It was still dark when they left the castle. Snape had conjured a ball of bright blue light to float before them and illuminate the path down to the forest. Its halo slid over rocks and roots, occasionally scaring a mouse or lizard which would dart into the tall grass and disappear. From time to time, a dark shadow soared past above, hooting softly; it was time for the school owls to finish their nightly hunt and return to the castle.

On getting up, Snape had discovered to his dismay that Harry was very much a morning person. He had been up and about at four thirty and had breakfast ready on the table. Snape wanted to snap at him for rummaging around in the kitchen, but was too tired to do more than grunt and snag himself a cup of admittedly well-brewed coffee. Fortunately, Harry was a person of few words even in the morning, and they ate mostly in silence. If the boy had filled his ears with constant chatter, Snape might have been tempted to hit him with a well-placed Silencing Charm. Unlike his charge, he was very much not a morning person.

Harry had insisted on carrying the equipment bag, which he’d slung proudly over his shoulder. Snape carried a small backpack, magically enhanced so it could hold about a ton of potions ingredients. When Harry had seen it, he must have realized that Snape never had to make several trips between the castle and the forest, but Snape found he didn’t care much if the boy saw through his little subterfuge. It must have been quite obvious to a Slytherin, anyway.

As they passed by Hagrid’s hut, a joyful bark sounded in the darkness. A second later, Fang came bounding towards them, beginning to sniff Harry’s face. The boy scrunched his nose at the cold wetness of the boarhound’s nose, and tried to push him away.

“Don’t, Fang!”

“Down,” Snape ordered, and the dog obeyed immediately. “Fang usually accompanies me on my harvesting trips,” he said to Harry. “Hagrid insists on it.”

He did, in fact, not mind having the dog along. Some of the forest’s nastier inhabitants might actually be kept away by the dog’s formidable, if slightly dopey presence.

Fang fell into pace next to Harry, who kept a hand on the dog’s back. Snape noticed that Fang’s shoulders almost reached up to the boy’s chin. Harry was indeed very small for his age.

As they reached the edge of the forest, Snape paused and turned to the boy. The coffee of earlier had kicked in, and he felt awake enough to string more than two sentences together without snarling.

“You will recall what I said in the common room on your first evening,” he said. “The forest is a very dangerous place. By entering it, we’re trespassing on land that belongs to a number of magical creatures, some of which will not hesitate to kill. It is crucial that you follow my every order in there, and do not stray out of sight. Do I have your word on that?”

Harry nodded earnestly. “Yes sir.”

Snape nodded and glanced at the dog. “Stay close to Fang.”

The boarhound shuffled closer to Harry, pushing his large head under the boy’s arm as if seeking protection from him, not the other way around. Snape sighed. Had Fang ever been Sorted, he would certainly not have been considered for Gryffindor. Or Slytherin, come to think of it. The mutt had Hufflepuff written all over him.

The first pale sunrays shone through the underbrush, immersing the forest in a strange twilight. Snape followed a narrow path deeper into the woods, directing the Bluefire to float near the ground so Harry wouldn’t trip over hidden roots. The boy had become even quieter than usual, observing his surroundings closely. Good, Snape thought approvingly. In a place like the Dark Forest, foolhardy Gryffindor tendencies like paying inattention and blundering into a hostile creature’s lair could get you killed.

They’d been walking for about ten minutes when Snape stopped at a large oak tree. Its gnarled roots formed a shallow wooden nest on the ground, hidden from view under a patch of fern. Snape pointed it out to the boy.

“Herbologists call a formation like this Moke’s Cradle. Mokes are magical lizards that dwell in dark and hidden places. Their eggs are…”

He raised an eyebrow at the boy.

“Used in Shrinking Solutions,” Harry finished dutifully, and Snape nodded, satisfied. They’d covered the subject in Potions a week ago.

“Among other Dimensional Draughts. The moke that lives in this particular cradle usually leaves a few eggs for me to take.”

Harry looked surprised. “Why?”

“Mokes are very fecund creatures,” Snape replied, and at the boy’s confused look elaborated: “They lay as many as twenty eggs in four weeks, but not all of them are fertilized. Not all of them will produce baby lizards,” he added when Harry frowned. “The moke usually eats the unfertilized eggs, but this one has decided to trade for them, instead.”

He nodded at the equipment bag the boy was carrying. “Hand me the paper bag that’s in the outside pocket.”

Harry obeyed, watching with wide eyes as Snape unwrapped a large slab of chocolate. “The lizard likes chocolate?”

“Very much so,” Snape said. “It will only accept Honeyduke’s, though. The one time I tried to give it a brand I’d purchased in Diagon Alley it nipped my fingers the next time I came by.”

He broke off two sizable pieces, then looked at the boy. “You may take out the eggs, but be careful about it. Slip your hand under them, but don’t close your fingers around them. Moke eggs are very fragile.”

Snape watched Harry kneel down and carefully reach under the ferns. The boy was a portrait of concentration, his lip caught between his teeth as he felt for his prize. Then a rare smile appeared on his face. “I’ve got them.”

Sure enough, when the boy pulled his hand back, three grape-sized eggs were nestled in his palm, none of them sporting so much as a crack.

Snape took them, pleased to see that the eggs were a vibrant turquoise color, which meant that they’d been laid less than twenty-four hours ago. Fresh moke eggs were hard to come by. He took out a small padded container and placed the eggs inside, adding a Stasis Spell and an Unbreakable Charm. “Now we give our payment.”

He let Harry place the pieces of chocolate in the moke’s cradle, then got up again. “Remember, a Potions Master never plunders or raids. Magical creatures must give their belongings willingly, or the potion will be rendered useless.”

He didn’t mention that a number of Dark Potions required ingredients that had been forcibly taken from their owners. An apprentice as young as Harry should come to know the pure, nonviolent art of draughtsmaking before he was introduced to the darker brands of the trade.

Apprentice. Somehow the word had slipped into his thoughts. Snape shook his head and continued walking, leading the way deeper into the woods. In the meantime, the nightly fog had cleared from the ground. The morning sun shone through the canopy of leaves, painting patches of light on the mossy ground. From the corner of his eye, Snape saw Harry jump from one such patch to another, trying not to touch the ground in between. Fang yelped in delight, clumsily following Harry in his game. It was one of the first displays of truly childlike behavior Snape had seen from the boy. Usually, Harry’s demeanor was tense and quietly mature, as if he’d put away all childish things a long time ago.

Another fifteen minute’s walk later, they came across a clearing. In its center, a willow tree stooped over a small forest pond, its long branches drifting in the stagnant water. Rushes and reed surrounded the pond like a barrier. Snape took out his wand and drew an elaborate symbol in fiery script. The flame sign hovered in the air for a moment before it disappeared as if someone had blown out a candle. Snape nodded at Harry who’d been watching him, one hand on Fang’s back.

“We’ve been given permission to enter,” he said. “This clearing belongs to a tribe of water pixies. If we invaded their territory without asking, we’d be… punished.”

“Punished how?” Harry wanted to know, still standing at the edge of the clearing.

“Most likely they’d hex us with an unpleasant fungus in places not mentioned in polite company,” Snape said, smirking when the boy’s eyes widened. “As we’ve paid our respects, however, there is nothing to worry about.”

Still somewhat unsure, Harry took a careful step onto the grass that surrounded the pond. When no Fungus Hex hit him out of the blue, he became more confident, following Snape to a patch of dry earth next to the willow tree. A ring of mushrooms enclosed the dry patch, growing in an irregular circle. Fang kept a safe distance to the ring, whining nervously. Harry glanced at the mushrooms and up at his teacher.

“A pixie ring,” Snape explained. “Muggles also call it fairy ring, believing it to be a door to the land of Faerie, but that is mere superstition. Formations like these are found close to pixie dwelling places, and if a wizard or witch steps into the ring, they become prisoners of the pixies.”

“What do they do to prisoners?”

“It depends,” Snape said. “Some pixie tribes would simply torment the witch or wizard for a few hours. Others would cast a Shrinking Spell, take the shrunken person to their home and keep them as a slave.”

The boy digested this for a few seconds. “Do they hate wizards?”

Snape thought about his answer. “Some, perhaps. Others merely fear us.”

“Why?”

Snape looked at the boy. “For good reason. Wizards have always regarded the magical world as their domain, to be mastered and exploited. Only fifty years ago, there was no law to keep wizards from hunting pixies and using them as potions ingredients, as bait or as amusing toys for their children. Pixies are sentient beings. They feel as keenly as any human does, but wizards refuse to recognize this. Even now, pixies and other sentient magical beings are captured just to show them to students in school.”

Harry looked down at the pixie ring. “But they don’t mind us coming here?”

“Not if we follow their rules. And of course, we’re going to recompense for everything we take.” He pointed at the equipment bag Harry was carrying. “Hand me the small silver knife that’s in the leather casing.”

When Harry had given him the requested tool, Snape knelt at the outer edge of the pixie ring and began to cut off the tiny mushrooms growing just beyond the ring. “Mushrooms from a pixie ring are valuable potions ingredients. And as long as we do not take those that make up the ring itself, the pixies’ protection remains undisturbed.”

Harry took the mushrooms Snape gave him and placed them in the container Snape had indicated. “Do we give them chocolate as payment, too?”

“No. Pixies have little use for human food. When we leave, I will reinforce the protective enchantments around the clearing. They keep other wizards and creatures away.”

“Can’t the pixies do it themselves?”

“They can cast their own enchantments, but a wizard’s magic offers additional protection. This should suffice,” he added, handing Harry the last mushroom. “Never take too much of anything you’re gathering,” he told the boy. “Most magical creatures abhor greed, and will find ways of keeping their belongings out of your reach in the future.”

Harry nodded solemnly. When they left the clearing, Fang in tow, he watched carefully as Snape cast several protective charms, mouthing the words after Snape had spoken them. He behaved, Snape thought, as any good apprentice should: watching the master at work, asking intelligent questions, memorizing spells and helping in any way he could. And wouldn’t Albus have a field day if he could read his Potions Master’s mind just now. It would doubtlessly inspire another of the Headmaster’s machinating schemes, which always seemed to work out in the end even if the victim was perfectly aware they were being manipulated. And Harry… Snape glanced down at the boy who walked next to him, looking ridiculously proud just because he’d been allowed to carry an old equipment bag. Who had talked more during the last few hours than he usually did in an entire week. Talked to him, Snape. The snarky, bad-tempered head of Hogwarts’ shunned House.

Yes, Albus would be delighted.

There was a patch of belladonna shrubs close to the clearing, and Snape decided to make a detour to see if the berries were ripe yet. No sense in lingering over these thoughts; not when there was work to do.

“Harry,” he said, and the boy materialized at his side, so quickly, so… eager. Snape wasn’t used to such enthusiasm in his students.

“I don’t suppose you can tell me the name of the plant you see before you?” he asked, sneering if only out of habit. How did one ask a student questions without sneering? Not that he felt it necessary to change his teaching methods. Any… yes, damn it, any apprentice of his had better be able to handle a little pressure.

“Belladonna,” Harry said, not reacting to the snide tone at all. “Or Deadly Nightshade. Its berries and leaves are poisonous.”

“Its uses?”

“The berries are used in Dreamless Sleep Potions and potions for… for witches who need them every month.” The boy seemed embarrassed to mention this particular fact, scuffing his trainers on the forest floor. “And the leaves are used in Insect Repellent Solutions.”

“How is the toxin neutralized for human consumption?”

Harry hesitated, biting his lip. “Salamander – salamander blood?”

“Is that a question or an answer?”

“Salamander blood,” Harry said more firmly, and Snape nodded.

“Well, I’m glad some of my students pay attention in class. Five points to Slytherin.”

The boy smiled hesitantly, and Snape pointed at the equipment bag. “There are two pairs of gloves in the inside pocket, as well as containers. The berries go in the glass jar, the leaves in the box. Do not mix them, and do not pull out any of the plants.”

Snape watched Harry from the corner of his eye as he collected the berries and leaves. The boy plucked off the plump black berries one at a time, carefully dropping them into the glass jar before he began to remove the leaves from the plant. There was none of the careless ripping and tearing Snape would have expected from a child his age, nor any squashing of berries to see the juice drip out. Harry was doing… a good job. Yes. No harm in admitting in the privacy of his own thoughts.

They had worked their way through several of the plants when Fang, who’d been sniffing the bushes close by, let out a loud yelp. Snape glanced up. The boarhound came trotting over, tail between his legs. Looking closer, Snape saw a trickle of blood on the dog’s muzzle.

“Fang’s hurt!” Harry set down his jar of berries and hurried over to the dog. “Look, sir, he’s bleeding!”

“I see it,” Snape said, staring at the hazel bush Fang had been sniffing. He’d thought he’d seen… and yes. There it was. Bloody hell. “You stay here,” he said to Harry and the dog, both of whom looked at him worriedly. “I’ll take care of this.”

Wand in hand, he went over to the bush, all the while keeping an eye out for the flutter of tiny wings and the whizzing of a pebble pitched his way – which was, he didn’t doubt, what had caused Fang’s nose to bleed. About three feet away from the bush, he came to a halt. “Show yourself,” he ordered.

A malicious giggle came from the top of the bush, and there it came, a pebble aimed directly at his head. Snape blocked it with a lazy flick of his wand. “This is quite pathetic, don’t you think?”

There was no giggle this time but a flash of light, and a tiny figure appeared, sitting on the topmost branch of the hazel bush. She was no taller than a pixie, but her beauty was so breathtaking that it equalled that of a full-blooded Veela. She flicked her long, shining silver hair back, her transparent wings fluttering behind her as she jumped off the branch and hovered in mid-air.

“Hello, Snivellus,” the fairy sneered.

“Peaseblossom,” he raised an eyebrow at her. “Quite far away from your usual haunts, I see.”

“Well, some of us actually like change in their lives,” she replied, raising an eyebrow in mocking imitation. “Scavenging again, eh, Snivelly? What is it this time? Cockroaches? Owl droppings? Lizard guts for your hair potion?”

He raised a sardonic eyebrow. “I must say, you’re slipping, Peaseblossom.”

“Oh, that’s right.” She flicked her hair back and batted her eyelashes at him. “I forgot. Last time you washed your hair was around 1985, wasn’t it, Snivellus? Found time to wash your underpants in the meantime?”

“A dagger that went straight through my heart, I’m sure,” he replied dryly.

She shot up a few inches, hands on her slim hips. For a second or two, her face had lost its transfixing beauty and distorted into a furious grimace very much unlike anything found in Muggle fairytale books. Snape was not surprised to see it. He’d met his first fairy when he was still a student, and knew that the Muggles’ ridiculous ideas about these beings had nothing to do with reality.

“I heard the students talk about you, Snape,” she spat. “They said you couldn’t be a vampire, after all. Vampires don’t have beaks, do they?”

Snape narrowed his eyes at the spiteful being. He didn’t mind the jibes about his hair; it was true, it did become lank after long days of leaning over steaming cauldrons. His nose was an entirely different matter, though. Lily had always said it looked elegant on him, and never mind James bloody Potter.

He opened his mouth to tell Peaseblossom exactly what he thought of her and her vindictive kind, but he never had the chance. A small body pushed past him, and then Harry Potter was standing in front of him, as furious as Snape had ever seen the boy.

“You shut up!” he shouted, his wand out and pointing straight at Peaseblossom. “You bloody well shut up about Professor Snape! Who wants to look like a Barbie doll, anyway? Shut up or I’ll blast off those stupid wings of yours, see if I don’t!”

Peaseblossom soared back into the safety of her bush, peering out from behind a handful of leaves. “Who’s that, Snivellus? Yours? He’s ugly enough to be!”

Snape grabbed the boy’s arm, redirecting the hex Harry had shot at the fairy. “Stop this at once,” he snapped at the boy. Harry gave him a belligerent look, but lowered his wand.

Peaseblossom shrieked with laughter, coming back out from behind her leaves. “Snivellus actually found someone blind enough to carry his sprog! And what’s the ugly thing on your face, boy? Did Daddy Death Eater use you for target practice? Or give you to his friends to practice on?”

“Shut up!” Harry went for the bush, and Snape had to grab the back of his robes to hold him back. “You shut up, you – you fucker!”

This, Snape recalled from the boy’s memories, was Harry’s worst word, used only in moments of pure rage. He realized with something akin to surprise that the boy was using it now - in his, Snape’s, defence.

“Mr. Potter,” he said, and though his voice sounded sharp, he somehow managed to convey that he wasn’t truly angry. “Harry, calm down this instance.”

The boy struggled some more, but finally calmed enough for Snape to let go of his robes. Just to be safe, Snape kept a firm hand on Harry’s shoulder as he turned back to the snickering fairy.

“As for you, you will leave the boy alone.”

“Ooohh, now I’m really scared! What are you going to do, Snivelly, call me a Mudblood like you did your girlfriend when she-”

But Peaseblossom never finished her sentence. A jet of blue light had shot from Snape’s wand and blasted the fairy out of her bush and into the brambles ten feet away. For a moment or two, she was too stunned to move, then began to struggle, trying to free herself from the thorny shrubs. Snape could hear her cursing like a Knockturn Alley vendor as a particularly clingy twig ripped her moonsilk gown.

“That was brilliant, sir.”

Snape looked down at Harry, and found the boy grinning at him.

“Well.” Snape didn’t quite know what else to say. He should lecture the boy on losing his temper, but his own little stunt had rendered any such lectures quite pointless. And Harry had been defending him… whatever strange reason the boy might have had for doing so. Eventually, all he did was slip his wand back into his sleeve and nod at the boy to follow him back to the belladonna patch. “I believe we weren’t quite finished,” he said, and resumed his harvesting as if nothing had happened. Harry followed suit, although Snape saw him grinning as he glanced over his shoulder at the brambles. Peaseblossom had freed herself, but she looked rather less glamorous than before, with her gown in shreds and her hair in disarray. Snape only barely resisted the urge to cast Muffliato on Harry when the fairy let loose a torrent of swearwords before she angrily buzzed off into the woods.

Harry looked at him. “What’s a limp-wanded leprechaun buggerer?”

“A very rare magical bird,” Snape replied sharply. “Do keep your eyes on what you’re doing.”

To his relief, the boy left it at that, returning his attention to the belladonna plants before him. Snape did the same, but he kept thinking of the way Harry had pushed past him to shout at the fairy… jumping headfirst into the situation like a bloody Gryffindor. Maybe James Potter’s genes had left more of an imprint than he’d thought. Yet Harry had proved time and again that he did indeed belong into the House of Snakes… and it wasn’t as if James Potter had ever defended Snape from anyone or anything. Most of the time, he was the one causing the offense, and Lily was the one who shouted on Snape’s behalf. Just like her son. Not that Snape had ever wanted or needed either of them to come to his “rescue”. It was just what they did. What Lily did.

Dropping a last handful of berries in his jar, Snape got to his feet. Harry screwed his own container shut and took off the gloves, folding them carefully as he stowed them back in the equipment bag. Snape noticed that the boy took good care of things he was given, be it books or clothes or his potions kit.

“Where are we going next?” Harry asked, his face alight with excitement. Morning person, Snape remembered. The boy had the equipment bag slung back over his shoulder, looking the picture of enthusiasm.

“I need some Jobberknoll feathers,” Snape said. “There’s a breeding place not far from here where we might find some.”

He began to walk, and Harry fell into pace next to him, his hand resting on Fang’s back again. “What’s a Jobberknoll?”

“A magical bird,” Snape explained. “It never makes a sound until the moment of its death, and then it lets out a dying scream that consists of every sound it has ever heard. Its feathers are used for Memory Draughts, mostly.”

Harry thought about this for a while. “But… doesn’t the bird hear something all the time? So…”

He trailed off, and Snape, to his surprise, found himself actually interested to hear what the boy would have said. “Go on.”

Harry hesitated. “So… if it hears something in every moment of its life, wouldn’t the scream take as long as its lifetime all over again? And… wouldn’t it have to repeat it when it ended, ‘cause it heard itself screaming and it has to repeat every sound it ever heard?”

Snape blinked, looking down at the small earnest face. “What was your best subject in Muggle school, Harry?”

“Uh… maths, I think.” The boy lowered his eyes, scuffing his foot. “I guess it was a stupid question.”

“Not… at all.” Snape paused. “It was just very… logical. You are correct, if the Jobberknoll actually repeated every sound it had ever heard, including its dying scream, it would never stop screaming, and accordingly never die. Which is impossible, of course. There are few who have heard the dying scream of a Jobberknoll and reported on it, but from what literature there is, it appears that the bird only repeats sounds that made an impression on it – the bark of a dog, loud noises in its immediate vicinity, and so on. Even so, screams have been reported to last up to six months.”

Harry nodded, looking thoughtful. Snape thought of Charity Burbage, and her continued complaints that the wizarding education lacked “core subjects” such as mathematics, literature and arts. Snape had never paid the Muggle Studies teacher much mind, until now. Perhaps, if they were actually taught to think logically, fewer students would blow up their cauldrons just because they were unable to understand a simple reaction chain.

Then he thought of Lucius Malfoy’s face if Draco came to him for help with his algebra summer assignment, and smirked. It would be worth introducing Muggle mathematics just for that.

Fang whined next to him, pulling him from his thoughts. Snape looked down at the dog. The boarhound was pushing himself against Snape’s side, tail tucked between his legs, his nose aquiver.

Not Peaseblossom again, Snape thought, and turned to see if Harry was still next to him.

He wasn’t. Not there, and nowhere on the path they had just walked down. Only the equipment bag lay there, on the ground a few feet from where Snape stood.

Harry was gone.