on my spell work. And then he explained the spells that he was adding to mine. He even let me help with some of the simpler ones.”

“Huh,” Harry replied. “I guess he’s... different... outside of school.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked.

Harry hesitated, not sure where to start. “It’s a long story, but the Dursleys found a will that my mother had written before she died. In it, she assigned guardianship of me to... well...” Harry swallowed, “to Snape.”

Hermione’s eyes widened in shock, her mouth opening in an “oh”.

“Yeah,” Harry confirmed. “Scary, isn’t it? Well, they packed me up and dropped me on Snape’s doorstep. Neither of us knew what had happened until Snape read the will. And the Dursleys were long gone by then.”

“Oh Merlin,” Hermione breathed. “I bet that didn’t go over well.”

“No, not at first,” Harry said. He thought about all he and Snape had been through. There’d be time later to explain if he felt like it. “We were stuck together for a week before I came here.”

“Wow.”

To avoid the storm of questions that he knew Hermione wanted to ask, Harry changed the subject. “Why did your dad call him ‘Dr. Snape’?”

“Oh,” Hermione said, brightening. “When Professor Snape arrived yesterday, he handed my parents a Muggle business card. I guess he did it to put them more at ease. My parents showed it to me after he left. The card listed his name and his advanced degrees. Being a Potions Masters in the Wizarding world is equivalent to earning a doctorate degree in the Muggle world.”

As Harry digested that statement, Hermione added, “He’s won several awards too. I didn’t realize how well known he was for his potions skills outside of Hogwarts.”

Harry nodded absently. The more he learned about Snape, the more he realized what an enigma the man was. As his mind wandered, he remembered something he wanted to show Hermione.

“Look,” Harry said, fishing inside of his shirt for the necklace. “Snape gave this to me right before we got here. It was my mother’s.” Harry held out the Gryffindor amulet, rubbing the raised emblem with his thumb.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Hermione said, taking it in her hand and examining it. “It’s really beautiful.”

“Yeah,” Harry murmured.

Finally, Hermione handed it back to him and Harry found himself worrying the oval charm between his thumb and fingers as he told Hermione more about the last week. It was a relief to tell someone about the confusing time he had spent with Snape. Aside from the battle of wills, he’d felt protected and cared for when he was with the taciturn older wizard. Hermione listened attentively. Periodically, she would interject her thoughts. Her logical conclusions seemed to put everything into perspective and Harry felt better about Snape after hearing her clearly reasoned reassurances.

Mrs. Granger’s voice echoed up the stairs, interrupting their conversation. “Time for dinner!”

“It’s really great to have you here,” Hermione said as she slid off the bed and lead the way downstairs.

“Yeah, it is,” Harry said, tucking the necklace back inside his shirt.

 

---

 

Hedwig arrived, as promised, that evening. Harry got her settled in her cage and gave her a few owl treats which she promptly devoured. Then she tucked her head under her wing and went to sleep.

“Sometimes I wish I had an owl too,” Hermione said as she sat on Harry’s bed and stroked Crookshanks who was curled up in her lap. “Not that I don’t love you,” she cooed to the furry ginger cat as she scratched him behind the ears.

Harry said nothing, only reflected on the fact that Hedwig had been his first real birthday present, given to him by Hagrid.

“She’s so beautiful and regal and intelligent. Plus it would be nice to have easy access to owl post over the summer. As it is, I have to go all the way to Paddington to find a post owl. Well, there are probably some closer if I knew where to look, but...”

Harry listened with only half an ear as Hermione rambled on. He was content to be here with one of his best friends. He was unconsciously stroking the pendant on his mother’s necklace and thinking about his summer, when suddenly the amulet began vibrating. He started violently, his eyes going wide.

“What is it?” Hermione gasped, jumping to her feet. Crookshanks hissed at being unceremoniously dumped onto the floor and sauntered out of the room. “Harry?”

Harry pulled the pendant out from beneath his shirt and studied it closely. “It just started vibrating,” he said.

Suddenly, Hermione looked scared. “You don’t think it’s cursed or anything, do you?”

“No,” Harry said. “If it was, Snape would have...”

“Look!” Hermione exclaimed. “There’s writing on the back.”

Harry flipped the charm over. Glowing green letters taunted him with their presence. Harry squinted at the tiny, spiky writing.

Wear it. Don’t play with it.

Hermione leaned over his shoulder and read the inscription. “What does it mean?” she asked.

‘It is meant to be worn, Potter, not idly played with’ echoed in his mind. Harry’s eyes flitted to Hermione’s in stunned realization. “It’s Snape.”

Hermione looked startled. Then she said, “Try writing back.”

“How?”

“Too bad there aren’t any quills in this room,” Hermione said, and then thought for a minute. “Here,” she said, popping an amethyst earring out of the piercing in one of her ear lobes and handing it to Harry.

Confused, Harry accepted the tiny object. “Now what?”

“Try and write with it. I’m guessing you need only some sort of sharp object and the intention of conveying a message.”

Harry stared at the spiky letters, unsure if he should write over them or not. He took his thumb and rubbed at the amulet, amazed when the letters vanished.

“Okay, what to write,” he mumbled. Grasping the earring by the jewel at the end, he used the sharp point of the stud to trace his letters: Snape? Is that you?

Although no marks appeared on the metal when Harry wrote, the letters appeared as a bright red light, shimmering on the surface. Harry and Hermione exchanged a surprised glance. They were both staring hard at the back of the charm when Harry’s letters disappeared and a new set of glowing green ones appeared in a spiky script.

No, it’s the tooth fairy.

Harry chortled. Then he wrote: More like the Grinch.

Hermione looked shocked at Harry’s impertinence. “Harry, you really shouldn’t...”

Touché. Now stop fondling the damned thing.

Harry stared in bewilderment at the message. Then he wiped the slate clean with his thumb and wrote: Why? What happens when I touch it?

Instead of a response, he felt the pendant glow warm in his fingers. Amazed, he looked at Hermione. “He has one too.”

“One what?” Hermione asked.

“A necklace, just like this one. Except his is probably Slytherin instead of Gryffindor.”

“You mean it’s a communication tool?”

“Yeah, like the coins you made for the DA. The necklaces must have been charmed to pass messages back and forth between Snape and...Snape and...” Harry paused, swallowing, “...and my mother.”

Harry released the charm, letting it fall back against his T-shirt. He turned away from Hermione, staring out into the darkness beyond the window.

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione said, coming to stand beside him, her shoulder gently brushing his in silent support.

“It’s not fair. Snape knew her, he got to spend time with her, even share this secret form of communication with her,” Harry said in anger, flicking the pendant with a snap of his index finger, “and I can’t even remember her.”

“No, it’s not fair,” Hermione agreed. “Nothing about your life has been fair, Harry.”

Harry snorted in wry acknowledgement of that statement.

“But, Harry, Snape can remember your mother. And I think he gave you that necklace to help keep you safe.”

“How so?”

“Well, if you get into trouble, you can send him a message and ask for help. Let him know where you are,” Hermione reasoned.

“Yeah, a lot of good that would have done me since he never told me how to actually use the damn thing,” Harry snapped.

“Maybe he didn’t need to. You’ve already figured it out and you’ve had it less than a day.”

Harry grunted and continued to gaze out the window, knowing that once again, Hermione was right.

After a long pause, Hermione gently suggested, “Perhaps you should write back.”

Harry made a noncommittal noise but reached for the pendant. Using the point of Hermione’s earring he wrote: Got it. Don’t bother you.

“Harry...” Hermione chided, “I don’t think that’s what he meant.”

Harry gritted his teeth. He was too angry to give credence to Hermione’s reasoning at the moment.

Enough melodramatics. I am here if you need me.

Harry made a dismissive gesture.

Hermione put her hand on his shoulder. Gently, she said, “He’s doing the best he can. Give him a chance.”

Harry had the urge to deny Hermione’s words, but he knew they were true. He rolled his shoulders in an effort to relax his tight muscles. The conversations he’d had with Snape came back to him unbidden. Snape had done more for him than any other adult ever had, save his parents. The least the taciturn wizard deserved from Harry was a chance. Slowly, Harry picked up the pendant and wrote: Trust. I’m working on it.

Good. And Potter?

What? Harry scratched out.

Happy Birthday.

 

~FIN~

 

LILY'S LAST WISH - THE SEQUEL - CHAPTER 1

(This is a preview of the first chapter of the sequel. I posted it here for followers of this story so that they'd be notified that the sequel has been posted. Please look for the sequel, posted separately).

---

It was a warm, mid-August day when Snape apparated to the alleyway he used when visiting the Grangers. He had left Potter there two weeks ago, against his better judgement but on Dumbledore’s orders. It still chaffed. As he made his way up the walk to the Grangers home, he checked the wards. They were still holding strong. Just as he was about to raise his hand to knock, the front door was flung open.

“Professor, please come in.”

“Miss Granger,” Snape said with a curt nod, stepping inside.

The young witch ushered him into the sitting room.

“Hello, Professor,” Potter said, getting up from his seat.

“Potter,” Snape replied. The boy walked up to him and stood awkwardly before him. Snape felt suddenly ill at ease. Was the boy expecting a hug? He shivered to think it. Yet a handshake seemed equally out of place. To cover the uneasy moment, he placed a hand briefly on Potter’s shoulder. “You are looking well,” Snape said.

“Thanks,” Potter replied, a look of relief crossing the boy’s face. “And thanks again for the robes.”

“They fit, then?” Snape inquired.

“Brilliantly,” Potter said with a smile.

“Want to have a seat, Professor?” Miss Granger asked.

“No thank you, we need to be going.”

“Dr. Snape,” Mrs. Granger said as she entered the room. “It’s a pleasure to see you,” she said, offering her hand.

Snape shook it. “The pleasure is all mine.” Gesturing at Potter, he said, “I hope he hasn’t been any trouble?”

Mrs. Granger waved his concern away. “None at all,” she said. “Harry is a lovely house guest. Now, can I get you something to drink? A lemonade or iced tea perhaps?”

“I appreciate your offer, but we must be on our way. I would like to have them back to you before dinner,” Snape responded.

“Of course,” Mrs. Granger demurred. “Would you like me to accompany you?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Snape said. “I am sure you have much to do, and if not, you have certainly earned a well-deserved break from these two,” Snape said, indicating his two students who stood, identical innocent expressions on their faces.

Mrs. Granger laughed. “They really are no trouble. It’s nice to have them here for the summer.” Smiling, she added, “Well, I best leave you to it then.” Turning to Potter and her daughter, she added, “Have fun getting your school supplies.”

After she’d left the room, Snape turned to face the two teenagers. “There are some preparations we need to make.” He removed two bottles of potion from inside his robes.

“Polyjuice?” Hermione asked.

“Indeed,” Snape replied, handing a bottle to each. He removed a cloth satchel from his robes and handed it to Potter. “You may wish to change in the loo, Potter.”

“Will I need to change as well?” Granger asked.

Snape looked at her Muggle clothing and said: “You should be fine.” Then he glanced back at Potter pointedly. Potter was wearing jeans and a button down shirt, and was clearly unsure as to why he needed to change. Shrugging he made his way to the restroom.

The door closed behind Potter, and Snape gazed out the window.

“Shall I drink this now?” Granger asked.

Snape nodded as Granger forced down the potion. He observed clinically as her features changed and she stood before him with short dark hair and even darker eyes, her complexion more olive, a touch of acne on her skin. She was about 2 inches shorter and only slightly heavier, so her clothes still fit well enough.

Just then, they heard a curse and a moan.

“Professor?” Granger asked, concern bright in her newly dark eyes.

Snape bit his tongue in an effort to keep a straight face. Then he cleared his throat. When Potter stepped out of the bathroom, he had to turn away to prevent himself from bursting out laughing.

“Ohhhh,” Granger breathed.

Potter stood, his face rigid.

Granger bit her lip.

Snape turned, an eyebrow raised.

Indignantly, Potter said, his hands on his now curvy hips, “I can’t believe you gave me knockers!”

“Well,” Granger said, tilting her head, trying not laugh, “you do make a very… umm… attractive… girl.” And then she giggled.

Harry started cursing, trying to adjust his unwieldy large breasts. “I have a new appreciation for girls and bras,” he muttered.

Snape sniggered.

“Is this really necessary?” Potter asked, his voice high and feminine.

“I believe it is,” Snape replied. “You two are sisters. Pure blood. Regina and Charlotte Norgrass. From Devonshire. You live with an elderly aunt who is unable to accompany you.”

Potter groaned. He pushed his shoulder-length long, dark hair from his face, and then looked at Snape. “Why would you ever want to keep your hair long like this? It’s so annoying!”

Snape only smirked. “Are you ready?”

Potter pulled on the legs of his pants, trying to lower them and muttered something about girl bits. “I am so glad I’m not female,” he muttered.

“Too bad Ron isn’t here to see this,” Granger commented as she laughed.

Potter groaned again. “I’m glad he’s not. I’d never hear the end of it.”

“Are you two witches ready?” Snape asked.

Potter glared at him, and Snape chortled. “Rest assured that no one will recognize you, Potter. You did say that was what you wanted, did you not?”

Potter made a derisive sound. “You could have made me an unrecognizable wizard,” he complained.

“I could have,” Snape agreed, opening the front door to usher the students out. “But it wouldn’t have been nearly as enjoyable.”

---

Diagon Alley was busy as usual with many students and their parents shopping for the upcoming school year. Snape found Hermione invaluable in her ability to keep Potter on task and make sure that he got all of his supplies. It made his life much easier.

Snape had spent the last hour supervising as they purchased books, potions supplies, owl treats, candy, and whatever else they felt they needed. Nearly at the end of his patience, he’d agreed to one last stop for ice cream before they made their way back.

“Charlie,” Granger simpered, the shortened version of Charlotte that Potter had agreed to, most likely because it sounded a bit manly. “You must try the strawberry crème ice cream. It is simply divine.”

Potter rolled his dark eyes. “Fine, Regina, I will,” he bit out.

“Now girls,” Snape intoned. “Play nice.”

Granger smiled while Potter looked annoyed. Snape was quite amused at how Granger had slid into character. She seemed to be enjoying herself. Potter seemed a bit miserable as he kept trying to adjust his clothing about his new body parts, but overall he seemed to be managing.

As they neared Fortescue’s Ice Cream parlor, Snape leaned over to whisper in Potter’s ear: “At least people aren’t staring at you.”

Potter grunted and Snape’s lips twitched. He imagined Potter would get him back for this someday.

They ordered and took a seat at an outside table with a colorful umbrella overtop to provide shade. Potter and Granger had large ice cream cones, while Snape had merely ordered a glass of ice water. Snape sat back in his chair, stretching his legs, as the two teens chatted easily. He’d been on high alert since they’d arrived, but nothing had seemed amiss so far. He watched the street in both directions nonetheless.

“Snape,” a cold voice said from behind him.

Snape stilled and sat up straighter. A dagger of fear ran through him. Pulling his features into a stony mask, he got to his feet. “Yaxley,” he greeted, looking the wizard over.

“I’m surprised to see you here, Snape,” Yaxley said, glancing appreciatively at the two young witches accompanying him. “And with youngin’s no less,” Yaxley said snidely.

Snape took Yaxley’s arm and led him a few steps away.

“Fine day to be shopping,” Yaxley continued. “I didn’t fancy you ferrying others’ children about.” Yaxley scoffed. “Unless they are yours?”

“Certainly not,” Snape retorted. “Orphans,” Snape said coldly.

“In Slytherin?” Yaxley asked, suspicion clear in his tone.

“Of course,” Snape said. “Did you expect me to shuttle around brats from other houses during my summer vacation?”

Yaxley studied him, pushing at his Occlumency shields. Snape quickly slipped in a few images of him picking up the children from a countryside manor, an elderly woman shooing the children out. Another image showed the two girls each purchasing new Slytherin robes.

“What happened to their parents?” Yaxley asked, pulling out of Snape’s mind and clearly presuming that Snape hadn’t noticed the intrusion.

“The mother had an affair,” Snape spat. “The father took matters into his own hands. Killed her lover in front of her. Then killed her for good measure,” Snape said, as if he relished such slayings. “Offed himself when the Aurors arrived.”

“Pure bloods?” Yaxley asked.

“Of course,” Snape replied.

Yaxley shook his head. “Shame.”

Snape made a non-committal noise that could be taken for assent.

Yaxley looked speculatively over at the two girls. “Orphans, you say?”

Snape suppressed a growl. “I must be getting them back,” he said through gritted teeth. He knew Yaxley’s predilection for young witches.

“You are a very busy man, Snape, what with the potions you need to brew, both for the Dark Lord and that excuse of a school.” Yaxley puffed out his chest. “I’d be happy to escort them home for you, save you the trouble.”

Snape glanced back at the table where the two teens sat rigidly, their ice cream cones dripping forgotten onto the glass tabletop.

“That is quite all right, Yaxley. I am more than capable…”

“I wasn’t questioning your abilities, Snape. I was offering my services,” Yaxley said, practically purring, as he leered at the polyjuiced teens.

“I know what you were offering, Yaxley,” Snape spat. “But they are Slytherins, and as their head of house it is my responsibility.”

Yaxley waved such concerns away. “No one would be the wiser,” Yaxley said conspiratorially.

“No,” Snape ground out.

“Ahh…” Yaxley said with a nod. “Saving them for yourself, eh?”

“Something like that,” Snape spat. Snape pulled out his pocket watch, squinted at it, and said, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to be getting them back.”

Yaxley gave a bitter laugh. “If you change your mind…”

“I won’t,” Snape said. He brushed past Yaxley to his two students. “It is time to go,” he said, his voice brooking no arguments.

The two stood, and one look at Snape’s face had them ditching their ice cream cones and grabbing their shopping bags.

Knowing that Yaxley was still watching, Snape grabbed their arms roughly and apparated them away. They came out in a back alley in London.

“Professor?” Granger asked.

“Be quiet,” Snape snapped. He had to think. Would Yaxley suspect? Would he check up on Snape? Would he try and follow to gain access to the girls? Snape cursed, grabbed their arms again, and apparated them away.

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~GO TO THE SEQUEL, "LILY'S LAST WISH", TO READ THE REST OF THIS STORY~