In the weeks before he arrived, it was nothing but Potter, Potter, Potter. Harry this, Harry that. Not a single staff meeting went by without someone rhapsodizing about the blasted boy, or discussing his impending debut as a first-year student.

Would he be in Gryffindor like his parents? – Unthinkable, that the Boy-Who-Lived should end up in any other House.

Would he dazzle them with brilliance, stun them with amazing spellwork? - Snape refused to be dazzled, stunned or otherwise impressed, no matter how the brat showed off.

Would he have his father’s good looks, his Quidditch talent and mischievous sense of humor? – Snape, for one, expected an exact replica of James bloody Potter, a conceited Quidditch fiend who delighted in humiliating his fellow students.

He mentioned none of this to the other teachers. They’d only think him biased, and would idolize Potter even more determinedly. McGonagall was the worst by far. The boy became the designated star of Gryffindor before he had even set foot into the school.

On September 1st , Snape sat in his usual spot at the teachers’ table and watched the first-years being led into the hall like a gaggle of scared chicks. The same every year. Hands tugging the unfamiliar school robes into place. Scuffed sneakers and those ridiculous canvas shoes peeking out from under black hems; pony tails held up by pink elastics; round, childish faces pale with excitement. Later in bed, most of them would secretly cry their eyes out, hyped up on far too much sugar and adrenaline.

Every year, he watched each child as they sat on the Sorting stool and predicted the House they were going to end up in. Most of the time, he guessed correctly. Siblings often ended up in the same house; Ravenclaw had a definite surplus of female students; children who pushed back the hat from their eyes usually became Slytherins, while future Hufflepuffs often folded their hands as they sat down on the stool. Snape didn’t know if anyone else noticed these things. He, for one, took in the information and filed it away. Know thine enemy, as they said.

This time, he kept an eye out for Potter. There was a boy in the front row, dark-haired and with an arrogant air about him, who fit Snape’s image of the brat. He watched him until McGonagall called “Eisner, Ladislaus”, and the boy came forward to be Sorted into Ravenclaw. Next was “Finch-Fletchley, Justin”, who folded his hands as he sat down and promptly became a Hufflepuff.

Where was Potter? You’d think he’d want to stand out from the crowd, draw attention to himself.

Next in line, “Granger, Hermione” was Sorted into Ravenclaw. “MacDougal, Morag” became a Gryffindor, looking ridiculously pleased with herself as she bounded over to their table. The Great Hall rang with boisterous applause as always when a new member was welcomed into Gryffindor House.

Draco Malfoy became a Slytherin as soon as the hat touched his head. With a proud look at his godfather, the boy got up, and Snape allowed the tiniest of smiles to grace his lips. Except for Dumbledore, he was the only teacher who applauded Draco as the boy went to sit with his House. Following longstanding tradition, the other Houses hissed and booed as Draco passed by. The applause from his snakes could not drown out the sound, nor could his own, defiant clapping.

The next Slytherin, a tiny black girl with glasses, seemed intimidated at having hundreds of older students booing her as she crossed the hall. Shoulders hunched, she broke into a run, almost tripping over her robes before she could duck onto a bench and become invisible. Snape kept his eyes on her, satisfied when he saw Lydia Winter, a fifth-year Prefect, slip an arm around the girl. He could rely on his snakes to look out for the little ones.

Finally, McGonagall called for “Potter, Harry”. Ignoring the whispers from students and teachers alike, Snape leaned forward in his seat. Here he came, the future star of Gryffindor, the prodigal son returning from the Muggle world.

A boy reluctantly slunk forward, his lowered face half-hidden behind a straggle of black hair. As was his ingrained habit, Snape took in every detail about the child. Slightly built and small, Potter was dwarfed by most of his year mates. His sneakers, by far the scruffiest Snape had seen, seemed too big for his feet. Skinny hands clutched the edge of the chair as he sat down, one of them coming up to push back the hat that had slid over his eyes.

Push back the hat? Snape blinked. He must have been mistaken.

From the corner of his eye, he could see McGonagall’s expectant smile. The boy sat there almost apathetically, his face betraying no emotion whatsoever. Perhaps he was bored with the proceedings? Snape sneered inwardly. Prince Potter, made to wait his turn like any lowly first-year.

How much longer? Even the damn Sorting Hat seemed to believe that Potter deserved special treatment. Or perhaps it enjoyed keeping everyone in suspense, heightening the drama. As if anyone would be surprised to see Potter Sorted into-

“Slytherin!”

The Great Hall had never been so silent. McGonagall clutched her roll-calling list more tightly, her fingers crumpling the edge of the parchment. All eyes were fixed on Potter, the only person who seemed oblivious to the sudden tension. The boy slipped off the stool and stood there, looking rather ridiculous with the old, battered hat on his head.

Potter in Slytherin. An oxymoron by itself. And yet all the signs were there; Snape had simply chosen to ignore them in this particular student.

Hesitantly, the boy reached up and took off the hat. His tousled black hair stuck up, and now Snape could see the famous lightning bolt, the scar they made out to be a mark of honor. As everything else, it was not what Snape had expected. Beginning somewhere under the boy’s hairline, it snaked across the pale forehead and split the boy’s right eyebrow in two; jagged and scarlet, it looked as if it were bleeding. Snape had always imagined it to be rather small and faded. This… looked painful. Disfiguring, even.

McGonagall seemed to have gathered enough of her wits about her to take the hat from the boy. Potter slowly walked down the steps that led to the House tables. Still, no one moved or whispered as they’d done before.

A sudden clapping broke the silence, and Snape turned his head towards the sound. Dumbledore was applauding Potter, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he was the only one doing so. After a moment’s hesitation, Snape raised his hands and joined in. His House took the signal and began clapping as well. Potter looked up at the sudden noise, and Snape thought he’d seen something like a smile cross the boy’s face. It was gone as quickly as it had come. Potter lowered his head again, hunching his shoulders like his fellow Slytherin before him. His untidy hair fell into his face, hiding the angry scar.

None of the other students booed as Potter sat down with his Housemates. Snape watched some of the Ravenclaws put their heads together and whisper, while a few Gryffindors glared at the Slytherin table. Prefect Flint returned the glare with equal fervor, then leaned over to Potter and pushed something into his hand. A chocolate frog, Snape knew. Flint always kept a supply in his pocket for the Sorting. Potter glanced up at Flint and down at the chocolate frog. Again, the not-quite-smile flashed on his face and was gone in a matter of seconds.

The rest of the Sorting held no surprises. The latest Weasley joined Gryffindor House and received noisy applause as he sat down with his many brothers. Snape noticed that the boy threw a quick look over at the Slytherin table where Potter sat. Potter looked back with a strange expression on his face. Snape did not know what had just passed between the two boys, and he didn’t particularly care. He wanted the ceremony to be over and his snakes safely in bed. Only then would he be able to relax, and somehow wrap his mind around the fact that Harry James Potter had joined the Snake Family.

During the Feast, Snape glanced occasionally at his House table to see how his new students were faring. Draco sat between two hulking boys whom Snape recognized as Crabbe and Goyle junior. His godson’s perfect table manners stood in stark contrast to their open-mouthed chewing. The little girl next to Lydia Winter was talking animatedly to Theodore Nott, a skinny boy in second-hand robes. Nott’s mother had died not too long ago, Snape recalled. Many of his snakes had lost family members; in this respect, Potter was no exception. Snape watched the dark-haired boy as he ate. Potter’s table manners were appalling. The boy did not cram in the food like Crabbe and Goyle, but he seemed unsure what to do with his cutlery. Eventually, he speared an entire roast potato with his fork and began to nibble at it, ignoring the trickle of gravy that dribbled down his chin. Snape shook his head and turned back to his own food. Potter was certainly a mystery, in more than one aspect.

By the time the pudding was eaten and the Headmaster had tormented his staff with the infernal caterwauling he liked to call the school song, Snape was more than ready to leave the Hall. Some of his younger students seemed ready to nod off over their plates, while others nearly bounced off the walls with sugar-induced energy. He nodded at Flint, who ordered the first-years to follow him to the dungeons. They trailed after him like little geese, with Potter bringing up the rear. Snape saw the boy slipping something into his pocket as he left the table, but couldn’t make out what it was.

“Severus,” said a voice behind him. McGonagall stood there, her arms crossed in front of her chest. She looked decidedly unhappy.

“Yes?”

She sighed. “Look, I realize you and James never saw eye to eye, but… Harry’s different. He seems like a nice boy.”

Bloody Gryffindors, rushing in where angels feared to tread. Not that he wasn’t used to it. He raised an eyebrow at her.

“Did you by any chance listen to the Sorting Hat, Minerva?”

“Of course I did, but-”

“Indulge me, then: What House did it say Potter belongs to?”

He could almost see her grind her teeth. “Slytherin, but-”

“Indeed. And if I’m not mistaken, that implies that Potter is my responsibility from now on?”

An angry nod. “Of course he is, but-”

“So, if I understand you correctly, you’re worried that I’m going to neglect my duties as his Head of House? Perhaps you’re implying that my Slytherins aren’t as well cared for as they should be?”

“Severus, there’s no need to jump down my throat. I know how you care for your snakes. I just-”

“In that case, kindly refrain from interfering with my inner-House affairs. Good night, Minerva.”

He turned away and left the Hall. He knew she was disappointed, affronted even; not so much by his sarcasm, but by the fact that Potter would not come to live in the Lions’ Den. Her golden Gryffindor, surrounded by slithering serpents. It must have dented her pride considerably to see him leave the Hall with the wrong group of students.

A moment to treasure, for sure, but now was not the time for gloating. He had his own welcoming speech to deliver, and it would not do to keep his new snakes waiting. The sooner they were off to bed, the better.

There was a persistent rumor at Hogwarts that first-year Slytherins had to undergo a number of harrowing initiation rites before they were accepted into their new House. Snape had heard everything from tales of kissing a live adder to being forced to walk across white-hot coals. He, of course, always featured as the dark conductor of these affairs, overseeing them and advising his prefects how to perfect the torture.

He did nothing to disabuse people of their notions, although it amused him to imagine their disappointment if they knew the truth. As he walked into the Slytherin common room and saw the pale, anxious faces turned up to him, he wondered if some of the older students had been telling tales on the train. Best to put things straight right from beginning.

“Whatever you have heard about any so-called initiation rituals is utter rubbish. You have been Sorted into Slytherin House, and this is it. There will be no fooling around with poisonous reptiles or hot coals. Welcome to the Serpents’ Lair.”

Their faces brightened visibly, and he continued. “While you are here, your House acts as your family. Every member of Slytherin House is equally welcome, and I expect you to keep this in mind. Outside of this room, you are to show a united front. You do not fight, and you do not insult a fellow Slytherin. Likewise, I will not issue any reprimands outside these walls. Keep in mind, however, that I expect each and every one of you to uphold the honor of Slytherin House; you will be polite and respect your elders, you will study hard, and you will assist your fellow Slytherins in any way you can. If you decide that you are above these rules, you will find the consequences to be most unpleasant.”

A few of them nodded while others listened warily, still waiting what he had to offer them in return.

“If you need assistance with your schoolwork or other things, you may approach me or the

prefects at all times. This includes problems with students from other Houses, difficulties at home and… personal issues. It is my duty to assist you with any of these; if you feel more comfortable confiding to a prefect, you may rest assured that he or she will not disclose your problems to anyone else.”

He nodded at the six prefects who were standing silently to one side. Thankfully, three of them were female; as dedicated as he was to his House, he’d rather not live through any more excruciatingly embarrassing conversations through closed doors in the girls’ bathroom.

“We have a number of inner-House activities and schedules, some of which are mandatory. First-years are required to sign up for study groups which are supervised by an older student. Your tutors will regularly report to me and inform me about your progress and study habits. We have twice-monthly House meetings that you will attend, as well as quarterly meetings of students in the same year. As far as non-mandatory activities go, there is a chess club, a dueling club, a drama group, and of course the Quidditch team. Captain Flint conducts the try-outs, although you should know that first-years are not chosen for the team as a rule.”

“As for your daily routine, you’re to wear your school robes to all classes, unless you are specifically told to don other attire. You may wear your own clothes in your free time, as long as you look presentable. All used garments are to be turned in for cleaning once a week, and nothing should be worn for longer than three days, at the most. Two in the case of socks and undergarments.”

He paused to let this important bit of information sink in. Flitwick and McGonagall thought he was being pedantic, lecturing his first-years on socks and underwear, but at least his Slytherins never smelled as if they’d been pulled out from under their beds.

“First-years are expected to be in their dormitories by nine; lights-out is at ten o’clock sharp. Anyone who uses Lumos to read under the sheets will be summarily expelled and have their wands snapped apart.”

He delivered this with a perfectly straight face, and smirked inwardly at the wide, impressed eyes staring up at him. Draco, of course, was hiding a smile behind his hand.

“At eight o’clock in the morning, you will present yourself fully dressed and groomed in the Great Hall; skipping breakfast is not acceptable. You’ll find Hogwarts food to be plentiful and varied; all the same, I expect you to follow your prefects’ example and eat a balanced diet. Vegetables are not intended as table decoration, and even if you’ve heard rumors to the contrary, the human being is able to survive on a single helping of chocolate pudding a day.”

There were some careful smiles at this, and some of the students relaxed their stance ever so slightly. Potter, he noticed, was not among them. The boy was watching him almost suspiciously, as if he were waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Snape continued. “As the Headmaster mentioned, you’re not allowed to enter the forest on Hogwarts grounds unaccompanied. A number of highly dangerous magical creatures live in there, and they’ll regard any under-age wizard or witch as fair game.”

A hesitant hand came up at that.

“Yes?” Snape asked.

“Do these… creatures ever come out of the forest, sir?” asked Theodore Nott.

Snape nodded at the boy to let him know his question was appreciated. “They do not stray anywhere near the school,” he said. “Generally, they stay inside the forest. They respect our territory, as we should respect theirs. A number of them are sentient, and have agreed not to intrude upon school grounds.”

“What does “sentient” mean?” Pansy Parkinson wanted to know.

“It means that they are able to think and reason, and do not live a life based on mere instinct, as animals do.”

“My father says Muggles are like animals,” said Aelfric Urquart, a narrow-faced boy with brown hair. Snape sighed inwardly. He’d have preferred not to address this issue today, but had known that it would come up sooner or later. It always did.

“Hogwarts school policy,” he said, allowing his voice to take on a slightly sharper tone, “states that all students are treated alike, regardless of their blood status or lineage.”

He gave Draco a look, satisfied when the boy did not even blink.

“I’ve encountered many pureblood wizards and witches who proved themselves worthy of their family names by excelling at what they did. I’ve also seen many examples of half-blood or Muggle-born Slytherins who did their House proud. As I said before, every member of Slytherin House is equally welcome.”

And that was as straightforward as he could hope to be. It was a narrow ledge he’d been walking for years; discouraging blood discrimination while keeping in mind that some of his students had Death Eater parents, and those parents did not approve of politically correct pish posh. And it was their approval he needed if he wanted to influence their children.

“Your first study group meeting will take place tomorrow afternoon,” he continued, secretly relieved to return to safer terrain. “Your tutors will help you organize your schedule and give you a brief tour of the grounds and castle. After that, I want each of you to write an essay on the following topics: yourself, your impressions of Hogwarts so far, your expectations of a magical education. That will be all for now. Good night.”

“Good night, Professor,” some of them chorused, while others said nothing, clearly dismayed at having been given homework this early in the term. Snape watched as boys and girls parted ways and followed their prefects to the dormitories. As before, Potter was the last in line. He seemed to keep a distance between himself and his classmates; whether unconscious or deliberate, Snape could not tell. The boy had listened carefully to everything he said, but there had been no childish curiosity on his face. Apprehension, yes. Apprehension and the air of a soldier venturing into hostile terrain.

No… as much as it pained him to admit it, this Potter did not belong in Gryffindor. No one with that look in their eyes had yet ended up in the Lions’ Den. Potter was a Slytherin, for better or for worse… and what sweet revenge it was, imagining James Potter’s expression if he could see his son’s green and silver badge.

Snape left the common room, using a little-known short cut to get to his quarters. His desk brimmed with paperwork that wanted his urgent concentration – lessons to be planned, summer homework to be graded – and sooner than he’d thought possible, he’d forgotten about the little, dark-haired boy in the first-year dormitory.

My birthday is in April, wrote Pansy Parkinson, and that was when I got my hogwarts letter. Father was very proud and Mother said Draco was in my year. I knew we would both be in Slytherin because our parents were too. I visited Draco last summer and he showed me his new nimbus Streek of Glory that cost 250 galeons. I don’t like quidditch so much but Draco does and I watch him play. When I’m married I’ll buy my sons the newest brooms on the market.

Hogwarts is a very big castle and there is a forest with all kinds of dangerous animals in it, although some aren’t really animals. I sat next to Draco at breakfast and he told me his father has a lot of rare birds at the manor. When I’m married I’ll have white peacoks in my garden.

My expectations are that I make my family proud and learn a lot of useful spells. Mother says a girl needs an education even though she gets married because she must be able to support her husband.

I really like the dormitory because it’s fun having other girls to talk to.

The century of feminism, Snape mused as he put Pansy’s essay aside, seemed to have gone straight past the old pureblood families.

He picked up the next scroll.

My name’s Greg (Goyle) and I’m 11 years old. My dad gave me a Neezle before I came to Hoggwats. The neezle is called Mifisto and he has black and white fur and a long tail. He catches rats and eats them and leavs their tails on the rug but mum doesn’t like that. Draco says that owls are better because but my dad has a neezl and they are usefull too.

Hogwats is my new school my dad went to Hoggwats too in sli slystherin all my familys in slyterin. Draco and vince are in slytherinn, too. My neezle Mifisto sleeps in my bed and he takes up a lot of room and I cant move my Feet bcause he bites my toes.

I like Horgwats because we play Quiditch and there’s  saussag for breakfast Mifisto likes bacon and I bring him some back when I remember.

Sincerly,

Greg (Goyle)

Snape had asked the tutors not to correct any mistakes, as he wanted to see where his first-years stood and where remedial tutoring might be in order. Goyle was definitely on that list, although Snape was glad that the boy sounded reasonably happy. With two older brothers in Azkaban and his father a relapsing alcoholic, the boy was definitely better off here.

Underneath his essay, Goyle had drawn a surprisingly good picture of a sleeping Kneazle and a boy curled up next to it. Knowing that no one would ever see it except for Goyle, Snape wrote “well done” under the picture before he set about correcting the spelling mistakes.

Draco’s essay was next, and Snape picked it up with a certain curiosity.

My name is Draco Malfoy, I’m eleven years old and about to begin my education at Hogwarts, one of the most prestigious schools in wizarding Europe. My family can trace their ancestry back to Brutus Malfoy, who was a close relation of Salazar Slytherin’s wife. The Malfoy name is renowned for influence and status in the wizarding world. Back home, I have two Nimbus brooms, one Streak of Glory and one 1990 XXL. Father had them brought from Italy, and they cost more than all the school brooms put together. I wish first-years at Hogwarts could have their own brooms. When I grow up, I want to be a Healer, but Father says there’s been a post waiting for me at the Ministry since I was born. Malfoys have always had good connections to the ministry. My best friends are Vince Crabbe and Greg Goyle.

Hogwarts is one of the most prestigious schools in wizarding Europe. They have a huge Quidditch pitch and I’m going to be on the House team when I’m older. Hogwart’s Headmaster is Albus Dumbledore, but Father says and our Head of House is my godfather Severus Snape, who is the youngest Potions Master in Britain. Slytherin is the best House because it has a proud and noble history. I’m in Slytherin like my mother and father. One of my classmates is Harry Potter, who is famous because and well-known in the wizarding world.

Father says he expects top grades from a Malfoy, and he will come to watch me play Quidditch when I’m on the team. I want to learn all about Quidditch and spells and maybe something about Healing; that is useful even if you have a post at the Ministry. I expect to receive the magical education that befits a Malfoy and have a good time, like last night when we had a cockroach cluster fight in the dormitory. That was a lot of fun.

Snape could see that Draco had written this essay before, most likely with the assistance of the expensive tutor Lucius had hired. His godson was fluent in French and Italian, he could ride, fence and hold his own in any dinner conversation, he knew the Malfoy lineage by heart back to the Middle Ages and owned more official dress robes than most high-ranking Ministry employees.

Snape thought of Malfoy Manor with its luxurious suites, sprawling gardens and cowed house elves. He still remembered the dinner party two years ago; he’d been the only half-blood invited, and the only one who didn’t arrive in their very own carriage. Draco had come into the dining salon in his expensive robes, paler than usual, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen. He’d stood in a corner during the entire six-hour dinner ceremony. An hour after midnight, Lucius had flicked his wand at his son, who flinched as if he’d been struck. He’d slowly crept over to the table and thanked the guests for their attendance, then left without a look back. When Snape quietly asked about Draco, Lucius merely responded that his son needed to learn his duties and responsibilities as a Malfoy.

Cockroach cluster fight, indeed. Visits from children Draco’s age had been few and far between at the manor.

He reached for the next essay.

Hogwarts is a school for Witchcraft and wizardry, wrote Theodore Nott. I’m glad I’m going to Hogwarts and not Durmstrang because durmstrang is high up North and I prefer milder climates you can go swimming in the lake my Pa told me. I do swimming for sports. Some people think swimming isn’t a wizarding sport but it is because there are many spells and magical plants that help you breathe underwater when Muggles would drown my Pa told me.

We arrived at Hogwarts and the Groundskeeper took us across the lake in boats and then we had the sorting cerremony I was sorted into Slytherin I’m going to write to my pa he was a Ravenclaw but he says Slytherin is a good option too and gryfindor too only Hufflepuff isn’t so much but I shouldn’t tell anyone because all Houses are equally apreciated at hogwarts.

In my Dormitory there are 4 other boys the Girls have their own dorms and I’m glad because I wouldn’t want to live in a dorm with girls. In my dorm there are Vince and Greg and Draco who has a Nimbus Streke of Glory at home and Harry Potter who is the boy Who lived and has a big scar on his forehead Draco asked him if it hurt and he said no.

In Hogwarts were going to learn about tranfiguration and charms and Potions (our Head of house is the Potions master his name is Severus Snape and he is Draco’s Godfather) and History of magic and Defence against the dark Arts and herbology and Quidditch. I don’t know what I want to do when I grow up I like reading so maybe I’m going to be a teacher, but I’m not a Know it-all and I’m not telling Draco my Pa says I can always decide when I’m older. At Hogwarts I want to have friends and learn lots and I want to find out whats on the third floor only I’m going to be careful so I won’t die a painful Death like Headmaster professor Dumbeldor said.

T.N.

Snape sighed, silently cursing Dumbledore for bringing up the third floor at all. There were locking charms on the door, so there was really no need to alert a hall of inquisitive and potentially rule-breaking students to the mysteries hidden in a forbidden corridor. Snape had no doubts that the Headmaster’s kindly admonition would result in many a nightly stroll and subsequent detention.

He made a mental note to keep an eye on Nott and put the boy’s essay aside, reaching for the next one.

Myself: Blaise Zabini, 12 years old, 1,57 cm tall, black hair, brown eyes, look a bit like my Mum.

I like: Playing chess, going to the theatre with my Mum, going to Digonally, having my friends over, my owl Aphrodite, playing Quidditch.

I don’t like: Having dinner parties with my mum’s aquaintences, doing homework (sometimes), the caretaker Mr. Filch because he called my mum a XXX bad name.

Hogwarts: over a 1000 years old, inside there are many rooms, moving stairs, the great Hall and ghosts and students (and teachers), we had roasted chicken and many puddings for dinner.

My expectations: learn spells, charms, how to transfigure things, how to brew potions, join the drama group, join the chess club, play Quidditch (maybe)

(I didn’t write so much because we’ve only been here for a day and I don’t know if I like it here or not. I think I do and I’ll let you know in a week or so. Respectfully, B.Z.)

Snape remembered the incident with Filch only too well. Being an avid reader of Rita Skeeter, the caretaker knew all about Mrs. Zabini’s latest marriage (and the mysterious disappearance of her husband a few months ago), and had seen fit to make several choice comments about her as her son walked by. Furious and in tears, Zabini had drawn his wand on the caretaker, just when Minerva McGonagall appeared on the scene. Fortunately, she’d had the sense to call Zabini’s Head of House instead of giving the boy detention right away.

He’d have to keep an eye on Zabini, as well. His snakes had a long memory, and it wouldn’t do for the boy to start a vendetta against the caretaker.

The next scroll had a note from the tutor clipped to it, informing him that Crabbe had spilled his inkwell over the essay and had then refused to do it over, because “he didn’t do the same homework twice, and it wasn’t his fault his hand had slipped”.

All that could still be read was the first line: “My name’s Vincent Crabbe, and Hogwarts is one of the most prestigious schools in wizarding Europe.”

Well, Snape mused, at least Draco did as he’d been told and assisted his fellow Slytherins.

Now for the piece that piqued his curiosity most, if only because he had no idea what to expect. Snape picked up Harry Potter’s essay.

About myself: I’m 11 years old and my name’s Harry Potter. I’m small and I’ve an ugly scar on my head. They told me I’m a wizard thats why I’m here at Hogwats.

About Hogwats: Its a school for people who can do ma like me. We had rost potatos for dinner and chicken and sausige and lots of sweets. And vegetables too. Everybody sat at the tables and ate together. Then we went to the slytherin dorms (they are in the cellar which is called the dunshuns). I have a huge bed with green curtains and green sheets and a pillow with a snake on it. It’s a really big room and I have my own desk and a locker for my clothes and school things. My new owl Hedwig stayed with me but she’ll have to go to the owlry thats where all the owls live.

What I expect: I want to stay here and eat in the great Hall every day.

Snape lowered the scroll. It was splotched with ink, the tell-tale mark of a student who wasn’t used to quills. The handwriting was a mess, cramped and barely legible. Potter was another candidate for remedial tutoring, it seemed.

They told me I’m a wizard. Did Potter not believe that he had magical abilities? And all the rambling on about food, giving an inventory of the first-year dormitory… it was as if Potter was missing the point entirely. Not a word about his past, or his status as the savior of the wizarding world. Not a single comment on the fact that he’d ended up in Slytherin, of all Houses. And all the boy wanted was to eat in the Great Hall every day.

No, the essay hadn’t exactly solved the enigma that was James Potter’s son.

“Potter hides food.”

Draco was sitting in the stuffed armchair in Snape’s den, eating oatmeal biscuits and sipping on a glass of pumpkin juice. Until a moment ago, the boy had regaled Snape with stories of his first flying lesson and how he’d outflown everyone else, despite the inferior quality of the school brooms. The sudden change of subject came as a surprise.

Snape frowned. “What do you mean, he hides food?”

Draco took another sip of juice. “He has a secret stash under his bed. Puts something in it almost every time we get back from the Great Hall. He doesn’t think we know about it, but it’s starting to smell.”

Snape remembered that he’d seen Potter slip something into his pocket during the Welcoming Feast.

“Did you speak to him about it?” he asked Draco.

The boy shook his head. “He’s weird about food.”

“‘Weird’?” Snape repeated. Talking to eleven-year-olds could be worse than pulling teeth from a Hungarian Horntail.

“He’s always hungry, but he never eats much. And he sometimes throws up after dinner.”

Snape frowned. He’d dealt with eating disorders before, but this didn’t sound like your common case of teenage bulimia. Why would Potter squirrel away food under his bed? Not that he was the first student to smuggle food into the dorms, but Draco made it sound like an ongoing habit… one Potter was hiding from the other boys.

Not that it was the only ‘weird’ thing about Potter’s behavior. A week had passed, and the wizarding world had yet to hear more than five words from the Boy-Who-Lived. All Potter ever did was mumble “yes sir”, “no sir” or “I dunno sir”. Snape hardly saw him talking to his classmates, or do much of anything, in fact. The boy seemed to merely… exist, content to breathe, take up space and eat occasionally.

“Do you think it did something to his head?” Draco asked, pulling him from his musings. “The curse, I mean. Do you think he’s bonkers?”

It was unsettling, hearing his very thoughts come so bluntly from Draco’s mouth.

“Potter is your Housemate, Draco,” he said, more sharply than before. “I expect you to treat him accordingly.”

“I don’t mind if he’s a little…” Draco waved a hand in front of his face. “He’s okay. He needs to go clothes shopping, though. Those rags of his look worse than Weasley’s.”

Snape could not, in all fairness, reprimand Draco, for the boy was right. He’d caught a glimpse of Potter in the common room, wearing a frayed black jumper that hung off his small frame like a sack. When he’d visited the first-year dorm the night Goyle got sick, he’d seen Potter’s pajamas, if one could call them that: a baggy gray t-shirt, its collar ripped, and a pair of faded trousers large enough fit a boy twice his size.

“Money is a privilege, Draco.”

“Yes, Uncle Sev,” the boy replied, but Snape could see that he was being humored.

Draco’s next question caught him by surprise. “Do you think I could invite Potter over to the manor some time? Maybe for the Christmas hols?”

Snape stared at his godson. Sometimes the boy’s aristocratic manners made him forget that Draco was only eleven years old, after all. The thought of Potter and his godson, playing Gobstones in Draco’s room while Lucius entertained the Death Eaters for dinner… Merlin. “I’m not sure that would be wise, Draco.”

“Why? We could play Quidditch together. He’s a really good flier, almost as good as me. Hooch said so, too.”

“Madam Hooch, Draco.”

“Yes, Uncle Sev. So, could I?”

“Draco…” Snape sighed. “I thought Vincent and Gregory were going to visit you?”

“Yeah, but…” Draco shrugged. “They’re kind of… immature, you know?”

Snape was careful to keep a perfectly straight face. “Oh?”

“Yeah…” Draco pulled a face. “They still build dens with their bedsheets and pretend they’re dragon hunters. Potter doesn’t talk much, but he’s more grown-up.”

Snape had to admit that he was surprised. He wouldn’t have expected his godson to take a liking to the silent, withdrawn boy.

“You should discuss this with your father, Draco. Perhaps something can be arranged.”

“Wicked!” Grinning, Draco snatched up another biscuit.

Snape watched his godson and made a mental note to inform Dumbledore about Potter’s possible visit to Malfoy Manor. If Lucius agreed, precautions would have to be taken.

###

“Potter, to my office.”

The boy glanced up, and for a moment, Snape saw fear in the green eyes. Then he lowered his head again, hiding behind his hair as usual.

“Yes, sir,” he mumbled, getting up from the armchair he’d curled up in.

The rest of the common room was suspiciously quiet as Snape walked to the door, Potter in tow. Usually, a visit to the office boded no good for the student in question. Snape could almost feel the curious eyes following them, although no one was stupid enough to actually ask what Potter had done.

The boy stayed two steps behind him the entire way; only the dragging of his sneakers on the stone floor let Snape know that he was still there.

He opened the heavy wooden door and let Potter pass, sighing inwardly as the boy shuffled in like a prisoner into his cell. Merlin, but he was small. Snape had noticed this before; most of the first-year girls had an inch or two on the child, never mind the boys. Somehow, however, his stature had never seemed quite so… slight in the classroom. If Snape had encountered Potter in Diagon Alley, he’d have thought him eight or nine, at the most.

“Sit,” he ordered the boy, nodding at the chair that stood in front of his desk. Usually, he had miscreants stand while he lectured them, but intimidation was not the purpose of this visit.

Snape took a seat behind his desk, watching Potter as he perched on the very edge of the chair, his hands clutching the fabric of his school robes. The boy’s nails were bitten to the quick.

Snape reached under his desk and took out a cardboard box, which he set down in front of the boy. Potter glanced up and again there was that flash of fear in his eyes before he lowered his head.

“Is this yours, Potter?” Snape asked.

Potter nodded once without looking up.

“A verbal answer, if you will.”

“Yes, sir.” Mumbled, barely intelligible.

Snape opened the box and flicked his wand at it. The contents soared out and lined up on an old towel Snape had put there for this very purpose. Potter was watching warily from beneath his shaggy fringe.

“What is the meaning of this, Mr. Potter?”

No reply, but then, Snape hadn’t expected it to be that easy.

“Let’s see…” he began, turning to the items on the towel as if they truly interested him. “Two brown apples… mouldy sausages… stale bread crusts… this may have been a piece of treacle tart once… and this, if I’m not mistaken, is a piece of the Yorkshire pudding that was served two nights ago?”

Snape looked back at the boy. A faint blush had crept up from Potter’s collar and was slowly spreading across his cheeks, but no other reaction was forthcoming.

“Unless I’m very much mistaken, Potter, these are all remnants from dinners served in the Great Hall at some point. Why, may I ask, are you hoarding them under your bed? Surely you’re aware that these items are spoiled and no longer fit for human consumption?”

Potter mumbled something Snape didn’t quite catch.

“Speak up, boy,” he ordered sharply. “And look at me.”

Potter raised his head. “They’re still good, sir,” he repeated.

“Potter, are you trying to be funny?”

The boy’s eyes widened a fraction. “No, sir.”

“These… things,” Snape jerked his wand at the food on the towel, “are spoiled. The bacteria growing on them may be harmful if ingested. Are you trying to give yourself food poisoning, boy?”

“N-no, sir.”

They weren’t getting anywhere here. Snape sighed. “Potter, why are you hiding food? Students have never gone hungry at Hogwarts. Surely three meals a day are enough for you.”

Potter nodded quickly, then remembered that he was supposed to give verbal replies. “Yes, sir.”

“Then why do you feel the need to keep a secret stash under your bed?”

“I… I.” Potter trailed off, but Snape said nothing, waiting for the boy to speak up again.

“I dunno, sir,” Potter muttered finally, shrinking in on himself as if he wished for the chair to swallow him.

“Not good enough,” Snape snapped. “What you are doing is unhygienic and potentially dangerous, if you were actually planning to consume these at some point. I want to know why you felt compelled to breed mould and fungi in your dormitory.”

“It’s… just in case.”

“In case of what, Potter?”

The boy shrugged helplessly. “In case I need it. If… if there isn’t any.”

Snape narrowed his eyes at the boy. Potter wasn’t lying or playing games; no eleven-year-old, not even a Slytherin, could act that well. The child was genuinely worried that Hogwarts’ seemingly endless supply of food might one day just stop.

“Potter…” Snape waited for the boy to look at him. “Have you gone hungry before?”

The blush was back, spreading furiously across the pale cheeks. “D-dunno, sir.”

Oh, he did know. The merest brush of Legilimency against the child’s unprotected mind proved as much. Hunger was a central part of Potter’s life, and he knew all about its various stages, the dull ache, the painful cramps, the hollow emptiness accompanied by dizziness and aching limbs.

Snape did not probe beyond these very basic impressions. What he’d seen and felt was enough to disturb him. A healthy child’s mind bubbled with unconnected thoughts and emotions, occupied with everyday matters like homework, a new quill, their favorite pudding for dinner. Potter’s thoughts… his brief glimpse had shown Snape a dark wasteland, desolate and lonely.

This wasn’t right.

“May I go now, Professor?”

It was the first thing the boy had ever said without being asked. Snape looked down at the child’s anxious face, and knew that he would accomplish nothing by forcing the matter… not here, not now.

“You may.”

Potter jumped up and almost ran to the door.

“And Potter?”

“Sir?”

“The Standard Book of Spells, page 121. It’s called the Stasis Spell and will keep food from spoiling.”

Potter paused, his hand on the door handle. “… thank you, sir.”

With that, he was gone, his dark school robes wipping out of sight. Snape leaned back in his chair, regarding the pitiful collection of stale and crumbly food on his desk.

This would have to be done very carefully.

Three weeks into the school term, the new students began to settle in. There had been the first minor crises: a spectacular fight between Pansy Parkinson and Parvati Patil, which began in the girls’ bathroom on the second floor and spilled down the stairs into the entrance hall; tearful midnight visits to the infirmary after an unauthorized sugar binge; and, last but not least, the discovery of Potter’s little food cache. Snape had kept an eye on the boy ever since. Potter was still pocketing the occasional apple or bread roll, but as none of his dorm mates complained about the smell, Snape surmised that the boy either ate the food or had mastered the Stasis Spell.

By now, he had a fairly good impression of the individual students’ level, secretly pleased that his godson proved to be one of the brighter additions to the student population. Hermione Granger in Ravenclaw, of course, outperformed everyone else. The girl seemed to inhale knowledge, and could have easily skipped a year if such were the practice at Hogwarts. Snape couldn’t help but award her full marks in every Potions lesson. Her yearmates, he noticed, didn’t take too kindly to frequent displays of brilliance in their midst. The girl sat alone most of the time, surrounded by a wall of books.

Snape was surprised, therefore, to step into the courtyard one day and spot her sitting in the colonnades with Potter, of all people. Curious, he stepped closer, staying behind one of columns so the two children wouldn’t see him.

“…says here that it is July 30, and in this one it says that it’s July 31, so there’s obviously a mistake.” The rustle of turned pages followed. “Look, it’s right there!”

“It’s July 31,” came Potter’s quiet voice.

“Oh good, I thought it was, I’d read it somewhere before, but I wanted to make sure before I write to the editor.”

“When’s your birthday?”

Snape listened in surprise; he’d never heard Potter ask a fellow student anything.

“It was a few days ago,” the girl replied. “September 19th.”

“Oh. Happy birthday, then.”

“Thank you,” she said, sounding pleased. “Mum and Dad sent me a birthday cake and some clothes and a gift certificate for owl orders from Flourish and Blotts. They must have asked Aunt Miranda to get it from Diagon Alley. My parents are Muggles,” she added as an explanation. “You live with your Muggle relatives, don’t you? It says so in Famous Sorcerers of the 20th Century, although Celebrities A-Z says that your current whereabouts are unknown to the public. They seem to have been a bit sloppy in their research, what with getting your birthday wrong and everything.”

“I live with my aunt and uncle,” the boy said softly.

“You should write to the editor and tell them to get their facts straight,” Granger said decidedly. “People want correct information, after all. You could send them a picture, too, to put in the next edition.”

“Um,” said Potter.

“Well, never mind, I’ll write to them anyway, so you needn’t bother. What’s her name?”

“Hedwig,” the boy said, and Snape realized that he must have his owl with him.

“She’s beautiful,” Granger said admiringly. “I’ve read that snowy owls are the best messenger birds because they can cover great distances in a very short time. Rowena Ravenclaw had a snowy owl, did you know?”

The boy seemed to have shaken his head, for Granger continued, “Yes, and Godric Gryffindor had a horse – of course he would have, every knight back then had one, but his was special, it could fly – and Helga Hufflepuff had a St. Bernard, and Salazar Slytherin had a basilisk.”

“What’s a basilisk?”

“It’s a giant snake, and it’s very dangerous. I’ve read about it in All You Need to Know About Magical Creatures.”

“Wouldn’t it have eaten the other pets?”

Granger paused; she obviously hadn’t considered this aspect before. Snape waited, genuinely interested in her answer. “Maybe it wasn’t allowed,” she said finally. “It was Salazar Slytherin’s familiar, so it had to listen to him.”

“It could’ve eaten them while he was asleep,” Potter mused. Snape thought that Potter seemed disturbingly familiar with the concept of eating in secret while others slept.

“Of course it couldn’t,” Granger said in a slightly patronizing tone. “Slytherin was a powerful wizard, he probably put a spell on it so it had to obey him.”

“Oh.” Potter seemed to be feeling sorry for the basilisk.

“Anyway, I want to get myself an owl, too, or maybe a cat. I can always use the school owls, and I’ve wanted a cat for ever and ever. I couldn’t have one until now because Mum’s allergic, but I’ve read about magical cats and there’s a spell you can put on them against allergies. – Are you allergic to cats?”

“Dunno. Don’t think so.”

“Weren’t you tested for allergies? We had doctors come to our school and they drew these funny little circles on our arms before we got our shots.”

Potter said nothing, but Granger didn’t seem to notice that she hadn’t received an answer to her question. “Were you really surprised when you got your letter? Of course you must have known about being a wizard, but I never knew I was a witch until the letter came! Well, I knew Aunt Miranda went away to learn magic, but I’d never thought I could do the same!”

“I never knew either,” Potter said quietly, and then: “D’you… like being magical?”

“Of course I do!” cried Granger. “Think of all the things they’re going to teach us!”

“I don’t,” Potter said, so softly that Snape had to strain his ears to catch the words. “I don’t like it.”

“Why not?” Snape couldn’t see Granger’s expression, but he imagined her face to be one big question mark.

“It’s evil,” Potter said.

“Evil?” Granger repeated in disbelief. “Why do you say that?”

“It just is.”

Granger seemed at a loss what to say. Snape, for his part, found it difficult to believe what he had just heard. Potter’s voice had never been more firm than when he had condemned magic as “evil”.

It just is. Not the kind of statement you’d expect from an eleven-year-old; Snape knew only too well that they questioned everything at that age. But Potter didn’t doubt the truth of what he’d said. The boy lived at Hogwarts and attended his lessons in the firm belief that everything he witnessed around him was… evil.

The two children were silent for a while, and Snape was about to abandon his listening post when the girl hesitantly spoke up again.

“Would you like to come to Ravenclaw Tower with me? I have some of my birthday cake left. Boys aren’t allowed in the girls’ dormitories, but I could bring it down to the common room…”

Even Snape did not miss the anxiety in her voice.

“Yeah, okay,” Potter said softly.

“Great!” Granger cried. A rustle indicated that she was gathering up the entourage of books that followed her everywhere. “Prefect O’Malley said that we should keep our common room a secret, but that we can invite students from other Houses so I guess it’s okay! Do you want to go right now?”

“Okay.” Potter sounded pleased, even if he kept to his usual one-word answers.

“You can bring Hedwig along if you like,” Granger continued as their steps retreated. “Padma Patil has a snowy owl, too, but hers has dark spots on its back. I’ve read in All You Need to Know About Magical Creatures that snowy owls with dark spots are always owned by witches…”

Quietly, Snape left his post behind the column and slipped away into a nearby corridor.

So, Potter and Granger. It amused him that people who liked to dominate a conversation, like Draco and Granger, found themselves drawn to the taciturn boy. Potter didn’t mind having his ears talked off, content to listen and keep most of his thoughts to himself. A very Slytherin attitude, now that Snape came to think about it.

The boy certainly was nothing like his father. Potter senior had revelled in his above-average magical abilities; he’d displayed them at every opportunity, and more often than not used them to embarrass or humiliate others. The idea that magic per se was evil would have seemed ridiculous to him.

Harry, on the other hand… something was wrong with boy. Snape wondered if he had ever seen the child smile, let alone laugh. And he wasn’t… right. It was a strange thing to say about a little boy, but Snape knew it to be true. He wasn’t the only one who had noticed, either. Minerva had spoken to him about Potter’s reticence, and Flitwick had made several remarks about Harry’s tendency to turn his charms against himself. And Aurora Sinistra… for some reason, her observations had unsettled Snape the most.

“We were drawing star charts, and he was sitting on his own in the darkest corner of the room. I turned around to see how he was doing, and… I thought it was a trick of light at first. His eyes were different, all of a sudden… very bright, almost white. I believed I had imagined things at the time, but then I looked at the memory in my pensieve and it happened again. His eyes *changed*. You need to watch out for that boy, Severus.”

Had it been Sybil Trelawney telling him this, Snape wouldn’t have paid it any more attention than her frequent death predictions. Aurora Sinistra, on the other hand, was not given to flights of fantasy. Far more than most witches and wizards, the Astronomy teacher adhered to logic and the absolute truths of mathematics. She must have seen something happen to the boy to bring it up with his Head of House.

Snape wondered, for a moment or two, whether he should let Albus in on the matter. The Headmaster had surely made his own observations; Snape had noticed his eyes following the boy more than once in the Great Hall. Yet whatever Albus’ conclusions were, he did not seem willing to share them with his staff just yet, and Snape decided not to bring up the subject. Potter was first and foremost one of his, and he wasn’t in the habit of palming off his problems to the Headmaster. Slytherin took care of their own.

Snape continued to watch the boy, and Potter continued to do… nothing much. At mealtimes, he sat alone or with Draco; once or twice Snape spotted him at the Ravenclaw table with Hermione Granger. He sat on his own in the common room, curled up in an armchair in front of the fire; not reading, not doing anything but watching the flames. Once, Snape went by the Quidditch pitch when the first-years had their flying lessons. Potter was zooming around the pitch closely behind Draco, and there was an expression on his face… not joy exactly, but something very close to it. Snape noticed that the boy was a gifted flier.

Not so much a gifted potions brewer. Average at best, but then they all were, with the possible exception of Hermione Granger. At least none of his Slytherins had managed to melt three cauldrons and vanish a fourth, as Longbottom of Gryffindor had done. Snape was so busy keeping an eye on the clumsy dunderhead that his attention to the rest of the class suffered. As usual, Potter blended into the blackground, and Snape never spared his work more than a passing glance.

Then came the day they brewed the Forgetfulness Potion. In retrospect, Snape had to admit that the incident had taken him completely by surprise, as if he had never noticed anything… odd about Potter before. It shouldn’t have; he knew that. He should have been prepared.

The Forgetfulness Potion was one of the most difficult draughts taught in first year, not least because it involved essence of the Snargaluff Pod, an acid-like substance that had to be handled with extreme care. Snape began the lesson by demonstrating its effects on a piece of parchment – a very satisfying moment when twenty-four pairs of eyes widened at the parchment’s instant incineration – and showed them a graphic picture of a wizard who’d dripped Snargaluff Succus on his foot.

“And… and it can’t eat its way through the glass?” Pansy Parkinson asked, with an anxious glance at the innocuous green bottle in front of her.

Had it been one of the lions asking this, they would have been pelted with biting sarcasm; as it was, Snape only narrowed his eyes at the girl.

“Be assured, Miss Parkinson, that my potions equipment is perfectly safe.”

He wrote the instructions for the potion on the blackboard, and had Goyle read them out loud to the class (not least because he wanted to make sure the boy did read them). As the students lit their fires and adjusted their scales, he swept up and down the room, watching their progress and snatching Longbottom’s bottle of Snargaluff Succus from his desk a second before the boy knocked it over with his elbow.

“Do you wish to examine the bone structure of your foot in vivo, Mr. Longbottom, or are you simply one of the clumsiest students ever to set foot across this threshold?”

The boy trembled, looking about to cry. Snape sighed and set the bottle down again, safely out of Longbottom’s reach. One of these days, the little idiot would exterminate the entire Potions class, and then Albus would be in a pickle trying to find a new Boy-Who-Lived… never mind another double agent to spy on the Death Eaters.

The class began brewing, and Snape lingered near Longbottom’s desk to prevent any major catastrophes. The boy’s hands shook, and he crushed most of the lacewing flies he was supposed to cut into fine pieces. Snape bit his tongue to keep himself from remarking upon it. Minerva had asked him to be more “lenient” towards the boy – as if it were his fault that Longbottom could no more brew a potion than Filch could dance the Dying Swan.

Half-way into the lesson, not a single potion showed the translucent shimmer that was the desired intermediate result. Snape was not surprised. It was a difficult draught to brew, and he’d only set this task so early in the year because he intended to have a repeat lesson later on. Draco had done well at first, before he forgot to add the second ounce of Screechsap. Now he was stirring dejectedly what looked like pea soup.

Snape was leaning over Longbottom’s shoulder, advising him how to stew his tubeworms – “do not turn them around before they are done, stupid boy” – when a loud gasp behind him made him jump. Gasps of any kind never boded well in Potions class. Turning around, he saw Vincent Crabbe standing over his cauldron with an empty flower pot in hand and a horror-struck expression on his face. The boy had managed to tip his entire lovage plant - roots, earth and everything - into his cauldron.

The ruined potion was hissing and emitting copious amounts of steam, filling the air with strong-smelling fumes. The students around Crabbe began to cough and wave their hands in front of their faces, rushing from their work stations and knocking over ingredients in the process. Snape prayed that none of them would accidentally spill Snargaluff Succus over themselves.

“Stay calm!” he bellowed. “The fumes aren’t dangerous, they’re merely-“

“Pro – Professor!”

Snape turned around, and saw Longbottom backing away from his cauldron. The potion inside was bubbling like a live thing, dangerously close to boiling over. Its greenish hue told Snape that Longbottom had already added the Snargaluff Succus.

“Turn down the heat, boy!”

Longbottom was clearly panicking between the white fumes billowing around him and his irate professor.

“I – I – “

The first bubble splashed over the rim of the cauldron and onto the floor, eating a hole into Longbottom’s schoolbag.

“Aguamenti!” A well-aimed jet of water from Snape’s wand hit the fire under Longbottom’s cauldron, extinguishing the flames at once. Not that it did much to diminish the pandemonium that had broken out.

Longbottom was sobbing hysterically, clutching his damaged bag, while the rest of the class knocked over scales and chairs trying to get away from Crabbe’s fuming concoction.

“Out!” roared Snape. “Everybody out!”

Despite the fumes, the students seemed to find their way to the door very quickly, gathering up their things as they ran. Barely restraining himself from throwing Longbottom bodily out of the room, Snape snarled at them to get moving and slammed the door shut behind them. Merlin, but he hated this job.

The classroom was a mess. Broken bottles on the floor, ingredients strewn across the tables. Longbottom’s potion had coalesced into a stinking mass. And still, Crabbe’s cauldron was emitting fumes that drifted through the room like mist across the Dark Lake.

Snape grabbed a piece of cloth, held it in front of his mouth and strode through the fumes towards Crabbe’s work station. No doubt the smell of lovage would linger for weeks to come. Bloody little incompetents, why couldn’t they simply follow the instructions?

He vanished Crabbe’s potion with a flick of his wrist, and was pointing his wand at Longbottom’s cauldron when a sound behind him made him stop in his tracks.

Someone was… keening. Keening like an injured dog.

He whipped around. “Who’s there?”

Damn fumes, he couldn’t see a thing. Batting angrily at the air, Snape took a step towards the sound. It seemed to be coming from a corner of the room.

“Who is there? Show yourself!”

The keening grew louder, now sounding of all things as if someone were laughing… a high-pitched, grating laughter.

Severus.

Snape stood frozen. That voice had not just hissed in his ear, spoken to him from the realm of shadows. It could not be.

Gripping his wand more tightly, he stepped towards the keening sound, and his hand shook only the slightest bit as he raised it to blast the fumes aside.

Potter stood with his back to him, his cauldron between them. The boy’s shoulders were hunched, as if he were in pain. The keening was coming from him, and at the same time it seemed to be coming from everywhere, from every corner of the room and from within Snape’s own mind.

“Potter? What is the meaning of this?”

Severus.

No, it could not be.

“Potter!” Snape yelled. “Turn around and look at me!”

He had not expected the boy to obey, but Potter did, turning slowly on the spot. It was all Snape could do not to take a step back.

The boy’s eyes were white, soulless under the glaring red scar, his face contorted in pain and insane ecstasy alike.

“Potter?”

One hand came up, a spidery claw that was nothing like a child’s hand. Potter stretched it out towards him in a gesture both defensive and strangely beseeching. Spit trickled down his chin from his open mouth. As Snape watched, the boy’s teeth clamped and bit down on his tongue.

“No!” Snape took an involuntary step forwards.

Potter screamed. For a second, his eyes returned to their normal bright green and Snape saw insane fear in the boy’s face. Then the milky white was back, and keening laughter resounded in the room.

Severus… listen to me.

“No!” Snape shouted, raising his wand. Potter had spoken and yet he had not; the high, grating voice seemed to come from deep within the child.

“Stupefy!” Snape yelled, more out of instinct than anything else. Potter did not duck away from the red beam of light; he batted it aside like a mosquito and laughed.

Severus, you fool.

Slowly, very slowly, the boy reached into the cauldron in front of him. Snape watched, horrified, as his hand touched the acid substance within and immersed itself, deeper and deeper.

“No…”

Cold, high laughter filled the room as Potter pulled his hand out again; his whole, undamaged hand, in which he held a viscous blob of liquid.

“Potter…”

The liquid was hurled towards him, and only his well-honed reflexes saved him from catching a face-full of acid. A few drops of it landed on his robes, burning holes in the thick fabric and leaving searing pain behind.

Fuck you, Severus! the boy screeched, this time plunging both arms into the potion.

“Impedimenta!” Snape yelled, blocking the new handfuls of acid that were flung his way. “Potter, can you hear me?”

Fuck you fuck you fuck… you…

Potter dropped to his knees, his head thrown back. Blood was dripping from his open mouth, and he drew his ragged fingernails across his cheeks, leaving long, red scratches behind. Snape saw the white eyes close, and acted without a moment’s thought.

“Stupefy!”

This time, the spell hit home. Potter slumped to the floor, his glasses askew, eyes staring blankly. Green eyes, slightly bloodshot. The white sheen had disappeared. Whatever had been looking at Severus through Harry Potter’s eyes seemed to be gone.

Snape knew better than to approach the boy immediately. The… thing inside him might be hiding, trying to trick him.

“Scourgify,” he said softly, cleaning the potion off Potter’s limp hands. The acid had not left a single trace on the boy’s skin.

Potter moaned, stirring feebly. Snape took a careful step forward. “Potter?”

Another moan, one that sounded very much like a little boy in pain.

“Harry?”

No, there was no trace of that high voice, or the entity that had stared at him with those white eyes.

“Finite incantatem,” Snape said, lifting the stunning spell. The boy coughed, brought a hand up to straighten his glasses, and began to sit up.

“Pro… Professor Snape?”

“Yes,” Snape replied. “Do you remember what happened?”

Harry stared at him. Slowly, he brought shaking fingers to his chin, touching the blood and looking down at his red fingertips. He raised his head and took in the mess around them, the knocked over chairs and scattered ingredients.

“I…” His voice was a whisper, so soft that Snape hardly caught the words. “It… it was him, wasn’t it?”

“Him?” Snape repeated slowly. “Who are you talking about?”

“Him,” Harry whispered, drawing his knees to his chest. Tears were running down his face, but he didn’t seem to notice them. “Him… I’m sorry…”

Snape looked at the boy and was once again struck by how small he was. Small and frightened, and far too young to be a part of this. Any of this.

“No apologies are required,” he said, slightly awkwardly. “Your classmates are mostly responsible for the classroom’s current state of disarray.”

“I can’t stop him,” Harry whispered. “He… he’s… stronger…”

“I know he is, child.” Snape said it quietly, not even sure if Potter had heard him. “You’re bleeding. Let’s get you to the infirmary.”

Potter nodded and wiped at his cheeks in a very childlike gesture. He began to get up, and had almost managed to stand when his knees buckled under him, sending him back to the floor.

“S-sorry, Professor…”

The boy was white as a sheet and swaying on the spot. No way he could climb several sets of stairs in his condition.

“Come on then, Potter.” Snape kept his voice gruff to lessen the embarrassment for both of them.

The boy allowed himself to be picked up and immediately leaned his face against Snape’s chest. Snape took the uncharacteristic gesture as a sign that the boy was still teetering on the edge of a breakdown, seeking comfort wherever he could get it.

Potter was very light in his arms, as if he were carrying a bundle of rags. Snape glanced at his face, and saw a single drop of blood trickle down slowly from the scar. The boy’s eyes were closed, his breathing shallow. Snape could feel him shiver as if he had a fever.

“You’ll be feeling better soon,” he said, wondering what prompted him to offer comfort to this child.

Harry gave no reply. He never opened his eyes, one of his hands seeking the front of Snape’s robes and closing around the fabric. It was the gesture of a much younger child; a very primal plea for protection.

“Soon,” Snape repeated, because he could think of nothing else to say. “I promise.”

Poppy Pomfrey was not in the habit of asking unnecessary questions.

“Any serious injuries?” was the first thing she wanted to know when Snape entered with the boy in his arms.

“I don’t believe so,” Snape said, and found himself fixed by her stern gaze.

“Are you hurt, Severus?”

“No.”

The medi-witch left it at that, directing him over to a bed. “Put him down here.”

Potter, semi-conscious as he was, seemed unwilling to let go, his hand clutching at Snape’s robes.

“Potter, you need medical treatment,” Snape said, wondering why he didn’t simply loosen the boy’s grip by force. “I have to put you down. I’m not going anywhere,” he added, as the boy seemed to need some kind of reassurance.

Potter nodded feebly and allowed himself to be laid on the examination bed. Snape sat down on a chair, watching Pomfrey as she performed her diagnostic spells, her wand moving in complicated patterns over the boy’s body.

“What happened, Severus?”

“Possessus erat,” Snape said quietly. “Spectavi eventum.”

There was one good thing about the fact that young witches and wizards were no longer required to learn Latin; it made excluding them from “adult” conversations ever so much easier. To Pomfrey’s credit, she didn’t even flinch when Snape told her he’d witnessed Harry being possessed.

“Quid?” she asked softly. Snape merely shook his head in reply. He had his suspicions as to what had possessed the boy, but that was a piece of information he’d share with Albus Dumbledore only.

A scroll of parchment appeared on the bedside table, covered in the runic letters of the ancient Healer script. Pomfrey picked it up, her eyebrows drawing together as she read.

“Well?” Snape demanded.

She was still frowning down at the parchment. “His magical core is weakened, that’s to be expected… but…”

“What?” Snape asked impatiently, only to be ignored by the medi-witch, who leaned over the boy and gently stroked his cheek with the back of her hand.

“Harry?”

Potter blinked at her, his eyes more owlish than ever.

“Harry, I need to examine you more closely. I’m going to put you into a hospital gown, if that’s alright with you?”

The boy’s eyes traveled to Snape.

“Professor Snape can wait outside if you-“

“No,” Potter whispered. “Can he… can he stay?”

“Of course, love,” Pomfrey replied, covering up her surprise. “Professor Snape can stay if you want him to.”

Snape noticed that he wasn’t even asked on the matter; not that he would have wanted to leave. Something wasn’t right; he’d seen it in Pomfrey’s face when she looked at the examination results. Admittedly, it was a surprise that Potter would want him to stay; he was not the type of adult who inspired confidence in many children.

He watched as Pomfrey waved her wand, vanishing the boy’s robes and replacing them with a mint-green hospital gown. Potter looked down at himself and drew his hands into the sleeves of the gown, as if he wanted to hide as much of himself as possible.

“Can you sit up for me, Harry?” Pomfrey asked the boy, who nodded and began to push himself into a sitting position. As the boy perched on the edge of the bed, the gown’s collar slipped to reveal a skinny shoulder and protruding collarbone. Far too thin, Snape thought. He had seen Potter’s intimate acquaintance with hunger in the boy’s mind, but to have its results displayed before him like this…

It wasn’t right.

“Here, hold this against your tongue,” Pomfrey said, conjuring an ice pack and handing it to the boy. “It’ll help with the swelling.”

Obediently, Potter brought the ice pack to his mouth, wincing slightly as it came into contact with his tongue. Snape remembered how the boy had bitten himself, making blood drip down the sides of his mouth. Potter had felt no pain in his possessed state… it, whatever it was, had almost seemed to enjoy causing injuries, damaging the body it had chosen to inhabit.

Pomfrey had stepped behind the bed and began to undo the ties on the back of the boy’s gown. Potter seemed to shrink on himself, but made no move to stop her. Snape saw him close his eyes as the fabric was tugged apart.

“Oh no,” Pomfrey said softly, staring at the boy’s back. “Oh no.”

“What is it?” Snape got up from his chair.

“Look at this, Severus.”

Snape stepped behind the bed. And stared. Whatever he had expected, this was not it.

“They were inflicted deliberately?” he asked quietly.

“Definitely,” Pomfrey replied, a hard undertone to her voice. “This kind of pattern can’t be the result of an accident. Somebody did this, and quite professionally.”

Snape had seen worse in his time, but somehow, the sight of this little boy’s back rattled him more than all the pitiful human remnants of Death Eater cruelty ever had. Voldemort’s madness was random and indifferent; this had been done methodically. And it was not the result of magic.

Scars as thick as his index finger, forming a pattern on both sides of the boy’s bony spine. They stood out like some kind of abnormal growth, raising and distorting what had once been healthy skin. Some seemed to have healed quite well, while others had left patches of twisted red skin behind, the result of an untreated infection. Beginning above the boy’s shoulder blades and ending at the small of his back, they looked as if someone had attempted to paint a grotesque version of tiger stripes on Potter’s body.

“How?” he asked, not bothering to speak Latin this time. It wasn’t as if the boy could be protected from this.

“Hot metal,” Pomfrey said. Snape had never seen the stout witch look quite so pale. “A rod of some kind, I’d say.”

“What else?” Snape asked. The examination results had covered an entire scroll of parchment, so there had to be more. And he wanted to know. Wanted to hear exactly what had been done to this boy.

Pomfrey said nothing, simply handed him the scroll and touched it with her wand, transforming the runes into English. Then she carefully tugged the hospital gown back into place, walked around the bed and sat down next to Potter. Only when the witch pulled the boy into her lap and wrapped her arms around him did Snape notice the tears on Harry’s face. The boy was crying silently, his shoulders shaking with the effort to keep all sounds inside.

“It’s alright,” she whispered, stroking his hair. “It’s alright.”

Snape looked down at the parchment in his hand. Malnutrition, assorted bruises, slightly stunted growth, loss of several teeth as an after-effect of starvation. No one had noticed, of course; eleven-year-olds came in all shapes and sizes, and their teeth were gappy more often than not before they completed their second dentition. This was exactly why they needed mandatory physicals at the beginning of term, as he’d been trying to tell the rest of the staff for years. Oh, don’t be so pedantic, Severus. He was going to write it on their tombstones one day.

So Harry was an abused child, and the last of Snape’s preconceptions about Potter’s son were swirling down the drain. Not that he was unfamiliar with the symptoms of abuse. The old pureblood families stuck to their traditions, their centuries-old code of honor and their well-used straps and canes. Many of the children had no idea that their parents’ treatment of them might be perceived as cruel. On the contrary, they often seemed surprised when Snape informed them that corporal punishment was banned at Hogwarts.

Potter had certainly suffered that variant of abuse, but beatings did not account for the scars on the boy’s back. Something else had happened to this child.

Snape put down the parchment. Pomfrey was still holding Potter on her lap, stroking his hair. The boy had buried his face in her Healer robes.

“Loqui cum eo debeo,” Snape said.

Pomfrey shook her head. “Not now, Severus. The boy needs rest. Whatever you want to ask him can wait. Puer infans est,” she added, giving him a stern look.

He’s only a little boy. Snape gave her a curt nod, surprised when Potter suddenly raised his tear-stained face.

“I’m not an infant,” he said indignantly.

Pomfrey quickly averted her head to hide her smile, and Snape raised an eyebrow at the boy.

“Infans simply means young, Potter,” he said dryly. “I’m pleased to see you have sufficiently recovered to eavesdrop on your elders.”

Pomfrey shot him a disapproving look, but Potter straightened on her lap.

“Wasn’t eavesdropping,” he muttered. “You were talking spell language so I wouldn’t understand.”

“It’s called Latin,” Snape replied. “Or lingua magica.”

“Magical language.”

“Very good, Potter,” Snape nodded, and the boy looked rather pleased with himself. “Now I suggest you do as Madame Pomfrey says and get some rest.”

Potter nodded and slipped off the medi-witch’s lap, looking around the cubicle.

“Do you need something, Harry?” Pomfrey asked.

“Can’t go back to the dorms like this,” the boy replied, waving a hand at his attire.

“You won’t be going to the dorms,” she said, taking his arm and gently steering him to a nearby hospital bed. “I’d like you to stay here for a while.”

Potter shrugged and climbed onto the bed. “Not sick,” he muttered.

“No,” Pomfrey said, “but you’ve had a very exhausting experience and need to replenish your magical energy.”

She took a small blue bottle from a shelf, uncorked it and handed it to him. “Here. This will help you get some rest.”

Potter glanced down at the bottle and up at Snape, who nodded at him. “Drink it, Potter.”

The boy obeyed, gulping down the Calming Draught in one swallow. Snape saw him grimace slightly, but as usual, Potter wasted no words complaining about the taste. Pomfrey pulled up his blanket as he lay down, brushing back a strand of black hair that had fallen into the pale face.

“Try to get some sleep,” she said, but Potter wasn’t looking at her. He was staring at Snape, an unspoken question in his eyes.

“I’ll be back later,” Snape told him, and the boy nodded, closing his eyes. Gently, Pomfrey took off his glasses and put them down on the bedside table. Straightening up, she nodded at Snape to follow her.

Pomfrey led him to her office at the back of the infirmary, closing the door behind them.

“That was kind of you, Severus,” she said.

He raised his eyebrows. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She gave him a knowing look. “Be that as it may, the boy clearly trusts you.”

“I doubt whether Potter trusts anyone.”

The medi-witch sat down heavily on her desk chair. “Maybe not. But there seems to be a rapport between you. If he talks to anyone about what happened to him, he’ll talk to you.”

Snape picked up a potions bottle from her desk, turning in absentmindedly in his hands.

“Somebody tortured the boy,” he said.

“Yes. But I don’t understand. I’ve never seen this kind of thing before...”

…in any of the Death Eater victims I treated, Snape silently finished her sentence.

“I don’t believe that wizards were involved,” he said, still staring at the bottle in his hands. The light that reflected off it distorted the mirror image of the room.

“Muggles can’t have…”

“You’d be surprised what Muggles can do,” Snape cut across her, abruptly setting the bottle down. “I need to go and inform the Headmaster. Call me when the boy wakes up.”

She nodded. “I’d like to keep him overnight. I don’t think it would be a good idea for him to go back to his dormitory just now.”

Thinking of Potter back in the Potions classroom, Snape nodded. “I’ll let Albus know.”

On his way to the infirmary door, he glanced over at Potter’s bed. The boy seemed to be sleeping, his head slightly tilted to one side. Snape took out his wand, holding it so that Pomfrey would not be able to see what he was doing.

“Insomnia expello,” he muttered, watching the thin red streak hit its target. No nightmares for the boy; it wasn’t too much to ask, even if it involved unauthorized spellwork performed on a student. One day he’d convince Pomfrey that Dreamless Sleep Potions were perfectly safe to be used on pre-teens.

And now for a very unpleasant conversation. Sighing, Snape quietly closed the infirmary doors behind him, heading for the Headmaster’s office.

“He spoke to you.”

It wasn’t a question. Dumbledore leaned in the chair behind his desk, eyeing Snape through his half-moon glasses. The old wizard seemed quite calm, but Snape knew Albus Dumbledore well enough to realize that his news had unsettled the Headmaster.

“He spoke, yes,” he said. “I cannot be sure, however.”

“He called you by your first name.”

“Yes.”

Dumbledore was silent for a long moment. “This is… disturbing news, Severus.”

The old man had always had a gift for understatement. “There’s more, Headmaster,” Snape said stiffly. This would not be easy.

Dumbledore steepled his fingers on the desk, his eyes never leaving Snape. “Continue.”

“Madame Pomfrey examined the boy,” Snape said. “He’s been abused. And there are… injuries.”

He described the scars on Potter’s back, carefully watching Dumbledore’s face as he did so. He would never be able to probe the old man’s thoughts, as Dumbledore was far too accomplished an Occlumens to let his shields down. Experience had taught him, however, to read the expressions on the ancient face. And there it was; genuine surprise, genuine disgust… and sadness.

Even to himself, Snape would not admit that he was relieved.

When he had finished, Dumbledore closed his eyes and said nothing for a long time. Fawkes the phoenix cawed on his perch, spread his wings and soared over to land on his master’s shoulder. He nipped Dumbledore’s ear, and the old man opened his eyes again.

“Thank you,” he said quietly to the bird, who clucked and shook his feathers.

Dumbledore’s eyes came to rest on Snape again, and not for the first time the Potions Master felt as if they could see to the very darkest layers of his soul.

“I did not know about this, Severus.”

Snape forced himself not to look away. “I know.”

“Which is no excuse,” the Headmaster added in a softer voice. “I promised Lily to protect her family.”

“As did I,” Snape said.

“Then naturally we both blame ourselves, which will do Harry no good whatsoever.” Dumbledore sighed. “You said he understood what happened?”

“He referred to the presence as “him”, and said he could not stop it. It seems that he was aware of the possession to some degree… and that it happened before.”

“Most likely,” Dumbledore said. “You will need to speak to him about it, Severus… about everything.”

Snape nodded curtly. “If it is Him…”

“Do not attempt Legilimency on the boy,” Dumbledore said, his voice becoming sharp. “It is too dangerous, Severus. At the moment, the entity has access to a very young wizard’s powers; imagine what it could do with a fully grown one’s.”

He stared at Snape until the Potions Master nodded reluctantly.

“I’m glad we understand each other, Severus,” Dumbledore continued more calmly. “For now, Harry is to remain in the infirmary. His friends may visit him if they wish… young Draco Malfoy, I believe, and Hermione Granger?” he asked, proving once again that very little went past Albus Dumbledore. “I would appreciate it if you accompanied them; they should not be left alone.”

Alone with Potter, Snape completed the sentence in his mind. He agreed whole-heartedly with Dumbledore on this; back in the Potions classroom, it had been very obvious that the presence in Potter had no qualms about hurting or killing.

“The infirmary needs to be warded, and there should be an adult with Harry at all times,” Dumbledore said. “As for the case that the entity returns, precautions need to be taken. And I’ll need to be informed immediately.”

Severus didn’t ask Dumbledore to clarify what he meant by “precautions”. Possessed or demented wizards were ticking time bombs, capable of murder and destruction far beyond anything an insane Muggle could do. There were spells and potions, none of which should be used on a child, all of which they would use to prevent a killing spree in a castle full of students.

“Yes, Headmaster.”

Dumbledore sighed. “When I saw him at the Sorting, I knew Harry was not happy, but I never assumed…”

“Not every child Sorted into Slytherin is unhappy.” It was Snape’s turn to sound sharp.

“I know, my boy,” Dumbledore replied mildly. “I never meant to imply as much. I could see that Harry was not well even before he put on the Sorting Hat. I’m glad, in fact, that he enjoys the protection of your House.”

“He does,” Snape said, mollified and slightly embarrassed at having snapped at the Headmaster.

“Which is a great relief,” Dumbledore said. “He will need your support now more than ever.”

“He has it,” Snape said stiffly. “If that will be all?”

Dumbledore nodded. “And Severus?”

“Yes?”

“Let me know what Harry tells you,” the old wizard said softly.

Snape nodded. “I will.”

###

When Snape returned to the infirmary in the evening, he was accompanied by Draco and a rather nervous Hermione Granger. His godson had cornered him during study hours in the Great Hall, wanting to know where Potter had disappeared to after Potions. Granger overheard their conversation and came bounding over as soon as Snape had sent Draco back to his homework.

“Professor, I’m finished with the essay on the properties of wolfsbane, and I added an extra paragraph on why it has to be harvested during full moon, I hope that’s not too much! Can I come along when Draco visits Harry?”

Since Dumbledore had given his explicit permission, Snape reluctantly allowed both children to come with him. He’d have preferred to talk to Potter without an audience; he could hardly ask the boy any questions with his friends gathered around the bed.

“I’m going to give him these,” Draco announced, holding up a large silver box engraved with an elegant foreign crest. “Dragons au chocolate. Mother orders them from Belgium; they’re much better than the rubbish from Honeydukes, she says. I ate the ones with nougat filling, do you think Potter will mind?”

Snape was about to reply when Granger spoke up.

“You shouldn’t have opened the box if you were going to give it to someone as a present,” she said in a schoolmasterly tone. “That’s not very polite.”

“I didn’t know I was going to give it to Potter, did I? Anyway, what do you-”

“And you shouldn’t give him chocolate if he’s sick,” Granger continued. “It’s bad for you, and it gives you caries.”

Draco looked outraged, and at the same time lost for words – a rare occurrence in Snape’s godson. “What – how would you know?”

“My mum says so,” Granger replied. “She and Dad are dentists, they know all about teeth.”

Draco stared at her. “Dentists? So you’re a Mud-”

“Draco,” Snape interrupted sharply, and the boy quickly closed his mouth. “Miss Granger, I’m sure Mr. Potter will survive the consumption of a few chocolate dragons if he remembers to brush his teeth afterwards.”

The girl nodded conciliatorily, not noticing the side glance she was getting from Draco. Snape sighed inwardly, hoping his godson would watch his language. He had no desire to lecture the boy on the subject yet again.

Potter was awake when Snape entered the infirmary with the two children in tow. The boy looked slightly less pale than before, sitting cross-legged in bed and feeding treats to a snowy owl. Snape was not surprised to see the bird perched on the headboard; Pomfrey often allowed her young patients to bring their familiars for company. According to the medi-witch, their presence enhanced the healing process.

Potter did not smile – he hardly ever did – but his expression brightened considerably when he saw Draco and Granger following Snape. As they approached the bed, the Potions Master felt a slight tingling on his skin as he passed through an invisible energy barrier. It seemed that the “precautions” Dumbledore had mentioned were already in place.

At the back of the infirmary, Pomfrey glanced up from the vials she was labelling and nodded at Snape. So far so good.

“Hi, Potter,” Draco said, dumping the chocolate box on the bed. “Here. Chocolate dragons from Belgium,“ he added. “Mother sent me another box, so you can have these.”

“Cool.” Potter opened it and selected a caramel Norwegian Ridgeback, then offered the box to Snape and Granger. “Want one?”

Snape declined, but Granger seemed to have forgotten her mother’s admonitions and picked a Chinese Fireball.

“Thanks, Harry,” she said happily, taking a bite. “Oh, these are really good!”

“I thought chocolate was bad for you,” Draco snarked.

The girl ignored him with an air of dignity. “How are you feeling, Harry? Were you really worried about missing Transfiguration and Charms? I brought you my notes so you can copy them, and Professor McGonagall said you should read chapter 3 and do the exercises 5 and 6 on page 67 for next lesson.”

“Like he’s going to do homework,” Draco rolled his eyes, earning himself stern looks from his godfather and Granger.

Potter didn’t comment on the homework question, intent on picking out all the caramel dragons before he offered the box to Draco and Granger again.

Draco shook his head. “You have these, I’ve got loads more back in the dorm.”

Granger picked a Swedish Shortsnout this time. “It’s really nice of your mum to send you these, Draco,” she said. “They’re so good!”

Draco looked smug. “Better than anything you get from your dentist parents, I bet.”

Granger didn’t seem offended. “Yes,” she admitted. “They mostly send me sugar-free sweets.”

“Your birthday cake was good.” Potter spoke up for the first time.

“Oh yes,” Granger smiled. “Aunt Miranda made it. She’s a witch like me. Mum always says that magical people have appallingly bad dental care, but they really know how to cook.”

Draco looked between Potter and Granger. “How come you had some of her birthday cake?” he demanded.

“I had some left over and Harry came back to Ravenclaw Tower with me and we shared it,” Granger said in a rush before Potter had even opened his mouth.

“Oh,” Draco paused. “My birthday’s two days after Christmas. I’m going to have a party at the manor. Father says we can get a band and everything. You’re invited, Potter. You too, if you want,” he added to Granger as an after-thought, not looking at the girl.

Granger blushed. “Sure.”

Snape glanced at the ceiling, imagining Lucius’ face as his son announced that he was inviting Muggleborns and the Boy-Who-Lived to his birthday function. It was not a pretty sight even in his mind’s eye.

After that, the mood between Draco and the Ravenclaw girl changed slightly. Draco made no more remarks about her parents, and Granger offered to “help” him with Transfiguration; their wary side-glances told Snape that this was student code for giving him her homework to copy. He decided not to interfere. Granger was probably a good influence on his godson, and it was obvious even to him how desperately the girl wanted friends.

He sat down on a chair next to Potter’s bed, listening to Draco talking Quidditch and Granger adding random bits of information she had found in some book or other. Potter seemed to enjoy their company, even though he didn’t contribute much to the conversation. When Draco brought up his favorite subject, his Nimbus Streak of Glory, the boy’s green eyes lit with excitement and he asked one of his rare questions.

“Could I give it a try when I’m at your house?”

Draco nodded. “Don’t tell Vince and Greg, though. They’ll want to have a go, too, and I don’t want them crashing it into a tree.”

“I won’t,” Potter promised.

“I wonder if airplanes would fly by magic if you put a really strong Anti-Grav Charm on them,” Granger mused, oblivious to the askance look she was getting from Draco. “I mean, if it works with broomsticks… would they, Professor Snape?”

“I don’t believe so, Miss Granger,” Snape said. “Muggle airplanes rely largely on computer technology these days, and magic interferes with electronic devices. And as most wizards can Apparate or travel by portkey, there is hardly any need for alternative means of transportation.”

“Yeah, but you could sell the spell to the Muggles,” Draco said. “They’d pay anything to have those flying machines of theirs stay up just like that.”

“And you could change the spell so that it only works for one airplane at a time,” Potter added. “That way they’d have to pay again every time they get a new plane.”

Granger looked scandalized at this rather Slytherin view of things, and began to lecture the boys on the International Statute of Secrecy and its ban on selling magic to the non-wizarding population.

Quite some time later, Snape glanced at the clock on the wall, surprised when he saw how much time had passed. He’d originally planned on a fifteen-minute visit for the two children, just to get his tenacious godson off his back.

“Well,” he said, getting up from his chair, “I believe that dinner is about to served in the Great Hall. Time to go, Draco, Miss Granger.”

Granger looked crestfallen, while Draco immediately began to negotiate. “Only ten more minutes, Uncle Sev. Potter still needs my Potions notes, right, Potter?”

Snape raised an eyebrow at his godson, who seemed to think he was being very sneaky. “I’m sure Mr. Potter will find Miss Granger’s notes to be sufficiently comprehensive,” he said with a glance at the pile of parchment on Potter’s bedside table. “Come on, Draco. You may return tomorrow.”

Draco sighed. “Okay. I’ll bring you some Quidditch mags,” he said to the other boy. Potter looked pleased.

“When is Harry coming back to classes, Professor?” Granger asked. “Professor Flitwick said we’ll be starting Hovering Charms next lesson, and that they’re really important for the exams…”

Snape noticed Potter watching him intently. “I can’t say for sure,” he replied. “It might be a while. Mr. Potter would certainly benefit from your notes so he doesn’t fall behind.”

Granger beamed. “I’ll bring them by every day,” she promised. “And I’ll show you how to do the wand movements and everything.”

At long last, Snape managed to usher his godson and Granger to the door, assuring them that yes, they could come back the next day after classes, and no, they could not have their meals brought to the infirmary.

“But Uncle Sev, don’t you want Potter to have company while he eats?”

“I’ll keep Mr. Potter company as he has dinner, Draco. Now off to the Great Hall with you.”

He watched the two as they left. Draco had obviously decided that Harry Potter was going to be his best friend, and the Malfoy scion was used to getting what he wanted. What surprised Snape was that Draco would accept a Muggleborn witch, or more to the point, the presence of another “best friend”. His godson was not usually one for sharing.

After the door had closed behind the two children, Snape went back to Potter’s bed. The boy was looking slightly sulky; no doubt he would have preferred dinner with his friends than with his stern Head of House.

Pomfrey brought over dinner trays for them; spaghetti and meatballs for the boy, and shepherd’s pie for Snape.

“What’s this?” Potter wanted to know, pointing at a glass filled with thick, purple liquid.

“A nutrient potion,” Pomfrey said.

“A what?”

“A potion to make you healthy.”

“I’m not sick.”

The medi-witch smiled. “No, but you need to put some meat on your bones. And there’s a rule in this infirmary that patients who drink their potions without complaining get to choose their own pudding.”

“Treacle tart?” Potter asked.

“Potion first,” Pomfrey replied. The witch certainly knew how to deal with her Slytherin patients.

Potter drank his potion with only a small grimace, watching like a hawk as Pomfrey put a plate of treacle tart on his tray. When he was satisfied that he would not be cheated out of his reward, he turned to his dinner.

Watching the boy eat, Snape thought that spaghetti might not have been the best choice of food. Potter picked out the meatballs first and crammed them into his mouth two or three at a time, chewing noisily. Only when the last of the meatballs were gone did he pick up his fork, although he seemed to be unsure what to do with it. Eventually, he leaned down over his tray, his nose almost touching the food as he shoveled forkfuls of pasta into his mouth. Tomato sauce dribbled down his chin and onto the sheets. Pomfrey exchanged a glance with Snape, who sighed and set his own tray aside.

“Mr. Potter.”

Potter glanced up, his mouth full of spaghetti.

“Hand me your plate,” Snape said.

The boy gave him a suspicious look, guarding his food with one hand.

“I promise I will give it back to you in a moment,” Snape added. When he was handed the plate by a reluctant Potter, he proceeded to cut the pasta into small pieces. “Here,” he said, setting the plate back down in front of the boy. “You may use your spoon to finish your meal.”

“Thanks,” Potter mumbled, looking embarrassed. He tried to eat more slowly after that, but was obviously unused to meals that were not consumed in nervous haste.

Snape remembered his godson’s off-handed remark that Potter was ‘weird’ about food. At the Welcoming Feast, he had ascribed the boy’s lack of table manners to over-indulgence; surely his doting Muggle relatives tolerated any sort of misbehavior from their little prince. Little princes, however, were not given to hoarding stale bread crusts under their beds, nor did they make themselves sick in their haste to finish their food. Nor, Snape thought with a glance at the boy’s bony wrists, did they show signs of starvation and abuse. He was not looking forward to the impending conversation.

Potter ate his treacle tart and hid the crust in his napkin; Snape pretended not to notice as the boy slipped it under his pillow. The food hoarding would have to be addressed, but not now. He had more pressing matters to discuss with the boy.

Soon after, Pomfrey came back to take their trays away and then disappeared into her office, presumably to give them privacy for their talk. Potter followed her with his eyes. He seemed to sense that the adults were Up To Something.

Snape decided to begin without preamble; if children were already on their guard, a direct approach usually worked best.

“We need to discuss the results of your examination, Potter.” He did not miss the boy’s fearful look, or his quick glance at the infirmary door. “Madam Pomfrey found some deep scarring on your back, as well as traces of other injuries. Can you tell me how you came to sustain these wounds?”

For a moment, Snape thought the boy would jump out of bed and run. But Potter did not. The boy’s face became completely blank, and he looked away, staring at the empty space over Snape’s left shoulder.

“You need to tell me, Potter. Who is responsible for your injuries?”

Silence.

“There is no danger in disclosing what you know,” Snape said. “The only people who will be informed are Madam Pomfrey and the Headmaster. No one else.”

No response.

Snape sighed. “Potter. We need to know about your injuries so we can help you.”

Finally, the boy turned to look at him. “You’re wrong,” he said quietly. “I don’t have injuries.”

“I don’t have any injuries.”

Snape paused. He had expected any form of evasion, of lies, but not outright denial. “Potter,” he said slowly. “There are scars on your back that were deliberately inflicted. You must have some recollection of how they came to be there.”

“You’re wrong,” Potter said, in a strange tone that didn’t sound like the boy at all. “There are no scars. I don’t have any scars.”

“Potter…”

“Leave me alone,” the boy said, a note of agitation creeping into his voice. “Leave me alone.”

“I will not,” Snape said sharply. “You and I will discuss this, now. How did you come to be injured, Potter?”

Potter clamped his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut. His lips moved, forming inaudible words.

“Potter! Cease this childish behavior at once!” As soon as the words had left his mouth, Snape felt foolish. Potter was a child, one who’d been pushed beyond his abilities to cope, and snapping at him would solve nothing.

Snape got up from his chair and approached the bed. The boy had curled up into a ball, rocking back and forth in a manner that reminded Snape of patients he’d seen in St. Mungo’s mental ward. People who weren’t aware of anything but their inner demons.

He reached out and laid a hand on Potter’s shoulder. He could feel every single one of the boy’s bones.

“Potter.”

The boy continued rocking.

“Harry.” Strange, how easily the name passed his lips. “Look at me.”

Snape felt a tremor under his fingers as the rocking ceased. The boy sat very still, then all of a sudden his muscles spasmed, his legs shot out straight, his fingers curled into claws. Snape yanked his hand back as if burned.

The boy threw his head back, and those hooked fingers came up and dug into his cheeks, scratching, clawing.

“No!” Snape stepped forward and grabbed the boy’s wrists. “Potter-”

The child’s eyes snapped open, white and pupilless. A scream came out of his mouth, an angry, grating sound.

Do not touch!

A sudden pain flared in his hands, and Snape let go of the boy’s wrists. His palms were red and blistered where they had been in contact with Potter’s skin.

The boy laughed. The sound held no mirth, only spite and malice, of a kind Snape had witnessed in only one man.

Severus…

Someone gasped behind him, and from the corner of his eye, Snape saw that Pomfrey had stepped out of her office. The nurse had clapped both hands in front of her mouth, staring at the thing in her hospital bed.

You cannot evade me forever, Severus.

Snape took out his wand. “Leave the boy alone,” he said. His own voice sounded strange in his ears. “Leave him.”

You are giving orders now, my young friend?

On the shelves along the walls, the glass vials began to shake and tinkle like live things. A crack appeared in the window behind the bed, and the torches in their mounts flickered wildly. The glass that had contained the nutrient potion toppled off the nightstand, shattering into a thousand pieces.

You are ordering me, Severus?

“I am,” a voice said next to him. Snape turned his head and saw Dumbledore standing there. He had no idea when the Headmaster had entered, or if, in fact, the doors to the infirmary had opened at all. “I am ordering you, Tom,” Dumbledore said, and there was an aura of raw power around him, so strong that Snape nearly averted his eyes.

You! the voice screeched, while Potter never moved his lips. Go away! Go away and die, old man! I am not afraid of you!

“Ah, but I believe you are.” Dumbledore raised a hand, his palm turned towards the boy on the bed. “I believe you are very much afraid, Tom.”

Why do you call me that? The voice cackled as the torches in the room flickered and died. I am Harry, I am your chosen boy. This is who I am, old man.

“Do not play games with me, Tom,” Dumbledore said, still quite calm. “I’m telling you to leave us. Now.”

I could kill them all, Dumbledore! I could kill him, your redeemed little traitor! Do you want to see? Do you want me to demonstrate?

The boy was suddenly in front of the bed, his feet never quite touching the floor. He raised a bloodied, twisted hand towards Snape.

“Protelo inimicum!” Dumbledore shouted.

White light surrounded them, and Snape watched as it engulfed the boy, as if invisible hands had grabbed the child and were trying to shake the life out of him. Potter screamed silently, his hands clutching his throat. Something dark dripped down from his nose; blood, Snape realized.

“Protelo!” Dumbledore extended his hand towards Potter, who was shaken harder.

“Albus,” Snape grabbed the man’s shoulder, “you’re killing him-”

“Protelo!”

The boy was thrown back on the bed, and the white light disappeared as suddenly as it had come. Potter lay there limp as a ragdoll, blood dripping from his nose and trickling down the sides of his mouth. The glass vials had stopped tinkling. Somewhere in the background, Snape could hear Pomfrey’s harsh breathing.

He noticed that he was still clutching the Headmaster’s shoulder, and let go abruptly. Dumbledore seemed to have sunken in on himself the moment the white light disappeared. He looked old, the lines on his face harsher in the semi-darkness than Snape had ever seen them.

Snape watched as he slowly, hesitantly stepped towards the bed. Shoulders hanging, he stood there for a moment in silence before he carefully extended a hand towards the boy.

“Harry…”

Dumbledore’s fingers brushed gently over the boy’s brow, coming to rest in the middle of his forehead.

“Harry, please wake up.”

The child stirred and moaned. Dumbledore began stroking the tousled black hair, talking softly as one would to an injured dog.

“Wake up, Harry, it’s all right, it’s over…”

The boy opened his eyes, looking confused and frightened. “W-wha-”

“I’m so sorry, Harry,” the Headmaster whispered.

The boy’s eyes filled with tears. He sniffled and brought up a hand, wiping snot and blood across his mutilated cheeks.

“Don’t, Potter.” Snape surprised himself by speaking up. He summoned a bowl of water and a soft cloth from a nearby table, brushed past the medi-witch who hadn’t moved and walked up to Potter’s bed. “You’ve had quite the nosebleed. Let me clean you up.”

Ignoring the fact that he was being watched by both Pomfrey and Dumbledore, Snape dipped the cloth into the water and began to dab the blood off Potter’s face, careful to avoid the deep cuts left by the boy’s fingernails. The blisters on his hands stung, but Snape continued without paying any mind to the pain.

Potter’s eyes sought and found Snape’s. “What – what happened?”

“He was back,” Snape replied; there was no sense in lying to the child. “Professor Dumbledore forced him to leave.”

“I’m sorry, Harry.” Dumbledore’s voice had grown firmer again. “I never meant to hurt you.”

The boy sniffed.

“It was not your fault, Harry,” Dumbledore said, perching on the boy’s bed. His usual kindly expression had returned, and he reached for Potter’s hand, patting it gently. “You did nothing wrong.”

“He’s… he’s inside me,” Potter whispered.

Dumbledore exchanged a look with Snape. “Harry,” he said. “We’re here to help you.”

“You can’t.” The boy’s eyes filled with tears again. “There’s nothing anyone can do. They-they tried...”

“Who did?” Snape asked immediately. “What did they try?”

Potter was crying silently, but gave no reply. At that moment, Pomfrey seemed to have returned to her usual brisk self, and came bustling over.

“Headmaster, Severus,” she said, frowning at them. “Harry’s had an obviously traumatic experience. I must insist that you postpone any questions you have until after he’s rested. Here,” she summoned a vial of Calming Draught, uncorked it and handed it to the boy. “Drink this, dear. It’ll make you feel better.”

Potter swallowed the draught without protest, wiping his eyes surreptitiously. Dumbledore handed him a large, embroidered handkerchief which he pulled from one of his many pockets.

“Here,” he said. “You may keep it. I daresay I have too many of these; my great-uncle Ravus left me about four dozen.”

“Thanks,” the boy muttered, not looking at the Headmaster as he took it. If Albus had hoped to make him smile, he was disappointed.

Meanwhile, Snape had finished cleaning the worst of the mess from Potter’s face, and made room for Pomfrey so she could begin applying a healing salve to the cuts. Potter just lay there and let it happen; from time to time, he looked at Snape, as if to reassure himself of something.

“Could I speak to you, Severus?” Dumbledore said softly. Snape nodded, although for some strange reason he wished he could have stayed.

It wasn’t right, that a child should injure himself and be thrown across a room, simply because he happened to… what? Have the Dark Lord poking around in his mind?

“Severus,” Dumbledore said, and Snape turned to follow him to Pomfrey’s office, not without giving the boy on the bed a short, silent nod. I’m not leaving for long.

Dumbledore closed the door behind them, and Snape felt himself reminded of the conversation he’d had with Pomfrey in this very room earlier that day.

“Headmaster,” he said. “Poppy shouldn’t be left alone in there.”

“This won’t take long,” Dumbledore glanced at the door. “I’ve placed a tracking charm on Harry alerting me to his… state of mind. I’ll know if Poppy is in danger.”

“That is how you knew earlier,” Snape stated, and the old wizard nodded.

“Yes. I had hoped that my intervention would not be necessary, but…” He sighed deeply. “Severus, I must admit that this is a worrying development.”

Snape could have rolled his eyes at the ridiculous understatement. “Yes, Albus, the fact that the Dark Lord is alive and possessing one of my students does raise a certain concern.”

As usual, Dumbledore ignored his sarcasm. “I’m not entirely sure if “alive” is the right expression…”

“Does it matter?” Snape asked sharply. “He speaks and acts through Potter. He uses Potter’s powers to perform magic. He’s threatened to kill. I don’t believe that metaphysical questions of life after death are of any importance at this point.”

“I’m not sure I agree, Severus, but you’re right, of course. Or first concern at the moment must be Harry.”

Snape didn’t point out that he had never actually said this. “What do you have in mind, Albus?”

“We need to find out what happened,” Dumbledore replied. “We need to know how long this has been going on.”

“Potter won’t speak about it,” Snape said. “He claims he has no memory of sustaining the injuries to his back.”

“It’s possible that he does not remember exactly what happened; the event may have been too traumatizing for him to recall it in its entirety. But I don’t believe that speaking to the boy will do us much good.”

“You said yourself that Legilimency would be too dangerous…”

Dumbledore nodded. “And so it would. I may be capable of defending myself against Tom’s attacks, but not without doing irreparable damage to Harry’s mind. I believe we need to resort to another way of gaining access to Harry’s memories.”

“Extraho memoriam,” Snape stated after a pause.

“Yes,” Dumbledore said. “I think that’s our best option at the moment.”

Snape said nothing. Extraho memoriam was a highly controversial spell, one which many wizards would count among the Dark Arts. The Ministry had put a ban on it, allowing its use only under very special circumstances. Snape could not imagine that even the present situation would strike Fudge and his brain trust as enough of an emergency to use the spell on a minor.

Not that they didn’t have a point. To steal someone’s memories while they were sleeping, taking advantage of their vulnerable, open minds to access their thoughts by force… Snape had to admit that the idea was chilling.

“You realize that the consequences will be highly unpleasant if anyone finds out,” he said.

Dumbledore smiled. “Not if we ask Harry’s permission.”

Snape blinked. He’d never heard of Extraho memoriam being performed with the victim’s knowledge, and he couldn’t imagine anyone willing to expose themselves in such a way. “Ask his permission? Potter’s a child, Albus. He doesn’t understand.”

“Oh, I believe you underestimate Harry. And I trust in your powers of persuasion to help him see that this needs to be done.”

“My powers of… why would I be able to convince Potter?”

Dumbledore gave him one of his infuriatingly knowing looks. “My dear boy, it’s obvious that Harry trusts you. He looks to you for comfort and guidance.”

Snape glared at the Headmaster. He did not do comfort and guidance, as Albus very well knew. Perhaps he did provide guidance – his Slytherins, well, all students in fact, were in dire need of it – but he was no sentimental fool who cuddled first-years and attended birthday parties in the common room. Well, not if he could help it.

“Severus,” Dumbledore put a hand on his arm. “I’m only asking you to explain to the boy that we’re trying to help him, and that we need to see his memories. You would do the same for any of your Slytherins.”

Angry though he was at Dumbledore’s manipulations, Snape had to agree. “My students have no reason to distrust me,” he said stiffly.

“I know, my boy. You do an exceptional job of caring for your House. As I said before, I’m glad Harry can rely on your protection.”

“I’ll speak to him,” Snape said curtly. “After he’s rested.”

“Excellent,” Dumbledore smiled. “Now, as for tonight…”

“I’ll remain in the infirmary,” Snape cut across him. “Poppy should not be left alone.”

“I’ll ask Minerva and Filius to cover your classes tomorrow,” Dumbledore said, and from his tone, Snape could tell that there was no arguing with him on the matter. “You don’t have to do this on your own, Severus.”

Snape gave no reply. There was a child next door whom he had promised to protect, and it unsettled him deeply, knowing that there was very little indeed he could do to help Harry Potter.

Snape strode down the corridor to the Headmaster’s office, scowling at two Hufflepuff second-years who quickly scrambled out of the way. Their startled expressions told Snape that he must look quite a sight. Well, a sleepless night showed even on the bat of the dungeons, never mind the fact that he hadn’t had a change of robes in more than twenty-four hours. Contrary to popular opinion, Snape did value his daily shower, and he hated presenting himself to the Headmaster in such a state. Not that Dumbledore would care. More likely than not, he’d only have eyes for the small vial that was currently tucked away in Snape’s inside pocket.

“Coffee toffee,” Snape snarled at the gargoyle, which moved obediently to reveal the entrance to the spiral staircase. Why the man couldn’t choose less annoying passwords was beyond Snape. Besides, the current one reminded him that he hadn’t had his morning dose of coffein, either. Pomfrey had pushed a cup in his hand and he’d drunk it without looking, too occupied at the time to care that it was some kind of ghastly herbal tea.

As he entered the office, he found Dumbledore seated behind his desk, the Pensieve standing in front of him. A cloudy figure was hovering over the transparent surface, revolving slowly on its axis. The old wizard contemplated it for a moment before he waved his wand, banishing the memory back into the basin.

“Severus,” he greeted Snape. “Please, sit down. I’ve taken the liberty of having your favorite brand brought up from the kitchens.”

He nodded at a large, steaming mug on his desk. Snape grabbed it without further ado and took a long gulp. Indeed, finely ground Arabian Cauldron, undiluted by sugar, milk or any other contaminating additions.

“Thank you, Albus.” Snape sat down. “I appreciate it.”

“I knew you would, my boy,” Dumbledore smiled. “As for myself, a lemon sherbet or two usually does the trick, but then, one of the advantages of age is that one requires less sleep. How is Harry?”

“Asleep,” Snape replied, refusing to sound as if he envied the boy. “It has been a long night.”

“I imagine it was, and I owe you my thanks,” Dumbledore said. “I assume you have been successful in extracting the memories?”

Snape took the vial out of his pocket and put it on the table. The misty substance inside swirled and spun, as if trying to escape the confinement of the glass walls.

“I gathered as much as I could.”

“I’m sure it will be more than sufficient,” Dumbledore said, his eyes on the small container. “I knew you had the boy’s trust, Severus.”

Snape said nothing. You didn’t need a little boy’s trust to convince him; all you needed was a child starving for praise and acceptance. Potter had not wanted to give up his memories, not for Dumbledore, Snape or anyone else; what he wanted was an adult’s approval. Once Snape told him that it would be a brave, a good thing to do, that he and the Headmaster would be proud, the boy had caved. A few promises of extra flying lessons and a visit to Hogsmeade, and Potter had been exactly where Snape wanted him.

Strange, that he should not feel the slightest bit triumphant about it. Perhaps he was too tired. He’d spent the entire night sitting at the boy’s bedside, his wand gently touching Potter’s temple while he waited for the silvery memories to manifest themselves. When dawn broke, the vial had been nearly full.

“It was the right thing to do, Severus,” Dumbledore said, and not for the first time Snape thought he’d felt the brush of another mind against his own. “We’re trying to help him.”

Snape didn’t look at his mentor. “Let’s begin,” was all he said.

Dumbledore uncorked the vial and poured its content into his Pensieve. There was a soft hiss as it plunged past the shimmering surface, mingling with the substance within. Snape leaned over the stone basin. His and the Headmaster’s reflections stared back at him, distorted by the swirling of the liquid-like fog.

He suddenly realized that he had no desire to see whatever was hiding in there. Not that he had any choice in the matter. None of them, it seemed, had much of a choice in any of this.

Taking a deep breath, Snape leaned forward into Harry Potter’s memories.

A little boy was sitting on the floor. His appearance looked at odds with the over-decorated living room, the expensive sofa set, the mahogany wall unit and the gleaming brass accessories. Nothing about the place gave the slightest hint of neglect or indifference, whereas the same could not be said of the toddler. Grubby, was the first word that came to Snape’s mind as he looked at the child; the kind of grubby you’d expect in a dump littered with bottles and covered in grime.

The boy seemed to be about two years old, but he lacked the chubby, rosy look of children his age. His sallow, unhealthy complexion made the scar on his forehead stand out like a fresh wound, and his black hair was a greasy rat’s nest in dire need of a cut. Someone had dressed the boy in a baggy blue shirt with a stained collar. Apart from the shirt, he wore only a nappy and a pair of graying socks.

Not exactly the kind of toddler people wanted to pick up and cuddle, even if they pitied him. The expressions of the man and the woman on the couch suggested as much. They looked at the boy as if he were a stain on their white rug - annoying, disgusting and just the slightest bit frightening, a thing that did not belong.

Snape recognized Petunia at once. She hadn’t changed much, apart from a few lines around her eyes and mouth, and a housewifey skirt instead of the schoolgirl jeans she had worn twenty years ago. The fat man next to her must be the husband, the person to complete her little domestic idyll. He wasn’t a handsome man in any aspect, but there was a pragmatic, no-nonsense air about him that Snape knew must have appealed to Petunia Evans. Far from being a James Potter, this man lived and breathed the kind of normalcy that came with double-file kitchens and a Rover in the driveway.

He and Dumbledore were standing near the door that led to the hall, with a clear view of the room and its occupants. The old wizard had folded his hands behind his back, watching the couple on the sofa as calmly as if they were part of an experiment he was conducting.

“Look, Petunia,” Dursley said. “I’ll admit there’s something… funny about the boy. But your sister – she was one of them. So was that lay-about husband of hers. I mean, it’s to be expected, right?”

“You don’t understand.” Petunia’s voice was quiet, and her eyes never left the boy on the floor. “This has nothing to do with him being a freak. My sister was a freak, and she bloody well didn’t-“

“Yes yes,” Dursley said hastily, and Snape had the distinct impression that the man didn’t want his wife to finish her sentence. “And I don’t want him staying in Dudley’s room any longer, either. But-”

“I came in and the bed was floating, Vernon! Floating! And his eyes-”

“A trick of light,” Dursley interrupted. “We’ve been over this, Pet. You were upset, understandably so, of course, and you thought you saw-”

“Don’t you tell me I’m seeing things!” She turned to her husband now, who almost recoiled at the anger on her face. “You have no idea, Vernon. It isn’t just about pulling rabbits from hats and turning frogs into turnips. They’re – they’re mad. They’ve got things you wouldn’t imagine in your nightmares, ghosts and werewolves and-”

“Pet!” Vernon Dursley grimaced, as if her words were causing him physical pain. “We agreed we wouldn’t stand for any of this – this abnormality, and I stick to that. The boy’s not staying in Duddy’s room if he’s dangerous. And if I ever catch him floating things, I’ll make ruddy sure he doesn’t do it again! Boy!” he bellowed. The child on the floor flinched and looked up. “Get over here!”

Petunia sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Vernon…”

“I’m only going to talk to him, Pet. Get a bloody move on, boy!”

The child had gotten to his feet, but was hovering out of reach, clearly frightened to come closer. Scowling, Dursley leaned forward and dragged the boy to him by his arm.

“Listen to me, boy! You never – ever – do that kind of thing under my roof again, or you’ll be in big trouble! It’ll be the ruler, you hear me?”

The boy’s eyes filled with tears. “No, no…”

Dursley shook him. “Do you understand, boy?”

“B-boy be good…”

“Of course he doesn’t understand,” Petunia snapped. “Let go of him, for God’s sake! Go, boy,” she gave the child a slight push. “Go play.”

Sniffling, the boy went back to where he’d been sitting before. Snape noticed that he wasn’t “playing” or doing anything, really; he just sat there, his small fingers buried into the soft surface of the rug.

“It happens to them when they’re young, Vernon. Shouting at him won’t do any good. What I want to know is how you’re going to protect our son!”

Dursley winced at his wife’s accusing tone. “Well, he’s not staying in Duddy’s rooms, obviously...”

“Obviously.”

“What about the garage?”

“No. The neighbors might see.”

“Yes, well, we don’t really have… unless we clean out the cupboard under the stairs. We could put a cot in there…”

Petunia nodded curtly. “I’ll take care of it. And you’ll have to buy a bolt or something. I want to make sure he can’t get out.”

“Fine,” Dursley said. “The cupboard it is.”

A wail came from upstairs, and Petunia got up.

“Duddy’s awake,” she said, and her voice had changed, becoming soft and gentle in a way Snape had not believed her capable of. “I’d better see if he needs the potty.”

Dursley smiled. “The tyke’s becoming a proper little man, isn’t he?”

“All grown up,” Petunia replied. “Come on, Vernon, I’m sure he’d like to show daddy how well he can use the potty.”

They left the room, walking past the boy on the floor as if he were another piece of furniture. The child didn’t seem to notice. He was sucking on his fingers, lost in his own little world.

Snape glanced at Dumbledore. The old man looked pensive, almost sad, and Snape quickly looked away. If the Headmaster caught his eyes, he’d feel obliged to say something, and there was nothing he could think of.

The living room dissolved around them, memories flashing past them like a Muggle film played at high speed.

The boy – Potter – growing, losing the nappy.

A dark cramped space; the cupboard, Snape thought.

The family at the table, eating dinner. Exploding glasses, a pudgy child screaming and grabbing his bleeding arm. A large hand crashing down on Potter’s cheek. Shouts, rants. Sobs. And then, the family back at the table, minus one place setting.

It was the last memory of Potter eating with his family. After that, his food was consumed in the dark cramped space, in a corner of the kitchen, or not at all. The boy became thinner, the shadows under his eyes deeper. In one particular memory, they saw Potter slipping into the kitchen, pulling open the cabinet under the sink, diving into the trash can. Potato peels, bread crusts, something that looked like half a fried sausage. The boy wolfed it all down, throwing frightened glances over his shoulders; the same boy who’d be labeled “weird about food” by his Housemates five years later. No bloody wonder, Snape thought. He hadn’t expected any of this to make him angry, but it did. It made him furious.

The memories changed again, now involving the pudgy cousin. Some moments reminded Snape of a “prince and pauper” scenario – the fat boy in front of the TV, eating crisps and slurping soda through a straw while Potter moved quietly in the background, dusting Petunia’s collection of knickknack. The fat boy on the front seat of a car, munching on sweets while Potter helped his aunt load groceries into the boot. Other scenes showed “Duddy” and Potter at play, which involved a lot of punching and pushing on Dudley’s part and ducking and dodging on Potter’s. Potter’s second-hand glasses broke time and again, and more than one memory involved Potter sitting on his cot, clumsily mending the broken frame with Muggle adhesive tape.

Some memories flashed by so quickly Snape wasn’t sure he had actually seen them. A dog, barking in front of a tree. Vernon Dursley shouting, raising a hand. A motorbike of a hazy, dreamlike quality, flying. Green light…

Then, quite suddenly, they were standing in a corridor that was obviously not in No. 4, Privet Drive. Doors lined it on either side, and there were pictures and posters on the wall, most of them done in watercolor. Snape’s own primary school had been far less cheerful, but he recognized one when he saw it.

One of the classroom doors stood open, and outside the door there was Potter, sitting on a chair with his head lowered and his hands folded in his lap. Inside the classroom, a middle-aged woman was seated at the teacher’s desk, and in front of her, on what was obviously a visitor’s chair, Petunia. Neither of the two women seemed to want to be there. Petunia’s mouth was a thin, angry line, and the teacher’s worried frown suggested that she wasn’t enjoying this particular parent-teacher conference.

“…really not sure why you needed to see me,” Petunia was saying when Snape stepped closer, followed by the Headmaster. “I know the boy’s difficult. He’s nothing but trouble at home…”

“Actually, Harry’s a very sweet little boy, Mrs. Dursley. A bit quiet, but not a trouble-maker at all. I sent you a letter-”

Petunia laughed nervously. “Really, Mrs. Martinez, there’s no reason to worry. Boys will be boys, and my Duddy can get a bit rough when he’s playing…”

“Harry said he walked into a door. He never said anything about his cousin.”

Petunia looked as if she could have kicked herself. “Yes, well, he did walk into a door. He’s such a clumsy boy.”

“Mrs. Dursley… the reason I wanted to see you is rather serious, I’m afraid.”

“What did the boy do? If he’s been climbing school buildings again-”

“No, nothing like that,” Mrs. Martinez said quickly. “Harry… you see, Harry had a seizure today.”

“What?”

“Today during morning break. John - Mr. Kelley – was there when it happened. Harry fell down and went into convulsions. We’re lucky he didn’t hurt himself. John tried to talk to him, but Harry… well, he wasn’t aware of his surroundings. John said he made some strange sounds, rather like hissing, and something seemed to be happening to his eyes-”

“A trick of light!” Petunia interrupted, her voice rising shrilly. “There’s nothing wrong with the boy’s eyes.”

“Mrs. Dursley… I realize this must come as a shock to you…”

“The boy was probably pretending. He does that, you know, to get attention-”

“Harry was not pretending,” Mrs.Martinez said firmly. “We took him to the school doctor, and he spent the morning asleep. Dr. Rowe told me he was completely exhausted, as if he’d run a marathon. Mrs. Dursley, you need to take your nephew to see a neurologist.”

“A neurologist? Whatever for?”

“A seizure in an eight-year-old is no joking matter. Dr. Rowe… he said there might be a number of causes.”

“Such as?”

“Well, it could be harmless, of course, but…”

“If it’s harmless, I see no reason to drag the boy around town to see some kind of specialist.”

Having sat through enough parent-teacher conferences himself, Snape could see that Mrs. Martinez was quickly running out of patience.

“Mrs Dursley,” she said, “I thought I made it clear that a seizure in a child is anything but harmless. Harry might…” She hesitated, glancing at the open door. Then she took a piece of paper from her desk and wrote one word on it. Epilepsy.

Petunia’s mouth became a thin line. “He is not epileptic.”

Startled, Mrs. Martinez looked at the door and then back at Petunia. “Really, Mrs. Dursley, think of your nephew. Harry’s probably frightened by what happened.”

“You don’t understand,” Petunia said quietly. “That boy… he’s not normal. He’s dangerous.”

“A neurological disorder isn’t a sign of mental instability,” Mrs. Martinez said. Her voice had changed again, from impatient to concerned; concern that might be for the little boy in the corridor, or for the family that was so obviously unable to cope. “It’s disturbing if it happens to a child, and I understand your-”

They never learned what Mrs. Martinez thought she understood, for Petunia didn’t let her finish. “No. It’s not like that. The boy’s not ill. He’s just… abnormal.”

Mrs. Martinez shook her head. “I understand this has come as a shock, Mrs. Dursley, but I must insist that you take Harry to see a neurologist.”

“I don’t believe this is any of your business,” Petunia bristled.

“I think you’ll find that it is,” the teacher said, quite calmly. “If you refuse to take Harry to a doctor, I’m afraid we’ll have to bring in social services.”

The word had a devastating effect on Petunia; far more so than the news of her nephew’s seizure. Her eyes widened a fraction, and her mouth opened slightly, as if she couldn’t believe that anyone would even mention the s-word in her presence.

“What do you take us for, some sort of scum? My husband’s a hard-working man, and-”

“That’s neither here nor there, Mrs. Dursley.” Mrs. Martinez sounded almost weary now. “If we feel that one of our students is being neglected, it’s our job to intervene.”

“Neglected – we took that boy in, we feed him, clothe him-”

“Mrs. Dursley,” the teacher interrupted. “This isn’t helping. I believe we both know that Harry could be a lot happier than he is. Frankly, I’ve been concerned about him.”

Petunia got up from her chair. “Frankly, I see no reason to continue this discussion. Thank you for your time, Mrs. Martinez.”

“You’ll take him to a doctor?”

“I don’t seem to have much of a choice, do I?” Petunia snapped. “One would think you people had better things to do than meddling with people’s private affairs. My husband will hear about this.”

“I hope he will,” Mrs. Martinez said. “Your nephew’s health concerns both of you.”

Petunia snorted and turned to the door.

“Come on, you. We’re leaving,” she snapped at Potter, who obediently slipped off his chair and trotted after her. Snape watched them go. Petunia never once looked at the boy, not even when Harry quietly spoke.

“Aunt? What’s epilepic?”

“Don’t ask questions,” Snape heard her say before the memory began to fade.

The school corridor became blurry, its uniform doors melting away into a swirl of colors. This time, it took only a few seconds before their surroundings solidified again. He and Dumbledore were standing in a room with many chairs and a number of potted plants in the corners. Pictures of landscapes on the wall and a table with magazines indicated a doctor’s waiting room. There were only two people present; Potter and on the chair next to him, his fat cousin Dudley. Potter looked much like he had in the last memory; same over-sized clothes, same tousled hair. The cousin had put on at least another stone since he had last appeared. As Snape watched, the pudgy boy began to poke Harry, chanting in an annoying sing-song voice.

“Potter’s potty in the head, Potter’s potty in the head, Potter’s potty in the head…”

Potter moved away from his cousin. “Leave me alone, Dudley.”

“Potter’s potty in the head, potty in the head…”

“Am not!” Potter slid off his chair and went to sit on the other side of the room. “Shut up, Dudley!”

“You’re potty in the head!” Dudley crossed his eyes and stuck his tongue out. “They’re gonna cut out your brain and stick wires in it! They’re gonna lock you up in the loony bin with all the other freaks!”

“They’re not,” Potter said with a nervous look at the door. “You’re just a big dirty liar.”

“Potty in the head!” Dudley stuck out his arms and staggered around in a very bad imitation of a walking zombie. “Uuhh, look at me, I’m potty Potter and I’m gonna get you! I’m a crazy freak and I’m after your blood!”

“Shut UP!” Potter grabbed one of the magazines and threw it at his cousin. “Shut up, you – you fucker!”

“Oohhh, I’m gonna tell Mum!” Dudley smirked. “I’m gonna tell her what you said, Potty.”

“I don’t care,” Potter muttered. “Leave me alone.”

He picked up another magazine and sat down pretending to read, but Snape noticed that he wasn’t turning the pages. Dudley, meanwhile, seemed to have lost interest in bullying his cousin. He pulled out a small rectangular device and began pushing buttons on it, absorbed in whatever was transpiring on the tiny display. A gameboy, Snape remembered. They had been all the rage a while ago; he’d had to settle more than one argument in the common room about the infernal things. The little dunderheads didn’t mind that electronic devices wouldn’t work properly inside Hogwarts; merely owning one and boasting about its various features seemed enough to sent the wizard-borns into fits of jealousy.

Of course the spoiled Muggle brat would have one. And, Snape thought with a glance at the skinny boy across the room, he was willing to bet that Potter wasn’t allowed to touch the thing.

The boys spent the next ten minutes in silence, disrupted only by the gameboy’s racket (Snape noticed the Headmaster giving the thing an interested look, and made a mental note never to introduce Albus to the joys of Muggle electronic entertainment).

Then, the door opened and Petunia came in, looking sourer than ever. Dudley jumped up.

“Mum, Mum, Harry threw a magazine at me, and he called me an f-youknowwhat-er!”

“What?!” Petunia grabbed Potter’s arm and shook him. “As if you haven’t caused enough trouble! And if I ever hear you use such language, I’ll-”

“Mrs. Dursley?” a woman’s voice came from the door. Petunia let go of Potter’s arm, plastering a smile onto her face as she turned around.

“Yes?”

“Dr. Douglas is ready for you now,” the woman said, smiling at Potter. “Come on, Harry. Do you want your aunt to come with you?”

Potter said nothing, staring at the floor. Petunia cleared her throat.

“Harry’s a big boy, he’ll manage on his own, won’t you?”

“You promised we’d go for hamburgers while Potty’s with the doctor,” Dudley said. “You promised, Mum!”

“Yes, Duddy, don’t worry,” Petunia made a shushing gesture, glancing at the receptionist. “Well, then, behave yourself for the doctor, Harry.”

The receptionist took Potter’s hand, her smile never wavering. “Come on, Harry, it’s going to be fun. We have this huge imaging machine called a CT scanner. It looks really cool, and you’ll get to see it from the inside.”

Potter did not seem to find this prospect very appealing. “Does it hurt?” he asked quietly.

“It doesn’t hurt at all. And we have a special stash of toys and treats for kids who go in the scanner.”

Potter perked up at this. “And I can pick one? Really?”

“Really,” the receptionist said, leading him to the door. “That’s better than hamburgers, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Potter said, smiling for the first time. Snape smirked at the identical looks of outrage on Petunia’s and Dudley’s faces, hoping that Harry had liked his toy, whatever it was.

Strange, that he should care at all, but he did.

The door closed behind Harry and the woman, and the memory began to dissolve. The vortex of colors grew, swirling around them like a silent cyclone. Scenes flashed past in a matter of seconds; Petunia holding an official-looking letter, showing it to her husband. “Nothing wrong with his brain, see, just as I told that teacher woman, but of course they had to interfere…”

More seemingly unconnected glimpses of Potter’s life at his relatives’. The boy sitting on his cot with an exercise book on his knees, coloring a drawing he’d done. Green and black seemed to dominate the picture. Potter on his knees in the bathroom, scrubbing the toilet. A large, red-faced woman with a bulldog on her lap, laughing at something. Potter in a supermarket, glancing nervously over his shoulder before his hand darted out and grabbed a chocolate bar from the shelves. Once outside, the chocolate bar was quickly consumed, the wrapper stuffed into a nearby dustbin. It happened regularly from then on, although sometimes Potter stole things other than food; pencils, notebooks, and on one occasion, a pair of cheap gloves. He was never caught; not, Snape knew, because the nine-year-old was so proficient a thief, but because the adults nearby simply overlooked him, compelled to do so by a strong notice-me-not charm. Children’s magic was uncontrolled, but it would always ensure survival.

Another memory, darker than the previous ones. Dudley and a group of boys on a playground, laughing, brandishing plastic toys that resembled Muggle firearms. Potter was on the ground, protecting his head with his arms as the boys hit him with their “guns” and pretended to shoot him.

“Mission completed, sir,” one of the boys said to Dudley. “We caught him.”

Dudley grinned. “Good job, Sergeant. Let’s show this Nazi bastard what happens to scum like him when he tries to kill English soldiers.”

What happened was more poking with the plastic guns and several kicks in the ribs. Potter stayed curled up on the ground, making no sound. Somehow, this seemed to instigate the boys to kick even harder, their trainers leaving muddy prints on Potter’s trousers and baggy t-shirt. Eventually, one of the boys picked up a walnut-sized rock from the ground and threw it at him. It bounced off Potter’s head, and the boy on the ground cried out in surprise and pain. His reaction could not have been worse for the response it got. Gleeful at having found a new and better way of punishing their victim, Dudley and the others picked up more rocks and, in effect, began to stone Potter.

If Snape had caught any of his students doing something of this nature, he’d have made sure to get them suspended. Children could be cruel, yes, but there were boundaries even an immature mind should be expected to recognize. He glanced at the Headmaster, and saw shock and disbelief on the ancient face. For all his experience, Dumbledore always had trouble believing that sometimes there was no redeeming excuse, only malice and joy in another’s pain.

“Get ‘im!” Dudley shouted, grabbing a fist-sized rock from the ground and hurling it at his cousin’s head. Had the rock hit home, it might have smashed in Potter’s skull, but it never reached its destination. It was as if an invisible barrier had been erected in mid-air, causing the rock to bounce off it and fly back towards the attacker. Dudley screamed and ducked. The other boys stood transfixed, rocks in hand. Potter had gotten to his feet. Blood trickled down from grazes on his arms and face. Potter dragged his index finger across his bloodied cheek and stuck it in his mouth, his eyes closing. When they opened again, his irises were gone, replaced with an opaque, milky white.

The boys screamed and ran. Potter did not follow them. He watched, licked a trace of blood off his lips, and then flicked a hand in an almost lazy gesture. The rocks rose from the ground, surrounding Potter like a ring of tiny gray satellites, and began to fly towards the fleeing boys. One by one, they hit their targets, bouncing off arms and legs, bruising shoulders, cutting into cheeks. The boys wailed in pain and fear. Dudley shrieked and stumbled, blood pouring from his forehead where a particularly large rock had hit home. Potter hissed and brought his hand to his mouth, biting down hard. Blood dripped down his chin, onto the ground and the world grew black, slipping away as suddenly as if someone had cast a darkening spell.

The next thing they heard was the sound of two people sobbing. It was still dark, a stuffy and confining darkness only found in small, hidden places. By the laws of non-magical nature, he and Dumbledore should not have fit in here, let alone been able to stand comfortably next to each other. It was the cupboard under the stairs, Snape realized as his eyes began to get used to the dark. There was the cot, complete with a faded blanket and a small pillow, a cardboard box containing Potter’s clothes, a shelf with broken odds and ends, a schoolbag half-hidden under the bed. On the cot, curled up and face hidden, was Potter. His shoulders shook, his sobs muffled by the blanket.

Somewhere outside, someone was crying with far less restraint. Petunia, Snape realized. She sounded almost hysterical.

“… could have died!”

“This is it,” a male voice bellowed, and Snape recognized the husband, Vernon. “I’ve had it. He’s not staying a minute longer in this house! I don’t care if the orphanage won’t take him – by God, I’ll drive him to London myself and put him out on the streets!”

His voice had risen to a shout with the last few words, and Snape saw Potter wince, burying his face even deeper into the pillow.

“They’ll bring him back,” Petunia said. “That man… the one who sent the letter… he’ll know.”

“Then you can ruddy well write to him and tell him that we’ve had it!” Dursley shouted. “Who do they think they are, tipping their rubbish in front of our door and expecting us to take care of it! Endangering our own son, no less!”

“It doesn’t work that way, Vernon,” Petunia said quietly. Her sobs had abated to an occasional hitch in her voice. “They’d never listen to people like us.”

“They’re not that stupid after all, are they? They don’t want the freak any more than we do, so they palm him off on us! That boy has the devil in him.”

“Don’t say that.” Petunia’s voice had become almost too soft to understand. “Don’t say things like that, or I’ll swear I’ll lose my mind! And Duddy… all pale and ill in that hospital bed…” She began to cry again. “Five stitches! And the doctor said there might be a scar.”

“The freak’s going to regret ever using his abnormality against my son. And if I have to beat it out of him – every – single – day!” Dull thumps accompanied the last three words, as if Dursley had brought his fist down on a hard surface.

“As if that’ll help,” Petunia said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t you understand? It’s what he is, what his mother and father were. It’s – genetic or something. You can’t beat it out of him.”

“Then we’ll have to put him out, won’t we?”

“We can’t,” Petunia said wearily. “They’ll find out, and they’ll come after us. There’s no telling what they might do. What if they hurt Duddy?”

“But-”

“Listen, Vernon, I don’t care. I want our son to be safe, that’s all I’m asking. And if there’s no other way, I’ll take Duddy and go.”

A short silence followed. “You’d… leave?” Dursley no longer sounded angry; his voice had become rather quiet.

“I’ll do whatever is necessary to protect our son. And if that means leaving, yes, I will. I can’t live like this.”

“Pet… don’t, alright? I’ll think of something. There must be something…”

Another brief silence followed, then there was the sound of a chair scraping on the floor. Steps came closer, and Snape saw Potter tense on his cot, lifting his head. The boy’s left eye was almost closed shut, surrounded by discolored, swollen skin.

The steps passed by the cupboard and a dull clump-clump over their heads indicated that the person was walking up the stairs. Potter seemed to relax momentarily. They must have punched the boy, Snape thought. There had been glimpses of physical abuse before – Potter being slapped, shaken, walloped with a wooden ruler – but until now, Petunia and her husband had not crossed the line to uncontrolled violence. Potter’s black eye indicated that the rock incident had changed this.

Heavier steps entered the hallway, and Potter tensed again, curling up on his cot. There was a loud rattling of metal on metal as the bolt was pushed back, then the cupboard door flew open. Vernon Dursley’s angry face loomed over the boy.

“You listen to me, boy,” the man hissed, and Snape saw his meaty fist opening and closing, as if he were barely restraining himself. “You will not threaten my family, you hear me? You will not use your abnormality against my wife and son, or so help me God, I’ll send you back to whatever pit of hell you crawled out of!”

Potter was shaking, his back pressed against the wall behind his cot. Dursley advanced on him, grabbing the boy’s hair. “Do you understand what I’m saying, boy?”

Potter couldn’t nod, tears trickling down the sides of his face as he tried to speak. “Y-yes, s-sir.”

Snape’s hand itched to grab his wand and petrify the fat idiot, never mind that he was only a memory. He could understand bias – his uncompromising protection of his snakes testified to that – but this was ridiculous. Dudley and his little group of sycophants had been well on their way to killing Potter, and none of them had been seriously harmed by the rocks.

Dursley gave the boy one last shake before he let go of him. The cupboard door was slammed shut and locked, the metal grille rattling against the wood as it was closed with more force than necessary. Potter curled up and hid his face in his arms. His thin shoulders shook as he sobbed quietly.

As the scene faded, a strange feeling took hold of Snape. He and Albus were plunged back into the vortex of Potter’s memories, glimpses of the boy’s life swirling around them almost too quickly to recognize. Something had changed, though. This time, they seemed to be drawn down, deeper and deeper, their surroundings darkening as they descended into the very depths of the child’s mind. The images around them became distorted, dreams and thoughts mingling with actual remembrance. They saw the screaming face of a red-haired woman, a face Snape knew so very well. They heard a voice hiss and laugh, caressing a frightened mind with promises of darkness and pain inflicted, not endured. They could feel its presence, its lure and its power, growing stronger as they delved deeper into Potter’s mind.

As their surroundings slid into focus again, blurry shades becoming sharp outlines, Snape couldn’t help but wish that what he was about to witness would be over soon.

As Potter’s memories solidified around them, Snape and Dumbledore found themselves outside, in a street that could not have been more different from Privet Drive. A row of run-down houses lined it on either side. Some of the windows were broken, others missing entirely and boarded up with cardboard. The dustbins looked as if they hadn’t been emptied in weeks, their contents spilling onto the pavement. Snape guessed that they were somewhere in London, in a part of the city neither Petunia nor Vernon Dursley had entered before.

But they were here now, hurrying along the street without so much as a look at their surroundings. They had their coats pulled tightly around them against the crisp autumn wind. The sky above was grey, beginning to darken.

“Come on, boy,” Petunia said without looking back, and only then did Snape see Potter. He was following the adults at a distance, struggling to keep up with them. His flimsy anorak, baggy though it was, did little to keep out the biting wind. The boy drew his hands into the sleeves as he ran to catch up with his aunt and uncle.

“Where we going, Aunt?” he asked breathlessly, giving his uncle a nervous side-glance.

Neither of the adults answered his question. They kept up their brisk pace, walking past broken-down cars and graffitied walls with a silent determination that seemed to unsettle Potter. Snape saw the boy throw a look over his shoulder, as if he were contemplating to run for it. An irrational part of Snape’s mind almost wished that he would. Everything about this memory felt dark, and it had nothing to do with their bleak surroundings.

Finally, they came to a halt in front of a wrought-iron gate. Dursley pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, read it and nodded at his wife. “This is it.”

Snape took a look at the place. The house, a cheerless brick affair, looked as run-down and decrepit as its neighbors. Behind the gate, he could see a front garden littered with trash and over-grown with weeds. One of the first floor windows was broken, allowing a glimpse of a dark, empty room behind it. In fact, the only striking feature of the place was the angel. It was positioned on top of the right gate-post, made of wrought iron like the rest of the fence. One of its long, thin arms was stretched out towards anyone who entered the gate, in a gesture that could have been both defense and supplication. The figure’s blank face revealed nothing about the artist’s true intentions.

Petunia and Dursley hardly looked at it, but Potter lingered by the gate, staring in fascination. As his aunt and uncle approached the house, he carefully stretched out a hand as if to touch the little statuette.

“Harry!” snapped Petunia, and Potter flinched, drawing his hand back.

“Look, Aunt,” he said, pointing at the angel, but she only spared it a fleeting glance.

“Don’t dawdle, boy. Come here. And remember what I told you!”

“Yes, Aunt,” Potter said obediently, trotting down the garden path towards them. Snape saw that his left eye had nearly healed.

Dursley looked around for a door bell, found none and knocked on the door. Petunia threw a glance over her shoulder, as if to make sure that no one was watching.

“I don’t like this, Vernon,” she said under her breath. Her husband ignored her, raising his hand to knock again.

When the door opened, Snape’s first thought was that the Dursleys had come to a wizard’s home, for the man in the door looked nothing like your average Muggle. Tall and very slender, he wore a black, ankle-length robe not unlike Snape’s own teaching garments. His grey hair was tied back in a pony tail, emphasizing his gaunt features and deep-set eyes. The expression on his thin face could have been mistaken for benign, but Snape was too experienced an observer to miss the look in those shadowed eyes. He’d seen that look before, on the mad face of a young woman kneeling at the Dark Lord’s feet as if she’d never wanted to be anywhere else.

“Erm – Father Pius?” Dursley asked.

“Yes,” the man said in deep, slightly hoarse voice. “You are Vernon Dursley?”

Dursley nodded. “My wife, Petunia.”

The man inclined his head towards Petunia without looking at her.

“And this is the boy.”

Dursley pushed Potter forward. The boy looked scared, but didn’t seem to dare hide behind his aunt and uncle. Father Pius eyed him for a long moment.

“I see,” he said finally. “Come in.”

As they entered the house, Snape caught Petunia’s look of disgust. To her over-sensitive standards, the place must seem positively infested with dirt. The narrow hallway looked as if it hadn’t seen a broom in ages, and its many shelves bore a thick layer of dust, as did the countless statuettes that stared down at the visitors. They came in all shapes and sizes, some equipped with haloes, some with wings, others subjected to various forms of torture and suffering. Snape saw Potter glance at the figure of a screaming woman tied to a stake and surrounded by brightly colored orange flames. The boy quickly looked away again and wrapped his arms around himself.

“In here,” Father Pius said and opened the door to the left. Reluctantly, the Dursleys followed his lead.

The room was as neglected as the hallway had been. Martyrs and saints stared from every corner, most of them only visible as silhouettes in the gloomy semi-darkness. A huge crucifix was mounted on the wall opposite the door, the empty eyes of the crucified figure greeting the visitors. The room’s only furniture were a table and a few chairs in front of a huge fireplace. For some reason, its flickering flames did nothing to soften the harsh atmosphere of the place. The heavy, black curtains of the only window had been drawn closed.

“Please,” the black-robed man said, pointing at two of the chairs. Petunia and her husband sat down, looking tense.

Father Pius turned to Potter. “Do you know how to say your prayers, boy?”

Potter stared at him.

“Your prayers,” the man repeated. “Do you pray to our Lord Jesus Christ?”

“We’re C of E,” Petunia said hesitantly when Potter continued to stare. “We, er, we’re not really practising…”

Father Pius silenced her with a sharp gesture. “Kneel, boy,” he pointed at the floor in front of Potter. “Show Him your humility, if you have any!”

Potter looked around helplessly. “I…”

“Kneel!” the man bellowed, and Potter flinched, hurrying to obey. Father Pius took a piece of paper from his pocket and dropped it in front of the boy. “Read this, and pray that our Lord may have mercy upon you, demon child!”

Potter stared up at him, his mouth slack. “What?”

“Do as he says!” Vernon barked. Potter picked up the piece of paper, unfolded it and began to read.

“From all evil, deliver me, o Lord. From all sin, deliver me, o Lord. From your wrath, deliver me, o Lord…”

“Go on,” Father Pius instructed, then turned to the couple at the table. “You have brought this child unto me so that I may cast out the unclean spirit inside him. Do you believe in your hearts and souls that the power of Christ will deliver him?”

“Er…” Petunia and her husband exchanged a look. “You said you could help us,” Vernon said finally. “Just, er, go ahead and do whatever’s necessary.”

“You said the boy is tainted,” Father Pius continued as if he hadn’t heard him. “You said he was given to you by Satan’s servants. Is that correct?”

“Well, his mother… my sister… she was one of them. You know.” Petunia seemed determined not to give a name to the beast. “So was his father. They’re both dead. His lot left him on our doorstep.”

“His blood is tainted,” the priest said. “But he is still a child. May Christ have mercy.”

“…on the day of judgment, deliver me…”

“Enough,” Father Pius ordered, and Potter lowered the paper, giving the tall man a frightened look. “You are a sinner, boy, as your parents were sinners before the Lord. Your unclean blood has allowed Satan’s demon to take hold of your soul. Your hope, your only hope is the mercy of our Lord Jesus Christ. Will you accept deliverance?”

Potter bit his lip, and Snape saw tears pooling in the boy’s eyes. “I…”

“Will you accept deliverance?” the priest shouted in the boy’s face. “Will you let God’s mighty hand cast the demon out of your soul, will you let him strike terror to the beast laying waste his vineyard?”

The tears ran down Potter’s face. “I… d-don’t…”

“He is still resisting,” Father Pius grabbed Potter’s shoulders and shook him. “Demon, I am speaking to you, unclean spirit! I command you to answer to me!”

Sobbing, Potter tried to squirm out of the man’s grip.

“Answer me!” The priest straightened up, one hand clamped on Potter’s shoulder, the other fisted in the boy’s hair. “I command you!”

“Let me go!” Potter cried, trying in vain to beat at the hands holding him. “No!”

“It is He who commands you,” Father Pius said, grunting with the effort of keeping a grip on the boy. “He who flung you headlong from the heights of heaven into the depths of hell. You root of vice and evil, do you stand and resist?”

Struggling even harder, Potter struck the man’s solar plexus with his elbow, and the priest let go with a gasp. The boy lost no time and ran for the door.

“Boy!” Vernon shouted. “Get back here!”

He jumped up from his chair, but Father Pius reached Potter first, grabbed his hair and yanked his head back.

“Do you fear Him?” he snarled at the terrified boy. “Do you fear His power, enemy of the faith?”

Not waiting for an answer, he began to half drag, half carry Potter over to the fireplace and pushed him in front of the flames. “Do you see the fire, demon child? We used it against your kind when you still dared to live openly, not in hiding as you do today! It is written in the Holy Bible that thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!”

Potter seemed to understand what the man was threatening to do, and it was enough to send him into a full-blown panic.

“NOOO!” He began to claw, kick and bite, beside himself with terror. “NO, NO, LET ME GO-”

“Help me,” the priest snapped at Vernon, but Petunia and her husband only sat there as if frozen into place.

“NOOO, DON’T BURN ME, DON’T LET HIM-”

“Silence!” Father Pius grabbed the boy under the arms and flung him down on the table.

“Take his arm,” he ordered Petunia, who had jumped up from her chair. She backed away, her trembling hands hovering in front of her mouth.

“Vernon,” she whispered, “Vernon, let’s go, he’s mad-”

“Take his arm!” the priest shouted at Dursley. “He must be bound for this! The demon is resisting!”

Dursley didn’t move.

“Help me!” Father Pius yelled, half-lying across Potter to hold the struggling boy down on the table. “Help me, or he will unleash his madness upon us!”

Startled into action, Dursley got up and grabbed Potter’s left arm, holding it down on the table while the priest wrapped a rope around Potter’s right wrist and tied it to the table leg.

“No,” Potter whimpered, “no, Uncle, please, I’ll be good, I won’t do it again, please don’t let him hurt me...”

“Satan’s wiles,” Father Pius snarled as he fastened the knot on Potter’s left wrist and pulled the boy’s arm across the table. “Listen to him whine and beg, now that he knows he shall be cast back to hell!”

The boy lay prone on the table with his arms outstretched, a grotesque caricature of the crucifix on the wall. Snape glanced at Petunia and saw tears on her face.

Father Pius grabbed a wooden cross from a shelf and held it over the boy. “I adjure you, ancient serpent, by the judge of the living and the dead, by your Creator, by the Creator of the whole universe, by Him who has the power to consign you to hell, to depart forthwith in fear, along with your savage minions, from this servant of God, who seeks refuge in the fold of the Church!”

Potter trembled and sobbed, wincing as the priest touched his head none-too-gently with the cross. “To what purpose do you insolently resist? To what purpose do you brazenly refuse? For you are guilty before the almighty God, whose laws you have transgressed. You are guilty before His Son, our Lord Jesus Christ, whom you presumed to tempt, whom you dared to nail to the cross. You are guilty before the whole human race, to whom you proferred by your enticements the poisoned cup of death.”

“It is God himself who commands you!” he shouted, whacking the side of Potter’s head with the cross. The boy yelped with pain. “It is the power of Christ that commands you!”

There was a crash from the corner of the room, and Snape saw that one of the figures – a statuette of a woman holding a child – had fallen from its shelf and shattered on the floor. The other figures began to shake and rattle, as did the table and the chairs. Petunia shrieked and grabbed her husband’s arm.

“What’s happening?”

“It’s him!” Father Pius shouted. “It is the transgressor, the unclean creature! I cast you out, demon! You are nothing before our Lord! The power of Christ compels you!”

Suddenly there was a loud bang, and the man was flung backwards, almost colliding with the wall as he crashed to the floor. Potter’s magic was rising to protect him, swirling around the boy and blasting the martyrs and saints off their shelves. One by one, they shattered on the floor.

“I cast you out!” The priest had gotten back to his feet. His face was distorted in some kind of mad ecstasy, and he was breathing harshly. “I cast you out by the word of our Lord! I cast you out of this worthless shell of flesh! Yield to the power of Christ!”

He stumbled over to the table and grabbed hold of the boy, tearing Potter’s thin shirt down the back.

“I cast you out as our fathers did before me! By word of prayer and by scourging of the flesh!”

He went over to the fireplace and pulled something from the flames, causing a cloud of sparks to rise like fireflies. He held it up; a long iron poker whose tip was glowing white.

“My God,” Petunia shrieked and took a step towards the table, her fingers clawing her cheeks. “Vernon, no-”

“Stand back, Daughter of Eve,” the priest screamed, brandishing the poker at her. “Your sex is weak, easily corrupted by Satan and his angels! Stand back, I say!”

Dursley grabbed his wife’s shoulders. “Don’t, Pet-”

Father Pius approached the boy, holding the poker so that it was easily visible from Potter’s prone position. “Do you see this, demon child? Your evil powers cannot overcome the mighty hand of our Lord! Depart then, transgressor! Begone, unclean spirit, or you shall feel the fires of hell!”

“NOOO!” The boy yanked at the ropes that held him fast, insane terror on his face. “NOOO, HELP ME, HELP ME-”

“No one shall help you, demon! Sorcerer’s child! May Christ have mercy on you!”

As he lowered the poker towards the boy’s bare back, Snape knew that Potter’s magic had, in the decisive moment, deserted the wizard it was supposed to protect. Much like people who froze in the face of danger, a wizard’s magic could leave him in moments of emotional upheaval – or extreme terror, for that matter. Many books on magical history glossed over these things, covering the witch-burning era with a few amusing anecdotes on flame-freezing charms and leaving out the uncomfortable fact that many magical men and women had died horrible deaths at the hands of their Muggle neighbors. Watching their loved ones scream as they burned to death had sown hatred in many purebloods; a hatred that, in true wizarding tradition, had been nourished and cultivated over the centuries, giving people like Lucius Malfoy all the ammunition they needed to justify their contempt of all non-magical life.

A hand grabbed his shoulder, and Snape turned to see Dumbledore as ashen-faced as he had ever seen him.

“Severus,” the old man whispered. Snape knew that it was a plea for help – help that he, of all people, could not provide.

Potter screamed as the iron touched his back. Snape had heard a dog scream like that; the dog he had seen next to a Muggle motorway, its lower body a mass of blood and intestines.

Petunia leaned forward and vomited onto the carpet, then, her hand pressed against her mouth, ran from the room. Her husband glanced after her and back at the priest, pale and helpless.

“Look… I think we’d better take the boy and-”

“It’s the seducer speaking through you,” Father Pius whispered. He had lifted the poker and plunged it back into the fire, not sparing a glance at the trembling, whimpering bundle on the table. “Go! Go tend to your wife! I shall finish the Lord’s work.”

“Sir,” some of Dursley’s old bluster returned, “I think you’re forgetting that we’ve a business deal, and we paid-”

“A business deal!” shrieked the priest. He yanked the poker from the fire and stepped towards Dursley. “I am saving this child in the name of Christ and you speak of payment! Go, you defiler, you corrupter!”

“Mad,” Dursley muttered, his eyes on the white tip of the poker. “Completely barking-”

He fled from the room, slamming the door so violently that the crucifix rattled on the wall.

The priest turned to the boy on the table. Half-conscious, Potter was keening like a wounded animal, his face blotchy and wet with snot and tears. A dark spot was spreading slowly between his legs.

“Pray, boy,” Father Pius said, lifting the poker. “Pray for mercy from our Lord, for He is good and gentle.”

The iron came down again, and Potter finally, mercifully, lost consciousness.

###

They sat in silence for a long time; a silence only broken by Dumbledore’s sobs. The old man had his face in his hands and was crying softly, his shoulders shaking. Snape had no idea what to do. He had never see Dumbledore cry before.

Eventually, he could stand it no longer. Pointing his wand at one of the man’s infernal lemon drops, he transfigured it into a handkerchief and pushed it towards the man. “Here, Albus.”

Dumbledore looked up, and to Snape’s astonishment the man smiled at him through his tears. “Thank you, Severus. Forgive me.”

Snape muttered something indistinct. He was feeling faintly sick, and it had nothing to do with the sound of Dumbledore blowing his nose. The smell of burnt flesh, the screams… Lily’s son on that table. Lily’s son, tortured.

“Why, Albus?” he asked quietly, and he didn’t give a damn when he saw the old man wince. “Why did you leave him with these people?”

“They are his family,” Dumbledore replied, and there was a world of betrayed trust in that simple sentence. Snape could have screamed. Family, the one thing that counted above everything else in the traditional wizarding world. Family was family, blood was thicker than water, and magical blood was the thickest of all. To wizards and witches of Dumbledore’s generation, the fact that Potter had been left with family was justification enough.

“Severus,” Dumbledore said. “It was a mistake, and I don’t deny it. But please believe me when I say that I never knew about any of this.”

Snape stared at him. “You should have known.”

“Yes,” Dumbledore lowered his eyes. “Yes, I should.”

“What happens to Potter now?” Snape asked finally, when the silence became too oppressive.

“I believe he should stay in the hospital wing for a while, until we can be sure he has recovered from his recent ordeal,” Dumbledore said, sounding more like his usual, confident self. “After that, there is, of course, the safety of students and staff to consider.”

“Meaning…”

“Meaning, Harry should not be left unsupervised. He can participate in the normal school routine-”

“Albus, are you mad? Are you saying you’re going to let the Dark Lord loose among the student population?”

“Harry is not Lord Voldemort,” Dumbledore replied; quite calmly, although there was a sharp tone to his voice. “As soon as Tom makes an appearance, I shall know, and I shall be there. It won’t do to deny Harry a normal school life.”

“He can’t stay in the dorms,” Snape said firmly. “It’s too great a risk.”

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair and folded his hands. “What do you suggest, Severus?”

“Someone must stay with him at all times, someone who knows about his situation. Poppy…”

“… is needed in the infirmary and must be available in case there’s an emergency.” Snape did not like the way Dumbledore was eyeing him across his half-moon glasses. “Severus…”

They stared at each other, locked in a silent argument that was fought with looks rather than words. Eventually, Snape exhaled loudly and stood up.

“I suppose I brought this upon myself,” he said. “No doubt Potter will be overjoyed at the news.”

“The boy trusts you, Severus.”

“And you are deluding yourself,” Snape muttered. If Potter trusted him, it was only because he was the only adult in the boy’s environment who was not a complete stranger and had not done him any physical harm. And yes, he did count Albus’ Protelo spell as harmful. He was certain that Potter saw it that way. The boy was, after all, a Slytherin.

“Are you going to talk to him, Severus?” Dumbledore asked quietly.

Snape didn’t turn around. “I’ll do what is necessary, Albus.”

He always did, didn’t he?

When Snape entered the hospital wing on the following afternoon, he found that Potter and Pomfrey were not alone. Draco and Granger were sitting on the boy’s bed, Draco leaning lazily against the footboard while Granger sat cross-legged between the two Slytherins. The girl had her wand out and waved it in an elegant circle, obviously demonstrating.

“Swish and flick, see? Professor Flitwick said it’s all about coordinating the words and the movement, so when you say “Wingardium” you need to do the swish, and start with “Leviosa” halfway through the flick, like this-”

She pointed her wand at a piece of parchment on the bed between them. “Wingardium Leviosa!”

The parchment soared up as if carried by a sudden breeze. Granger watched it, beaming, before she turned to Potter. “See? It’s really easy. Professor Flitwick said we should start with small objects and then move on to things like bottles and hats when we’ve got better at it.”

There was a snort from Draco’s side of the bed. “Potter’s not going to waste his time doing homework, is he?”

Granger gave him a reproving look. “Harry doesn’t want to fall behind in class, right, Harry? Of course he’s going to practice!”

Potter looked from Granger to Draco, torn between listening to the girl and not losing face in front of the other boy.

“Besides,” Granger continued, pulling out a bag of sweets in a seemingly casual way, “I thought we could play a game. We levitate a chocolate frog each, and the person whose frog touches the ceiling first wins, and they get the other two frogs as well.”

Potter and Draco suddenly looked a lot more interested, and Snape found himself impressed with the girl’s cunning.

“But that’s not fair,” Draco complained. “You’re going to win anyway, Granger!”

“They’re her chocolate frogs,” Potter pointed out, and Granger smiled at him.

“If Draco doesn’t want to play, we can-”

“I’m playing,” Draco gave her an offended glare. “Give me one of those!”

Snape watched as the three children placed their chocolate frogs on the bed and tried to levitate them. Potter’s first attempts were rather unsuccessful; his chocolate frog kept rolling over instead of becoming airborne. Finally the boy lost his patience, snatched up the frog and stuffed it in his mouth.

“Harry!” Granger exclaimed. “That’s against the rules!”

“That one was too heavy,” Potter explained, quite unrepentant. “I’ll try another one.”

Shooting him a dirty look, Granger nevertheless placed another chocolate frog in front of the boy. “Like this,” she demonstrated the wand movement again. “Win-gar-dium Levi-o-sa!”

The frog soared up, higher and higher, racing Draco’s frog and overtaking it a second or two before it touched the ceiling.

Draco pulled a face. “Told you, it’s not fair,” he muttered as Granger caught the two chocolate frogs on their way down.

“Let’s try again,” Granger said, unperturbed.

To Snape’s surprise, the two boys did as she said, and kept levitating their chocolate frogs until Draco’s finally reached the ceiling a second before Granger’s.

“Yes!” shouted Draco, punching the air. “Yes, I did it! I win!”

He grabbed the three frogs and stuffed them in his mouth. Granger watched him with a mixture of exasperation and amusement, while Potter looked sulky.

“I’m never gonna win with you two playing,” he said. “It’s a stupid spell, anyway.”

Snape expected Granger to launch into a lecture at once, but she didn’t. “Why don’t you and Draco play a few rounds,” she suggested. “I’ll be right back.”

She slid off the bed and headed towards the bathroom in the back of the infirmary. The two Slytherin boys placed two new frogs on the bed and raised their wands at the same time.

“Wingardium Leviosa!”

This time, Potter’s frog soared up quite easily, gaining speed until it was level with Draco’s.

“Eat my dust, Potter,” Draco grinned, speeding up his frog, but it was only a second before Potter’s frog caught up with it again.

“You wish, Malfoy.”

The two frogs became faster and faster, racing side by side until they both collided with the ceiling and exploded. A rain of chocolate crumbs came down on the bed, sprinkling the two boys, who stared at the ceiling and then at each other. There was a moment’s silence before they both broke into laughter. Snape could not remember seeing Potter laugh before.

“Honestly,” said Granger, who had just returned from the loo. “Boys.”

Snape noticed that she looked quite satisfied.

Abandoning their game, the children began to share the chocolate frogs between them, and Snape thought it was safe to make his presence known. Clearing his throat, he moved away from the door and stepped towards Potter’s bed.

“Professor!” Granger quickly gathered up the chocolate frogs. “We… we were practicing Wingardium Leviosa, and…”

“No explanations are required, Miss Granger,” Snape said, taking pity on the girl. “I asked you to keep Mr. Potter updated on class work, did I not?”

“Y-yes, sir,” she said. “Harry’s been doing great.”

“So I see,” Snape replied, narrowing his eyes at Potter, who was in the process of slipping a chocolate frog under his pillow. “Mr. Potter, I’m sure Madam Pomfrey won’t appreciate chocolate stains all over her bed linen.”

Potter blushed and retrieved the chocolate frog. Snape sighed. This was a child who had fended for himself from a very young age. It would be hard work to convince the boy that his survival strategies were no longer needed.

“I levitated my frog even faster than Hermione, Uncle Sev,” Draco boasted. Snape noticed that it was ‘Hermione’ now, no longer ‘Granger’ or ‘Mudblood’. Chocolate frogs worked wonders on an eleven-year-old’s attitude. “I’ll so beat the Gryffindorks in Charms class next week.”

“Hermione’s still better than you,” Potter said. “She wins all the time.”

Draco scowled. “So? I can always practice, can’t I?”

“Excellence in wandwork and humility before his peers are the signs of a great wizard, Draco,” Snape admonished lightly.

“Rowena Ravenclaw said that,” Granger added.

Snape inclined his head. “Indeed, Miss Granger. Two points to Ravenclaw. And Mr. Potter, five points to Slytherin for mastering the levitation spell.”

Draco gave Potter an appreciative grin, while Granger smiled happily. Pretending not to notice either, Snape glanced at the clock on the wall. “Well, I believe study time is about to begin. Draco, Miss Granger, I suggest you go collect your books now. You don’t want to be late.”

“But Uncle Sev-”

“You were planning to practice for Charms class, weren’t you, Draco?”

His godson pulled a face. “Yeah, but-”

“But nothing. You may visit Mr. Potter after dinner.”

“Professor…” Potter began, fiddling with his blankets. “Can… can Draco and Hermione come to Hogsmeade with us?”

“Hogsmeade?” Snape repeated, momentarily puzzled.

“You promised,” Potter said, looking up at him. “You said if I let you do that Extro moria spell you’d take me to see Hogsmeade.”

Snape sighed, remembering his promise to the boy. Of course Harry wouldn’t forget about it. He noticed Draco and the girl watching him breathlessly. By asking him in their presence, Potter gave Snape little choice but to agree. A very Slytherin maneuver, proving once again that James Potter’s son had been Sorted into the right House.

“It’s Extraho memoriam,” Snape corrected, then wished he hadn’t when he saw the look on Granger’s face. No doubt the girl would go straight to the library to look up the spell. “And yes, Potter, I suppose Draco and Miss Granger may come along – on the condition that you’ll be on your best behavior,” he added sternly, mainly to his two snakes. He wasn’t really worried about the little Ravenclaw.

Draco whooped. “We get to go to Hogsmeade! I’ll write to Father for extra pocket money-”

“Thanks, Harry,” Granger smiled at her friend. “I’d love to see Hogsmeade. Hogsmeade: A History says it’s the only all-wizarding settlement in Britain, and-”

“Can we go to Zonko’s, Uncle Sev?” Draco asked. “And the Shrieking Shack? You don’t have to if you’re scared,” he added to Granger, who scowled at him.

“I’m not scared! Just because I’m a girl-”

Snape held up a hand, and both children fell silent. “I believe I told you to not to be late for study time, and it is now two minutes to four o’clock. I don’t think taking tardy students on a trip outside the castle would set the right example-”

He watched with a smirk as the two first-years dashed for the door, nearly tripping over their robes in their haste not to be late.

“See you, Potter!” – “Bye, Harry!”

Both Snape and Harry winced as the door slammed shut behind them.

“Sometimes I believe a permanent Silencing Charm on all first-year students would be a great relief for the rest of us,” he muttered, and noticed that Potter seemed to torn between smiling and scowling.

“We’re not that loud.”

“Believe me, Mr. Potter, a dormitory full of sugar-hyped first-years is capable of producing sounds similar to a flock of banshees.”

At this, Potter did smile. “Then why do you go into the dormitories, sir?” For a moment, he seemed taken aback by his own daring, giving his professor a nervous look.

Snape smirked. “Because, Mr. Potter, I’d rather bear the unholy noise every now and then rather than know that my students’ quarters are slowly turning into a pigsty.”

Potter looked guilty at that, and Snape knew that he was thinking of the surprise inspection last week, when he and his four roommates had received a lecture for not picking up after themselves.

Which reminded Snape of the reason why he had come here. Potter was not going to take this well.

He sat down on the chair next to the boy’s bed. “Mr. Potter… there are some arrangements we need to discuss.”

Potter hung his head. “I know,” he said softly.

Snape frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You’re kicking me out, aren’t you?” It was said with quiet resignation. “I thought you would. Now that you… now that you know about Him.”

“Potter… Harry.” Snape sighed. “Headmaster Dumbledore has no intention of expelling you because of what we learned. Nor would I approve of such a decision. It is not your fault.”

“But I’m… dangerous,” the boy whispered. “You saw what I did… to Dudley. He needed five stitches.”

“Tell me, Harry…” Snape leaned forward, waiting until the boy had looked up again. “Did your family ever take you to a doctor after you went to see that… man?”

Potter understood immediately what he was referring to; Snape could see it in his face. The boy looked away, his lips trembling. “I… no…”

“Were you treated at all? You sustained severe injuries that day. Did anyone make sure your wounds were seen to?” Perhaps it wasn’t the most gentle way to address the issue, but the time for beating around the bush was past. This boy needed help, and he needed it now.

Potter swallowed. “A-aunt Petunia… she put some… some cream on my back…”

“Were you sick?” Snape pressed on.

“I… kind of… I don’t remember… I think so…”

Snape didn’t need to hear the details. He could imagine very well what had happened, after the Dursleys had decided that a visit to the hospital would arouse too many suspicions. He could see the boy on his cot in the cupboard, feverish and sick, with nothing to relieve the pain from the infected burns. If not for a wizarding child’s innate healing magic, Harry would have died, more likely than not. And then? They wouldn’t have taken the boy’s abused body to an undertaker. Would Lily’s son have ended up buried next to the garden shed like some deceased pet?

Snape pushed the morbid thought aside. There would be time to dwell on these things later, perhaps discuss them with Dumbledore when the moment had come to deal with the Dursleys. As for now, he needed to concentrate on the boy.

“Listen to me, Mr. Potter,” he said, waiting until the boy had looked up again before he continued. “It is true that your… condition carries certain risks, but the Headmaster and I are fully capable of dealing with them. As for your relatives, they had no right to treat you like they did. It is a crime both in their and our world to abuse and neglect a child.”

“But… I’m…” Potter looked away.

“You’re what?”

“You know.” The boy’s voice was nearly inaudible.

“No, I do not,” Snape said rather sharply. “I’m afraid you’ll have to enlighten me.”

“Evil,” Potter whispered. “Because of my, you know. My magic.”

He said the word as if referring to something filthy. Snape closed his eyes and sighed. Never underestimate a good brain-washing. After almost two months at Hogwarts, the boy still firmly believed the idiocies his relatives had drilled into him. And of course, no one had noticed that the Boy-Who-Lived feared his own kind… who he was.

“Potter,” Snape said. “Am I evil?”

The boy’s eyes widened. “N-no, sir.”

“I am a powerful wizard,” Snape continued. “Headmaster Dumbledore is the greatest wizard alive. Professor McGonagall is approached from witches and wizards all over the country to share her knowledge of transfiguration magic. Your friend Hermione Granger is probably the most gifted young witch to attend Hogwarts in a decade. Tell me, if your magic makes you evil, what does it make us?”

“But…” Potter shook his head, desperately trying to make sense of a world suddenly turned on its head.

“What would that priest have done to your friend Hermione, had she been taken to his place by her family?”

Potter stared at him, utterly shocked.

“Would you approve of such a thing? Would you say it’s acceptable to torture her because of her magic?”

“No!” The boy’s voice took on a firmer tone, almost angry. “Hermione’s… she’s… you wouldn’t let them do that to her!”

Snape blinked. That had been unexpected. “You’re right,” he said after a moment. “I would not allow such a thing to be done to Miss Granger. Nor will I allow you to be hurt in such a manner ever again. You did not deserve what they did to you.”

The boy said nothing, merely looked at Snape.

“Do you understand, Harry? You are not evil. It was not your fault.”

“Y-yes, sir.”

Well, it was a start. Snape sighed, wishing Albus were here. Now was the time to hug the boy, tell him that it would be alright, but Snape did not, as a habit, hug his students. Then again, Harry was not the kind of child craving hugs and cuddles; he was far too distrustful of adults to want that kind of physical closeness. Yes, he had allowed Pomfrey to comfort him, but he had disentangled himself fairly quickly, putting a secure distance between himself and the woman.

Security. It seemed a key concept in dealing with the boy; the very thing that might allow Harry to build some sort of trust with an adult. Security and consistency. Far more than hugs and cuddles, these were things Snape could actually provide.

“As I mentioned before, there are some arrangements we need to discuss,” he said. “The Headmaster and I feel that it would not be prudent for you to remain in your dormitory until we’ve found a way to… address your condition.”

Harry frowned. “You mean, so He doesn’t hurt Draco and the others?”

“Yes,” Snape said simply. “And you should be with an adult so He does not harm you.”

“So where am I going to stay? Here?” Harry didn’t seem very keen on the prospect.

Snape sighed. Here we go. “No. We decided that it would be best for you to stay in my quarters for the time being.”

He had expected many things – protests, tears, tantrums, sulky acceptance – anything but the simple nod he got from the boy. “Yes sir.”

“You may use your common room during the day and eat with your classmates at the House Table, as well as attend lessons. At curfew, I expect you to come down to my quarters and remain there until the following morning, do you understand?”

Harry nodded, plucking at his sheets. “Sir…”

“Yes?”

“What about… what if He comes back? What if He hurts you?”

Snape looked at the boy. Another unexpected question, but then, perhaps it shouldn’t have been. “You need not concern yourself about my safety. I assure you I’m fully capable of defending myself, and Professor Dumbledore has made sure I’ll have backup if there’s an… incident.”

It seemed ludicrous, taking safety measures against an eleven-year-old boy; but then, of course, it wasn’t Harry that he would need to be protected from.

The boy glanced up, looking suddenly concerned. Snape tensed; perhaps the prospect of living with his Head of House had only just sunk in, and there would be teary protests, after all.

“Sir?”

“What is it, Potter?”

“Can – can Hedwig come, too? She’ll be real quiet, I promise.”

Trust a first-year to prioritize having their pet around right after questions of life and death. “I suppose so.”

“Thank you, sir.” With that, Harry grabbed the left-over chocolate frog from his bedside table, settled back on his pillow and began to unwrap his sweet. “I bet Hogsmeade’s really cool,” he said with a seemingly nonchalant air. “Isn’t it, sir?”

“Yes, yes, Potter, I haven’t forgotten about our agreement. You may stop dropping not-so-subtle hints.”

Harry smiled.

“This is where you’ll be sleeping, Potter.”

Harry stood on the threshold to what used to be an additional storage room for potions ingredients. Snape had cleared it out the day before, shrinking the shelves and bottles to store them temporarily in his office. An inconvenience, admittedly, but then, he had no doubt that Hogwarts would soon provide him with an alternative space to store his things. When he had moved in, the small niche that was to house his private lab had grown into a large work space during the first few weeks.

“Cool,” Harry said.

Snape looked around the room. His godson wouldn’t have pronounced it “cool”; but then, Harry hadn’t grown up in a huge manor with a suite of rooms to call his own. There was a large fourposter bed like the one in the boy’s dormitory, complete with one of the locker-desk sets provided for every student. A huge window dominated the far wall, allowing an admittedly impressive view of an underwater landscape. As Harry gazed at it, a school of rainbow trout flitted past the window and disappeared into a field of waterweed.

“Are all cellar rooms in the Black Lake, sir?”

“Most of them,” Snape replied. “As you know, the Slytherin common room and dormitories are, and part of the kitchens, as well. There are some catacombs further underground that are no longer in use.”

Harry slowly crossed the room and put a hand on the window. “I like it,” he said softly.

Snape cleared his throat. “Well, make yourself at home then. I expect you to keep your quarters clean and orderly, and not to leave a mess in the bathroom.” He pointed at a door across the hall. “In there. Down the hall to your right is my living area and kitchen. You may go in there, provided you don’t leave your personal belongings lying around or disturb any of mine. To your left are my bedroom and private office, both of which are strictly off limits.” He gave the boy a pointed look to underline the statement. “I don’t want you to ever set foot in there without my permission, understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Harry’s eyes suddenly shifted to something behind Snape. “Oh!”

Snape turned around. The newcomer had appeared as silently as a ghost, his thick black tail curled neatly around his paws as he sat in the doorway and studied the new arrival. After a tense moment or two, his amber eyes closed, and Snape breathed an inward sigh of relief. This could have gone very wrong, indeed.

“Marlowe,” he said dryly. “Meet Mr. Potter.”

Marlowe stared at him as if to say “you’re walking on thin ice, my friend”, then slowly unfurled his tail, arched his impressive body and sauntered over to inspect the boy whom Snape had so recklessly invited into his territory.

“I didn’t know you had a cat, sir.” Harry looked down at the huge animal, obviously torn between admiration and apprehension; a reaction Marlowe inspired in most people. “I’ve never seen him before.”

“Kneazle, actually,” Snape said. “And yes, well, Marlowe is not the most sociable of animals.”

That was putting it mildly. Even Dumbledore seemed slightly intimidated by the Kneazle’s formidable presence, and always vacated the armchair by the fire if Marlowe indicated that he wished to sit in it. As for Snape, he had learned to read his familiar’s moods and treat him accordingly. In return, Marlowe tolerated the Potions Master’s presence in his domain and kept his quarters free of mice.

“Can I pet him?” Harry asked.

Snape hesitated; Marlowe allowed very few people to touch him, and then only occasionally.

“You may try,” he said eventually, when Marlowe gave no indication that he wished no contact with the boy.

“Hello, Marlowe,” Harry said; Snape noted that he tried none of the “here kitty kitty” nonsense that had earned Trelawney a deep scratch on her hand. The boy leaned down and carefully ran a hand down the Kneazle’s back. Marlowe stilled, his ears twitching. Harry continued stroking. “I’m Harry. You can sleep in my bed if you want to.”

The Kneazle stared at the boy as if to say “certainly not”, but all the same, he remained where he was, allowing the small hand to comb through his thick fur.

“Marlowe sleeps in an armchair by the fireplace or on a shelf in my private office,” Snape said, wondering why he was sharing such information with the boy. “He values his routine.”

As do I, he added silently. Albus had once felt the need to point out the similarities between the Potions Master and his Kneazle familiar, only stopping when both of them had fixed him with their deadliest glares.

“Does he mind Hedwig being here?” Harry asked.

“No. As long as you keep her in your room, there should be no problem. Kneazles and owls were bred to co-exist peacefully.”

Marlowe gave his wizard a pointed stare for the breeding comment, arched his back and stalked to the door, having finished his inspection.

“Sir?”

Snape turned to the boy. “Yes?”

“Is there a Quidditch shop in Hogsmeade? If there is, can we go there?”

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. Tomorrow was Saturday, so he might as well get the inevitable over with, or the infernal questions would never stop.

“Mr. Potter, you may tell Draco and Miss Granger to come to the Entrance Hall tomorrow after breakfast, and have everything ready. They had better not be late; I won’t waste any time waiting for dawdling children.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “Are we… are we going to Hogsmeade? Tomorrow?”

“No, boy, we’re accompanying the Headmaster to the Wizengamot’s annual bowling day,” Snape snapped, suppressing a sigh when he saw Harry’s face fall. Damn eleven-year-olds and their lacking understanding of sarcasm. “Of course we’re going to Hogsmeade, stupid child. You’ve been pestering me about it for the last three days, haven’t you?”

Had Harry been the golden Gryffindor McGonagall had envisioned, he might have rushed forward to hug his teacher; to Snape’s relief, however, all the boy did was give him a grin that threatened to split his face. “Cool. Thank you, sir.”

“Yes, well.” Snape cleared his throat. “You had better put your things away; I won’t have your room looking like a war zone.”

He left the boy behind to empty his trunk, and went to sit in the living room with Marlowe. The Kneazle gave him a long look, and Snape thought he detected a hint of sympathy in his familiar’s expression.

“Yes, I suppose so,” he muttered. “He’s here to stay, more likely than not.”

Marlowe stretched his front paws and closed his eyes, as if to say, “Oh well”.

Snape sighed.

###

“… according to Hogsmeade: A History, Hengist of Woodcroft founded it around 900, after he was driven from his home by the monks who’d come to his village. He, his wife and his son fled on brooms, which is why the oldest inn is named The Three Broomsticks…”

“Father said I should invite you for a round of butterbeer,” Draco interrupted Hermione Granger’s history lesson, patting the pocket of his robes which bulged impressively. “It’s to honor Malfoy hospitality, he said. Non-alcoholic for the three of us,” he added hastily at Snape’s stern look. “Father said you’d probably want Firewhisky instead, so I should make sure you get the most expensive one they have. I have enough to pay for everything.”

Snape sighed. While Lucius had doubtlessly wanted his son to show off the Malfoy wealth and generosity to his friends, he’d certainly not approve of Draco’s “plebeian” boasts. Fortunately, neither Harry nor Miss Granger seemed to mind their friend’s bragging.

“I read about your family in Wizarding Clans and Class Wars,” the girl said. “The Malfoys are a really old wizarding clan, aren’t they?”

“We can trace our lineage back to Salazar Slytherin,” Draco said proudly. “The Potters are almost as old, although they sometimes married mud-, I mean, Muggleborns and even Muggles.”

“Like my Aunt Miranda. She’s a witch, and her boyfriend’s a maths teacher,” Granger said. “He said he’ll teach me some geometry and algebra in the summer holidays, he thinks it’s a shame that wizarding children never get to learn – oh look, we’re there!”

The first houses of Hogsmeade had appeared behind the hill. At the sight, the three children nearly broke into a run, and Snape had to quicken his pace to keep up. Merlin save him from over-excited first-years; at least the students in Year 3 and above didn’t need a babysitter when they went to waste their money in the village.

At the entrance to the main street, Snape called the three back and waited with crossed arms until they stood in front of him, nearly bouncing with impatience.

“Before we go in, I’m going to set a few rules, and I expect you to obey them to the letter,” he said sternly. “Remember, this is a privilege that’s usually only granted to third-years and above, because they’re considered mature enough to behave responsibly. While we’re in the village, you’re not to wander out of sight, and if I tell you not to go somewhere, that means you’re not to set one foot in that direction. If you wish to purchase anything that costs more than four Sickles, you’re to ask me for permission, and there will be no whining if I say no. You’re not to speak to strangers or accept anything from them when I’m not around-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Draco said, basically hopping from one foot to the other. “We know. Can we go now, please, Uncle Sev?”

“Don’t interrupt Professor Snape,” Granger admonished the boy before Snape could even open his mouth. “It’s important that we know about stranger danger, right, Professor?”

“Stranger what?” Draco asked, looking bewildered.

“Miss Granger is right, although I am perfectly capable of administering my own reprimands,” Snape said with a pointed look at the girl, who blushed slightly. “Not all adult witches and wizards have the best of intentions, Draco, and you need to know how to handle yourself in such situations. As long as you stay within sight, however, I do not anticipate any problems.”

Later, he supposed that this sentence fell under the category of “famous last words”, and that it should have been a warning sign. Perhaps it was Albus’ bad influence, but at the time, he really hadn’t expected much in the way of trouble.

The first shop he was dragged into naturally turned out to be Zonko’s Joke Shop, an establishment he usually gave a wide berth. As it was not a visiting day for the older students, the place was mercifully empty, although Snape saw quite a few adult customers browsing the shelves. The rubbish on display had Harry and Draco in raptures of delight, while the Granger girl followed them around, rattling off facts she had picked up from Hogsmeade: A History.

“…in the Middle Ages, it was a place that sold amulets and such things, until Godelieff the Gory invented a bracelet that snapped at people’s hands, and it was such a success that the shop began to sell other novelty items…”

“Oh look, Uncle Sev!” Draco called. “Can I get one of those? Can I?”

Snape went to see what had the boy so excited. On a low table next to the wall, a miniature landscape was on display, not unlike the model railway Snape had seen in a Muggle shop. There was a forest consisting of trees that would have fit into his palm, and in the middle of the forest, a large cave housing…

“Dragons!” shouted Draco. “Look, there’s a Norwegian Ridgeback!”

He pointed at the live model of a green dragon that unfurled its tiny wings and breathed a cloud of emerald flames. There had to be dozens of them, climbing all over the cave and setting the small trees of their habitat on fire. A containment charm kept them on the table, while a flame freezing spell made sure there was no permanent damage from the fire. The three first-years stood mesmerized; Miss Granger even forgot about reciting Hogsmeade: A History.

“Can I have one, huh, Uncle Sev? Please?”

Snape looked down at his godson’s flushed face. Damn the shopkeepers for placing such expensive items on the eye level of their young customers; doubtlessly a strategy to ensure that the brats would pester their parents into buying the infernal things. Annoyingly enough, it seemed to be a strategy that worked.

“Do you think you really need one?” he stalled, although he knew it was no use. Clearly, Draco was convinced he needed a fire-breathing dragon more than anything in the world.

“Oh please, Uncle Sev, please!”

The shopkeeper, an elderly witch with a ridiculous orange hat, winked at him. Snape glared back.

“They cost 3 Galleons apiece,” he said to Draco. “That’s a lot of money.”

He could see that Draco disagreed, but the boy was too much of a Slytherin to say so out loud. “Yes, I know, but… oh please, Uncle Sev, I’ll do all my homework and everything, please!”

“I expect you to do your homework no matter what,” Snape said before turning to the other two, who seemed torn between watching the dragons and eavesdropping on Draco’s begging. “I suppose you too are eager to squander your money on something that serves no discernible purpose save for taking up space?”

A look at their shining eyes told him that it was so. Snape sighed, bowing to the inevitable. “Well, it’s your finances you’re wasting.”

Draco whooped, and Harry’s broad grin was mirrored on Miss Granger’s face. Snape had allowed them to take 5 Galleons each from their savings, and it seemed as if more than half of it would be spent on dragons.

It took another twenty minutes until they finally left the shop – Miss Granger had been unable to decide whether to pick a Chinese Fireball or a Peruvian Vipertooth, finally choosing the Fireball when the Vipertooth nipped her finger rather sharply. Draco was playing happily with his Ridgeback, while Harry had the tiny version of a Hungarian Horntail sitting on his shoulder. From time to time, the dragon spewed clouds of harmless frozen fire into his ear, making the boy scrunch his nose and smile. Unlike Draco and Miss Granger, Harry hadn’t hesitated in his decision, picking a dragon that sat by itself, at a distance to the others.

Their next stop was Honeydukes, and Snape was sorely tempted to let the children go in on their own; the sight and smell of thousands of sugary sweets made him feel nauseated. Only the gleam in Draco’s eyes convinced that he’d better keep an eye on the boy before he bought enough to give the whole of House Slytherin a sugar high. Harry and Miss Granger were rather modest in their purchases, eventually settling for a box of chocolate frogs and a liquorice wand each. After some sulking, Draco gave in and selected his three favorites, Ice Mice, Jelly Slugs and Fizzing Whizzbees. He also bought a huge box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans for the common room, which Snape approved of – not because he particularly wanted his snakes to stuff themselves on sweets, but because he knew that some of them never had money to buy anything but school supplies.

After a mercifully short time, they left Honeydukes and walked along the main street, where Miss Granger soon spotted a bookshop, her eyes shining as she pointed it out to the others.

“May we go in, please, Professor?”

Snape nodded his permission, ignoring Draco’s long face.

Inside the shop, the girl immediately delved into a huge volume on Transfiguration, while the two boys seemed slightly intimidated by the towering shelves and leatherbound tomes. Snape glanced at the new acquisitions by the window; nothing interesting there, except for an updated version of the Encyclopedia of Toadstools. The next issue of the Practical Potioneer wasn’t due for another months… if the editors for once managed to procure all contributions on time. His own essay had been submitted two weeks before the deadline, as usual.

A tug on his sleeve pulled him from his thoughts. “Uncle Sev, do they have any Quidditch mags?”

“You’re old enough to ask the clerk yourself, Draco,” Snape said. “And don’t you get enough of these pamphlets by owl order?”

“They’re over here, Draco,” Harry called from a stand next to the counter. “Look, there’s a picture of a new broom!”

Draco ran over to him, drawing disapproving looks from the white-haired clerk and Miss Granger. Snape turned away and out of habit began to browse the Potions section. It was rather small compared to the one in Flourish and Blotts, but at least it didn’t feature that ridiculous Muggle-imitating scribble some American wizard had thrown on the market. Really, whoever thought that the world needed Potions for Dummies should be boiled in their own cauldron.

“Looking for new releases on Potions, sir?” The clerk had come over, glancing over his shoulder. “Pompeia Lychwood will be coming out with a publication on Healing Draughts next month. If you wish, I can hold you a copy…”

Snape nodded. “Please.” Lychwood’s publications tended to be worth a read, even if she used rather flowery prose to describe her experiments.

“In the meantime, may I interest you in a very useful device we received this week?” The clerk gestured at a table nearby, where a selection of rather strange items was on display. They looked like snitches without wings, except that they were silver rather than golden. As Snape took a closer look, he saw that each of the walnut-sized objects had a different gemstone set into its silver casing.

“Potion Timers,” the clerk said proudly. “If thrown into the potion at any point during the brewing process, the timer will preserve it at the exact state it is in for up to nine months. Far better than Stasis spells, if our testers are to be believed.”

Snape regarded the things with new interest. Stasis spells did indeed wear off rather quickly, and quite a few of his potions had been ruined because something else had demanded his attention at a critical stage of the brewing process.

“I don’t see a price tag,” he said to the clerk.

“Yes, well, I’m afraid they’re rather… 20 Galleons apiece,” the man answered quickly at Snape’s impatient look.

“I see. Well, in that case I believe Stasis spells will have to do,” Snape stated, turning away from the table. Harry and Draco were standing behind him, their hands full of Quidditch magazines and broomstick catalogues.

“Can we get these, Uncle Sev? Please?”

“You may buy one each,” Snape said, the Potion Timers forgotten. “That means either a Quidditch magazine or a broom catalogue, Draco, not one of each.”

He followed his godson to the counter to make sure the boy didn’t slip in another magazine when he wasn’t looking, paying no attention to Harry who lingered behind.

“Can’t I get this one and the one with the special feature on the Wimbourne Wasps, please, Uncle Sev?”

Ten minutes later, Snape finally ushered the children out of the shop; Miss Granger had spent her last two Galleons on a Transfiguration practice book, while Harry and Draco were comparing pictures of cutting-edge broomsticks and discussing their various merits.

“That’s the Nimbus 2000, Father said he’ll buy me one if I get top marks in more than four subjects. Shouldn’t be a problem, I’m already top of the class in Potions and Flying. Good thing we’ve most classes with the Gryffindorks, it’s easy to do better than them.”

Draco grinned. Snape saw Harry give him a side-glance before leaning closer to the other boy. “I met Ron Weasley on the train. He said Slytherin’s only for… for bad wizards and witches.”

“That’s not true,” Hermione joined the conversation. “I’ve read about it in Hogwarts: A History. People have been prejudiced against Slytherin House ever since You-Know-Who came to power. He was a Slytherin,” she added unnecessarily. “Before that, Slytherin was famous for turning out most of the successful politicians and military strategists in the wizarding world.”

“Anyway,” Draco added, “who cares what Weasley has to say. His family’s an embarrassment to all purebloods. Running around in second-hand clothes…” He trailed off, having noticed the look on Harry’s face. “Erm, I mean…”

“I thought Ron was nice,” Harry said quietly. “He didn’t want to sit next to me in Astronomy, though. He said he didn’t talk to filthy snakes, and I should go sit with the other nasty gits.”

It was probably the longest speech Snape had heard from Harry so far. The incident must have really bothered the boy.

“Why would you want to sit with Weasley?” Draco asked, sounding bewildered and slightly jealous.

Harry shrugged. “It was fun talking to him on the train.”

Draco continued to look broody after that, and only brightened up when they arrived at the Three Broomsticks. Snape had hoped that the children might be tired enough to skip the planned round of butterbeer, but that hope was dashed when he found himself tugged to the door of the inn. “Come on, Uncle Sev!”

“I am capable of finding my own way, thank you,” Snape snapped at his godson, who paid him no attention whatsoever as he pushed open the door. Harry and Hermione seemed slightly more hesitant, looking in awe at the huge chandelier hanging from the smoky rafters and the vast amount of bottles in all shapes and sizes on the wall shelves.

“I’ll get our butterbeers and your whisky, Uncle Sev!” Draco called, flushed with pride at being the big spender. “I’ll be right back!”

“I doubt they’re going to sell Firewhisky to a first-year,” Snape said dryly, and indicated a table next to the window to Harry and Hermione. “Go sit down; Draco and I will join you in a moment.”

He followed Draco to the bar, his heart sinking when he saw that Madam Rosmerta herself was on duty.

“Severus,” she called when she saw him. “Why, it’s been forever!”

“Madam,” he stiffly inclined his head.

“Oh, don’t “madam” me! You know I’m on a first-name basis with all Hogwarts teachers – the handsome ones, anyway!”

She winked, and he cringed inwardly. “Rosmerta, then. Draco here would like to make an order.”

She smiled at the boy. “Draco Malfoy, eh? You must be Lucius’ boy. Give him my best when you see him, will you?”

Draco nodded, his eyes lingering a little too long on her impressive décolleté. “You know my father?”

“Oh yes, dear, many fond memories there… you definitely take after him, you’ll be quite the heartbreaker in a few years… or do you already have a little girlfriend?” She looked at the table where Harry and Hermione sat, and back at Draco, who blushed furiously.

“Um, no, that’s, that’s just Hermione Granger, she’s…”

“Ah yes, a bit young for that, I guess.” Rosmerta winked at Snape again. “I have to admit, though, my type’s more the tall, dark and mysterious kind of man…”

“I’ll let them know if I happen to meet one,” Snape replied, wishing heartily for the entire exchange to be over.

Rosmerta broke into raucous laughter. “Oh, don’t be so modest, Severus! It’s a mystery to me why some pretty witch hasn’t stolen you away ages ago!”

“A Firewhisky and three children’s butterbeers, Madam, if you don’t mind,” Snape said, giving her his iciest glare. Rosmerta raised her hands in mock surrender and finally turned away to pour their drinks.

Draco seemed to have recovered from the thought of Hermione being his girlfriend, and pulled out his money bag to pay for the order.

“I hope that’s not some cheap Muggle brand,” he said as Rosmerta set the glasses on the bar. “Father said to only get the best for Uncle Sev.”

Rosmerta didn’t seem offended, and merely laughed. “I got our very best goblin-made vintage for your Uncle Sev, don’t worry.”

Snape breathed a sigh of relief as they left the bar and went over to the table. Glancing down, he found Draco grinning at him.

“What?”

“She’s your girlfriend,” Draco grinned. “Isn’t she?”

“That would be a definite no,” Snape replied dryly.

“Then why-”

“That is a conversation we’ll be having in four years at the earliest, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll concentrate on keeping those butterbeers steady without spilling anything on the floor.”

Harry’s and Hermione’s eyes lit up as they took their first, careful sips of the foamy liquid. Snape had never cared for butterbeer, but he knew that most of his snakes loved it and attempted to smuggle crates of it into the common room at every opportunity. Sipping his whisky – a rather fine brand, Rosmerta had not exaggerated – he allowed himself a moment’s relief that their shopping excursion was nearly over without any major incidents or, Merlin forbid, the Dark Lord making an appearance. It had been his worst fear, despite Albus’ assurances that he would know immediately if Harry… changed.

At the moment, Harry seemed more relaxed than he’d ever seen the boy, smiling as he watched his dragon race Draco’s around the table. Hermione had her nose buried in her new book, and Snape pretended to read the menu, ignoring the looks Rosmerta gave him from across the room.

Draco soon clamored for a new round of butterbeer, and Snape had to put his foot down to prevent him from getting more; the children were hyperactive enough from the sweets they’d consumed at Honeydukes. As expected, he was met with a storm of protests as he announced that it was time to go back, most of them coming from his godson. Harry put in a “please, sir” after a nudge from Draco, but his heart didn’t seem to be in it. Or maybe he’d never learned how to ask for anything.

Ignoring Draco’s pout, Snape herded them to the door and out onto the street.

“See you soon, Severus!” Rosmerta waved after them from the bar, and Snape hastily closed the door. If he had any say in the matter, he wouldn’t be returning to the establishment any time soon… at least not until Albus made him join the teachers’ Christmas outing, as usual.

Their walk back to the castle seemed to take twice as long as before, if only because the three children chattered constantly, going over the day’s adventures between themselves and unfortunately, with Snape. While Harry mostly listened, Draco and Hermione, used to getting their guardians’ full attention, filled Snape’s ears with excited tales of their day.

“… they had practice books for all our subjects in the bookshop, do you think I can owl-order some, Professor?”

“…wait till I show my Ridgeback to Vince and Greg, they’re going to be so jealous!”

“Did you enjoy yourself, Harry?” Snape asked finally, if only to escape Draco’s and Hermione’s relentless monologue.

“Yes sir, thank you,” Harry said. “I had a great time.”

Snape saw him reach for his pocket with a smile, thinking that the boy must have hidden his dragon in there. He knew from Harry’s memories that the boy had hardly ever owned any toys, and those he had were broken cast-offs his spoiled cousin no longer wanted.

Back at the castle, Snape sent the children to wash up before lunch – “and no more sweets, Draco, or they’ll be gone for good” – and allowed himself a moment’s recuperation at the teacher’s table. Who would have thought that accompanying three first-years to Hogsmeade was more exhausting than an entire day of teaching the dunderheads?

“Had a fun outing, Severus?” Dumbledore’s voice pulled him from his contemplations. Snape turned and glared at the Headmaster, although not with as much vigor as usual. He was simply to worn out to muster his usual menace.

“I did enjoy going to Hogsmeade as a student,” Dumbledore continued, serving himself a large helping of Irish stew. “Why, one time Elphias and I…”

Snape tuned out the Headmaster’s latest anecdote and watched Harry instead. The boy was sitting at his usual spot at the Slytherin table, guarding his plate with one hand as he ate. Harry’s table manners had improved since the Welcoming Feast – at the very least, he no longer wolfed down his food so fast that he ended up wearing half of it – but he still didn’t seem entirely at ease leaving his plate unprotected. As Snape watched, the boy’s hand darted out with the ease of long practice and grabbed a roll from the basket, which disappeared in the pocket of Harry’s robes. No one else at the table had noticed.

After finishing his own meal, Snape returned to his quarters, blessedly child-free for the afternoon. Harry was in the common room with Draco, and wouldn’t return until it was time to go to bed. Snape wasn’t entirely at ease leaving the boy unsupervised, but Dumbledore had assured him that no harm would come to any of his students, and in this at least, he trusted the Headmaster. And he did enjoy the prospect of a solitary afternoon, with only Marlowe and a good book for company. After this morning, he had earned it.

Lighting the fireplace with a flick of his wand, Snape went into the kitchen to put on the kettle, so intent on his task that he almost missed the note on the kitchen table. It was only when Marlowe jumped onto a chair and meowed that he noticed it.

The note was written in a first-year’s chicken scratch, adorned with blotches of ink where the child’s quill had paused too long: Thank you very much for taking us to Hogsmeede. This is for you. – H.P.

Snape stared. On the paper, all polished silver and glinting gemstone, sat one of the Potion Timers.

Snape picked up the Potion Timer. It was undoubtedly one of those he had seen in the Hogsmeade bookshop; small, round and smooth, a polished amethyst embedded in its silver surface.          

20 Galleons. There was no way the boy had that much money. And even if he did, the old clerk hadn’t seemed like the kind of person who’d sell a young boy an expensive object such as this without an adult’s permission.

No, quite clearly, Harry had not paid for it. Snape clenched his fist around the thing. Here he was, sacrificing his morning to give the boy a treat, and the first thing the brat did was prove that he had a criminal streak a mile wide. Snape had never even noticed him go near the Potion Timers, let alone… Apparently, Harry was quite the accomplished thief.

But Snape had known that, of course. He’d seen in the boy’s memories how it had been: First, Harry had taken only small snacks from the supermarket shelves, enough to sustain him when his aunt and uncle once again decided to withhold his meals. Then… well, the boy needed notebooks and pencils for school. Petunia was not going to buy them, so the child found a way to provide for himself… and in true Slytherin fashion, morals could be set aside if they hindered one’s survival. Survival, in Harry’s case, meant not starving, not freezing his fingers off in winter, not being punished because he always “forgot” his school things…

Harry was a thief out of necessity; a survivor. And now, a thief who stole not for himself, but to give a gift to someone, however ill-advised.

Snape sighed. Foolish boy; did he really think his teacher would appreciate stolen goods? He was not looking forward to this conversation. He could not let it slide, of course, but neither did he want to destroy what tentative trust he might have established with the boy.

He looked back down at the scribbled note and at Marlowe, who was watching him with an unreadable expression in his amber eyes.

“What am I going to do with the little dunderhead?”

The Kneazle meowed.

“He deserves a month’s detention for this, you know.”

Marlowe’s tail twitched.

“Or two.”

Marlowe jumped off his chair and, in a rare display, bumped his large head against Snape’s shin.

“Yes, I do realize that you have taken a liking to the boy, but he cannot go around stealing things. He’s a young wizard, not a Kneazle kit.”

Marlowe looked at him as if to say “what’s the difference” and stalked out of the kitchen, tail held high.

Well. It wasn’t as if he had never had this talk before. Thievery did happen in Slytherin House; Snape had no illusions about his snakes in that respect. Hufflepuffs generally didn’t steal because it would hurt their friends; Ravenclaws understood the rational necessity for respecting property, and Gryffindors fancied themselves too noble to take what wasn’t theirs (and most of them had rich parents, anyway). His Slytherins… well, if the opportunity presented itself and the temptation was great, some of them weren’t above pocketing another child’s belongings. Snape fought the good fight, trying to eradicate the habit, but he wasn’t always successful. And Harry’s case was complicated by the fact that this particular Slytherin had needed to steal in order to survive. How on Earth was he, Snape, going to explain the difference to the child?

Snape wondered if he should call Albus. The headmaster had a way of getting through to even the most pigheaded people; hell, he’d made a tearful Mundungus Fletcher return a stolen baby unicorn to an irate Hagrid. If he talked to Harry…

But Snape had never been one to ask for help, and after a moment or two, he returned to the living room, sitting down with his tea and staring into the fireplace. This was between Harry and him, and Snape knew that he would need some time to think before the boy came back.

###

Snape was in his office grading papers when he heard to door to his quarters open and close. He glanced at the clock on the wall. Harry had returned on time, half an hour before it was time for the boy to go to bed.

He set his quill in its holder and got up. He’d thought about the upcoming talk for quite a while, and hoped that he could do it without his damned temper getting the better of him. The boy had had enough of that from his Muggle uncle.

Harry smiled at him, and Snape realized that the child had been looking forward to seeing him, knowing that Snape must have found his “surprise” by now. He sighed inwardly.

“Have you had dinner?” he asked the boy by way of greeting.

Harry nodded. “Yeah.”

“ ‘Yes, sir.’ ”

“Yes, sir,” the boy repeated obediently. Snape noticed that Harry was watching him from the corners of his eyes, obviously expecting something.

Well, no sense in procrastinating.

“We need to talk,” he told the boy, whose face instantly took on a wary expression. So he’d noticed that Snape wasn’t exactly pleased. Good. “Go and sit in the living room; I’ll join you in a minute.”

Harry did as he was told, giving Snape an uneasy glance over his shoulder. Snape went into the kitchen and busied himself with some left-over dishes; he wanted Harry to wait for a while, if only to give the boy time to think. Harry probably knew on some level that what he’d done was wrong; the crux would be getting him to admit it.

After a few minutes had passed, he went into the living room, where he found the boy sitting in one of the arm-chairs by the fire. Snape wasted no time, sat down in the arm-chair next to Harry’s and put the Potion Timer on the coffee table between them.

“Explain,” he said.

Harry frowned. “It’s for you. I wrote you a note.”

“I know,” Snape said, taking care to speak quite calmly. “I’m aware that you didn’t pay for this, Harry.”

The use of his name seemed to startle the boy. “Yes, I did,” he said quickly, trying to cover up his reaction.

Snape narrowed his eyes. “Do not lie to me.”

“I’m not!” the boy protested. “I left some Galleons on the table.”

“If I recall correctly, you started out with five Galleons,” Snape said. “The dragon cost three, so it can’t have been more than two Galleons.”

The boy nodded, looking down at his hands. “It was all I’d left.”

“And you were well aware that the Potion Timer cost more than that. You heard me talking to the clerk.”

The boy was smart enough not to deny the obvious. “I… I thought you’d like it,” he muttered.

Snape looked at him long and hard, and finally decided that the boy wasn’t trying to play him. Harry had genuinely wanted to please him, even if he’d known that his methods weren’t entirely legal. He’d only ever stolen for himself; this time, he’d stolen to… what? Get the praise and acceptance he so obviously craved? Possibly, Snape thought. Harry must have wanted his approval so much that he resorted to any means to get it. The thought was chilling. Harry had handed him the power to manipulate him into just about anything… and Snape didn’t want to know what that power could do in the wrong hands. Well, that wasn’t quite right. He already knew what that power could do in the wrong hands.

“Look at me, Harry.”

The boy obeyed, and now there was real fear on his face. “I… I didn’t…”

“Don’t,” Snape interrupted. “It is important that you understand this, so listen closely. There’s a law in the wizarding world that a person may steal to prevent themselves from dying of starvation. Wizards cannot conjure food from nothing, so they can suffer starvation like any other human being. If that happens - and only then! – the witch or wizard in question will not be punished if they’re caught.”

“You saw,” the boy said quietly, and Snape knew that he was referring to the memories that had been taken from him, in which Harry had stolen food from supermarket shelves.

“I did,” Snape nodded. “Your relatives refused to feed you, so you had to provide for yourself. You had no choice. But-” he continued, deliberately allowing his voice to harden, “it is a very different thing to take another person’s property just because you want it. That Potion Timer wasn’t yours, you knew you didn’t have the money to pay for it, and you didn’t need it to ensure your survival. Taking it without the shop owner’s consent was a crime both in the Muggle and the wizarding world.”

He paused to let the words sink in.

Harry’s hands were clenched in his lap. “Are you gonna call the cops?”

“Wizards do not have ‘cops’. They have Aurors, and no, I’m not going to inform the authorities.” Not that any Auror would be interested in an eleven-year-old’s shoplifting, but Snape saw no need to mention that to Harry. “I shall, however, inform the headmaster, and you will receive an appropriate punishment.”

Harry looked up at that, his eyes wide and frightened. Snape continued calmly. “You will accompany me to the bookshop on Monday after classes, return the Potion Timer and offer your sincere apologies to the owner. You also have detention with me every Friday night for the next month, and I want you to write an essay, two rolls of parchment, explaining why you did was wrong, to be handed in next Friday at your first detention.”

The boy watched him tensely. It was obvious that he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Hogwarts school policy,” Snape said, enunciating every word, “does not allow for corporal punishment. Students do not learn by being beaten, and I find it distasteful to think that anyone should use such methods on a child.”

His eyes bored into Harry’s, who sat very still. “You’re not gonna whip me?”

“Whipping someone, no matter what they did, is as much against the law as stealing. I would never raise my hand against any student in this school, nor would any of the other teachers.”

“But…” Harry trailed off.

“But what?” Snape asked.

“My uncle said I needed whipping, so my… my magic would go away. It’s making me evil.”

Snape very much wanted to hit something. Instead he closed his eyes, counting to ten before he spoke again. “I thought we had established that magic is not evil.”

“Yeah…” The boy sounded unconvinced.

“The nature of magic aside, your uncle’s assumption that it could be removed through violence is wrong. Magic is woven into the very core of our being – our genes, as Muggles would say. It’s as much a part of us as the color of our hair or skin – and I believe you would agree with me that neither can be ‘beaten out’ of someone.”

“But what about Him?” the boy whispered, so softly that Snape had to strain his ears to understand him. “He can make me do stuff… bad stuff.”

Snape had wished that the subject would not come up, but he wasn’t surprised that it had. “For now, suffice it to say that the headmaster and I are doing everything we can to keep you safe from Him.”

“He’s inside me.”

Snape nodded; he wouldn’t lie to the boy. “Part of Him is, anyway. But you are still very much your own person.”

“He didn’t go away even after…” The boy didn’t finish his sentence, pulling his legs up on the seat of the chair and wrapping his arms around them. Snape knew he was referring to the day his aunt and uncle had taken him to Father Pius.

“That should never have been done to you. It was nothing short of torture. Your aunt and uncle, never mind that… priest, could have gone to prison for it.”

Should have.

“They wanted to make Him leave me alone…” The boy’s voice was very quiet.

Snape took a deep breath. He did not normally talk to students like this; openly, holding nothing back. Yet he sensed that Harry needed to know the truth, even if it was ugly. “No, Harry. They didn’t understand about Him. They were… frightened of what they saw happening to you. I believe, on some subconscious, superstitious level, they thought you were channelling that entity they call the devil.”

Harry stared at him. “What’s supersti – superstishus?”

“It means believing in things that do not exist. There is no devil. There are only people with too much power on their hands.”

Harry swallowed. “So you’re saying… there’s nothing anyone can do about Him.”

“There is,” Snape said sharply. “Your mother did. You do, every time you do what you know is right. I will.”

He added the last two words very deliberately, holding the boy’s gaze. He could not promise Harry that he would keep him safe, because he might not be able to. But he could promise that he would try… like he had promised Dumbledore, all those years ago.

The boy seemed to understand. His hands gradually relaxed in his lap, and he uncurled his legs, tucking them under himself as he stared into the fire. “I didn’t take the Potion Timer because of Him,” he said quietly.

“I know you didn’t,” Snape replied. “That was very much your own decision, and a highly misjudged one, I might add.”

Harry nodded sadly. “I’m sorry.”

Snape inclined his head, acknowledging the apology. “Good. I suggest you get ready for bed now. You’ve had a long day.”

“Yes sir.”

Something moved next to the chair the boy had vacated, and Snape looked down. Marlowe was sitting there. He had not, as he would have done with anyone else, demanded that Harry give up the arm chair; instead he’d sat there waiting, allowing the boy to take up his accustomed spot that he wouldn’t even give to the Headmaster. Now he jumped onto the chair, fixing Snape with a look that was not at all approving.

Snape frowned at his familiar, then glanced at the retreating back of the boy he’d just taken to task. Marlowe’s ears flicked back and he yawned, showing off his formidable pointy teeth. Snape gave him a long look, sighed and turned to the door.

“Harry,” he called.

The boy poked his head back in, a wary expression on his face. “Sir?”

“I usually spend my Sunday mornings in the Forbidden Forest gathering Potions ingredients. I often have to make several trips in order to harvest and bring back everything I need, as no one has ever felt the necessity to assist me.”

He watched the boy, waiting. A few seconds passed, then Harry’s face lit up in hesitant understanding. “Uh… could I, I mean, would you like me to come with you and help you?”

“That would be an acceptable solution,” Snape said, raising an eyebrow at the boy. “In fact, it would be of far greater use to me than one of these overpriced contrivances.” He nodded at the Potion Timer on the table, and was satisfied to see a timid smile on Harry’s face.

“Um, okay, sir. I can do that.”

“I’ll be leaving the castle at five thirty, and I will not wait for you if you decide to lay about in bed. So make sure you set your alarm clock on time.”

“Yes sir!” The boy was still smiling happily, as if getting up at the crack of dawn to gather magical plants in a dangerous forest sounded like so much fun. Well, thought Snape, maybe it did if you hadn’t done it a hundred times before.

“Very well then. Off to bed with you, or you won’t be rested.”

Harry’s head disappeared again, and Snape could hear him bouncing down the corridor to his bedroom. Children did have a ridiculous amount of energy. He looked at Marlowe, who was watching him lazily, his eyes half-closed.

Snape glared at the Kneazle. “Well, happy now?”

Marlowe only yawned and flicked his tail in reply. He knew that his wizard was doing his best, taking care of the boy; all he needed was a little help here and there.

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.

Snape turned, scanning every shrub, every bush in the vicinity. If the boy was playing a childish prank on him, he’d –

“Harry! Come back at once!”

Fang whined again, ducking down as if he wanted to melt into the ground. The dog’s tail was tucked so firmly between his legs that it was barely visible.

“Mr. Potter, if you’re laboring under the assumption that you are being funny, you will-”

He broke off. There had been a sound apart from the dog’s whining, and Snape could not pretend that he had not heard it.

Keening. Keening like that of an injured animal, coming from somewhere above his head.

Snape looked up, and there he was. Sitting on the branch of an oak tree, eyes closed, his trainers dangling ten feet over the ground. And there was that noise, coming from the boy’s half-open mouth and at the same time from everywhere around them, and from within Snape’s own mind.

“Harry!”

The boy’s eyes snapped open, and they were white and empty, as Snape had known they would be.

Severus! the voice mocked him, imitating his concern. Dear Severus. Well met, my friend.

Snape’s fingers closed around his wand, and he looked into those white eyes, those eyes he’d seen red with insanity and bloodthirst. “Harry,” he said. “Look at me.”

I am looking at you, Severus. And I can see more than you know. The boy is nothing, Severus. A shell. It is I who gave him a reprieve, I who talk through him, act through him. Without me, this body would be nothing but dust and bones.

The thing smiled, distorting the child’s face into a spasmodic grimace. Then it pushed itself off the branch and dropped like a stone, landing hard on the path below. Snape saw Harry’s leg impact with a root, heard the sharp crack as the bone broke, but the thing didn’t even flinch. It rose, claw-like hands outstretched, a trickle of blood making its way down from Harry’s nose and past his lips.

One chance, Severus. Lord Voldemort is merciful. One last chance to do as you swore you would, all those years ago. You do not want to break your promise, do you?

“No, I do not.” Snape stepped forward and grabbed Harry’s shoulder, ignoring the blistering pain in his hand and the enraged shriek from the thing. “Harry, listen to me! Listen to me! Look at me.”

Suddenly the white eyes closed and snapped open again, now green and wild with pain and terror.

“Pro-professor…”

“Stay with me, Harry. Do not-”

“Protelo!”

A loud crack ripped the silence, and Harry’s shoulder was torn from Snape’s grip as the boy was blasted back and fell hard onto the ground. Snape turned. Dumbledore was standing on the path behind him, surrounded by that aura of power that seemed to pulse with raw magic.

“Albus, don’t!” Snape stepped forward, trying to shield Harry. “He was speaking to me-”

“Step aside, Severus!” Dumbledore raised his wand again.

“Albus, listen!”

Yes, Dumbledore, listen.

Snape turned around. The thing had clambered back to its feet, standing on the broken leg as if it could not feel the pain. Blood was dripping down from its nose, and it was smiling, a horrible, twisted smile.

You cannot harm me, old man. I am getting stronger. You can feel it, can you not?

“You are fooling yourself, Tom. What you have is an illusion of strength, an illusion of life-”

Illusion? the thing shrieked, and suddenly it was rushing forward, its face contorted with insane rage. It pushed Snape aside without so much as a flick of its wrist and went for Dumbledore, directly at his outstretched wand.

“Protelo inimicum!”

The force of the spell shook the ground, and Snape lost his balance, stumbling backwards. Harry’s body was flung back again, but this time he did not hit the ground. There was a flash of blinding light, a shriek of both triumph and malice, and then Harry was gone, so suddenly as if he’d disapparated.

Dumbledore lowered his wand. “Severus, are you-”

“Where is he, Albus?”

“Not far,” Dumbledore said quietly. “I can sense Him…”

“The boy, Albus! Where is the boy? I don’t give a bloody damn about the Dark Lord!”

Dumbledore looked at him with a mixture of sadness and something else, something Snape refused to recognize as affection. “My boy, at the moment, Harry follows wherever Tom chooses to go. And Tom, I believe, has only one destination in mind.”

Snape stared at him. “The Stone.”

“Yes. I had thought Protelo would keep him at bay, but it seems that Tom has found a way around it. And now…”

“-he’ll take the Stone.” Come back to life. Create a body, or even worse, take the one already at his disposal. Kill-

“Not if we reach him first.” Dumbledore held out an arm, a silent request for Snape to hold onto it. “If you would, Severus…”

Snape asked no questions. He reached out for Dumbledore’ arm, and as soon as his fingers had closed around the old man’s wrist, they were gone without so much as a sound, the only sign of their departure a few dry leaves that swirled up from the ground.

Fang, who had been watching from behind a tree, whined uncertainly and then shook himself, setting off in a trot towards Hagrid’s cabin.

The dog had been killed. Blood was dripping from all of its three snouts, pooling on the floor next to the trapdoor. Snape surmised that it had been blasted against the far wall rather than hit with the Killing Curse; a dark red stain suggested as much, and the Avada Kedavra left no bloody traces. The harp they had played to calm it when they needed to check on the Stone lay broken in a corner; a sneering message to anyone who had ever used it. The trapdoor was a scorched, gaping hole in the floor.

“You’re not going in there, Albus,” Minerva McGonagall said. She was trying her best to sound firm, but Snape could tell that the sight of the dead Cerberus had shaken her badly. “You simply can’t-”

“But I do, Minerva,” the Headmaster said, not unkindly. “I would ask you, Filius and Pomona to make sure your Houses are safely in their common rooms. Quirinus, if you’d be so kind to take care of Slytherin House for Severus.”

Quirrel, who’d been lingering close by the door, nodded hastily and left without a look back.

“I’m going with you,” McGonagall announced. “I can help-”

“- by making sure everyone’s safe,” Dumbledore said firmly. “Severus will accompany me.”

“But Albus-”

“Could you for once spare us your Gryffindor heroics,” Snape erupted, far more viciously than he’d intended – not that he felt sorry for a second. “It might have escaped your attention and perhaps you don’t care, but there’s one of my students down there with Lord Voldemort!”

McGonagall winced as if she’d been struck. “Severus, how can you-”

“Please!” Dumbledore did not raise his voice, but they both fell silent at once. “Minerva, I need you to trust me and do as I say. Please.”

She didn’t look happy, but nodded. “Very well, Albus. But if you’re not back within two hours-”

“- I trust you to do the right thing and evacuate the school,” Dumbledore finished quite calmly. “If Severus and I do not return, it means that our students are no longer safe here.”

McGonagall’s face lost color, but to her credit she merely nodded. “Be careful down there.”

“Certainly,” Dumbledore replied, smiling slightly. “Oh, and do make sure the children are not overly worried, Minerva. There may be no reason to scare them unnecessarily.”

Snape could have screamed. “If we could finish with the chitchat, Headmaster-”

“Of course you’re right, Severus. Minerva…”

She left, not without a final, worried glance at the pair of them. Not willing to waste another second, Snape strode over to the hole that had been the trapdoor, wand in hand. It seemed to have been hit with a forceful Diffindo, judging by the scorch marks on the floor and the splinters of wood still attached to the bent hinges. Snape lit his wand and pointed it downwards. Far below, he could see an uneven shape on the floor, like a huge molten stump.

“I believe Tom disposed of the Devil’s Snare the same way he did of Fluffy,” Dumbledore said, his eyebrows drawn together. “He always did resort to crude violence whenever he felt pressured.”

Snape said nothing, merely cast a Cushioning Charm that would break his fall and jumped. Air rushed past him as he fell through the darkness, and a rustle of robes from above told him that the Headmaster had followed suit. They landed on the air cushion Snape had created, a few inches above the burned stem that used to be one of Britain’s largest Devil’s Snares.

Dumbledore stood and shook out his robes. “Lumos.”

The entire place bore witness to violent destruction. As they walked towards the Key Chamber, an acrid smell grew stronger and stronger, and on entering the chamber, Snape saw where it came from: The keys, each carefully bewitched by Flitwick and enchanted to behave like humming birds, had been blasted from the ceiling. Molten and shapeless, they littered the stone floor of the chamber, their burned wings emitting the revolting smell that filled the room. The door on the far side of the chamber no longer existed. Like with the trapdoor, only a scorched hole had been left by the spell that had hit it.

Much the same was true for McGonagall’s chess game. The chamber was filled with the rocky debris of the chess pieces, which had been blasted to bits. Snape looked around, and not for the first time wondered why they had bothered at all. He, if perhaps not the other teachers, knew perfectly well that Voldemort’s world was not one of childish games and fair sportsmanship. Tom Riddle had always refused to play by any rules life set him, so why this? Why set up a number of elaborate “tasks”, as in a school competition, for a man who enchanted decaying bodies to come to life and kill the families of those who stood in his way? What had they expected?

“Symbols, Severus,” Dumbledore said softly, and Snape suspected that the old man had been reading his thoughts again. “They matter more than we think. He can blast apart any protection we set up, but he cannot force us to stoop to his level, no matter what.”

Snape shrugged it off, barely sparing a glance at the dead troll or his own potions riddle. Not that there was much to see anymore. Nettle wine, poison and Flamefreezing Draught were pooling on the floor around the shattered bottles. The black fire that should have protected the entrance to the last chamber had been extinguished, no doubt by an All Flame Vanishing Charm. Only few wizards knew how to cast it, but the Dark Lord had never had problems mastering spells other people didn’t.

They slowly approached the opening to the Mirror Chamber. This, Snape knew, was one obstacle Voldemort could not blast out of his way without destroying the very thing he had come for. The only real protection the Stone had been given. Perhaps the “symbols”, as Dumbledore called them, had fulfilled their purpose simply by putting Voldemort off his guard.

“Harry,” Dumbledore said softly.

The boy was standing in front of the Mirror of Erised, his back to them. He saw them coming, of course; Snape saw those white eyes following their every move in the mirror. The bloodied lips parted in a parody of Harry’s grin.

Severus, the voice filled the room, even though Harry’s mouth never moved. You’ve been missed.

Snape trained his wand on the figure in front of the mirror, whose blood-flecked smile widened. Oh yes, Severus. The boy… he is quite fond of you. “Don’t hurt Professor Snape!” It’s all he’s been telling me.

“You won’t get what you’re here for, Tom,” Dumbledore said as if Voldemort had never spoken. “I believe you realize how the mirror works?”

You believe you’re so ingenious, Dumbledore, the voice hissed. Tell me, does it hurt? Does it disappoint you that your Golden Boy cares more for your little turncoat there than you? Doesn’t it smart that he was Sorted into Salazar’s noble House… my House?

“Your House, Tom? It may have been, when you still called this school your home. You lost that privilege a long time ago.”

At that, the boy turned around, his smile gone. You are wrong, Dumbledore. I never called this school my home. I merely called it mine… and I still do.

“Oh, I am quite aware of the complexities of your delusions. That does not change the fact that you will not see through the mirror, so to speak. The Stone is quite safe.”

Harry’s hand shot up in an angry gesture, and flames rose around the chamber, burning too bright to be natural fire. Oh, is it?

 “Yes, I believe so. And while I may have swayed your mind once with a burning wardrobe, you would be amiss to assume that your little display will change mine.”

We shall see, Dumbledore… Harry’s hand made a beckoning gesture towards the flames. A ball of bright fire floated towards him, growing larger as it approached his outstretched hand. Just before it touched his palm, the boy drew back and threw the flames with all his might, hurtling them at Snape.

“Protego!”

Dumbledore and he shouted the spell at the same time, but the ball of flames passed through their Shield. As a reflex, Snape threw up his arms to protect his face when the fire enveloped him. Yet the horrible heat, the pain he’d expected didn’t come. All he felt was a strange itching on the exposed parts of his body, where the flames were touching his skin. He stared at his hand, waiting for the blisters to break out and the skin to blacken, but nothing happened. He was burning alive without feeling a single thing.

Dumbledore threw a rapid succession of spells at him, none of which made the slightest difference, except that they seemed to amuse the thing inside Harry’s body.

You’ll wear yourself out, old man… only I can extinguish the fire. And I will do so – as soon as young Harry looks in the mirror and tells me where to find the Stone!

See for yourself, Harry…

The milky white sheen on Harry’s eyes disappeared, and suddenly the boy was back, gasping, shaking.

“Harry!” Dumbledore called. “Harry, do not listen-”

But Harry ignored him. He was staring at Snape, eyes wide and frightened. “Professor…”

He is not hurting, the voice filled the room again. It had changed, Snape noticed. The malice in it was still there, but veiled, its tone gentle and almost caressing. And he need not be hurt at all. All you have to do is look in the mirror and give me that which is given to you… I promise, Harry…

Snape opened his mouth and found that the flames did not stop him from speaking. “He is lying, Harry. He’ll break his promise to you, just as he broke the one he made to me. He killed your mother, your parents. Do not listen. He- aaaahh!”

Suddenly there was pain in his left hand, pain so terrible that he could not keep the scream inside. The flames ate into his skin, leaving unbearable agony behind. He could not help wildly shaking his hand, could not help screaming-

“Professor!” Harry tried to run towards him, but his broken leg gave and sent him sprawling on the floor. “Stop it – leave him alone and I’ll give you the Stone! I promise!”

Do not lie to Lord Vordemort, boy. He knows.

Harry screamed, and then turned around, crawling back towards the mirror. “Harry, NO!” Dumbledore shouted, but Harry wasn’t listening, pushing himself up to be able to see his reflection. He stared into the mirror for a second, then reached into his pocket, and suddenly his eyes changed, becoming white and insane once more.

The horrible pain in Snape’s hand disappeared along with the flames. He fell to his knees, and watched through a haze as Harry’s hand emerged from the boy’s pocket, clutching a scarlet object that shone in the fire light.

Now, old man, Voldemort said, forcing Harry’s body to its feet. It seems that for once, you were wrong.

Snape looked at Dumbledore. There was a strange look on the old face; one of defeat and infinite sadness. And even before Dumbledore raised his wand, Snape knew what was going to happen, and he did something he had never done in his life: averting his face because he didn’t want to see.

“Avada Kedavra!”

The flash of green filled the chamber, illuminating it for a split second. A dull sound followed, surprisingly loud, of a body falling and hitting the stone floor. The flames around them flickered, hissed and died, and the room was plunged into complete darkness.

Snape got to his feet. He did not know how he had retrieved his wand, or whether he had dropped it at all. He lifted it and conjured the same blue light he’d conjured all those hours ago, when he and Harry had left the castle for the forest. The Bluefire rose and hovered like a ghost, waiting to be directed by his wand.

Dumbledore stood motionless. He held his wand limply at his side, his fingers slack around the wood. “Severus…”

Snape did not look at him. He walked past him and over to the body on the floor, sprawled in front of the mirror like a doll a careless child had thrown aside. He knelt down next to it, picked up the Stone that had fallen from the boy’s hand and tossed it away into the darkness. Then he pocketed his wand, gathered the small, limp figure into his arms and stood.

“Come, Albus. We must return.”

For a moment or two, it seemed as if Dumbledore would not be able to move. Then he finally did, walking like a man in a dream, following Snape through the broken chambers and towards the trapdoor.

The boy in his arms felt very light, and in the blue light Snape had conjured, his face looked  peaceful. Not as if he were sleeping; Snape had seen too many dead bodies to find consolation in that particular illusion. There was a thin trickle of blood under his nose, and his face was too blank, too expressionless for a slumbering child. But peaceful, yes. Murdered for the greater good in a game he was too young to understand, too young to play himself. Murdered because he’d wanted to protect the one person who deserved it the least.

They were waiting at the trapdoor, McGonagall and Flitwick, and thankfully they began asking their questions only after they’d pulled Snape and Dumbledore up with a charmed rope Flitwick had conjured. Snape spoke to none of them, ignored McGonagall’s horrified gasp when she saw what he was carrying, ignored Dumbledore’s soft “Severus, please” and Flitwick’s sobs. He walked away from them, towards the hospital wing where Pomfrey was waiting. He didn’t speak to her either, merely walked past her and towards the last bed on the far side on the room. There he laid the boy down, careful to arrange his arms and legs so that he would have been comfortable. He took a blanket from a shelf nearby and covered Harry up to his chest, making sure to tuck in his feet after he’d removed the boy’s trainers.

When all of this was done, Snape sat down on a chair next to the bed, put his head in his hands and thought of nothing, nothing at all.

Sunshine.

He feels it even before he opens his eyes. Warm sunshine on his skin, his face. He’s lying on his back, and its warm and comfortable, and there’s grass all around him. He doesn’t have to look to know that. He can feel its blades tickling his arms and legs, can hear bees buzzing around him and something rustling lightly in the breeze. Maybe a tree. Maybe he’s back in the Forbidden Forest with Professor Snape. They’ve finished their harvest and are sitting down to eat the picnic they brought. Harry’s lying in the grass, and Professor Snape is sitting on a picnic blanket, eating a sandwich and looking very out of place in his long dark robes.

He smiles at the image in his mind, and opens his eyes. He doesn’t see Professor Snape on a picnic blanket, but everything else is there; the grass, the bees, the tree, the sunshine. Even flowers, though Harry didn’t imagine them. And they’re nothing like the geraniums Aunt Petunia grows in her front garden. They’re wild flowers that grow in meadows and forests, flowers he’s seen in his Herbology book. Wizard flowers. It’s a wizard place.

Harry sits up, slightly surprised when he finds that nothing hurts. He has a vague idea that something should be hurting, that he was hurting very badly not so long ago. But here in this wizard place, it doesn’t seem so important. The sun is warm on his face, and he feels like jumping up and running around, maybe see if he can find a broom to fly on. He has a feeling that he could find one very easily, if he looked. It’s a wizard place, after all.

Someone’s crying, though. Crying as if they were hurting very badly, and Harry decides not to go looking for a broom right away. The crying seems to come from a very little kid, maybe even a baby, and it sounds very lonely. Maybe he can help.

He gets up. He doesn’t have any shoes on, only a t-shirt and shorts, which is nice because he can walk barefoot through the grass. It tickles his feet and he smiles. He likes this place, and he’d very much like to show it to Professor Snape and ask him all kinds of questions about the flowers and the potions you can put them in. But Professor Snape isn’t there; the little kid’s the only other person around, and he’s still crying. Or she. Harry can’t tell just from the voice.

The sound seems to be coming from the large tree close by, and if Harry squints, he can see something white lying in the grass by its trunk. He walks a bit faster. Poor kid, he must be crying for his mum. But Harry is the only one around; there are no adults in sight. If the kid’s all alone, someone should better have a look.

Harry’s close enough now to see that the kid’s really very little, only a baby. It’s a he – Harry can see that because the baby has no clothes on, not even a nappy – and there are fat tears rolling down his thin little face. It’s a very thin baby, Harry notices as he crouches down next to him; very thin and kind of poorly-looking. And very unhappy.

Harry hesitates for a moment; after all, he’s never picked up a baby before. Then he pushes one hand under the small head, another one under the baby’s body, and lifts him into his arms. The kid’s very light and skinny; Harry can feel the knobs of his spine digging into his arm. He isn’t sure this thin little baby should be out here all naked, even though the sun’s shining and it’s warm. Aunt Petunia is forever going on about Dudley catching a draft, and if Dudley could get sick from a draft, it would probably kill this kid.

Looking down, he spies a blanket lying by his foot; it wasn’t there a moment ago, but Harry doesn’t think too much about it as he lays the baby down on it, tucks him in and picks up the little bundle.

The baby seems to be a bit happier, wrapped in the blanket and held in Harry’s arms; the loud bawling turns into hiccuppy sobs, and as Harry begins to walk back and forth, humming a song and gently rocking the kid, it finally stops altogether. Harry can see now that the baby has grey eyes; grey eyes that are watching him as if trying to figure out who this big kid is and where he suddenly came from. Harry smiles and blows gently into the fine dark hair.

“Hey. I’m Harry, but I guess you’re too little to remember names.”

The baby just looks at him. Harry sits down in the grass under the tree; it’s more comfortable that way to hold the baby on his lap.

“I bet your mum’s looking for you. I’m sure she’ll be here soon.”

The baby gurgles, almost as if he’s trying to say something.

“Don’t worry, I’ll stay with you until she comes,” Harry says. “Professor Snape would say she’s a dunderhead for leaving you here all alone.”

“He would, wouldn’t he?”

The voice startles Harry so much that he very nearly lets go of the baby. He didn’t see anyone coming. Looking up, he finds that they’re standing right next to him; three people who weren’t there a second ago. Three people, two of whom look very familiar, even though he’s never seen them before.

The woman with the quiet voice, with red hair and green eyes just like his own, sits down next to him in the grass and puts an arm around him.

“My Harry,” she says, and the man with dark hair and glasses sits down on his other side, and they don’t say anything for a very long time. The other woman leans against the tree, watching them. She’s quite thin and pale, and Harry sees her looking at the baby with a strange expression on her face; as if she’d like to hold him and is afraid to at the same time.

“He needs his mum,” Harry finally says to the red-haired woman, who he knows is his mum, Lily Potter.

Stroking his hair with one hand, Lily looks down at the baby and nods. “He does.”

Harry looks up at the other woman. “Are you…”

The woman nods. “Yes,” she says very softly. “That’s my son. My baby.”

Lily looks back and forth between the thin little baby and his mum, and then she gets to her feet.

“Come here.” She takes the baby from Harry, cradling him carefully in her arms, and carries him over to the woman leaning against the tree. “Here. He’s a beautiful boy,” she says quietly.

The woman stands there for a moment, not moving. Then she raises her arms and slowly, very slowly takes the baby. Harry can see that her hands are shaking. He glances up at his dad, who puts an arm around Harry’s shoulders and pulls him close.

“It’s okay, son.”

The woman holds the baby very tightly to her chest, as if she’s afraid someone will snatch him away and hurt him.

“Tom,” she whispers, and the baby gurgles. “Tom.”

She seems to have forgotten that Harry and his mum and dad are there, and cries and laughs as she talks to her son.

“That was a very good thing you did there, Harry,” his dad says.

“I didn’t do anything,” Harry says, confused, and James laughs.

“Yes you did.”

They sit in silence for a while again, then Harry asks: “Do I get to stay here with you?”

Lily smiles at him. “Would you like that?”

It seems strange, that he would have to think about his answer. Yes, he would like to stay here, with his mum and dad. It’s a wizard place where he can fly and play in the sun, who wouldn’t want to stay?

“Professor Snape’s going to be worried,” he says, not sure where the words came from. “And Draco and Hermione...”

He sneaks a look at his mum, afraid she’s going to be disappointed, but Lily just smiles. “You like Professor Snape, huh?”

Harry nods. “He’s my Head of House.” Remembering something, he looks up at his dad. “Are you mad that I’m in Slytherin? Ron said it’s only for evil wizards and witches…”

James glances at Lily, and there’s something in his eyes that Harry doesn’t understand. He puts an arm around Harry’s shoulders. “Sounds like Ron’s a bit of a prat, eh?”

“James!” Lily says, but Harry can tell that she’s not really angry.

“I’m not mad, son,” James continues. “I’m glad you have friends at Hogwarts. It doesn’t matter what House you’re in, as long as you’re happy where you are. I think in a few years Ron’s going to understand that, too.”

He looks back at Lily, and again Harry feels as if there’s something going on between them that they’re not saying aloud.

“Do you like Hogwarts, then?” Lily asks.

Harry nods. “I like sleeping in the dorms with Draco and the others, and eating in the Great Hall. Draco said I could come to his place for his birthday, and Hermione’s invited, too.” He leans against his dad, and thinks that it feels very nice, sitting here with his parents in this wizard place. “Are they going to come here, too, do you think?”

Lily runs a hand through his hair, and that feels nice, too. “Not for a while.”

Harry nods; he thought as much. “What about the baby?” he asks, glancing over at Tom and his mum. She is sitting in the grass singing a soft song to her son, her back to Harry and his parents.

It’s his dad who answers this time. “I think he’s happy here.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “I think he should stay with his mum.”

Lily nods. “I think so, too.”

And Harry understands something, something he kind of knew all along. “But if he does, I’ve got to go back, right? Only one of us can stay here.”

“Yes,” James says. “One of you has to go back.”

Harry watches Tom and his mum. The baby seems to be falling asleep, listening to his mum’s lullaby. He probably wore himself out, crying so much before Harry came.

“I don’t think he has anyone back there,” Harry says, and the words kind of hurt in his chest, although he doesn’t really know why. “He’s too little to be all alone.”

“I think he is,” Lily says.

Harry nods. “I’ve got friends, though… I’ve got Draco and Hermione. And Professor Snape’s looking out for me…” He is silent for a while. “Will you be sad if I go back?”

James’ arm tightens around his shoulders. “We’ll miss you, son, but you won’t be gone. We’ll always be there with you.”

Harry doesn’t really understand this, but his dad seems to know what he’s talking about. Lily ruffles his hair again.

“I think there’s a lot you still need to do, and you shouldn’t miss out on it.” She smiles at him. “Severus has been looking out for you?”

Harry is confused for a moment, before he remembers that Professor Snape’s first name is Severus. “Yeah. He gave me a room of my own, and all. And he took us to Hogsmeade… Draco and Hermione and me, I mean. He stayed with me when I was in the hospital wing, too.”

Lily nods slowly, and her smile turns kind of sad, as if she remembered something. “Tell him… tell Severus I said thank you. For everything.”

“Okay.”

“Old Snape had better take good care of you,” his dad says, and Harry smiles, thinking that it’s going to be okay.

“Yeah, but I won’t tell him you said that.”

“No,” James laughs. “You’d better not.”

Harry looks over at Tom’s mum. She has gotten to her feet, her son in her arms, and is slowly walking away from the tree. A light breeze tugs at the baby blanket and her dress, and Harry sees that she, too, has no shoes on, walking barefoot through the grass just like he did.

“Where’s she going?”

“Home,” Lily says.

Harry nods, watching the woman as she walks away. He knows he’s not going to see her and Tom again.

“Do you think they’ll be okay?”

James watches her become smaller in the distance. “I hope they’ll be.”

Harry leans back against his dad, letting his mum tousle his hair so that it sticks up all over the place. It feels very nice, just like everything does in this place.

He’s going to sit here with his parents, just for a while, just so he can remember what it felt like. This is his, his to keep and never give away, no matter what. He’s going to leave, but not really, not where it counts, and it’s perfectly okay that he doesn’t really understand any of this.

It’s a wizard place, after all.

Remembering, years later, how Harry Potter rose from the dead, Snape thought that some rather dramatic moments had been wasted.

The boy might, for instance, have woken while Dumbledore stood at his bedside, paralyzed with grief and remorse. He – Harry, that was – could have held out his hand in a silent gesture of forgiveness, causing the old man to burst into tears. (Not that any Slytherin would forgive his own murder for the greater good quite so readily, but that was beside the point.)

Or he could have opened his eyes as the staff paid their respects, teary-eyed and silent except for the occasional quiet sob. It would have been rather dramatic in a sentimental way, more so if some of them passed out with shock. (Snape particularly liked the thought of Quirrel fainting after he’d run screaming out of the infirmary, although that might take away some of the seriousness the occasion warranted).

As with many things, however, most of the drama was created later by people who liked a little excitement in their lives. Snape remembered falling asleep at the boy’s bedside after having endured visits from his exhaustingly emotional colleagues, a sobbing Madam Pomfrey and a Headmaster who seemed unlikely ever to show his twinkly smile again. He remembered wishing they’d all go away, and thought that he might have said as much at some point, if Flitwick’s hurt look and McGonagall’s glare were anything to go by. Finally, they left, and he sat on his chair, refusing to listen to Pomfrey who wanted him to go, too. He hadn’t planned on falling asleep, but after a while it seemed impossible not to give in to the bone-deep exhaustion and the prospect of oblivion, if only for a short time.

“Pro – professor?”

The voice jarred his sleep, and he felt irritated and annoyed. There was a twinging ache in his neck from falling asleep in an awkward position; it was the first thing he became aware of, and it did nothing to put him in a good mood.

The second thing he noticed, of course, was that the boy on the bed was no longer dead. Or at least, that his eyes were open and that he was talking.

“Professor, my - my leg hurts real bad…”

The tears on the boy’s cheeks were not those of a ghost, nor was the child’s whimpering as he tried to sit a sound a spirit would make. Snape jumped up.

“POPPY!”

Glass shattered somewhere behind him, most likely from a glass bottle Pomfrey had dropped. Snape strode over to the boy’s bed, took two deep breaths to steady his voice and hands, and gently pushed Harry back down.

“Don’t try to sit up. Your leg is broken.”

Harry obeyed, and somehow Snape found his hand clutched in the boy’s, the small fingers digging into his palm. “I… I saw my mum and dad…”

“Shh, child.”

“Tom’s mum… she took him away…”

At that moment, Pomfrey came around the privacy screen, and her gasp was indeed rather dramatic.

“Severus – what -”

“Mr. Potter has suffered a fracture in his left leg,” Snape said in his most forbidding tone, glaring at the medi-witch. “I suggest you begin treating him without further delay.”

“But-”

“It would be in the best interest of your patient, Madam, if he were not further upset,” Snape cut across her. “I believe a Pain Numbing Draught is in order, followed by a bone-knitting charm and no additional excitement, wouldn’t you agree?”

She swallowed hard and nodded, still looking rather pale as she approached the boy. “Let – let me have a look at your leg, Harry, and I’ll give you something for the pain, alright?”

Snape went back to his chair and sat down heavily, and no, his legs didn’t shake at all. Harry’s tears subsided after he’d swallowed the Numbing Draught Pomfrey handed him, and he lay back, watching tiredly as the medi-witch righted the bones in his leg. From time to time, he glanced over at Snape, as if to make sure he had not left. Snape, for his part, knew that he should contact Dumbledore, that if anyone knew what had happened, it would be the Headmaster. But he could not bring himself to get up and leave… not yet.

He watched as Pomfrey applied the bone-knitting charm and bandaged the leg with the ease of long practice. When the newly-mended bone was stabilized, she summoned a bottle of Myrtlap Essence and bowl of cotton swabs.

“This might sting a little, but it’ll help those cuts heal faster.”

She began to dab the essence onto the cuts on Harry’s face and arms. Snape noticed that her hands were shaking slightly, and found it in himself to admire her composure. After all, her patient had been quite dead only a few minutes ago.

When he was quite sure that his legs were steady, Snape got to his feet. Harry turned to him, looking anxious.

“Where are you going?”

“I need to notify the Headmaster,” Snape said, addressing both Pomfrey and the boy. The nurse nodded, pointing her thumb at the fireplace.

“There’s a box of Floo powder on the mantel.”

Grabbing a handful, Snape threw it into the fire and stuck his head into the green flames. “Headmaster’s office.”

Dumbledore was sitting at his desk, his head in his hands. The flickering of the fire alerted him to Snape’s presence, and he looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed, a fact Snape chose to ignore.

“Albus, your presence is needed in the infirmary. Harry Potter is not dead.”

Perhaps not the most tactful way to break the news, but then, Snape had never seen the need for molly-coddling anyone, least of all Albus Dumbledore. Pulling his head back, he got a glimpse of Dumbledore’s face, as white and shocked as he had ever seen it. Which was, in a strange way, rather satisfying. The old man was too omniscient for his own good sometimes.

As he had expected, the fireplace roared to life mere seconds later, and the swirling form of Dumbledore appeared in the flames. Most uncharacteristically, the old man stumbled over the grille, and would have fallen if Snape hadn’t caught him.

“Severus-”

Snape could see that Dumbledore was disgustingly emotional, his beard in disarray and tear tracks on his cheeks.

“He’s back there,” he said, glad when the Headmaster pushed past him and hurried to the back of the room.

Snape waited a minute or two before he followed, but to no avail: He still walked in on the cringeworthy sight of Albus Dumbledore hugging a rather shell-shocked Harry Potter tightly to his chest. Pomfrey was standing to one side of the bed, smiling soppily as she watched the little drama unfolding before her.

“My dear boy,” Dumbledore whispered. “I’m so sorry…”

Over the Headmaster’s shoulder, Harry looked at Snape, clearly asking for help. Snape stepped forward and cleared his throat.

“Albus… Mr. Potter has just woken up. I believe he is quite exhausted…”

“Yes - yes, of course.” Dumbledore let go of the boy, but stayed where he was sitting on the edge of Harry’s bed, looking at him as if he didn’t quite trust his own eyes. “Harry, I apologize. I must admit to being a bit – overwhelmed…”

“Here, Headmaster.” Poppy had come over, and pushed a vial of Calming Draught in Dumbledore’s hand. “I’ll have one myself. Severus?”

Snape shook his head. His eyes were on Harry.

“What do you remember?” he asked the boy, who was fiddling with the hem of his sheets, clearly uncomfortable with the strange way the adults around him were acting.

“I-” Harry began, and broke off, looking up at Snape. “We were in the forest, right? And then – He came.”

Snape nodded.

“He – He told me to get something He wanted – you were burning!” Harry’s eyes widened as he remembered. “He set you on fire! Were you hurt?”

“No,” Snape said. “I am quite unharmed.” Thanks to you, he did not add.

“Good.” Harry slumped into the pillows, clearly relieved. “I don’t really remember what happened then… I was with my mum and dad, and Tom was there, too.”

“Tom?” Snape exchanged a look with Dumbledore.

Harry nodded. “Yeah, he’s just a baby. He was crying and I picked him up…”

Dumbledore held up a hand. “Excuse me, Harry, but I need to be quite sure I understand. You saw Tom Riddle as a child?”

“Is that his last name, Riddle? I found him under a tree… he was crying, and then his mum came. My mum and dad and I talked, and we decided he should stay. He’s just a baby, after all, and I’ve got Draco and Hermione and…” Harry glanced at Snape and blushed for some unfathomable reason. “So his mum took him and left.”

Dumbledore didn’t speak for a moment or two. Then he said, “Tom Riddle’s mother took him away, and you decided to return in his stead.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah. Only one of us could come back…”

“Of course,” Dumbledore said softly. “Only one of you…”

“This doesn’t make sense, Headmaster,” Snape said. “Why would the Dark Lord be a child?”

“A mere fragment,” Dumbledore whispered, clearly not listening at all. “Yes…”

“Albus,” Snape snapped. “Kindly stop speaking in mysteries and explain whatever you think you’ve understood. What happened to Voldemort? And why is Harry not dead?”

The moment the words had left his mouth, Snape wished he could take them back. Harry’s eyes widened as he looked from Snape to Dumbledore, and back again.

“I was…”

“Dead, yes.” Snape ignored the reproachful look Pomfrey was giving him. The boy needed to know, and he was not going to accept any half-truths. “He – the Dark Lord, that is – attempted to steal the Philosopher’s Stone. He… died in the attempt, and you died with Him.”

Harry frowned. “What’s a Philosopher’s Stone? And why would He want it?”

“It’s a powerful magical artefact that can be used to prolong one’s natural lifespan. That’s why He wanted it.”

“Harry…” Dumbledore reached out and put a wrinkled hand over the boy’s small one. “When Lord Voldemort had the Stone, I had no choice but to stop Him. I am very sorry.”

Harry looked down at their joined hands. “You killed Him?”

Dumbledore nodded. “And you as well.”

“But I’m not dead.”

“And I cannot tell you how happy I am, my dear boy,” Dumbledore said. The truth was there in his face for everyone to see, and after a long moment, Harry nodded.

“Yeah… me too, I guess.”

Dumbledore chuckled, tears glistening in the corners of his eyes. “So is Professor Snape, I daresay. You saved his life, you know.”

Snape glared at the Headmaster. Damned old meddler…

“I did?” Harry’s eyes were wide and round.

Dumbledore nodded. “There seem to be traces of Gryffindor in you, after all.”

Harry scowled at that. “Not a Gryffindork,” he muttered. Realizing what he’d said, he snuck a wary look at the Headmaster, and Snape smirked. Serve him right, the meddling old fool.

But Dumbledore merely smiled. “If you say so, my boy. Now, I’m sure Madam Pomfrey is anxious for you to enjoy a well-earned rest,” he inclined his head at the medi-witch, who nodded. “I believe that quite a few people will want to visit you once you’ve recovered.”

Harry looked at Snape. “Professor?”

“Yes?”

“What if He comes back?”

“He will not come back,” Snape said firmly. “He is gone.”

He expected Harry to be skeptic, but the boy just closed his eyes and seemed to listen for something. “Yes,” he said when he opened them again. “I can’t feel Him there anymore.”

Dumbledore briefly rested a hand on Harry’s head. “That is good to hear.”

Harry yawned, and Pomfrey seemed to take this as her cue. “Headmaster, I’m afraid I must insist…”

“Of course.” Dumbledore got up. “Severus…”

But Snape had noticed the boy’s eyes on him. “I will return later,” he said, and pointedly ignored the knowing smile on Dumbledore’s face. Old fool…

Suddenly, there was a movement next to the privacy screen, and they all turned to look at the newcomer. A huge black Kneazle was sitting there, his tail curled around his paws and looking as if he owned the place.

“How did he get in here?” Pomfrey asked, but Marlowe ignored her and the Headmaster completely. Arching his long, sinewy body, he brushed past Snape’s legs and slunk over to the boy’s bed.

“Marlowe!” Harry smiled, and Marlowe jumped onto the bed, settling onto the sheets. It’s alright, he seemed to be saying. I’ll keep watch.

“Well, Severus,” Dumbledore said, still with that annoying smile on his lips. “I believe Harry is well looked after.”

Snape said nothing, but he did turn back once, satisfied to see that Harry had settled back onto the bed, allowing Pomfrey to fuss over him. For once, it seemed, he did not need to worry about the child.

###

Sitting in his usual armchair in Dumbledore’s office, Snape waved away all offers of tea, coffee or elf-made biscuits, determined to get straight to the point.

“Explain,” he said.

Dumbledore poured himself a cup of spiced tea, looking at Snape over the rim of his glasses. “If I’m not mistaken, the intricacies of Dark magic worked in our favor, for once.”

Snape frowned. “I don’t-”

“It begins, I believe, with Tom’s desperate search for a body to possess after his own had been destroyed, that night in Godric’s Hollow ten years ago. He could, of course, have fled the place and maybe there was the impulse to do so, but there was also a human body perfectly ready for his use. A child’s body, granted, but as such, it was even easier to overtake. Weak as he was, he could not gain complete control, and lived the life of a parasite, hidden in a dark corner of Harry’s mind. From time to time, when Harry felt particularly fearful or simply when his own strength allowed it, he managed to get the upper hand and seize control of Harry’s mind and body. That was what we witnessed when we saw Harry being ‘possessed’.”

Snape nodded slowly. It certainly explained what they had seen in the boy’s memories. “He managed to take control long enough to steal the Stone,” he said.

Dumbledore nodded. “Yes. I am not entirely certain how he came to know of its existence… it is possible that he performed Legilimency on one of us when he possessed Harry, or that he simply overheard some of the staff talking. In any case, it provided enough motivation for him to use Harry to obtain it. He knew the Elixir of Life would strengthen him to a degree where he could not only destroy Harry’s mind and be the sole owner of the body he was using, but also regain his former power.”

The thought disturbed Snape. Harry would have been nothing more than an Inferius, a child’s body inhabited by a spirit who would do anything to instigate a new reign of darkness.

Dumbledore seemed to know what he was thinking. “It is a terrible idea. When Tom had managed to retrieve the Stone through Harry, I could not think of anything else but to take away his link to the living world.”

“So… do you believe it was Lily’s protection that saved Harry a second time?”

Dumbledore shook his head. “As I said, it is the nature of Dark magic we have to consider. Think of how the Killing Curse works, Severus. You cannot kill anyone by saying the mere words if you do not truly wish for the person to be dead.”

Snape nodded, beginning to understand. “You never intended for Harry to die...”

“The moment I said the words, I wished with all my heart that he could live. So, as it seems, Harry was given a choice.”

“What about the child he saw?” Snape asked. “Was it-”

“Tom Riddle,” Dumbledore finished. “Yes, I believe it was. Voldemort’s soul hasn’t been whole for a long time, Severus, and what Harry saw was… a fragment of innocence, if you will, that survived everything Tom had done to his own soul and those of others.” He smiled slightly and took a sip of his tea. “It appears that Harry has inherited his mother’s ability to see the best in everyone.”

Snape had no wish to discuss Lily with Albus. “So the Dark Lord is truly gone, this time?”

Dumbledore set down his cup, looking somber. “I cannot answer that, Severus. The part that lived in Harry’s mind certainly is, but Tom was seeking immortality long before his visit to Godric’s Hollow. I believe he took… precautions…”

“Horcruxes,” Snape said tonelessly. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t suspected it for a long time.

Dumbledore nodded. “There are indications, yes.”

“We shall need to destroy them then,” Snape said, thinking of words he had heard, long ago. Neither can live…

“‘We’, Severus?” There was that damned smile again. Snape nodded curtly.

“Certainly. I am not in the habit of breaking my promises, Albus.”

“No, you’re not.” Dumbledore sobered. “I owe you my thanks, Severus-”

Snape shook his head. He knew perfectly well that Albus Dumbledore owed him nothing, and never would. “Will you tell the boy about all of this?”

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. “One day, certainly. For now, we’ll do what should have been done long ago, and let Harry be a child. He deserves it. But Severus,” he was smiling again as he said it, if slightly sadly, “I do not believe I’m the one Harry will turn to for answers.”

Snape frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Isn’t it obvious, my boy? Harry doesn’t trust easily; as he pointed out so aptly, he is not a ‘Gryffindork’. But I have watched the two of you, and I know that he trusts you.”

Snape said nothing and merely glared; he hated discussing such matter, as Dumbledore knew perfectly well. And he needed to return to the infirmary, anyway, not sit here and listen to the Headmaster’s sentimental speeches.

“If that will be all, Albus…”

Dumbledore waved a hand. “Certainly, my boy. I’m sure Mr. Malfoy and Miss Granger are waiting anxiously for news on their friend.”

As if he had nothing better to do than play messenger for a couple of first years. Snape got up, shaking his head when Dumbledore held up the plate of biscuits. He hated those sweet things.

“Severus?” Dumbledore called when Snape had almost reached the door.

Snape turned around. “Headmaster?”

“Harry is lucky to have you. I just want you to know that.”

Snape said nothing. Was anyone ‘lucky’ to have Severus Snape? But he wasn’t going to get into an argument with the old man; he knew he’d lose, anyway.

Snape left the office and went down the revolving staircase, his steps turning towards the infirmary as if of their own volition.

He was, after all, not in the habit of breaking his promises.

Daily Prophet, London, November 6th, 1991

THE BOY WHO LIVED - TWICE?

In September, young Harry Potter shocked his admirers by being Sorted into the very House the darkest wizard of our times belonged to as a student (see DP 91/0902, “Hogwarts: Harry Potter Slithers In”, by R. Skeeter). Not even three months later, the boy who vanquished You-Know-Who may well have repeated his famous feat.

Did we expect great things from a boy who seemingly disappeared off the face of the earth for ten years? Inside sources reveal that Potter did not look the part of a boy hero when he first arrived at Hogwarts. Small for his age and trying to blend in with the crowd, he was “no different from the rest of that lot [Slytherin students, A/N]”, as his Gryffindor yearmates commented in private conversation at their House table.

Yet looks may be deceiving. As one of our intrepid field reporters discovered, Harry Potter recently encountered his old nemesis for a second time, and survived yet again. The confrontation took place in a hidden catacomb under the school, established by Headmaster Albus Dumbledore to guard one of the most sought-after artefacts of our times, the Philosopher’s Stone. You-Know-Who, believed dead by the wizarding public for ten years, appeared in the school under circumstances unknown, with the intention of stealing the Stone that would allow him to return to full strength. Dark Arts expert E. Drounsing comments: “We may be dealing with a manifestation of His spirit, or even a corporal entity He possessed. Be that as it may, it is shocking that Dumbledore would hide such goings-on from the wizarding public.”

Dumbledore’s inclination towards secrecy notwithstanding, the Daily Prophet can reveal exclusively that the wizard known to his followers as the ‘Dark Lord’ was defeated a second time in an epic battle under the supposedly safe halls of Hogwarts school. In the terrifying climax of the fight, Harry Potter was hit with a Killing Curse cast by none other than lauded Mugwump and Wizengamot Elder Albus Dumbledore. Whether he was merely in the way, whether Dumbledore’s aim is not what it used to be, and why a first-year student was in the catacombs in the first place, one may well ask – not that Albus Dumbledore will provide any answers. Our undaunted field reporter witnessed a shocking conversation between longstanding Head of Gryffindor House M. McGonagall and school nurse P.Pomfrey, in which they revealed that Harry Potter literally woke from the dead a few hours after he had died at the hands of his greatest protector. “That poor boy, he was in shock,” Pomfrey comments. “They say You-Know-Who’s gone for good this time, and I believe it.”

Whether or not one agrees with such trusting words, it appears that Harry Potter indeed repeated the impossible and survived the Killing Curse a second time. Requests for an exclusive interview with the young hero were denied by his Head of House S. Snape, a shady character whose youthful follies deserve an article of their own (coming soon, “Hogwarts Teacher Given Bad Mark?” by R. Skeeter). In the meantime, Harry Potter’s wellwishers must hope that the Boy-Who-Lived-Twice continues to dodge death and enjoys a peaceful first year without any further Dark encounters.

As always,

Your Rita Skeeter

Snape closed yesterday’s newspaper with a sigh. The Skeeter woman had been most persistent, sending him owl after owl and finally accosting him in the Hogsmeade apothecary. When he told in no uncertain terms that he would not let her within twenty feet of Harry Potter, she had flounced off, her Quick-Quotes Quill scribbling furiously. Not that he cared about the rubbish she wrote. The only thing he really wanted to know was how her “field reporters” managed to overhear conversations that were supposed to be private, within the walls of the school no less. Albus had merely sighed when Snape brought up the subject, muttering about closing the windows to keep the insects out.

As was to be expected, Skeeter’s wild speculations had brought an avalanche of owls upon the school. Dumbledore received so many Howlers that he finally just banished them to an empty classroom high up on the North Tower, where they could be heard banging and shrieking all the way down to the fourth floor. Snape received a few himself, but most were letters of encouragement not to let the media vultures get to their young hero (although some suggested that he do the right thing and hand Harry over to McGonagall’s House where he belonged, as if the boy were a parcel that could just be passed along).

The brunt of the letters, of course, were addressed to Harry himself. Snape insisted that the house elves checked everything that arrived and came to him with anything that looked suspicious. There had been a few Howlers, yelling at Harry for being famous or for being in Slytherin, and the usual perverts who delighted in sending obscene pictures and suggestions to an eleven-year-old. The house elves had brought him these quivering with indignation, and Snape had Incendio’d them right in front of their eyes, much to the little beings’ satisfation. Most of Harry’s mail, however, consisted of the expected thanks and praises, and of course, gifts. And what gifts they were. Snape could only wonder at some people’s grasp of reality; who in their right mind would send a young boy a medieval longsword “befitting a hero”? Or, for that matter, a bottle of Ogden’s Old Firewhisky. Harry hadn’t minded when Snape confiscated the latter, although he did give the sword a somewhat longing look.

“Never mind, Uncle Sev’s going to keep it safe for you, right? So you can use it when you’re older.”

Draco sat cross-legged on Harry’s bed, surrounded by the latest pile of parcels that had been deemed safe by the house elves and Snape. Snape suspected that his godson enjoyed himself even more than Harry did, opening gifts, evaluating their worth and sorting them into rapidly growing piles. The Malfoy genes were definitely coming through.

As he shrunk the sword and put it in his pocket, Snape congratulated himself on the decision to stay in the hospital wing to supervise the present-opening. Who knew what other dangerous objects some demented old warlock had sent the boy.

“You’re not supposed to play with swords,” Miss Granger chimed in. She was sitting on a chair next to Harry’s bed, a stack of books on her lap. Draco had decided to entrust her with all the books Harry had been sent, because “you’ll know which ones are worth keeping”. “You could hurt yourself, and besides, it’s probably really old and valuable.”

“He’s not going to play with it.” Draco sounded offended. “But girls don’t understand about weapons, I guess. Here’s another jumper,” he said before Hermione could express her indignation. “Looks home-made.”

Harry picked up the card Draco had carelessly dropped. “It’s from Ron’s mum. I met her at King’s Cross. She says she wants me to keep safe and warm, so she made me a Weasley jumper.” He held up the emerald green, hand-knitted garment. “That’s nice of her.”

Draco looked sulky, as always when the subject of Ronald Weasley crept up. “Well, here’s a gift basket from Honeydukes. Better than an old jumper, if you ask me. Put it with the rest of the sweets.”

There was a tapping on the window, and Snape spotted another owl on the window sill outside. “I’m going to see what it is,” he said before Draco could jump up. “You know you’re not to open any parcels on your own.”

Ignoring Draco’s long-suffering sigh, he opened the window. The owl, a huge grey Eurasian Eagle, stared up at him out of haughty amber eyes, clearly waiting to be freed of the lengthy parcel it was carrying.

“That’s Midas!” Draco cried excitedly, but Snape had already seen the return address on the parcel: L. & N. Malfoy, Malfoy Manor, Location Undisclosed. He untied the string from the owl’s leg and lifted the parcel, which was surprisingly light for its bulk. A quick screening spell told him that its contents were harmless… or as harmless as Malfoys bearing gifts could be. Not that he was surprised to see Lucius and Narcissa joining the ranks of Harry’s well-wishers. Ever the politician, Lucius had probably decided that a sign of allegiance was in order.

“Oh, I know what that is,” Draco said, apparently trying hard not to sound too smug. “Father sent me mine last month. It’s-”

“Don’t spoil the surprise,” Hermione scolded. “Open it, Harry.”

Harry ripped off the wrapping paper and lifted the lid off the long, narrow box. His eyes widened. “That’s never-”

“A Nimbus 2000,” cried Draco, bouncing up and down in a most un-Malfoyish manner. “They’re even better than the Streak of Glory line – from zero to one hundred and twenty miles in ten seconds! Father must have ordered it specially from Italy, he told me mine was the last one Quality Quidditch Supplies had in stock-”

Hermione ran a careful hand over the broom’s polished handle. “That’s a really good broom, isn’t it?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “It’s the best one there is! It costs... er, well, a bit more than the usual brooms.” Recalling his etiquette lessons at the last moment, Draco blushed a little. “Father does have good connections with the Nimbus company.”

Harry was holding the broom as reverently as if he’d been handed Merlin’s wand. “And he bought it? For me?”

Draco was beaming with pride. “You like it then?”

Snape had never seen Harry so in awe, his cheeks flushed and his eyes shining. And all over a bloody broomstick. “It’s brilliant! Your dad’s so cool!”

Obviously, Lucius’ little scheme had paid off; Malfoy Senior seemed to have bought Harry’s eternal admiration by sending the boy the top-of-the-range racing broom all the little dunderheads were hankering after. Snape picked up the card that had come with it, recognizing Lucius’ elegant hand-writing at once.

Dear Mr. Potter,

My wife and I send you our most heartfelt greetings, and hope this modest little token of our appreciation finds you well. We were shocked to hear of your latest ordeal, and wish you a speedy recovery in the care of your friends and instructors. Please know that we appreciate the magnitude of recent developments, and support you wholly in this and any future endeavours.

We would be most delighted and honoured to welcome you to our home for our son’s birthday celebration on the 26th of December.

With our very best regards,

Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, Hogwarts Governor, Honorary Member of the Wizengamot, Chairwizard of the Pure Of Heart Charity Foundation, Financial Advisor of the Gringotts Bank Committee, President of the Peacock Appreciation Society, Premium Member of the International Dueling League

Narcissa Iphigenia Malfoy, Honorary Member of the Wizengamot, Chairwitch and Treasurer of the Pure of Heart Charity Foundation, Honorary Member of Wizarding Débutantes Alumni, Private Advisor of ‘Glamour and Spells’ Fashion for Witches, Author of “Pure Etiquette: A Guide to Social Adroitness for the Young Witch or Wizard”

Raising an eyebrow, Snape put the card down. If he interpreted Lucius’ graceful subtleties correctly, he and Narcissa had decided that loyalty to a Dark Lord only made sense if said Dark Lord held at least a modicum of power. If he didn’t… well, it couldn’t hurt ingratiating oneself with a boy who might, one day, wield very great power indeed.

“Look, sir!” Harry tugged at his sleeve, something the boy wouldn’t have dreamed of doing if he weren’t nearly bursting with excitement. “It came with a broomstick servicing kit, and it’s got my name on it! Look!”

Snape looked. Indeed, Lucius had spared no expenses. On the handle behind the company name, Harry’s name was engraved in gold letters.

“Well,” he said, “I trust you’ll remember your manners and won’t forget to send Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy a thank-you note.”

Harry nodded happily, stroking his new broom. Snape watched him. The boy still looked pale; some of the deeper cuts in his face hadn’t quite healed yet, and there were dark shadows under his eyes. Pomfrey said he was recovering well – “for a dead man”, Snape had added, only to be given a stern look by the medi-witch. Apparently, students dying was no joking matter, even if they happened to come back to life.

“You don’t really have to write a thank-you note,” Draco said. “I never do, and they still send me loads of presents.”

Snape raised an eyebrow at his godson, who had the grace to look slightly abashed.

“I’ll write it anyway,” said Harry. “And one for Ron’s mum, for the jumper. It’ll be fun sending Hedwig to take letters to people.”

Draco obviously thought that a thank-you note for a hand-knitted jumper was overdoing it, but a side-glance at his godfather told him that it was better to keep that thought to himself.

“Does Harry have to write thank-you notes for all of these?” Hermione wanted to know, her eyes widening slightly as she took in the piles of letters and parcels. “I can help you, Harry, my mum says I have very nice hand-writing. I always help her write her Christmas cards.”

Snape shook his head. “Thank-you notes are only sent to acquaintances. People who feel the need to send importunate ‘fan mail’ should not expect to be thanked personally.”

“And my parents are acquaintances, right?” Draco said. “They will be, anyway, when you come to the manor for my birthday.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, but then his smile faded. “If my aunt and uncle let me.”

Draco looked surprised. “Why wouldn’t they?”

“Draco, Miss Granger…” A look at Harry’s face told Snape that it was the right moment to interrupt the conversation. “I believe it is time you left for study hall.” He held up a hand to stall his godson’s protests. “You may return later, Draco, if Professor McGonagall tells me you’ve completed your homework to her satisfaction.”

“She’s supervising today?” Draco looked aghast. “She’s always on my back, just because I’m in Slytherin…”

“Perhaps the fact that you and Mr. Nott set a Gryffindor banner on fire plays into it, as well,” Snape said dryly. “Yes, Professor McGonagall told me, Draco, and you will be getting detention. Now, you don’t want to be late.”

He watched as Harry’s friends said good-bye, Harry and Draco exchanging a smirk at the idea of Gryffindor’s pride going up in smoke (Snape pretended not to have seen). He knew the boy was disappointed to see them go, but there were things Harry and he had to discuss that needed to remain a secret for now. Dumbledore had been very insistent on that.

He remembered sitting in the Headmaster’s office, once again wondering how he had maneuvered himself into this situation. From time to time, an owl bearing a scarlet Howler tapped on the window, and Dumbledore redirected it to the North Tower with a distracted flick of his wand. His attention was entirely on Snape.

“Punishment need not always be as drastic as a one-way journey to Azkaban,” the Headmaster said. “You know we cannot interfere with the Muggle justice system, Severus.”

“So they’re going to get away scotfree?” Snape thought of Gryffindors and werewolves and a dilapidated old building, and wanted to slam his fist down on Dumbledore’s desk. “You’re just going to ignore-”

“I never said that,” the Headmaster cut across him. “I merely said that we cannot waltz into their world and mete out justice. What we can do is apply to their authorities.”

“Meaning?”

“Poppy gathered enough physical evidence of what happened to Harry. It was easy enough to convert it into Muggle photographs and send it to their Social Services. My sources inform me that proceedings have been taken already. Here…”

He put a newspaper clipping on the desk. The unmoving picture in the middle showed a fat man hurrying to the door of his home, one hand raised to shield his face from the camera. The door of the house stood open a crack, and a scared woman could be seen peering out, her mortified expression caught on film for eternity. ‘Child Abuse Scandal: Surrey Boy Nearly Dies In Exorcism Ritual”, read the headline above the photo.

Snape scanned the article. Not quite as lurid as Rita Skeeter’s writing, it nevertheless related the gruesome details with a certain relish, mentioning “white-hot rods” more than once. “Young Harry P. will not be returning to his foster family, his temporary guardian (name undisclosed) informs us. ‘Harry is safe and sound, and doing better than he has in years.’ Meanwhile, Vernon and Petunia D. may soon be looking for a new home, after their Surrey house has been besieged by reporters and onlookers for days. Facing charges of severe child abuse, the couple has been shunted by the community and is currently under police protection to prevent possible retaliation. The Surrey Herald will keep readers updated on the upcoming court proceedings.”

Snape looked up at the Headmaster. “ ‘Temporary guardian’?”

Dumbledore nodded. “I had Harry’s guardianship transferred to me as soon as you informed me about the abuse. He cannot possibly return to that house, ever.”

There was cold anger in the blue eyes as he said it, and Snape knew that not a small amount of it was directed against Dumbledore himself.

“The boy remains at Hogwarts, then?”

Dumbledore nodded. “Yes.”

“And the blood wards?”

“Have fallen. It is a risk I am willing to take, even more so since I believe I have found a suitable alternative.”

Snape frowned. The Headmaster reached into a drawer, taking out a very old scroll that he unrolled on the desk. The letters on the ancient parchment were faded, but Snape could make them out well enough.

“There is no reason not to revive old traditions just because they have fallen out of fashion. Harry will be protected…”

Snape stared at the parchment for a long moment. “Yes,” he said then. “But it will be me.”

Dumbledore folded his hands on the desk and said nothing, merely looked at him.

“I gave you my word, Albus,” Snape said. “It is my duty, wouldn’t you agree?”

Dumbledore glanced at the parchment between them, and back at Snape. “And do you…”

“Yes,” Snape said, angry that the old man would ask this. “For once, give me the benefit of the doubt, Dumbledore.”

The Headmaster nodded slowly. “Very well then. You’ll want to talk to Harry, I believe?”

“Of course.” Not asking for permission, Snape took the scroll, rolled it up and slipped it into his robes. “I’ll let you know what we decide.”

He knew then, and did now, that Dumbledore would not include an eleven-year-old in decisions such as this, but Snape didn’t care. Things inside Slytherin House were handled his way, and he saw no reason not to teach his snakes responsibility from an early age. Harry would get a say in his own fate.

“Can Draco and Hermione come back later?”

Snape turned to the boy on the bed. Harry was still holding his new broom on his lap; no doubt the boy would insist on keeping the thing with him day and night. Good; Snape knew from long experience that confiscating a treasured object ensured obedience in most children, particularly Slytherins. And from now on, Harry’s obedience – yes, and his well-being – was very much his business.

He went over to the bed and sat down on the chair next to it. “Draco and Miss Granger may return after they have finished their homework,” he said. “At the moment, there is something else we need to discuss.”

He took the old parchment from his pocket, and unrolled it on the bed.

“Harry… are you familiar with the term ‘apprentice’?”

Snape sat in his armchair by the fire, a roll of parchment on his lap. He wasn’t looking at it, staring into the flames instead. On the chair next to his, Marlowe slept the sleep of the of the untroubled, his back to the warmth of the fire.

Everything was as it ought to be, their routine unbroken. Except that it wasn’t.

Snape was only too aware of the words on the parchment in front of him, of the significance they held and the changes they would introduce into his life. Or had already introduced. While the room where the boy had slept was currently empty, Harry having returned to the dormitory, Snape would not convert it back into the storage chamber it had been. It would have to be enlarged, decorated – with Quidditch posters, Merlin preserve him – and it would always remind him that his responsibilities were no longer limited to himself, his potions and his Kneazle.

Snape’s eyes drifted towards the parchment. Three signatures had been scribbled at its bottom: his own, Dumbledore’s, and the chicken scratch of a child who was unused to writing with quills. That would have to be remedied, of course. Many things would have to be remedied. The boy’s wardrobe, for instance, if one could call it that. Rags and shabby hand-me-downs, not fit for a jumble sale, much less a young wizard. No, Harry would not walk around in those anymore. And if they went to Madam Malkin’s, they might as well take a detour to the optician and have Harry’s eyes checked. Snape didn’t like the way the boy squinted when trying to read the blackboard. Chances were that those glasses of his had come from a bargain bin, and were not even close to his prescription.

He’d also have to take the boy to St. Mungo’s at some point. The scars on Harry’s back no longer hurt, but there was no need for the boy to carry them around as a reminder for the rest of his life. Snape knew many of the Healers at St. Mungo’s, and quite a few of them contacted him regularly to request potions. They’d find a way to remove the scars. Snape would make sure.

Over in the other chair, Marlowe arched his back, stretching out his long front legs. Snape shot his familiar an irritated look. His own head was threatening to burst, and the Kneazle slept as if no little boy had suddenly entered their life, bringing with him a flood of new obligations, expenses and headaches. Harry’s grades, for instance… what if the boy entered puberty and suddenly decided that broomsticks, parties and the opposite sex were far more important than his education? Most of the little dunderheads did… but Snape would not allow his ward to stoop to such irresponsible behavior. No, Mr. Potter was going to study for his OWLs, and if Snape had to ban him from the Quidditch pitch for an entire term, so be it. No apprentice of his was going to get away with shoddy schoolwork.

Apprentice. There it was right in front of him, magically signed and sealed on official parchment. Irreversible until Harry came of age. And Snape still couldn’t quite believe what he had gotten himself into.

He remembered himself standing in Dumbledore’s office, clad in the heavy embroidered robes still worn for ancient ceremonies. Harry had looked very small in his white novice robes, pale and apprehensive as he watched the two adults prepare the ritual. He had agreed to the apprenticeship readily enough; more eagerly than Snape had expected him to. He had no illusions that it was mostly the prospect of never returning to his relatives that had convinced the boy.

They had stepped into the circle of runes Dumbledore had conjured, and Snape had taken the silver dagger the headmaster gave him. He felt Harry’s eyes on him as he pricked his thumb, allowing the blood to drop into the bowl Dumbledore had ready. Then he handed the dagger to the boy. Harry didn’t flinch when its blade cut into his skin, and calmly watched as their blood mingled in the bowl. Dumbledore had intoned the millenia-old chant of master and apprentice, weaving the magical bond between them. And then it was done. The boy was his, to teach, to guard and to care for.

The old apprentice bond took the “giving ceremony” very literally; the novice became his master’s property as soon as he joined his household. It was the main reason why apprenticeships had fallen out of fashion; too many masters abused their power, and even the wizarding world no longer condoned slavery (as far as humans were concerned, that was). Dumbledore had managed to reword the traditional contract, toning down the passages on “property”, “obedience” and “absolute power”, but Snape did not think that the magic had been fooled. Harry was indeed his, and the responsibility weighed heavily on his shoulders. He had held power before, and had abused it. There was no reason why he wouldn’t do so again, and who would be there to stop him? No one could break the bond they had created, not even Dumbledore. And Harry was probably not even aware just what he had agreed to.

Snape grabbed the contract and tossed it onto the coffee table. He didn’t want to look at it any longer. A child should not have to submit to an obscure ceremony from a long-lost age just to find a safe home. It wasn’t right or fair.

Of course, as he liked to remind his students when they whined about some insignificant thing or other, life wasn’t fair.

He got up from his chair, turning away from the parchment on the table as if it would cease to exist if he didn’t look at it. He would go to his office and grade papers. That was what he usually did in the early evening, and there was no reason to break his routine. Grading papers had an almost meditative quality to it – the same spelling blunders, same mistakes, same nonsense spouted by dunderheads from year one to seven. Ink stains and chocolatey fingermarks he could circle with red ink and write a nasty comment underneath. If nothing else worked, it would distract him for a while.

He went by the kitchen and made himself a cup of tea. As he did so, he noticed that his cupboards weren’t exactly stocked for the needs of an eleven-year-old boy. Of course, Harry ate in the Great Hall during term time, but shouldn’t a proper guardian be aware of his charge’s dietary requirements? He’d have to make sure the boy ate a balanced diet, vegetables and such. Come to think of it, he should probably start by changing his own eating habits; he couldn’t very well demand healthy eating from Harry if he himself usually passed over the greens. Pomfrey had been on his back for years, lecturing him on chronic health risks and such tosh, but it was only now that he actually considered following her advice.

And the Master shalt be an example unto his Apprentice, and the Apprentice shalt model himself on his Master…

Merlin. At this rate, he’d have to start brushing his teeth twice a day… no more relaxing with a good pipe in the evenings, either. Snape had always suspected it, but now he had proof; parents were indeed the most miserable wizards on this planet.

Parents. Bloody hell. No, he was not going to think of it in those terms. Guardian. Yes, that was better. Not that it changed anything about the fact that he’d better shape up to the task, and fast.

He went into his office, almost relieved when he saw the large pile of essay scrolls. This would take several hours, and afterwards he might be exhausted and annoyed enough to forget about Harry Potter and the horrible fact that he, Snape, was supposed to be a responsible role model.

He started with the third-year Gryffindors and their inept scribblings on Odiosus Schroeder’s variations of the Shrinking Solution. Fred Weasley had seen fit to supplement his descriptions with small pictures of a brewing Schroeder, whose nose bore a suspicious resemblance to Snape’s own. In the last picture, Schroeder dripped some of the Shrinking Solution on his nose and then smiled at his (much improved) appearance in the mirror, while his wife applauded in the background. Snape narrowed his eyes, and was about to formulate a particularly acid comment on how Weasley’s extra-curricular ambitions would be better served by scrubbing the Potions classroom from top to bottom, when he was interrupted by a hesitant knock on his office door.

“Enter,” he barked, glaring at whomever felt the need to disturb him.

It was Harry. The boy poked his head in, looking caught off guard by Snape’s pugnacious tone. Snape sighed and pushed Weasley’s essay aside.

“Come in, Harry.”

The boy obeyed, closing the door behind him. Snape noticed that he was carrying a plate with… a piece of sponge cake on it?

“Didn’t you finish your dinner?” Snape asked, raising his eyebrows at the plate.

The boy looked slightly sheepish. “Um… you weren’t in the Great Hall, and Draco said you were probably working, so…”

Snape blinked, momentarily stumped. This was… unexpected. And it seemed that the boy had it all wrong. He, Snape, was supposed to take care of Harry, not the other way around.

Then he noticed that he was indeed quite hungry. And sponge cake was one of the more… acceptable sweets the house elves served.

He opened his mouth, about to tell the boy that he wasn’t supposed to take plates from the Great Hall, then closed it again. Role model. Right. Manners and such.

“That was… considerate of you,” he said instead. “Thank you.”

Harry smiled a little as he came over and set the plate down, right on top of Weasley’s nose shrinking picture. He had even thought to bring a fork.

Snape regarded the boy for a moment. He looked… rested. The dark shadows under his eyes were gone, and he seemed to have gained some much-needed weight. His cheeks even had a slight pink tinge to them. It made the scar seem less pronounced, for some reason. He was probably imagining it, but it seemed that the reddened tissue had faded somewhat, and no longer stood out as the defining feature of Harry’s face. Or maybe it was just the fact that Harry was no longer the pale and basically mute child that had arrived at Hogwarts.

“Sit,” Snape told the boy, who took a seat on the chair in front of Snape’s desk. He looked at the pile of scrolls.

“Are you very busy?”

Obviously, Snape thought, but again he didn’t say it. “Is there something you require?”

Harry shook his head. “It’s just…”

He trailed off, looking down at his hands. Snape waited patiently, and eventually, the boy raised his head again.

“I was just wondering if it was real, you know.”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” Snape said. “If what was real?”

Harry began to fiddle with the sleeve of his robes, not looking at Snape. “When I… when I saw my mum and dad. Back when I was… you know.”

Snape did know, this time, and he was well aware that it had only been a matter of time until the subject came up. He should probably be glad that Harry addressed it of his own volition, even if he had no idea how to discuss life after death with an eleven-year-old. Such questions were Albus’ forte… but Albus, damn him, was not the one doomed to be a parent. Guardian. Same difference.

“Did they seem real to you?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah… they looked like normal people, not ghosts or something.”

“That is because they were never ghosts,” Snape said. “They decided to move on.”

“But I came back,” Harry said softly. “I didn’t stay with them.”

Snape gave him a long look. “You weren’t ready,” he said then. “Your parents will have known that.”

“They asked me about Hogwarts and stuff. And…” He paused, apparently gathering courage for what he wanted to say. “And mum asked about you.”

Snape felt a sharp jolt somewhere close to his stomach. It was painful, and at the same time he felt surprisingly elated. He took a deep breath, and only spoke when he was sure his voice would sound perfectly calm.

“Did she?”

Harry nodded. “She asked if you were looking out for me, and I told her you were. And she wanted me to tell you she says thank you. For everything.”

Snape stared at him, and for a second or two he was tempted to get up and leave, just to make sure the boy didn’t see any of the emotional turmoil his words had caused. But he stayed where he was. This was her son, giving him her message from beyond the veil. He deserved an answer.

Slowly, he nodded, and his voice even came out fairly normal. “Thank you for telling me.”

Harry nodded and looked at the plate on the table. “Aren’t you going to eat your cake?”

At that – and maybe it was a reaction to the emotions swirling inside him – Snape almost laughed. “Yes,” he said, and pulled the plate over to him. “I suppose I shouldn’t miss dinner.”

Looking pleased with himself, Harry watched as Snape took a small bite. “If you want, I can bring you something every time you have to work late.”

Being a Slytherin, Snape was well used to reading between the lines, and it wasn’t as if Harry was being all that subtle. His nervous expression said it all.

And for once, he knew exactly what to do in response. “Yes,” he said, and didn’t smile because, well, it was not something he did. “That would be acceptable.”

Snape had not intended to stay. The plan had been to drop Harry off, keep the polite chitchat to a minimum and Apparate away as quickly as possible. It wasn’t that he disliked the Malfoys’ company; they considered him a friend, after all. Nor was he particularly pressed for time with any of his duties and projects; it was the Christmas holidays, most of his snakes had gone home, and none of his experimental potions needed attending in the next twenty-four hours.

Still, if he could help it at all, he was not going to be drawn into a children’s birthday party. From his experience as a teacher, Snape had some idea of what such an event involved, and all of it – the sticky sweets, the inane games, the sugar-hyped brats, the horrible noisy music – seemed to have been taken directly from his own personal idea of hell. He’d have to be a fool not to slip out and disappear as quickly as he could possibly manage.

It was Lucius who thwarted this plan. The man was seated at the “parents’ table” in a corner of the hall where Draco’s party was taking place. Surrounded by witches who, from the looks of it, were discussing the latest issue of ‘Glamour and Spells’, he looked as miserable and put-upon as Snape had ever seen him. Then he raised his head, and his face lit up when he saw Snape.

“Severus!” He jumped up and came hurrying over, a little too hastily to maintain his usual savoir-faire. “What a pleasant surprise to see you.”

“And you, Lucius,” Snape replied dryly. “Harry, meet Mr. Malfoy.”

The boy, Snape was satisfied to see, remembered the etiquette lesson he had been given, bowing politely as he greeted the older wizard. “Hello Mr. Malfoy. Thank you for inviting me.”

“It’s our pleasure, Mr. Potter,” Lucius replied, eyeing the boy with great interest. “We meet at last. I trust you have been recovering well from your ordeal?”

Harry nodded. “Yes sir. And – thank you for the Nimbus,” he added, blushing slightly. “It’s brilliant.”

Lucius smiled. “Draco told me you’ve been enjoying your flying lessons.”

“Potter!” came a shout from somewhere behind them, and a moment later Draco came racing over, his cheeks aglow and neatly brushed hair slightly tousled. Snape recognized the first stages of a major sugar rush, and it strengthened his resolve to make his excuses as quickly as possible. “You’ve got to see what-”

“Draco,” Lucius interrupted sharply. “Greet your guests in a proper fashion, and do - not - run.”

“Yes, Father,” Draco said, slightly subdued. “Hello Potter, Uncle Sev. I’m glad you could come. Thank you very much for the present.”

Lucius glared at his son for acknowledging the present before it was given to him, but Harry didn’t seem to mind.

“Happy birthday, Draco.” He handed over the parcel, which Draco proceeded to rip open. His eyes widened at the colorful box within.

“What is it?”

“An RC car,” Harry replied proudly, as if no one could have thought of a more tasteful gift. “We got it in Muggle London. It’s  so cool.”

Lucius eyed the obviously Muggle-made toy with suspicion, but Draco seemed intrigued. “What does it do?”

“You need the remote control-” Harry pointed at the item in question, “-to steer it. It’s a BMW model, it speeds up to 90 mph, and you can make it jump and stuff. I brought mine so we can race them.”

Draco seemed delighted at the idea of racing two noisy and useless items and causing general mayhem in the process. “Wicked! Er, I mean, thank you, Potter, Uncle Sev,” he added with a glance at his father.

“Take Mr. Potter to join the rest of your guests,” Lucius said, and the two boys raced off towards the table in the middle of the hall, where nearly all of the first-year Slytherins and Hermione Granger were gorging themselves on the elaborate cakes and gourmet desserts served by the Malfoy house elves.

Lucius raised an eyebrow at Snape. “Shopping in Muggle London, Severus?”

Snape sighed. “The boy was very persistent.” In fact, Harry had used all of his Slytherin cunning to lure Snape out of Diagon Alley and to the shop where, he insisted, they would find the ideal birthday present for Draco. Which, of course, would be even more impressive if Harry could show Draco the delights of care racing, hence the second car Harry now owned.

Lucius smirked, and Snape raised an eyebrow at him in turn. “I assume Mr. and Mrs. Granger had no trouble in reaching the manor?”

Lucius looked as if he had swallowed something sour. “We had Dobby pick Miss Granger up at her place of residence,” he said stiffly, and it was Snape’s turn to smirk. Politically adept as they were, the Malfoys seemed to realize that inviting Muggleborns could only help their new image as a modern pureblood family.

“Well,” Lucius said, recovering his suave manner, “why don’t you join us for a cup of coffee, Severus. Narcissa has ordered your favorite brand…”

“No thank you,” Snape interrupted him quickly. “I really must return…”

“Surely you can spare half an hour, Severus.” The look on Lucius’ face came close to pleading. “Perhaps we could retreat to the library for a glass of Ogden’s-”

“… or you could stay right here and entertain our guests, Lucius.” Narcissa had come over, resplendent in tasteful silver robes, her eyes narrowed at at her husband. “You had better not sneak out on me again. Severus,” she added, her smile returning. “How very lovely of you to join us. Do come and have some refreshments, the house-elves have outdone themselves.”

“Thank you, Narcissa, but-”

“But nothing, Severus. Come and meet Mrs. Parkinson, she’s been dying to ask you about an Ageless Potion she read about in ‘Glamour and Spells’…”

Following Narcissa to the parents’ table, Snape shot a glare at Lucius, who looked entirely too pleased with himself.

In the meantime, the children had abandoned their seats and gathered at the other end of the hall, in front of a shaggy-haired wizard with garish robes and a magical microphone. “Now, where’s our birthday boy?” the wizard shouted.

Draco, looking more hyper than ever, jumped up and down. “Here!”

“Congratulations!” the wizard yelled, conjuring a shower of rainbow-colored sparks that rained down on Draco to a sped-up version of ‘Happy Birthday’. “Now, I’d say this young man gets first pick! Shall we get started with Wizard’s Hoedown or Do the Hippogriff?”

“Do the Hippogriff!” Draco screamed, joined by the rest of the children. “Do the Hippogriff!”

The wizard gave a sign to the band members behind him. “Alright then, ladies and gentlemen, get ready to shake your booty! Can you dance like a hippogriff, ma ma ma ma ma ma ma ma ma…”

Two songs later, Snape knew that not even Narcissa’s finest brand of Arabian Cauldron could save him from the thrumming headache that was building up between his temples. Most of the parents around him had a slightly glazed look on their faces, whereas their offspring seemed to be having the time of their lives. Snape watched Harry jumping up and down next to Miss Granger, waving his hands in imitation of the shaggy-haired wizard. It was hard to believe that this was the same boy who had sat alone in the common room, a vacant expression on his face as he stared into the fire…

“…if you’re interested,” Lucius was saying next to him, and Snape returned to the present.

“Excuse me?”

“I was saying that I recently acquired an old Egyptian grimoire you might be interested in.” Lucius glanced at Narcissa, who was engaged in conversation with Mrs. Bulstrode. “It is in my study, so…”

“Yes,” Snape said quickly. “I should be most interested to have a look at it.”

Lucius nodded and snapped his fingers. A second later, a house-elf in a tea towel appeared next to him, bowing deeply.

“What can Dobby do for Master Malfoy, sir?”

“Go inform Mistress that the Black Forest cakes are ready to be served.”

Dobby’s round eyes widened. “But Master, Mistress is ordering Dobby to save the Black Forest cakes for tonight’s feast…”

“Exactly,” Lucius said. “That should buy us at least five minutes.”

Dobby looked decidedly unhappy, but disappeared with a *plop* only to rematerialize at Narcissa’s side. “M-Mistress, the Black Forest cakes are ready to be served…”

“What? Didn’t I state explicitly-”

“Now,” Lucius said under his breath. “Quickly.”

Abandoning their seats, they slipped out a hidden door behind one of the wall tapestries and down a flight of stairs. The music and the noise from the screaming children grew dimmer in the distance. Snape had never before appreciated what a blissful experience silence was.

“That’s better,” Lucius sighed. “What on Earth possessed me to hire that man I don’t know.”

“Draco seems to be enjoying himself,” Snape pointed out, and Lucius sighed.

“Yes, I suppose there’s that.”

Snape thought of Harry, and the fact that he would probably want to attend next year’s party, as well. He sighed, and Lucius raised an eyebrow at him.

“The lot of the parent, isn’t it?”

Snape wanted to disagree that in no way he counted himself among that wretched portion of the human race, but, for some strange reason he merely nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “I suppose it is.”