September 1, 1991 (early evening)

Severus Snape brought order to the dungeon classroom, flicking his wand like an orchestra conductor's baton, causing row after row of tall wooden stools to line up just so before the lab tables. Jars of ingredients reflected the flickering torchlight, their shining surfaces polished to perfection. Cauldrons lined the back wall, scrubbed to dull gleaming, ready to produce the first disaster of the new school year.

The Hogwarts Express was on its way, chugging steadily northward from London. Hundreds of dunderheads had already embarked on their first sugar-high of the year. By the time the train stopped in Hogsmeade, the children would be totally wired for mayhem.

And mayhem did not please Snape. Mayhem did not amuse him. Mayhem caused his taut nerves to tighten even further. He'd never felt so high-strung while waiting for the train's arrival as he did today. It was the brat's fault, Snape thought sourly, glaring around at his perfectly- arranged dungeon as if daring anything to slip out of place. Potter's brat. Harry James Potter himself, arriving for his First Year at Hogwarts. Undoubtedly to be Sorted into Gryffindor. Just like his malbegotten sire.

Snape could just see the boy now, in his mind's eye: tall for his age, black-haired-make that MESSY black hair-mocking hazel eyes above his arrogant smile... Exactly like James Potter, Gryffindor's Golden Git. To put it mildly.

The little punk would waltz into the Great Hall for the Welcoming Feast, accepting accolades from right and left, and the next seven years would be absolute hell on earth for Severus Snape.

That's why Snape had decided to take a stand. If the best defense was a good offense, then Snape had already geared into full defensive mode. NO favortism, as the brat would doubtless receive from all the other staff members. NO assistance beyond the basic instruction given to all students equally-any marks would have to be EARNED in full. NO bowing to the boy's longheld celebrity status, regardless of what the whelp felt the Wizarding world owed him.

He, Severus Snape, would put Harry James Potter firmly in his place.

"Our. New. Celebrity..." Snape intoned the scornful statement in his most intimidating voice- half whisper, half silky growl-overlaying it thickly with sneering sarcasm. Yes, that was it. Put the brat on the spot first thing, before he knew what had hit him-give him an oral pop quiz at the beginning of the first Potions class. James Potter's son would never have cracked a book before boarding the train; he'd be waiting for his teachers to spoonfeed him the information. Snape would see to it that Harry Potter CHOKED. Show him up for the lazy layabout that his father had always been. Reveal his shortcomings not only to his fellow Gryffindors, but also to the Slytherins, who would do the other half of Snape's work for him. Yes, his Slytherins would never allow Harry Potter to live down his own incompetence.

After all...

"Fame. Isn't. Everything."

Snape smiled. This was one Potter who would NEVER get the better of him.

-:-

-:-

-:-

From his position at the Head Table, Snape frowned the length of the Great Hall, ignoring Quirrell's incessant stuttering to his left.

The First Years were filing in behind Minerva McGonagall, and try as he might, Snape couldn't make out the telltale features of the Potter brat anywhere in the nervous group of children that had come forward to congregate before the stool where the Sorting Hat sat. Surely, Harry Potter must look like his deceased father's Doppelganger. Surely?

Snape scanned all the young male faces. And again. And once again.

Nothing.

And when he looked once more, this time trying to identify any of Lily Potter's own features on one of the boys, he failed anew. Was Harry Potter's face a throwback to some earlier generation, perhaps amongst the Muggles on his mother's side? Or-Snape WISHED Quirrell would stop whispering and keep that damned turban a few inches farther away from Snape's sensitive nose-or, was Potter simply not here?

If so, why not? Obviously, he had magic. His name had been down on the Headmaster's list since birth. Or had his well-to-do Muggle relatives decided to send him instead to an elite Muggle school instead of allowing him to receive the magical education to which he was entitled? Petunia, he remembered, had despised her sister's magic, the gift which Petunia had been born bereft of, the gift which had inspired such jealousy in Petunia as a child. Perhaps she had refused to send her sister's son to the school which had ultimately caused the irrevocable split between Lily and Petunia? Snape wouldn't put it past her...

-:-

-:-

Snape's nerves tightened even further as McGonagall began calling the First Years' names alphabetically. Halfway through the alphabet... Almost to the P's... And then past-Minerva had omitted calling Potter's name. Snape peered to his far left, taking in the tightness at the corner of Albus Dumbledore's mouth. So, Potter's absence must be disturbing news to the Headmaster, too.

After Blaise Zabini had been Sorted into Slytherin-no surprise there-and Dumbledore had whimsically pronounced a few stray, unrelated words, the entire Hall tucked into the Feast. Snape noticed a tense, whispered discussion between McGonagall and the Headmaster, before they, too, partook sparingly of the array of foods which had appeared in wondrous glory upon the Head Table. At length, Dumbledore dismissed the sated students from the Feast, watching absently as they departed for their respective Houses.

"A word, if you please, Severus." A gnarled hand clasped the black-robed shoulder of the Potions Master.

"Of course," Snape assented. A veneer of good manners forced him to nod in Quirrell's direction, although Snape did not meet the Defense teacher's eyes. "If you will excuse me?"

"Y-Yes. Cer-Certainly." Quirrell's turban bobbed spasmodically, his fork pausing over the last of his fruit tart.

Snape swept his ebony robes away from the Head Table and followed Albus Dumbledore through the small door to one side of the Hall's head end. McGonagall was already waiting for them in the small chamber across the narrow, torchlit corridor. After clearing and warding the door, Dumbledore made the announcement.

"Harry Potter is missing."

Snape couldn't bring himself to feel much surprise or concern. He'd seen Potter's absence for himself during the Sorting.

"And so is Hagrid," McGonagall added.

THAT startled Snape. Although, come to think of it, Hagrid's vast presence had been missing from the other end of the Head Table. Not that Snape had thought to miss him. Rubeus Hagrid was most noticeable when present; his absence simply opened up space. Or some such, Snape rationalized with one part of his mind. Besides, Hagrid had been gone from the school for several days already, if he recalled. Little wonder, then, that he really hadn't missed seeing the gamekeeper at supper.

"It's like this-" McGonagall began, worry pinching her lips.

"Minerva noticed several days ago that Harry's Hogwarts letter kept being regenerated and sent out. She did some checking and discovered some ... irregularities ... in the manner in which the Finding Quill had addressed Harry's letters."

"Yes!" She nodded emphatically. "Most irregular, indeed, Severus! I had the Finding Quill list every location in which Harry's Trace had been Found since his eleventh birthday on July 31. Quite an odd collection of locations, as it turns out."

Snape's eyebrow rose fractionally. But not much. He wished the Transfiguration professor would fall out of lecture mode and just SAY where Potter was. Or had been.

"The original letter had been addressed to Harry in ‘The Cupboard Under the Stairs' at his Muggle uncle's house."

Snape's eyebrow rose slightly higher. "Perhaps he was playing Hide-and-Seek?" he suggested rather acerbically. Really, Minerva would go off over nothing.

"No, Severus," McGonagall denied. "The Finding Quill tracks to the child's usual sleeping quarters. Of all places in a home, the place where a child regularly sleeps is the child's most personal space-where a fraction of the Trace remains, even when the child himself is elsewhere, either at home or away, so long as the child remains in residence in the abode itself."

Snape frowned. "So, ‘The Cupboard Under the Stairs' is where..."

"Where Harry Potter usually sleeps." She nodded. "Or, rather, slept."

Snape didn't bother to elevate his eyebrow any further. He just looked at her, waiting.

McGonagall glowered. "Slept," she repeated because he had failed to ask the obvious. "The second letter was addressed to Harry in "The Smallest Bedroom', still at his uncle's house."

Snape continued to look at her.

"Another five hundred letters were also addressed to ‘The Smallest Bedroom'."

"Five HUNDRED?" Both of Snape's eyebrows shot upwards. "What are you saying?"

Dumbledore laid a quiet hand on Snape's shoulder. "What we believe has happened, Severus, is that Harry himself has not taken possession of a single letter of all those which have been delivered. The letters keep getting regenerated, are taken to the owls by the house elves, and the owls deliver them to the source of Harry's Trace, but Harry himself has not read-or been allowed to read-any of the letters."

Snape stared at him. "Petunia. She hated Magic. She has probably destroyed all of the letters. Unless the Finding Quill has malfunctioned."

"That's the other thing," McGonagall spoke up. "After two and a half weeks of the letters being addressed to Harry in Surrey-that was from August 1 to the 18th-the Finding Quill began churning out various hotel addresses. Also, several bed-and breakfast establishments. Sometimes up to eight different addresses of the sort in a single day!"

Snape snorted, waving his hand dismissively. "As I suggested, obviously a malfunction. How could Potter possibly sleep in eight different hotels in a single day?"

"An excellent question, Severus," Dumbledore answered thoughtfully.

Sighing deeply, Snape asked what he knew he was expected to ask. "How do you plan to locate him, Headmaster?"

"I already sent Hagrid after Harry," Dumbledore said musingly. "I decided that the Dursleys would probably be better able to deal with a person than with owls."

"A person, perhaps. But HAGRID? Do you really think that was wise, Headmaster?"

This time, it was Dumbledore who sighed. "Possibly not, Severus. As Minerva mentioned, if the Finding Quill is to be believed, the family appeared to be constantly on the move from August 18 through the 23rd. However, since the afternoon of August 23, the letters were all addressed to one location, which is where I sent Hagrid, with a letter in hand for Harry to read."

"And what location would that be? At home in Surrey again?"

"No," snapped McGonagall. "From August 23 until we sent Hagrid out on August 28, the letters were all addressed to ‘Mr. H. Potter, The Floor, Hut on the Rock, The Sea'."

The small chamber filled with silence as Snape attempted to wrap his mind around this new information. Finally, after swallowing a time or two, Snape managed, "'The Floor'? Potter is sleeping on the floor? In a ... hut?"

"On a Rock in the Sea, Severus," Dumbledore finished, a twinkle coming back into his bright blue eyes. "A mystery, my boy! One we sent Hagrid to solve, but he has failed to return with Harry." Dumbledore's face fell. "It is worrisome," he admitted. He looked Snape in the eye. "I want you to search for them, Severus. Find them both, and bring them to Hogwarts. Please."

Snape stared into Dumbledore's eyes, and a message seemed to pass between them. Snape's lips tightened.

"The Floor," he said. "Hut on the Rock. The Sea. You have nothing more to go on?"

Dumbledore chuckled. "Really, Severus. How many Huts on Rocks could there possibly be in the Sea?"

McGonagall looked ready to clonk Dumbledore over the head with the nearest battleaxe. Snape wished she would-it would save him the trouble of doing it himself.

"You say Hagrid went missing on August 28? Four days ago? Presumably, that's when ... something ... went amiss," Snape deduced.

"To the contrary, my boy." Albus Dumbledore's eyes were twinkling again, always a dangerous sign when the twinkle went contrary to the situation at hand. "I suspect something happened long before that-probably the day after Harry's birthday, when the first owl went out to Surrey."

Snape huffed and turned away, waving his wand to cancel the wards. "Hut on the Rock, The Sea," he muttered. "Lovely start to the school year, I must say."

"Might I suggest a Locater Charm, Severus?"

More likely, a Twinkle-Extinguishing Charm, the Potions Master groused to himself as he headed for Hogwarts' massive main door.

July 31, 1991 (very early evening)

Harry Potter knew it was his eleventh birthday, but he also knew there would be no celebration. Uncle Vernon had said as much the day before.

"You have no right to expect any sort of birthday party, boy. Not after that dreadful fiasco at the zoo on Dudders' birthday last month."

Not that Harry had ever had a party on his birthday. It was just one more way for Uncle Vernon to rub in that very fact. Taunting him. Even Aunt Petunia joined in, asking Dudley what HE would like to have for a special dinner on the last day of July.

Not that Harry would get to eat with the family at all. He could serve himself after he had cleared the table when dinner had ended. If Dudley and Uncle Vernon had left anything, that is. Harry hoped there would be a serving of the roast beef left. It did smell so delicious. Maybe a spoonful of mashed potatoes and a sprig or two of broccoli-he could pretend it was a real birthday dinner, since it was, after all, his birthday.

Aunt Petunia had frosted a four-layer cake and set it regally on the cake stand on the cherry sideboard. Dudley's choice again, but surely there would be some cake left. Harry had sampled the frosting when Aunt Petunia's back was turned, swiping his index finger quickly through the chocolate remains clinging to the inside of the mixing bowl. Chocolate cake with chocolate frosting. Surely, even Dudley couldn't eat that much cake! Not even Dudley and Uncle Vernon together. Surely.

Harry sighed quietly as he laid the table with Aunt Petunia's best china. The polished silverware and sparkling crystal were already in place. He watched with wide green eyes as she planted two slender white tapers in sterling holders, just so along the center line of the table. With a graceful movement, Aunt Petunia moved the sizzling match from candle to candle, igniting the waiting, unused wicks. Harry imagined to himself that she was actually lighting birthday candles for him, even though there were only two tapers.

After Harry had helped carry all of the filled serving dishes to the dining table, Aunt Petunia dismissed him, saying, "That's all for now. Since you finished weeding all of the flower beds earlier today, you have free time until we have finished our dinner. You may spend it outdoors or in your cupboard, whichever you prefer."

Surprised that she hadn't required him to wait on them throughout the meal, as she normally did, Harry opted for the fine summer evening outside. "Thank you, Aunt Petunia." Probably, she didn't want him around, "interfering" with Dudley's special meal, but he was glad to get out of the thankless task of serving them at the table for one evening.

Ignoring his polite acknowledgment, Petunia swept into the lounge where Dudley was engrossed in watching the telly. "Dinner is ready, darling. The fine dinner you asked for. Do wash up and come to the table."

As Dudley nodded, his eyes still fixed on the television screen, Petunia disappeared through the foyer doorway to call up the stairs to Vernon. What a momentous stroke of luck, Harry thought, swiping a thick slice of roast beef from beneath several others on the platter piled high with fragrant meat. He grabbed a crusty roll from beneath he folded cloth lining the burgeoning basket, and he made a beeline for the back door before the rest of the family entered the dining room.

Moments later, he had tucked himself behind the thick shelter of lilac leaves next to the end of Uncle Vernon's tool shed and began savoring his al fresco feast. Now this was a birthday treat! If Aunt Petunia allowed him to eat in the kitchen later, he would treat it like seconds, which he'd nearly never had; he was lucky just to get "firsts" several times a week. Since he'd finished the weeding, a plate of food was likely, as long as Uncle Vernon and Dudley didn't overdo more than usual. And if there was a chance for cake... Cake on his birthday-even a smidge-would do nicely.

He took his time chewing the savory beef and the crusty roll. Who knew how long until he'd have another birthday this good? Through the open windows across the garden, he could hear Uncle Vernon's booming laughter interspersed with Aunt Petunia's brittle giggles as Dudley related some tale or other. It didn't bother Harry one bit. This was his BIRTHDAY!

Later, having finished his smuggled dinner, he drank deeply of plastic-tasting water from the garden hose, making sure to rinse the telltale grease from his fingers. Then, flopping down on the grass that he'd mowed just yesterday, he linked his fingers behind his tousled black hair and stared up at the puffy clouds floating overhead. He wondered, not for the first time, what his birthday celebration would have been like if his parents had not died in that car crash. What special gift would they have given him for his eleventh birthday? Would they have gone somewhere special, like Dudley's birthday trip to the zoo? Was he the only person who had to steal meat and bread to have a special birthday dinner?

Harry sighed, his eyes watching a cloud slowly developing into a distinct tortoise shape. In the end, it really didn't matter, he decided. At least he wouldn't go to sleep hungry tonight. His eyelids drifted closed, and he dozed, listening with part of his mind to the typical sounds of a summer evening passing decorously in Little Whinging.

Less than an hour later, Aunt Petunia's shrill voice summoned him back to the kitchen. A plate awaited him on the counter, bearing a small strip of beef, a spoonful of potatoes, and several florets of broccoli. "You may eat once you've cleared the table. Then do the dishes and go to your cupboard."

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," Harry said automatically, eyeing the plate with his "seconds". "Thank you, Aunt Petunia."

Her lips compressed unpleasantly as she left the dinnertime mess behind her in the kitchen with her nephew.

Harry quickly carried platters and bowls from the dining room, carefully tipping their contents into storage containers, or wrapping foil or plastic over the tops to keep the leftovers fresh. Then he wedged the containers and bowls into the fridge, struggling to get the door to shut against the vast variety of food stored within the few square feet of chilled space.

As he returned to the dining room to carry the dinner plates to the kitchen, Dudley's demanding voice drifted down the stairs from his first bedroom. "Mum, I want another piece of cake!"

"Of course, Diddykins! Have your cousin cut you a slice and bring it up."

Harry's eyebrows shot upwards, pushing the lightning-bolt scar-a souvenir of the car crash- up beneath his fringe.

"Potter! Bring me a slice of cake! On a clean plate! With a clean fork!"

"Yes, Dudley," Harry called in reply to the bellow from above. "I'll be right up."

"Make it BIG!" Dudley ordered with a shout.

"One BIG slice of cake coming up!" Harry called.

Another stroke of luck!

He'd been certain that Aunt Petunia would have noticed if a slice-even a small one-had gone missing from the leftover cake on the cake stand. But with Dudley demanding a large slice, Harry might just be able to sneak a piece for himself. Quickly, he grabbed a clean plate, fork, and paper towel. Onto the paper towel he slid a relatively thin slice of frosted cake, and he folded the towel over to conceal it. Next, he loaded a huge wedge of cake onto the plate. On the way to the stairs, he quietly opened the door to his cupboard and set his own slice of cake on one of the shelves at the taller end of the space. Then he ran up the stairs to deliver Dudley's piece to him.

Aunt Petunia wandered out of her bedroom to confront Harry. "What took you so long, boy?"

"Oh, I had to dry my hands, Aunt Petunia. I didn't want to get dish detergent suds all over Dudley's cake." He held up the huge wedge for her inspection.

"Very well," she said with a sniff, and turning on her heel, she headed back into the master bedroom where Vernon was still talking on the phone.

"Well, give it here," demanded Dudley, grabbing for the plate. Harry handed it over silently, followed by the fork, and Dudley returned to his own room, where his computer screen was blinking impatiently as cyber-game music blared from the speakers. He kicked the door shut with his trainer, and Harry was left grinning at the empty expanse of wood.

Trotting lightly back down the stairs, he headed eagerly for "seconds" in the kitchen, knowing he could enjoy his secreted slice of cake later on in his cupboard.

But first...

The tapers were still burning quietly on the dining table. On a birthday that had already turned out so lucky, might Harry actually have a wish come true as well?

Somehow, in his gut, Harry knew this would be the most important wish he would ever make. It had to be phrased exactly right to come true. He thought and thought, his back to the glowing candles. He thought about his long-dead parents, who were never discussed at the Dursleys' home. He thought about endless chores that Dudley and other neighborhood kids never had to do. He thought about Dudley's having two bedrooms-one just for his toys-and Harry's having to sleep in the cupboard under the stairs. He thought about Dudley's new uniform for when he would go away to Smeltings and Harry's always having to wear Dudley's worn-out, too-big hand-me-downs. He thought about being hungry. Often. Too often.

Slowly, he turned to face the nearest candlestick. Then, he paused. Maybe-just maybe- he should double up for luck. He placed the two candlesticks side by side, their respective tapers pointing vertically, looking sort of like two numeral ones side by side. Like they really said "eleven", Harry thought with a thrill of excitement. It's my eleventh birthday, after all! It must be an omen! I'll finally get LUCKY this year!

Focusing on the softly-glowing flames, Harry concentrated hard. "I wish I had a different, better life," he whispered. Closing his eyes, he blew-HARD. When he opened his eyes, the blackened wicks were sending thin, twin spirals of gray smoke toward the dining room ceiling.

"That's it!" he whispered. "This year, I'll really and truly get my wish!"

The glorious thought sustained him as he downed his "seconds", washed and dried the dishes, and rendered the dining room polished and spotless once again.

Finally, finished for the evening, he shut himself into his cupboard to savor his slice of chocolate-frosted chocolate birthday cake. It had definitely been his very best birthday ever!

The next morning, the first owl arrived.

After the first mysterious envelope delivered by an owl had been confiscated, unopened, from Harry, he couldn't help wondering if the owl and envelope might somehow be connected with his birthday wish from the day before. It had proved to be an unusual birthday, and the concept of an owl delivering post was equally unusual in Harry's experience.

Life had certainly changed for Harry since the first envelope's arrival. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had regarded it fearfully, especially after examining the impressive seal across the reverse-side flap. Harry didn't know why, but they seemed to blame him for the envelope's having been delivered in the first place, but he had no clue as to who might have sent it. If they were blaming him, he reasoned, then it must have something to do with his birthday wish. Right? It was the only unusual thing he'd done all week, wishing on the dinner candles...

And then, MORE envelopes had arrived. MORE and MORE and MORE... One or two at a time, then three or four, then dozens...

For the first two and a half weeks of August, Number 4 on Privet Drive was besieged by owls. Owls of all sorts. Owls of all sizes. Owls of all colors. Harry had only ever seen one owl before, and that one had been in an airy cage at the zoo on Dudley's birthday. Now, from the window of Dudley's second bedroom, which his aunt and uncle had inexplicably insisted that Harry move into, over Dudley's ear-splitting tantrums, Harry watched the soaring, swooping feathery flights arriving, envelopes in beak, and departing to return to their unknown source. He still wasn't quite certain why he got to move into the little bedroom, just that his relatives seemed convinced that "someone" was watching the house, although how that had anything to do with Harry remained as big a mystery to him as the owls themselves.

Finally, the fateful day arrived, when the skies darkened with the most incredible influx of owls yet, all descending ominously upon Number 4, and HUNDREDS of envelopes flooded into the house, through every possible aperture! Harry had ALMOST had an envelope for himself from the whirlwind of paper invading the lounge, but Uncle Vernon had wrenched it violently away before he could open the magnificent wax seal. As it was, the never-ending flood of mysterious letters, all addressed to Harry-first to his cupboard, then to the smallest bedroom-had apparently caused Uncle Vernon to snap that day.

Piling the family into the car, he drove hither and thither for five days, the length and breadth

of England, Wales, and Scotland. Wherever they paused in his mad dash cross country, another letter or ten would mysteriously arrive, perpetually addressed to Harry, and brutally destroyed by Vernon, whose eyes had begun to gleam with a hideous mad light. Even Petunia seemed to fear what her husband might do next, and she spent four tense nights at hotels and B&B's protectively clutching Dudley to her side, her trembling hand frantically smoothing his hair as she watched Vernon pace the room, her husband glaring daggers at Harry.

At last, on the evening of August 23, Vernon made arrangements to rent the use of a ramshackle shelter situated bizarrely on a barren rock protruding skyward from the sea five miles from the nearest shore. After ordering Petunia to stock up on a week's worth of groceries, bottled water, and other sundries, Vernon hired a boat to carry the four of them, plus their load of supplies to the Hut on the Rock, as the boatman called it. The boat rode low in the water, protesting the weight of the Dursley males and their food stocks. When they landed at the shallow edge of the rock, Vernon offloaded the boxes while Petunia ordered Harry to carry them up to the dilapidated stone-and-wood Hut whose weathered shutters creaked despairingly in the sea breeze.

After paying off the boatman, Vernon watched in satisfaction as the man and his companion motored away in the now-higher-riding boat, having left a second, less impressive craft moored to the Rock, in case the family needed to vacate the premises before the week was up. To Harry's eyes, the "escape" boat for "emergencies only" looked nearly as ramshackle as the Hut above. As dusk fell and the first boat disappeared shoreward into the gloom, Harry watched the mad light in his uncle's eyes brighten as he stroked his fingertips up and down the tall, slender box that he'd brought with him from Surrey.

"What's that you've got, Dad?" asked Dudley, also examining the long box standing on end next to his father.

"My shotgun, Dudders." Vernon smiled in such a way that Harry couldn't help but shudder. "Just let those ruddy owls find us out here, and I'll give them a surprise they'll never forget!"

Harry cringed as Vernon laughed loudly. Dudley joined in, begging to see the shotgun out of its box. "In due time, son. In due time. First, we'll have supper!" Father and son climbed the rough, rocky path to the hut while Harry stared after them in consternation.

Uncle Vernon was really planning to shoot the owls... Harry had heard the man threatening to do just that back on Privet Drive, but Aunt Petunia had dissuaded him, saying that there were laws about using firearms in the suburbs. But at the Hut on the Rock? No laws existed. Probably, nobody would even be able to hear the gunshots from shore...

"BOY!" Vernon's shout rang out from the Hut. "Get up here and help your aunt fix supper. Hurry up!"

The moon had barely peaked over the horizon, glinting silver atop the rippling waters, as Harry scurried up the uneven path under his uncle's watchful, gleaming gaze.

-:-

-:-

-:-

From August 23 onwards...

-:-

-:-

The following week settled into a pattern of sorts. Meals from tins and other non-perishables, Harry setting out paper plates and durable plastic cups on the scarred plank table. Tea from water heated in a large kettle hung above the flames in the stone fireplace. Vernon perched on the roof over the bedroom in the sagging loft-he had managed to pry several rotting boards loose from the underside of the roof and, grunting mightily with the effort, clambered up from the dresser which sat beneath the low part of the sloping ceiling.

BLAM!

"HA!"

Harry and Petunia cringed with every shot that Vernon fired off at an approaching owl, while Dudley stood on the dresser, his head sticking up through the ragged hole in the roof, begging to have a go with the shotgun.

So far, the owls seemed to have escaped injury, all but one. And even that one managed to fly away toward shore, although a bit unevenly, Harry noticed sadly. He hoped someone familiar with wildlife would find and help the injured owl. He thought the shot had only just grazed one of the noble bird's wings. The familiar envelope it bore had fluttered down to the sea and was quickly swamped by the foaming swells.

-:-

-:-

-:-

August 28, 1991 (afternoon)

-:-

-:-

BLAM!

"HA!"

"C'mon, Dad! Please! Please let me have a go!"

"Diddykins, darling, please don't go up on the roof," Petunia pleaded, grabbing her son's thick ankle. "You might fall off!"

Dudley jerked his leg impatiently. "Get off, Mum! I'm not going to fall! I just want to shoot the

owls!"

"Dudders, your mother is right," came Vernon's muffled voice from above. "You may practice shooting from the ground-er, the Rock-after lunch."

"Yay!" Dudley jumped up and down on the warped dresser in his excitement, causing the ancient wood to creak in distress.

It would serve him right if the dresser split in two, sending him crashing to the sagging floor, Harry thought sourly as he opened tins of beef stew and fruit, while Petunia sliced the bread.

Dudley's trainers thumped down the steep, slanting steps. He surveyed the table with disgust. "Stew AGAIN?" He made a gagging sound. "Mum, how long do we have to stay here? I want to go home! I want to eat REAL food. I want to sleep in my own bed! I want to watch the telly! There's NOTHING to do on this Rock but watch Dad shoot owls. And he always MISSES!"

Plopping down on the wooden bench on his side of the table, Dudley ignored the bench's ominous groan of protest and grabbed a thick slice of bread, slathering butter over it. "It's all HIS fault," he added darkly, pointing an accusing finger at Harry. "The owls keep coming because of HIM. Why do I have to suffer because of HIM?"

Petunia's lips tightened. Much tighter, Harry thought, and her mouth would disappear permanently. "Ask your father, Diddykins dear. This little-holiday-was all his idea."

"HOLIDAY!" Dudley nearly choked on the word through the mouthful of bread. "This isn't any kind of HOLIDAY! This-this-this just SUCKS!"

"Dudley!" shouted Vernon as he descended the rickety steps from the loft. "Language!"

"Sorry, Dad," mumbled the boy, poking at a meat cube in the fire-warmed stew. "But I HATE it here. And it's all HIS fault."

Vernon glared at Harry. "It certainly is."

Harry stood silently next to the outwards corner of the fireplace. He had an uneasy feeling that Vernon might decide to get physical, although that didn't happen too often.

"Vernon..." Apparently, Petunia had picked up on similar vibes from her husband. "Sit down and have some lunch, dear. There's some lovely stew, just off the fire." She set a plastic bowl of stew in front of him.

Vernon sat, picking up a slice of bread to butter.

"So, how long, Dad?" demanded Dudley. "How long are we gonna be on this dumb Rock?"

"Take heart, Dudders," said Vernon reassuringly. "We won't be here much longer. Have to see you off to Smeltings in a few days, remember?"

Dudley brightened in anticipation. "Tell me about Smeltings again, Dad. Tell me about your first day again."

Harry bit into his thin slice of unbuttered bread as he stood by the fireplace, listening to his uncle's thoroughly-boring tale for the umpteenth time. He kept hoping there would be a bit more stew left over this time. He didn't mind eating it cold from the can, just as long as-

BLAM!

Petunia screamed and Dudley fell over backwards off his bench as Vernon shot through the open window. Harry's saucer-sized green eyes spotted the most recent owl winging rapidly back toward shore.

"HA!" shouted Vernon, his own eyes blazing wildly. "Haven't had this much fun on holiday in years!"

Clutching one hand over her heart, Petunia used her other hand to help Dudley regain his seat, while Vernon reloaded the shotgun.

"Seems like the owls are fewer and farther between, doesn't it?" he remarked to no one in particular. "Remember that first night we were here, when I sat up all night long firing off shots? The moonlight made it easy to spot the buggers coming in toward the Hut. And I spent the entire next day shooting at the blasted pests. But I think they're finally getting the message. No more letters! Not here, not anywhere! A few more days, and we can go home."

"Gr-Great, Dad," said Dudley, still sounding a bit shaky after the unexpected shot through the window. "Can't wait to tell Piers and the other guys! They'll be green with envy-I know they've never gone on a shooting holiday!"

Vernon downed two more bowls of stew, three more slices of buttered bread, a tin of peach slices, and then he looked inquiringly at Petunia. "What's for dessert, my pet?"

"I have some of that coconut cake left, and there's also cherry pie. Which would you like?"

"Some of each," Vernon replied, followed by Dudley's quick echo.

Petunia nodded, then gestured to Harry, who moved to the dwindling stack of bakery boxes which had contained cakes and pies of all descriptions. Each was carefully wrapped in foil to prevent their contents from going stale in the sea air, and Harry unwrapped the top box containing the remains of the coconut cake. He served up large wedges of the cake, then added

a generous slice of pie to each paper plate, carrying them to serve to Vernon and Dudley.

"Would you like dessert, Aunt Petunia?" Harry asked politely.

"I'll make do with part of another tin of peaches," she replied, "but you may have all of the leftovers," she added in a low voice. "They'll just go bad without refrigeration."

"Thank you, Aunt Petunia."

"You'd better wait until Vernon and Dudley go out," she said quietly, watching as Vernon lovingly stroked the length of the shotgun barrel.

Harry nodded. He repressed a smile. He'd have stew. Maybe another slice of bread. He might even be able to sneak a bit of butter. Tinned peaches-and the sweet syrup. And there was a sliver of coconut cake and at least a third of the cherry pie left. Not that he'd eat all of the pie. But he could have a slice. This would be almost as good as his birthday feast, which had taken place twenty-eight days ago. Two GOOD meals in less than a month? Unprecedented! And this was only lunch-perhaps he could enjoy a few extra leftovers from supper as well?

Vernon rose from the table and, trailed by Dudley, meandered down the rocky path to the shoreward side of the Rock. Thus far, no owls had ever approached from the seaward side, so he faced shoreward and gave Dudley instructions on the safe handling of a shotgun.

"I'll be lying down upstairs," Petunia muttered. "I'm getting a migraine."

Harry affected a concerned expression. "I hope you'll feel better soon, Aunt Petunia."

"Hmphh."

After she'd climbed the rickety, sloping steps, Harry quickly warmed the leftover stew in a saucepan over the fire in the fireplace and buttered a thick slice of bread before carefully wrapping the remaining bread in protective foil. Stew tasted so much better when it was hot! And bread with butter tasted heavenly. He ate quickly, devouring the remaining peach slices and drinking the sweet syrup directly from the tin. Already feeling full, he forced himself to finish off the coconut cake, and he even squeezed a small portion of cherry pie into his straining stomach. Who knew when another opportunity to eat his fill would come again?

BLAM!

Upstairs, Petunia groaned, and the bed creaked as if she had turned over to pull a pillow over her aching head.

BLAM!

Harry heard Dudley crow in triumph. Collecting the dirty paper plates and plastic bowls, Harry shoved them into an empty box. Vernon had originally ordered him to throw trash into the sea, but Harry had objected, suggesting that someone might decide to arrest or fine Vernon, if the trash could be traced back to the Hut on the Rock. "That boatman got a good look at all this stuff, Uncle Vernon. He knows we're here. And this stuff will float..."

"All right, boy! Just keep the trash out of our way!" Vernon had shouted in the end.

Personally, Harry didn't care about any of his relatives being arrested and fined-he just didn't want to risk harming the sea life with their litter. Still, he felt happy to be able to dispose of the trash in the cardboard boxes that had originally held their food supplies.

Which had been seriously depleted, he noted. Even though Petunia had deliberately overbought, knowing Vernon's and Dudley's appetites, the majority of food containers had already been emptied. Harry estimated they might have two days' supplies left, at the most. There was no way Vernon would stay here after the food ran out. At long last, after more than a week on this forsaken Rock, they'd be returning to Surrey. Having slept on the rough wooden floor night after night, Harry was actually looking forward to the lumpy bed in Dudley's erstwhile second bedroom.

BLAM!

"Yah!"

At least it would be quieter in Little Whinging.

August 28, 1991 (evening)

"We never saw a single owl all afternoon," Dudley complained at supper. "But I could have shot it if one did come, right, Dad?"

"Quite right, Dudders. Are there any more saltines, Petunia?"

"Harry?"

In response to his aunt's passing the query to him, Harry pulled another packet of saltine crackers from the cardboard box, handing it to Vernon. The man ripped open the packet and crushed several crackers into his bowl of chili. He took a spoonful of the spicy concoction of meat and beans, chewed it without enthusiasm, then addressed Petunia.

"I'm looking forward to eating your home cooking again, my pet. This living out of tins is for the birds."

"Yeah," grumbled Dudley. "And it's because of the birds. The OWLS!" He guffawed at his own lame joke.

"So, when are we leaving for home, Vernon, dear?"

Vernon swallowed another spoonful of chili before answering. "As Dudley said, we didn't see any owls after lunch. I think we should wait another full day, just to be certain, and if we don't see any owls at all tomorrow, I think it will be safe to start home the following morning."

"And then it'll be time for me to get ready to go off to Smeltings, right, Dad?"

"Indeed," replied Vernon, rubbing his stomach, frowning a bit. "Petunia, dear, I don't suppose we have a supply of antacid with us?"

Petunia stared at her husband in concern. "Um ... no, dear. I believe I must have overlooked that item. We did leave home so abruptly, if you recall."

Vernon glared at Harry, standing in his usual corner by the fireplace. "Yes, I DO remember." He massaged his stomach again, grimacing. "I say, I believe this chili has decided to burn a hole

through my stomach. It seems to feel hotter than it tastes." He laid down the plastic spoon. "I think it's best if I don't eat any more of it. How is our bread supply holding out?"

Petunia cut a thick slice and passed it to her husband. "Butter, dear?"

"Not this time." Vernon bit into the bread. After chewing and swallowing, he grumbled, "I suppose I shouldn't have indulged in that second can of chili, although I was quite hungry after teaching Dudley how to shoot all afternoon. I really wish I could have a nice, thick vanilla milkshake right about now. That would settle my stomach."

Petunia stood up and began to rummage through the remaining supplies, but to no avail. "I'm sorry, dear, but I don't see anything that might help.There's no baking soda, and we even ran out of tinned milk this morning."

"We did?" Groaning in pain, Vernon lurched to his feet. "Are you sure? Here, let me look." He moved Petunia aside and began opening bags and boxes, pawing through their contents distractedly. "There MUST be something..."

But there wasn't.

The evening wore on with Vernon moaning and groaning, drinking bottle after bottle of water, trying to squelch the agonizing fire burning in his belly. The verbal sounds of his distress were eventually augmented by strange grumbles and squeals from deep within his distended abdomen as the effect of the chili worked its way ever deeper through his digestive system.

Outside, the wind picked up, whistling through the cracks of the Hut's delapidated walls.

"I think there's going to be a storm!" shouted Dudley. "Did you see lightning just now?"

Petunia glanced up the stairs nervously. "If it rains... Vernon, is it possible to get that bit of roofing back in place where you removed it to climb out?"

A deep groan answered her. Then Vernon growled, "Just let it rain in. It's not our property, is it? They can't accuse us of making a hole in the roof, can they? The storm itself could have done it. We can complain that there already WAS a hole."

Petunia shook her head, seeming to disagree, but replied, "Whatever you say, dear. Dessert, Diddykins?"

She had Harry serve Dudley a third of a two-layer spice cake, and when Vernon heard the word "spice", he moaned anew.

"Perhaps some tea," murmured Petunia soothingly, pouring water from a litre bottle into the large kettle hanging over the fire.

Vernon sipped optimistically at the tea, but it seemed to offer no relief. "It's going to be a LONG night," he groaned, clutching his belly with both hands, his spread fingers massaging and massaging to no avail.

From his usual corner by the fireplace, Harry watched silently. Thanks to his fine lunch, he wasn't HUNGRY-hungry, like he often was in the evenings, but he would have welcomed a slice of bread. However, with Uncle Vernon's temper racheting upwards, he decided not to risk asking for anything to eat. He certainly didn't want to give his uncle the idea of forcing him to eat the fiery tinned chili...

The Hut began to shudder under the onslaught of the wind. If the dismal abode had ever had glass panes in the windows, they had disappeared long ago.Petunia darted from window to window, closing the weathered wooden shutters to keep out the worst of the approaching rain. Through every single crack and gap, Harry could see lightning flashing, and thunder crashed ominously as the storm moved closer toward the Rock. They could hear the sound of waves crashing against the lower part of the Rock, and occasionally a larger wave would send spray through the gaps in the walls. An occasional metallic clunk seemed to indicate that the boat moored to the Rock was being forced against the unyielding stone. As the storm gathered strength, the frail humans could only hope that the Hut would neither be struck by lighting, nor be swept into the sea by a rogue wave.

An eternity seemed to pass as they waited for Nature to determine their Fate, and finally, with a deep sigh of relief, Petunia said, "It seems to be letting up, doesn't it, Vernon?"

Vernon nodded, then groaned aloud. During the worst of the storm, fear had seemed to distract him from his roaring stomach, but now that the storm was passing on, he relapsed into self-absorption once again. He clutched a mostly-full water bottle by the neck and stumbled to the stairs. Then he seemed to think of something and returned to grab hold of the shotgun. "No sense leaving this shotgun where Dudders might shoot his own foot off."

Dudley laughed. "Well, I could always shoot Harry's foot off instead!"

Harry glared at his cousin from the corner.

Already en route to the stairs again, Vernon whirled, pressing the plastic water bottle into his burning abdomen with one hand, while he hefted the shotgun with the other, pointing it directly at Harry. That mad gleam glowed in his eyes once again.

"This is all your fault, boy," he whispered, the end of the shotgun's muzzle waving a bit. "All ... YOUR ... bloody ... fault."

Harry's heart pounded fiercely in his mouth, the blood hissing through his eardrums. He dared not move. Even Petunia and Dudley seemed petrified.

"YOUR ... fault..."

At last ... at long last ... after an eternity of tension, Vernon took his mad-gleaming eyes, the threatening length of double-barreled steel, his rumbling, gurgling stomach, and the bottle of drinking water upstairs to the sagging loft.

Harry's knees gave out, and he sank down to a sitting position. Only the wall in the corner kept him from collapsing flat on his back. Uncle Vernon had gone mad. He was sure of it! And from the expression in his aunt's and cousin's faces, Harry knew that-for once-the three of them were all in agreement about something.

Outside, a fast-moving second storm grew in intensity, rain pelting the walls and roof of the Hut, and they could hear it splattering through the open hole over the old dresser.

After a long time, Vernon's anguished groans seemed to diminish in their frequency, and Petunia finally dared to move again. Wordlessly, she straightened up the table, disposing of trash and garbage in the cardboard box. After straightening the supplies that Vernon had left in disarray, she kissed Dudley goodnight and looked briefly at Harry huddled in the inwards corner next to the fireplace. On silent feet, she crept upstairs, holding her breath against disturbing her husband. The sooner they were out of this Hut and off the Rock, the better.

-:-

-:-

-:-

Harry didn't know how long he had dozed fitfully on the floor in front of the dying fire, Dudley snoring above him on the worn sofa. He had spent a fair amount of time huddled in the corner, his arms wrapped tightly round his drawn-up knees, ears straining for any sign of Vernon moving around upstairs. Or worse, coming DOWN the stairs. Only as the second storm began to wane, sometime well after midnight, did Harry creep out of his corner and curl up before the fireplace.

Given that he could still hear thunder through the pouring rain, he guessed he couldn't have slept for very long before the door suddenly fell in. Lightning backlit a humongous, shaggy figure framed ominously in the doorway.

"Sorry ‘bout that," said the hulking silhouette in a matter-of-fact voice. As the gigantic man turned to lift up the door and replace it, Harry scuttled into the safety of his corner once again, pressed into it so tightly his shoulder blades seemed to fuse with the stones. Dudley gawked in horror at the silhouette from his bed on the sofa.

The commotion at the door had brought Vernon and Petunia creeping cautiously down the rickety stairs, preceded by the shotgun.

"Who are you?" shouted Vernon, pointing the gun at the bearded intruder who had

-:-

-:-

approached the faint glow of residual firelight. "What do you want? WHAT do you WANT?!"

"'Arry Potter, o' course!"

BLAM!

Petunia screamed as the large man fell backwards, shaking the entire Hut with the force of his landing.

"VERNON!" she shrieked in horror, gasping for breath at the sight of the now-motionless intruder. "VERNON! VERNON! VERNON! You-you-you-sh-sh-SHOT him! You SHOT him!"

Dudley stared at the fallen great figure, his mouth hanging open in shock. Then, reality set in, and he burst into tears.

Harry couldn't even breathe-the tip of the shotgun was now pointed directly at him for the second time that night.

"Oh, VERNON! NO! NO! NO! Oh, PLEASE, NO!"

The shotgun never wavered.

Harry kept staring into those insidious black holes. Above the other end of the gun, he could sense the madness glowing brightly in his uncle's eyes, as his mind struggled to process his aunt's pleadings. When he finally understood, he wondered inanely if it would hurt. Or would he just die? What would they do with his body? Feed it to the sharks?

"NO! NO! NO! Vernon-you CAN'T! You CAN'T!"

Harry's emerald eyes didn't even blink as he kept staring into the twin black holes. It was almost like staring into a pair of black eyes. The strong smell of gunpowder hung in his nostrils from the last sharp inhalation he'd made before holding his breath. But he couldn't tell, just by looking, which barrel had already gone off. So, which hole would kill him? Left or right? Would he ... he swallowed at the thought, surprised that he could swallow at all ... would he finally see his parents again? The parents he couldn't even remember, not really, just ... sensations, sometimes ... a sense of déjà vu at others...

"VERNON! You CAN'T! NOT HARRY!"

"But it's HIS fault."

"NO!" Petunia's hands fluttered helplessly as her husband continued to point the gun at Harry. "Vernon, listen to me. LISTEN to me-we have to leave. We have to get OUT of here. NOW."

"Tonight?" Vernon looked startled. "But it's still storming, isn't it? Surely it would be better to wait for morning."

Petunia reached for his arm, then thought better of it. "Vernon, you just killed that man. We have to leave NOW."

Vernon stared at Harry. "But what about him?"

Petunia glanced quickly at Harry's face, then at Dudley, who had squeezed himself into a sniveling round ball on the sofa. "You can't shoot him, Vernon."

A long silence, punctuated by distant lightning.

"Very well," said Vernon. Harry recognized that calculating tone of voice from long experience. It never boded well. "We'll leave him here. We won't say anything about the hole in the roof, so nobody will come to check. There won't be any reason for anyone to come to the Rock anytime soon. The owner said nobody had stayed here in the past six years."

Petunia lifted her chin. "Agreed."

"But what about him?" whimpered Dudley, pointing at the fallen figure near the door.

"He's dead, son," Vernon said. "One of that freak lot, no doubt."

"No! He's NOT dead! I can see him breathing!" Dudley pointed again. "See?"

Vernon and Petunia cautiously approached the giant of a man-he must have measured eight or nine feet long, stretched out on the floor like that. And Dudley was right, Harry realized, peeking around the outer edge of his corner. The man's chest kept jerking slightly with each painful breath he took.

"You have to help him!" Harry burst out. "Don't you see-it was self-defense! He broke in during the storm, and he was a stranger, and he was big and scary, and you only shot him in self-defense, Uncle Vernon. Don't you see? If you help him, you might not be in any trouble!"

"Nonsense," snarled Vernon. "He wasn't a stranger. I don't know who he is, but he came here for YOU. This is YOUR fault, and we're leaving you behind with him."

This time, Petunia voiced no protest.

While Harry knelt by the injured man, Vernon directed his wife and son to gather up the remaining groceries and carry them down to the boat, which was pitching on the uneasy sea.

Pressure, Harry was thinking. Pressure on a wound stops the bleeding. He rummaged through the plastic bag that held some of Harry's own clothes-Dudley's hand-me-downs-and found his rattiest T-shirt. It had holes in it, but it was clean. After carefully unbuttoning the large man's very large shirt, Harry pressed the T-shirt to the bloody holes which pockmarked his torso. He leaned his weight upon the shirt to exert pressure, noting vaguely that the Dursleys were no longer traipsing in and out with packages and suitcases. He was alone with the very large man.

Harry kept leaning on the wounds, feeling the man's chest rising and falling spasmodically. Occasionally, the man's eyelids would flicker. "Can you hear me?" Harry asked. The man seemed to nod slightly. "I'm Harry Potter. You came to see me? Who are you, sir?"

For several long moments, there came no reply. Then, on a whispered breath, "Ha-grid. Ru- Ru-be-us ... Ha-grid. From ... Hog ... warts," or some such, Harry thought, confusion suffusing his face. Who was he, really?

The large man drifted in and out of consciousness throughout the night. Harry sat by his side long after the gunshot wounds seemed to cease their bleeding. He got up occasionally to feed wood to the fire from a dry supply piled halfway up the walls in one corner of the main room. Harry suspected the scraps of wood had actually been part of the Hut itself in times gone by.

As dawn slowly lightened the sky, Harry looked out to see a choppy sea, but not a surging, angry swell. No sign of any boats moored upon the Rock. Uncle Vernon was long gone, and he'd probably set this Hagrid fellow's boat loose, hoping it would sink. There was no telling if the Dursleys had made it safely to shore.

When Harry knelt again by the large man, he noticed a sheen of sweat upon his forehead, beneath his shaggy rug of a fringe. Tentatively, he touched the glazed skin and felt the fever burning from within. Harry's heart sank. He didn't know what he could do. The man might not bleed to death now, but surely he had an infection from the gunshot wounds that could kill him.

Harry himself wasn't much better off. Uncle Vernon had taken all of the food, and the few remaining bottles of drinking water wouldn't last forever. How long could they survive? And nobody knew where they were. As for the owls with the letters-if they had really stopped coming, there would be no chance to send out a message, if these owls acted like homing pigeons. Nobody would come in time.

Sighing, Harry sat crosslegged by Hagrid, considering his options. Suddenly, he noticed that the man's coat had a number of pockets. Wondering if there might be anything useful to their situation, like aspirin for fever, he began to search methodically, uncovering bits and pieces of things, some identifiable, some not. A small pouch containing foreign-looking coins, a wad of foul-smelling something-or-other. An envelope, heavy paper, with the same weird seal across the back flap that Harry had seen on that long-ago mysterious letter addressed to him in The

Cupboard Under the Stairs. Turning it over, Harry was startled to see the inscription: Mr. H. Potter, The Floor, Hut on the Rock, The Sea.

For the longest time, Harry stared at the words, reading them over and over again. This letter was meant for HIM! Had Hagrid come to deliver it, after all the owls had failed? Was that why the owls had stopped coming? Because Hagrid was on the way? Should he open it?

It was addressed to him, after all.

Hagrid still seemed to be unconscious, in spite of the cool cloth-another T-shirt that Harry had soaked in the cold sea water-draped across his burning forehead.

Finally, Harry made up his mind. If he was going to die, he wanted to KNOW what these letters had been about. What had frightened Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia so badly that they would condemn him to death, rather than take him back to Privet Drive and risk more letters or more people coming? He carefully pried up the seal on the back flap and extracted the heavy paper pages-was this what they called parchment?

"Dear Mr. Potter (he read, his heart throbbing with excitement), We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry..."

Huh?

He must have said it out loud, for Hagrid's eyes fluttered open. "Found it, did yeh?" he man rasped through a dry throat.

Harry's startled glance met Hagrid's feverish but steady gaze.

"But ... but what does it mean? Witchcraft and Wizardry? I don't understand."

Despite his obvious pain, the man's dark eyes regarded him with the faintest hint of a twinkle beneath his shaggy fringe.

"Yeh're a Wizard, ‘Arry."

His boot soles landed solidly on pavement, and Snape whirled in quick reflex, wand at the ready, but discerned nothing posing any sort of threat in the brief shadows along Privet Drive in Little Whinging-he snorted at the very name of the town-in Surrey.

Hut on the Rock, indeed.

As if he'd go Apparating about the Kingdom, blindly relying on Locater Charms to pinpoint such a nebulous "address". In Dumbledore's dreams, he growled, setting off up the street, already spotting Number 4 among a selection of upper-middle-class homes which were virtually indistinguishable from one another except for the numbers above their front doors. As he approached Number 4, the lights were on inside, and a large shadow moved past one of the curtained windows on the first floor. Definitely, the Dursleys were home, and in all likelihood, the Potter brat was with them, not in some Hut.

On a Rock.

In the Sea.

Hmphh.

Only two neighborhood residents remained outside at this hour, unloading items from an expensive SUV parked in a driveway a few houses away. Snape waited until the Muggles had carried several boxes into their own home and shut the front door before he Finited the Disillusionment and rang the bell at Number 4.

A young male voice shouted, "I'll get it!", and a small earthquake plummeted down the staircase-Snape could feel the very doorframe vibrating beneath his fingers.

The front door of Number 4 precipitately jerked inwards, revealing a rotund boy with a red face, holding a stick of some sort.

A woman's voice drifted through the doorway. "Who is it, Diddykins?"

The red-faced boy surveyed Snape, from his long black hair to the very end of his long black robes trailing a pretty distance across the Dursleys' front porch.

"That LOT!" shouted the boy. "That LOT!"

Lot?

Before Snape could utter a word, the stout child had flung himself at the wizard, shrieking a war cry of sorts, which echoed off the house fronts up and down the quiet street.

Several sharp blows pelted Snape's left forearm, which he'd raised without thinking to protect his body from being struck by the child's sturdy stick. Instinctively, he pulled his wand behind his back to prevent its being shattered by a random blow from the boy's rapidly-flailing length of wood. Amidst the pummeling, Snape's keen hearing detected various front doors opening across the lamp-lit street, and up and down its length. Interior light spilled across multiple porches as the Dursleys' neighbors craned their necks to peer intently at the ruckus taking place on the front porch of Number 4.

"YAAAAAAHHH!" shrieked Dudley again, this time aiming a sharp jab at the tall wizard's groin.

Snape dodged to the right, and the end of the stick stabbed painfully into his left hip.

Enough was ENOUGH!

Quick as a striking snake, Snape's left hand finally grabbed hold of the horrid stick, wrenching it from the stout child's determined grasp. He tossed the stick far behind him, hearing with great satisfaction the hollow wooden clatter the stick made as it landed in the street. He could hear several of the neighbors chuckling and imagined their fingers pointing at the stick as it rolled to a halt in the middle of the pavement.

"Dudley! What on earth-?" Petunia arrived at the door and gave a horrified gasp. "The neighbors are watching! What did you DO? Get back inside!"

Dudley pointed at Snape, who was now pointing his wand right back at the boy. "HE did it, Mum. He's one of THEM, isn't he?"

Petunia stared at the wand in shock, then slowly raised her eyes along the length of the many- buttoned sleeve, up past the shoulder of the black robes, to the older-but-still-recognizable face which she remembered with anger and fear from her childhood.

"You..."

A disdainful sneer distorted the wizard's features unpleasantly. "Petunia."

Heavy footsteps compressing carpeting sounded from behind her. "Pet, what's going on?" Vernon pulled the door open wider, a spoon in his free hand. Upon seeing a wanded stranger standing on the porch, Vernon wrapped his plump fingers around Dudley's shoulder, pulling the boy protectively behind Vernon's own bulk. "Who are you? What do you want?" A whiff of peanut butter floated out onto the porch with his questions as he brandished the spoon.

Snape raised his wand, pointing it at Dursley's face. In a low voice, he announced fiercely, "I am Severus Snape, Potions Master at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and I've come for Harry Potter."

"Shoot him, Dad!"

"Vernon! The neighbors!" hissed Petunia.

And, indeed, the neighbors had advanced from their doorways to the edges of their front yards, straining their eyes and ears to see what those pretentious Dursleys were up to now.

"I hit him with my Smeltings Stick, Dad! I thrashed him good!"

Vernon observed the sour look that the "Potions Master" was giving his progeny and said, "Well done, son! Well done."

Losing patience, Snape stepped forward, planting his boot firmly upon the threshold of Number 4. "Where is Potter?"

"Not here." Vernon shook his head emphatically, causing his jowls to roll back and forth. "Not here at all."

Snape scowled. "I should like to see for myself."

"Vernon-the neighbors..."

Several individuals had actually crossed the street and were lining up along the curb in front of Number 4. Like ducks in a shooting gallery, Vernon thought in disgust. Better to get this ... stranger ... off the porch. As quickly as possible.

"Very well," Vernon said reluctantly, stepping back to allow Snape in. His shoe heel trod heavily upon Dudley's toes.

"OW! OW! Dad! You stepped on me!"

Snape smirked.

The neighbors laughed aloud along the curb.

"Vernon!"

The door of Number 4 slammed shut, and Petunia waited for several long seconds before daring to part the sheers in the front window to ascertain if the neighbors had returned to their own homes. To her shock, she found them clustered instead in a group by HER curb, obviously discussing this intriguing turn of events. If only Snape hadn't worn that damned robe...

"He's not here, I tell you!" Vernon protested as Snape swept from room to room throughout the lower level of the house, his wand pointing pre-emptively into every corner. A quick magical scan had revealed nobody else in the house besides the three disgusting Muggles and himself, but he understood the intimidation factor of a stranger invading one's personal space to conduct a search. Besides, there was something he needed to see for himself, something he needed to make sense of. In this house.

And what a house... Snape's brow furrowed as he took in the magazine-perfect décor, polished, shining, and virtually lifeless, aside from the Muggles it sheltered.. One of the most jarring aspects had to do with photographs-dozens of expensively framed photos on tables and walls, most featuring the kid with the stick, some of the kid and his parents, but none of another child. It was hard for him to imagine that the son of Lily and James Potter had ever lived here at all, much less for the past ten years.

After circling through the lounge, dining room, kitchen, and study, yanking open every door he saw as if to make sure Potter wasn't hiding behind it, Snape returned to the foyer before going upstairs to search the second floor. And that's when he saw it-the bolt. The sliding bolt on the OUTSIDE of the door leading to The Cupboard Under the Stairs. His heart thudded with a burst of adrenaline. The only reason for a bolt to be located on the outside of a door was to prevent the door being opened from the INSIDE...

The bolt was slid back when Snape spotted it-unlocked. Cautiously, he opened the truncated door, pointing his wand tip into the dim interior.

"Nothing of interest in there," said Vernon sharply. "Nothing at all."

Oh, but there was...

"Lumos."

And in the light emanating from his wand tip... A thin, much-used mattress, with a lumpy pillow. A collection of toys, each one missing some part or other, but none of the missing pieces themselves. The broken toys were carefully arranged on the far end of each shelf, too far to be reached easily from the opened door. The near ends of the shelves contained bottles of household cleaners and various spray cans and dust cloths. Near the middle of the upper shelf, a small glass half-filled with water sat beside a glass juice bottle which was nearly full of additional water. A badly chipped saucer contained a shriveled apple bearing the beginnings of a rotten spot. Cozying up to the apple were two slices of dried-out white bread with a bit of mold along the nearside crust. Several tattered, oft-read books stood, like a row of soldiers ordered by height, next to the head of the mattress, below the bottommost shelf.

Stooping, Snape maneuvered his shoulders through the cupboard door and knelt on the thin mattress. Pointing his wand toward the descending underside of the staircase, he saw the rest of it. Drawings-some pencil, some ink, some in unsteady crayon-tacked and taped to the inside wall on the same side as the door. Only someone actually sitting inside the cupboard would be able to admire them. Amidst the usual childhood subjects, he saw other, more disturbing images:

Pictures of a smiling family of three-and a small, black-haired boy with blue tears dripping from green eyes. Pictures of smiling schoolchildren playing in a group, while a small, black- haired boy sat alone. Pictures of a large, angry man hitting a small, black-haired boy with an angry red ball of a fist. Pictures of a smiling family of three sitting down to a feast, while a small, black-haired boy sat in the doorway of a cupboard under the stairs, holding a slice of bread with a single crescent-shaped bite missing. Pictures of a laughing family of three and another large, laughing person (woman? man? wearing a dress AND a moustache?) pointing at a small, black- haired boy hanging precariously by his hands from a tree limb, while a small dog with big teeth barked at him from the ground below.

Strangest of all, a picture of a small, black-haired boy sitting behind the vertical spars of a- fence?-watching a green-starburst? water splash? firework?-spreading out in front of him, since this boy was drawn from behind. Snape squinted in the wandlight, then crawled forward to stare into the center of the green starburst. A very tiny dark mark-it turned out to be a tiny question mark, no more than a quarter of an inch high-had been carefully drawn into the center of the emerald chaos. Obviously, the boy was questioning what he was looking at.

But Snape's blood chilled as he stared at that drawing, realizing its horrifying significance. If that was what he thought it was, how could Potter... Surely, the boy couldn't remember ... THAT.

Stunned, Snape studied the progression of the artist's ability. Quite obviously, these were all Potter's artwork, drawn from early childhood to the present. Often, he'd used old newspaper, drawing heavily with a crayon in a vain attempt to obscure the crowded lines of type. The pencil

and ink art made use of ruled notebook paper, for the most part. On the rare occasions when the child had managed to obtain plain paper, he had responded by throwing all of his heart and soul into his drawings, and he undeniably possessed good talent. Just like his mother, Lily's son was an artist.

Snape sighed heavily, looking at the various signatures on the pictures, from HARY to HARY POTR to HARRY POTTER to H.J. POTTER.

Potter had not just slept in The Cupboard Under the Stairs. He had lived here. LIVED here.

In this cupboard.

Lily's little boy.

For-TEN years? The evolution of his artwork would seem to indicate as much. Not to mention, there were still a few old toddler toys lined up beneath the bottom step of the stairs. Also, little shoes of various sizes, some with missing or knotted laces, others with soles peeling away from the uppers, neatly paired together too far back for an adult to reach from the door.

Snape had been prepared to despise the son of his old schooldays nemesis, James Potter. But he hadn't been prepared for ... this. Nothing could have prepared him for the reality of Harry Potter's existence. Not even the Finding Quill's clues had seemed to reflect reality. No child deserved to experience neglect, and this degree was unconscionable. Snape could easily see the psychological and emotional effects of abuse recorded in the boy's drawings. And in the picture showing the family feasting while the boy practically fasted, food deprivation was probable. Not to mention the red-fisted brute of a man in that other drawing... This artwork recorded a sad history which reminded Snape of the one fact which he'd been willing to overlook entirely as he had prepared to denigrate the incoming First Year student: this boy was also Lily's child, not just James Potter's.

Snape withdrew from the cupboard, realizing that discovering where the boy had been still failed to answer the question of where he was NOW. Time to search the upstairs of the house for further clues before he left ... for the Hut on the Rock? In the Sea? If Potter no longer lived in this Cupboard Under the Stairs, perhaps he really had moved into The Smallest Bedroom on the second floor?

The Potions Master spotted the Dursleys huddled in the foyer, Vernon and Petunia having a muttered discussion. Snape had caught Vernon's angry "...waited too long..." as he backed out of the cupboard, followed by Petunia's sharp whisper "...sliding bolt could never hold HIM..."

Snape sneered silently at them as they pressed back against the foyer wall as he passed. He rounded the newel post and made it two-thirds of the way up the stairs before the doorbell rang.

"MORE of their lot!" growled Vernon, angrily waving his spoon.

Snape's eyebrow rose questioningly. "OUR lot? I assure you, Dursley, the Headmaster sent only me to fetch Potter. He knew that I required no assistance to handle the likes of you ... people."

Petunia's cheeks flushed an ugly crimson. Vernon's face darkened to plum. "How dare YOU, you FREAK!" Unwisely, he pointed the rounded end of the spoon at Snape. And suddenly, the spoon drooped over on itself, leaving Vernon and Petunia staring at it in horror.

"He did that with his FINGER!" whispered Dudley, aghast at such unspeakable power.

Snape smirked again, his black eyes boring into Dursley's horrified orbs.

The doorbell rang once more.

"Shouldn't you answer that? It's nothing to do with me-or my LOT."

Dudley was standing closest to the foyer window and took a cringing peek beyond the sheers. "Hey, it's Mr. Dewhurst from up the street."

"Are the rest of them still out by the curb?" whispered Petunia, dreading the answer.

Dudley nodded.

"Well, Dudders, see what the GENTLEMAN wants," ordered Vernon.

Snape's resounding snort told them that he had perceived the deliberate, ill-disguised insult to himself.

Turning the knob, Dudley opened the door to the inquisitive face of their speak-to-him-in- passing neighbor.

"Good evening," Mr. Dewhurst greeted the Dursleys. "I just happened to find this in the street and wondered if it might belong to any of you?" He held up Dudley's Smeltings Stick.

"That's mine!" exclaimed Dudley.

"What do you say, son?" Vernon said, coming up behind Dudley to clap a hand on his shoulder and, at the same time, attempt to obscure Dewhurst's view of Snape, who was still lingering on the stairs.

"Thank you, sir."

"You're quite welcome, young man."

Vernon extended a meaty hand toward Dewhurst, who took the opportunity to step over the doorsill to shake hands.

Once inside, to Petunia's mortification, the nosey man had an excellent, full-length view of one Severus Snape, standing regally half-turned partway up the staircase, looking down upon the foursome in the foyer below. Snape's robes, which he had neglected to exchange for a shorter traveling cloak before leaving Hogwarts, trailed down, down, down, down the stairs, like the formal train of a macabre black bridal gown.

Dewhurst took it all in-the trailing robes, the knee-length ebony coat with countless buttons, the pale face framed by a swinging length of greasy black hair-and he snickered.

"Bit early for Halloween, isn't it, mate?"

Snape did not move. Not one iota.

But his overall neutral demeanor abruptly changed to one that could only be construed as seriously threatening.

Suddenly, Dewhurst wasn't laughing any more.

"I'll-I'll just be going."

Without even bidding the Dursleys good-night, Dewhurst stumbled backwards over the threshold and high-tailed it to the curb, where his cohorts were eagerly waiting. To their astonishment, he ran past his neighbors, beating a rapid retreat up the street to his own house, where he quickly slammed the door. Having gaped after him for a few seconds, the cluster of neighbors congregating in front of Number 4 scuttled en masse up the street to Dewhurst's Number 11.

All except that odd Mrs. Figg, who waved merrily at Vernon Dursley from her own doorway across Privet Drive, before he managed to viciously slam the door to Number 4.

Behind the closed door, Petunia let fly. "You KNOW he used that stick as an excuse to come in here and get a closer look at HIM!" she shrilled, pointing a furious finger at Snape. "They'll TALK. About HIM. About US. We'll NEVER live it down."

Snape rolled his eyes and continued up the stairs to the second floor.

The first doorway he came upon led into a child's bedroom. More than waist-deep in toys and discarded, oversized clothing, the room appeared ready to burst. Unbeknownst to Snape, when Harry had been told to move from the cupboard into the smallest bedroom, Dudley had thrown a massive tantrum at the idea of Harry living in the same room as Dudley's overflow of toys,

even if more than half of them were broken beyond any sort of repair. To calm Dudley, Petunia had ordered Harry to carry the toys that Dudley wanted to keep back to Dudley's first bedroom. The remainder, which he no longer wanted, Harry was ordered to throw into the rubbish bins. The end result was the tumultuous mass of possessions which Snape currently viewed with disbelief.

"DAD! He's looking in MY room!" whined Dudley loudly from the foot of the stairs. "Make him leave my stuff alone. I don't want HIM touching it."

Snape glared down the length of the carpeted staircase. "Trust me, Mr. Dursley," he addressed Dudley in his coldest classroom voice, the one which could make even Slytherins shiver in dread, "I haven't the slightest desire to touch your ... stuff."

Turning away from the Dursley boy's bedroom, Snape took a cursory glance into the bathroom, the master bedroom, and the walk-in linen closet with the pull-down ladder to the attic, before he opened the final door. This door had several types of locks affixed to prevent any possibility of the room's occupant from getting out against the Dursley's wishes. At the moment, the locks hung loosely open, and Snape slowly pushed wide the door to The Smallest Bedroom.

A single, rather lumpy bed with a tattered blanket stood along one wall. A quick search of the dresser drawers revealed very few items of clothing, all of them sized to fit the boy downstairs. The same within the cheap armoire. But Potter had lived here, however briefly. Artwork again-pages and pages of drawings of owls, all of them bearing envelopes in their beaks- stacked neatly in the top drawer of the rickety desk. All of these pictures were signed with a simple H.P., and due to the subject matter, must have all been drawn during the past month. But where was Potter now.?

For no other reason than that the space existed, Snape lifted the threadbare blanket and peered beneath the bed. It was there that he discovered Potter's secret.

Books. All of them new. Several still wrapped in gift wrap, with tags inscribed "To Dudley" with love from someone named "Aunt Marge", as well as from "Mummy" and "Daddy" on birthdays and Christmases. Potter had stolen his cousin's books?

Snape thought back to the few neatly-arranged, worn books down in the Cupboard. Obviously, Potter enjoyed reading. He also examined his memory of Dudley's bedroom-a plethora of toys, a computer, plastic weapons, and so forth, but no books. Not a single one had been visible in that pile of juvenile detritus. Was the idiot with the stick even capable of reading? The shelves in his room were crammed full of everything BUT books. So, it would seem that he either lacked the ability or the inclination. Potter, however...

Snape Accioed the books from under the bed, flipping through the collection. Even the unwrapped ones had been inscribed inside to Dudley, who had apparently never read them.

After considering a course of action, Snape Conjured the books and artwork from the Cupboard. To them, he added the books and drawings he'd found in The Smallest Bedroom, along with various small items from Potter's desk drawer. With a wave of his wand, he shrank the lot and slipped the collection into one of his pockets. He'd need the drawings from the Cupboard as evidence, along with Potter's testimony, but as far as he could tell, these Dursleys were unfit to raise Lily's child, and that fool of a Headmaster was going to see that for himself.

The books themselves were important to Potter, and Snape could not imagine the child wishing to keep anything else from this house, aside from his own artwork. That idiot with a stick would never miss the books-of that, Snape was certain.

Yes, he'd locate Potter and take him to Hogwarts. Dumbledore would just have to make other living arrangements for Harry Potter's time away from school.

His robes billowing with anticipation, Snape rushed down the carpeted stairs.

The Dursleys quickly retreated into the lounge.

"WHERE is Harry Potter?"

A few hexes and a bit of Legilimency later, Snape figured he had sufficient information to be able to Apparate to the general area of the shoreline near the town which Vernon described as nearest to the Rock in the Sea. From there, a Locater Charm should allow him to finally pinpoint Harry himself.

"You haven't heard the last of this," Snape stated, letting the threat hang baldly in the suddenly-chill air of the lounge.

He flung open the front door to Number 4, swooped down the steps, billowing for all he was worth. An eager face and pointing finger appeared in nearly every window overlooking the length of Privet Drive.

Arabella Figg scurried down her own front walk. "Severus!"

Snape paused, somewhat irritated. He'd planned to billow all the way down the street and around the corner before Disillusioning himself and Disapparating. It would have given the Dursleys' neighbors plenty of fodder for gossip for weeks to come.

"Did you find Harry?"

Snape stared at her. "You knew he was missing?"

"Albus just firecalled me. I told him that the Dursleys had left on holiday on August 19, taking Harry with them, and they returned four days ago on the twenty-ninth. I was out shopping, and

when I returned, their car was in the driveway, and their lights were on, but I realized only after speaking to Albus that I haven't seen Harry since they got back." The woman looked at him imploringly. "Is Harry all right?"

Snape grimaced. "I don't know, but I've just learned where they left him. I'm going there now."

"Good luck, Severus."

Snape raised an eyebrow, whirled dramatically, and recommenced his billowing grand exit from Privet Drive. If anyone required Obliviating, he'd leave it up to the Ministry.

Down the street he billowed, to literally disappear around the corner.

(Day One of Hagrid)

"A wizard?"

Harry stared at the Hagrid man in confusion. It must be the fever, he decided, causing the large man to talk out of his head. Wizards weren't real. Wizards were make-believe. Wizards only existed in fairy tales-everyone knew that. Wizards were magical. And there was No Such Thing as magic-Uncle Vernon had said so a hundred times. Or maybe a thousand.

But Hagrid was nodding faintly, his head rocking against the rough wooden floorboards of the Hut.

"Yeh're a Wizard, ‘Arry," he repeated in a rough whisper. "Jes' like yer mum an' dad."

Now Harry knew the poor man was cracked. "My mum couldn't have been a wizard. Wizards are men."

Hagrid bared his teeth in what Harry took to be a pain-ridden grin. "Well, yer mum was a Witch, an' a brilliant one at that. An' very kind, she was. Very kind, indeed."

Harry mulled that over.

Aunt Petunia seldom spoke of her deceased sister, but when she did, it was with disdain and disgust. Probably because-Harry swallowed hard, embarrassed and ashamed at the thought- because his mum had been a ... a drunk. Just like his dad. They were both drunk when his father had crashed the car, leaving them dead and giving baby Harry his lightning-bolt scar.

"But ... but how did YOU know my mum and dad?" Even if Hagrid was wrong about his parents, Harry found it fascinating to finally meet someone besides Aunt Petunia who had actually KNOWN them.

Hagrid's eyebrows rose, or rather, they would have risen if he'd been in an upright position. As it was, they simply slid closer to the open doorway.

"I knew ‘em at Hogwarts, o' course! Students, they were. Both o' them were in th' same year at school together. An' they got married after their graduation, yeh know."

Harry regarded the envelope's seal again. "THIS Hogwarts?"

"Aye. Th' very same."

"And ... and people go here to become witches and wizards?" he asked doubtfully.

"Nah." A weak chuckle meandered from within Hagrid's shaggy beard. ""Nah, they're born- well, SOME people are born magical. No one knows why, exac'ly. It's a gift, magic is. They jes' go t' Hogwarts t' learn how t' USE their magic. How t' control it, see? Th' older a person gets, th' stronger their magic. An' accidental magic can cause all sorts o' problems. Unpredic'able, yeh see. Tha's why they got t' train up. An' Hogwarts is th' bes' place t' do that. It's th' bes' school o' magic in th' whole world."

Biting his lip, Harry began to think back. The weird things that he'd always been blamed for. Things that he KNEW he'd never done. Like turning his teacher's hair blue last year. Like making his own hair grow all the way back long-in just one night!-after Aunt Petunia had practically shaved his entire head. Like ending up on the school's roof a split second after he was SURE Dudley and his gang were going to beat him to a pulp. Like-like making the glass in the reptile exhibit disappear on Dudley's birthday trip to the zoo...

"Accidental magic?" COULD it have been...?

Hagrid bared his teeth again. "Yeh've made things ‘appen when yeh're angry or scared, ‘aven't yeh? Tha's accidental magic, ‘Arry. But when yeh study it at school, yeh learn t' control it an' USE it for specific purposes. Yeh're a Wizard, ‘Arry. Yer name's been on the Headmaster's roster since th' day yeh were born."

Harry's emerald eyes stared at Hagrid.

"A Wizard. I'm. A. Wizard."

"Aye." Hagrid coughed painfully. "Not t' trouble yeh, but is there any water?"

Leaving the envelope and the amazing letter lying on the floor, Harry scrambled to his feet. "There's not much, I'm afraid. We'd been here more than a week, and our supplies were running low. But there are a few water bottles that Uncle Vernon left behind, although they did take all the food with them."

Crossing the room quickly, he leaned down to select an unopened bottle from a cardboard box that had held supplies. He twisted off the cap and knelt at Hagrid's head, helping to steady the groaning man as he half-raised himself to sip at the water. Gasping, Hagrid drank half the bottle

before waving it away.

"Thanks," Hagrid whispered as he lay back down again. "If there's not much water, we'd bes' save wha' we can." His eyelids drooped, and by the time Harry had screwed the top back on the bottle, Hagrid had either lapsed back into unconsciousness or fallen asleep. Harry couldn't tell which.

Half a liter.

Hagrid had drunk half a liter of water.

Harry bit his lip worriedly. They'd run out in no time, if the large man always drank at that rate. They could survive for a while without food, but they HAD to have water, and the Rock had no source of fresh water.

He wandered to the door, staring at the moonlight on the broken surface of the restless sea. The storm clouds were long gone, but the worst was yet to come, if nobody knew to look for him or Hagrid here in the Hut. Water, water everywhere ... but it was all saltwater. They'd dehydrate for sure...

And then, suddenly, he KNEW!

In his mind's eye, Harry could see it as plainly as the day Mrs. Hedgepath had demonstrated. His teacher-the one with the blue hair-had brought a chemistry set to the classroom in his primary school. She had mixed a goodly amount of salt into tap water, stirring it thoroughly until it had dissolved. Each of the students had been instructed to dip a straw into the salty water, then create a vacuum by holding a fingertip over the upper opening of the straw, and finally to taste the bit of salty water lifted up from the plastic cup. They had grimaced at the flavor as it hit their tongues.

Then, Mrs. Hedgepath had poured the saltwater into a glass container from the chemistry set and covered it with a top containing a long glass tube, which led down to an open beaker. She had lit a flame beneath the saltwater container, and in short order they were watching the water bubble, then boil, and the steam rose up and condensed inside the lid thing, finally dripping through the clear glass tube into the glass beaker. At the end, Mrs. Hedgepath had told them once again to dip their straws into the water in the beaker, and Harry and his classmates had experienced the astonishment of tasting fresh water upon their tongues. What had Mrs. Hedgepath called the process of turning saltwater to fresh water? Dis ... dis ... dis-something-or- other. Harry couldn't remember.

But now he KNEW!

He could MAKE fresh water from seawater. He'd just have to improvise a bit.

The large kettle still held a small amount of bottled water in it, which Harry carefully poured back into one of the plastic water bottles. Thankfully, he'd thought to take the kettle off the fire after the Dursleys had left, so the kettle was cool enough to work with, and he set to work fabricating a tube from the sheets of used foil that Petunia had left behind.

It took a bit of doing and redoing, but he finally succeeded in creating a long tube from several sheets of foil. He discovered that the tube was less likely to collapse if he worked with two layers of foil, and he corrected an initial error by reorganizing each section of tubing so that the downwards end fitted INSIDE the next lower section, so that the condensation water would not leak out between the sections.

After carefully fitting the top section of foil over the end of the kettle's spout, and sealing it by pressing the pliable foil as tightly as he could around the spout, he set the kettle over the low fire. The tube's lowermost end led into the top of an empty plastic water bottle set safely away from the flames. The foil tube itself slanted down from the spout, supported on a length of scrap wood, held up by piles of flattish rocks. The setup didn't bear much resemblance to Mrs. Hedgepath's pristine glass chemistry set, but Harry hoped it would do the trick.

Taking half-a-dozen empty water bottles from the trash box, he clambered down the dark path to fill them in the night sea. After twisting the tops back on, he climbed back up to the Hut, three sloshing bottles under each arm. He poured enough saltwater into the top of the steel kettle to fill it, careful not to disarrange the foil tube. He set the remaining bottles of seawater aside to refill the kettle later on. Then he thrust a couple of pieces of dry wood into the low fire, prodding the embers into higher flame.

After adding several more pieces of wood, Harry sat down to wait.

It seemed to take forever.

The small fire crackled, the sea swelled rhythmically against the Rock, Hagrid lay silently, and Harry stared at the empty plastic receptacle at the end of the foil tube.

He stared, and he stared, and he stared.

The kettle had never taken this long to boil when Aunt Petunia was making tea!

But then-

It HAPPENED!

Plink!

A drop!

A single drop of WATER!

A hollow, plasticky "plink", as the drop fell from the end of the foil tube into the waiting bottle.

It was a START!

And that first drop was followed by a second ... and a third ... and a fourth...

Eventually, a thin stream of water was flowing into the plastic bottle. Harry stretched out on the wooden floor, staring closely at the slowly rising level of water in the bottle as if hypnotized. Millimeter by millimeter, the water level rose. Harry grinned.

It really WORKED!

He'd MADE it work!

Finally, when the bottle was nearly three-quarters full, Harry carefully slid it from beneath the foil tube and placed a second empty bottle to catch the continuing distillation.

He stared at the bottle, turning it round and round, admiring the clarity of its contents. The proof, however, remained in the tasting, and he put the mouth of the bottle to his lips.

Harry took a cautious sip.

Oh, YESSSSS!!!

He drank again, relishing the tepid liquid.

He'd DONE it!

Harry Potter had made FRESH water from saltwater!

They could survive, he and Hagrid, for a little bit longer. Long enough that someone MIGHT come looking for Hagrid. If Hagrid had found him, someone else-someone MAGICAL-might find and rescue the BOTH of them.

In the meantime, he just had to concentrate on keeping the fire going, keeping the kettle filled, and refilling water bottle after water bottle with lovely, fresh, life-giving water.

To Harry, his success FELT like MAGIC!

-:-

-:-

-:-

August 30, 1991

-:-

-:-

(Day Two of Hagrid)

Harry had kept the previous day's fire going, repeatedly refilling the kettle with seawater, his makeshift "still" constantly producing a precious trickle of fresh water. After experimenting, he found it was better to keep the kettle at a slow boil, barely above a simmer, since a faster boil caused excess steam to come down the aluminum tube without all of it condensing. Harry did not want to waste the fuel with a too-hot fire; it seemed as if the pile of wood scraps had already shrunk noticeably since the Dursleys had left the Rock. He also kind of wondered about the potential side effects of using the aluminum foil-he'd heard about aluminum causing health problems. But people did wrap food in it, he reasoned on the one hand, and on the other hand, if nobody showed up to rescue them, he and Hagrid would die of starvation long before they had to worry about Alzheimer's and other complications. Right now, the water was more important.

Hagrid's fever continued to burn. Between trips down the rock to refill water bottles, Harry periodically took his T-shirts to the edge of the sea to rinse them out and bring them back to drape over Hagrid. One shirt covered most of the burning skin on Hagrid's face-his forehead and cheeks above his shaggy beard. The other shirt Harry had quickly rinsed of blood, ready to leap back up the rock if a shark's fin suddenly appeared. Now that the gunshot wounds were no longer bleeding, Harry was able to drape the cold, wet shirt over the man's bare torso for a brief cooling before the shirt heated through with the force of the fever.

So had passed the previous day with Hagrid, as well as this second day. Seawater, kettle, fire, fresh water, wet down the T-shirts and repeat.

Harry remained eternally grateful to Mrs. Hedgepath for demonstrating the process to her class. Every time he looked at his own "still", he had to grin. But the effort had proved worth it, because Hagrid gulped an astonishing amount of water whenever he regained a wakeful state. He never mentioned needing to relieve himself, so Harry could only assume that the relentless fever caused Hagrid to sweat out all that water. The irony didn't escape Harry-salty seawater transformed to fresh water, only to turn back to salty sweat water. Life could prove strange at times.

The only activity to break the monotonous round of distilling water and cooling Hagrid was Harry's repeated readings of his Hogwarts letter. And the intriguing supply list. A cauldron? Really? A wand? Wow! An owl, a cat, or a toad?

Harry wasn't too keen on toads and couldn't see how he could control one. He'd seen them in Aunt Petunia's garden, of course, and they were devilishly hard to catch when they went hopping about. As for cats-well, Harry had nothing against cats per se, but Mrs. Figg had had so MANY of them, he'd tired of their constantly treading upon him, shedding upon him, kneading his skinny thighs, and the endless rumble of purring, purring, purring, purring. Not to

mention their fishy breath.

But an owl! THAT would be interesting! Especially if he could have an owl that knew how to deliver post. Not that he had anyone to write to, but just knowing that the option existed would be so exciting.

And that was the other thing-two further owls had shown up at the Hut, one yesterday morning, a few hours after the Dursleys had fled, and another one this morning. Both had carried neatly-rolled-up newspapers in their beaks, not letter envelopes.

In his desperation to send out a plea for help to whoever kept sending delivery owls his way, Harry had attempted to capture the first owl when it flew through the open doorway and landed on the table. It seemed to be looking at him expectantly after dropping the newspaper on the table. It even held out a leg that had some sort of leathery thing fastened to it. Ignorant of Wizarding owls and their ways, Harry had tried to grab the owl in both hands ... and he'd been sharply pecked in rebuke.

The spotted beige owl fluttered to the other side of the table, now appearing to glare at Harry in reproach.

Harry crept carefully around the table, trying to avoid tripping over Hagrid's feet. If Hagrid had been conscious, he might have been able to tell him the best way to catch an owl, but Harry was on his own in the silent Hut.

The owl watched him suspiciously.

Step by cautious step, Harry closed in on the owl, which clicked its beak warningly. When he came within reach, Harry lunged, his widespread hands closing in a flash-on empty air. Remembering the previous sharp pecks, Harry jerked his hands out of harm's way, and the owl uttered a hoot of obvious disapproval.

Another standoff.

And now the owl looked angry.

As Harry rounded the table once more, the owl clicked another warning and flapped its wings.

When Harry paused, the owl settled down and held out its foot with that leather attachment again. The owl blinked at him. And wiggled its foot ... invitingly?

Harry knew he had to be going about this all wrong, but he was clueless as to how to do things right. He knew NOTHING of owls. Except that this one seemed highly intelligent and far wiser than Harry himself.

Slowly, Harry approached the owl with his arms spreading wide again.

The owl put down its foot and hopped in place on both feet, clicking and hooting, almost as if throwing a tantrum of sorts. Unmistakably, this owl was becoming furious.

Sensing it was his final chance, Harry lunged from farther away this time, hoping to catch out the owl. With an angry squawk, the owl pecked his hands and wrists, then flutter-hopped across to the newspaper, which it snapped up in its beak. With a final glare of disgust, the newspaper owl heaved itself off the table and flew out the open doorway, obviously intent upon returning the paper to its source.

Harry had stood there, watching yesterday's owl disappear toward the coastline, overwhelmed with sadness and despair. That owl would surely never come back. He'd lost his last chance to send a message for help.

But today, shortly after dawn, a different owl had come, this one also bearing a newspaper. And, as luck would have it-bad luck, that is-Hagrid had drifted off again after draining two of the water bottles which Harry had stockpiled.

This second owl, quite dark all over, dropped the newspaper on the table and regarded Harry expectantly. Like the first owl, this one also held out a leg with a small leather container attached. What was with the container? Was something in it? Or was he supposed to put something in it? If so, what?

"I don't understand," Harry said to the owl, unsure if it could understand human speech. "I don't know what you want me to do. Can you show me? Can you understand me?"

In response, the owl cocked its head doubtfully, then launched itself off the table and landed upon the unconscious form of the only other Wizard in the Hut.

"Hey!" protested Harry. "He's injured! Be careful of him!"

Unheedingly, the owl began poking and prodding Hagrid's various pockets until it heard a faint, metallic jingle.

RIIIPPPPP...

"No!" Harry shouted. "BAD owl! Don't rip his pocket!"

But by that time, the owl had managed to free Hagrid's coin pouch from his pocket. Harry watched in fascination as the owl jerked the drawstring loose, then upended the pouch to send the foreign coins rolling across the floor. A larger golden coin fell through the crack between two boards, and Harry heard it clink onto the solid Rock just below the Hut.

The owl, however, selected a smaller brownish coin and hopped over to where Harry was kneeling.

"Um ... so, what do I do?"

The owl looked at Harry meaningfully, then raised its leg, cocking its head sharply downwards in a gesture that only Dudley could have failed to interpret.

"You want me to put the coin in the leather thing?"

The owl emitted a muffled vocable and bobbed its dark head.

"Okay. Here goes."

Harry carefully took the coin from the owl's beak and tucked it into the leather container attached to the owl's proffered leg.

"There you go. Now what?"

In response, the owl heaved itself into sudden flight and flapped away through the open doorway.

"NO! WAIT! COME BACK!" shouted Harry, running out onto the Rock. "You have to come BACK! I NEED YOU!"

But the dark spot grew smaller and smaller, as the owl returned to ... somewhere.

Harry stared at the dwindling owl until it could no longer been seen.

Sighing, he finally returned to the Hut.

Maybe, he thought, just MAYBE-Maybe another owl would come tomorrow. If so, he'd be ready. Ready with a note to put in that leather container. Someone would find the note. Someone would send help. Tomorrow. They just had to hang on until tomorrow.

In the meantime, there was a newspaper.

After putting another piece of wood on the fire below the simmering kettle, Harry broke the paper strip binding the newspaper into its tight roll. The strip had "Rubeus Hagrid" written in flowing script, but Harry hoped that the man wouldn't mind terribly.

Unfolding the paper, Harry Potter got his first glimpse into the world from which he had come. And his first shocking discovery lay in the fact that all of the photographs MOVED! "Quirinius Quirrell Assumes Defense Against the Dark Arts Post at Hogwarts" read the caption beneath the

photo of a nervous-looking man in a turban giving a brief, jerky wave to the camera.

A turban?

In Harry's imagination, all wizards wore tall, pointy hats, like they did in children's fairy tales. Why was this fellow wearing a turban, he wondered.

Sipping from his water bottle to help stave off his hunger pangs, Harry began to read each and every article in The Daily Prophet.

-:-

-:-

-:-

August 31, 1991

(Day Three of Hagrid)

-:-

-:-

By midmorning the next day, Harry was sitting morosely, contemplating his third owl disaster in a row. He'd had everything planned so perfectly...

In addition to his usual tasks the previous day, Harry had made a point of fashioning a small supply of blackish ink from charred firewood, the black dust of which he'd scraped into one of Petunia's plastic cups. He mixed it with a tiny bit of water and stirred to create his ink. After trying out several different objects to use in lieu of a pen, Harry finally decided that a used toothpick, with one end slightly flattened by lightly chewing it, worked best, and he set to work drafting his message to send out with the next owl. Provided, of course, that one actually came.

Using a strip of blank paper torn from the edge of a page of The Daily Prophet, Harry carefully inked out:

"To Whom It May Concern: Rubeus Hagrid from Hogwarts, a subscriber to The Daily Prophet, is seriously injured and in need of medical help. We are trapped in the Hut on the Rock in the Sea. The owls know how to find us. Please send help quickly. Sincerely, Harry Potter."

Harry read the message over several times and frowned. He wished he could put more information in, like where the Hut was located, but he'd actually drifted off to sleep in the car, waking only after Uncle Vernon had already made arrangements to rent the Hut. Harry didn't really know even which specific coastline they were off of, except that the sun and moon rose over it, so they had to be west of the shore.

He sighed. Not much to go on. But if mere owls could locate him and Hagrid to deliver letters and newspapers, surely real wizards could find them, too. Right? Shrugging fatalistically, he folded the strip of newspaper into a small square, hoping it would fit into the small coin pouch attached to the newspaper owl's leg. Now, he just had to wait till the morrow...

That had been Harry's perfect plan. And now, early morning on the third day following the Dursleys' precipitate departure from the Rock, Harry walked, yawning, to the Hut's doorway and peered out. The eastern sky was just barely giving off a bit of morning light. If the owls kept to a schedule, the next one should arrive shortly after sunrise.

Wishing that Petunia had at least left some tea bags behind, Harry sat down in the doorway and leaned his head against the weathered wood. As the sun rose, he shielded his eyes from its blinding light, peering past the silhouette of his hand to see if he could spot an incoming owl.

When the newspaper owl finally arrived, it came at least an hour later than the previous two, and it must have flown directly out of the sun's glare, since Harry only realized it had arrived when it swooshed in barely over his head. Scrambling to his feet, he entered the Hut to see a handsome gray owl perched on the table by the rolled paper. The owl chirruped at him, rather cheerfully, Harry thought, and it extended its leg with the coin pouch.

"Okay," said Harry, quietly and soothingly. "I have your payment, but I need you to do me a really huge favor."

The owl blinked at him.

"I need you to deliver a message for me, okay? It's terribly urgent."

Harry approached the owl, holding the tightly-folded square of newspaper in one hand, while he reached for the coin pouch with his other. "Just let me slip this in here..."

In a flash, the gray owl had jerked its leg back and squawked at Harry, ruffling its feathers.

"Hey, easy there, little fellow. Or little lady." He really had no clue how to tell genders apart in owls. "I just need to-OW!"

The owl gave him a sharp peck on the back of his hand.

Harry huffed a bit, and the owl huffed right back, throwing in a yellow glare for good measure.

"Okay," the boy said at last. "We'll try this another way." He reached into his pocket and withdrew one of the brownish coins. "You see? I do have the payment for the newspaper. Just let me put this little slip of paper in the pouch first, and then I'll put in the coin, and then you can fly on your merry way, okay?"

Unbeknownst to Harry, but well-known to the paper owl, was the simple fact that paper owls delivered ONLY newspapers. Regular post owls strictly delivered letters, packages, and other official missives. Privately-owned owls served more of a general purpose, delivering according to their individual owners' personal needs. But paper owls NEVER EVER delivered post, not

even pristine parchment envelopes. As for that ratty-looking square of paper... The paper owl hooted in affronted protest. Even the fact that it was a square of newsprint didn't count!

Harry eyed the gray owl.

The owl eyed the brownish coin.

Harry's green eyes narrowed in concentration.

The owl's yellow eyes gleamed...

Slowly, Harry approached the owl, who stood its ground this time. "See?" He held up the coin. "You'll get this, but only after I put this message into the coin pouch, okay?"

Giving a conceding chirrup, the gray owl extended its leg.

Harry smiled. "Thanks! I knew you'd understand."

As he reached out to put the folded message in the pouch, the owl's head shot forward and its beak snapped the coin from Harry's other hand.

"Wha-"

Giving a muffled hoot of triumph, the gray owl flung itself sideways out of Harry's reach, and it heaved itself into flight with a thumping wingbeat.

"WAIT! COME BACK!"

But it was too late. Bearing the coin in its beak, the newspaper owl zoomed through the doorway and flew shoreward, into the golden morning sun.

Harry sank down onto the rough wooden bench, his jaw still a bit slack with the shock of his plan's having failed. It had been such a GOOD plan, too, he thought despondently. If not for that blasted owl... He couldn't help the sniffle that escaped him then. He was only eleven years old, after all. And he'd tried so HARD. He'd even made fresh water from seawater! But to find himself defeated time and again by mere OWLS... It just wasn't FAIR!

Harry put his tousled black head down on his folded arms on the table and gave in to the urge to cry. He'd never been permitted to cry at the Dursleys', but there was no one here to hear him except Hagrid, and Hagrid was still unconscious.

He cried in despair. They would never get off this Rock. NEVER, EVER, EVER. Hut on the Rock? He snorted a bit hysterically through his tears. More like Hut of No Return, if you asked him. No one would come. No one would find them. Even the boatman hadn't come by, so Uncle Vernon

must have told a convincing tale of some sort.

After a bit, however, Harry's tears slowed, then finally stopped.

Okay, he thought. He was stranded in the Hut of No Return, but he wouldn't give up. He WOULDN'T. He still had to look after Hagrid as long as he could. He still had to make fresh water. And-his eyes fell on the rolled newspaper delivered by the most recent traitorous owl-there was a new issue of The Daily Prophet to peruse. If he was meant to die here in this forsaken Hut, at least he could learn a bit more about the Wizarding world before he gave up the ghost.

Tearing open the binding strip of paper, Harry unfolded the Prophet. Hogwarts was in the headlines again, he saw, this time with moving photos of all of the upcoming year's teaching staff. There was the Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore-now THAT fit Harry's mental image of Merlin, he decided. A rather stern-looking Deputy Headmistress, Minerva McGonagall, who also apparently taught Transfiguration, whatever that was ... maybe some kind of Wizarding math, like Geometry, maybe? A Charms professor named Filius Flitwick-hmm ... what kind of Charms? Like how to be Charming in social Wizarding company? Herbology-well, that was obvious. Aunt Petunia had a stunning herb garden, thanks to Harry's hard work. And HA!- the teacher's name was SPROUT! That was TOO funny, Harry chuckled. And, ooohh ... THAT professor didn't look as if he'd wanted his picture taken at all. Severus Snape was Hogwarts' Potions Master...

Potions!

Hadn't there been a cauldron on his list of school supplies? Of course! You made potions in a bubbling cauldron! Over a fire! Sort of like ... like the kettle he'd used to distill seawater into fresh water. Like Chemistry. Like Mrs. Hedgepath had demonstrated.

Potions!

Instinctively, Harry knew that would have been his favorite class, if he'd gone to Hogwarts. And this Severus Snape would have been his very favorite teacher. Never mind that the man was scowling a black hole through the front page of the Prophet-with a face like that, Harry wouldn't have wanted his own picture taken, either. And look-while the remaining members of the teaching staff were simply listed as "professors", this Severus Snape bore the title of "Potions Master". MASTER!-Why, he must be the absolute BEST of the lot!

Potions!

Harry could just imagine it! He could just see himself stirring all sorts of weird ingredients into a bubbling cauldron, with the Potions Master passing by his lab table from time to time, nodding approvingly as Harry James Potter invented The-Magic-Potion-That-Saved-The-World!

Wriggling with excitement, Harry stared hard into the obsidian eyes glaring from the newspaper photo.

"I could do it, you know," he whispered, watching the Potions Master's long black hair swinging slightly as he lifted his forbidding chin. "I KNOW I could-with YOUR help."

From behind him, Hagrid emitted a groan. "'Arry? Yeh there? Is there water?"

"Yes, I'm here." Harry laid the Prophet down and fetched several plastic bottles of fresh water. "Here's water. Let me help you sit up."

It took all of Harry's diminishing strength to help lever Hagrid into a semi-sitting position. The feverish man drained bottle after bottle before lying down again with a deep groan.

"They'll come, ‘Arry. Never yeh fear. They'll come..." he sighed as he passed out again.

Harry sighed, too, eyeing the emptied bottles. Best get these rinsed and refilled with seawater to put in the kettle, he thought. And then he'd need to do more cold cloths for Hagrid. He pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly.

He couldn't help noticing that he was weakening and moving more slowly. He'd gone without food before, but never did he find it pleasant. Harry kept drinking water to fill his stomach against hunger, but without food, his muscles were losing strength. He just had to conserve his energy to last as long as he could. Still, today at least, he was able to continue filling the kettle and the bottles, fueling the fire, and doing his best to cool poor Hagrid, who barely could speak when he managed to regain consciousness.

Harry could only hope that he'd still have enough strength to be able to carry on tomorrow.

As he clambered down the rocky path to refill the bottles with seawater, Harry launched into his newest daydream: One day, he would become a Potions Master himself! Just like Professor Severus Snape, his very favorite teacher at Hogwarts!

-:-

-:-

-:-

September 1, 1991

(Day Four of Hagrid)

-:-

-:-

Shortly before sleeping the night before, Harry had come up with a plan to thwart the next paper owl. When the owl arrived-a smaller, almost golden one this time-he was ready for action. Really, he was glad that this was a new owl instead of any of the previous three. This one wouldn't be suspecting anything untoward. Or so he hoped.

Harry had refolded the note into an even smaller square, one which he hoped would be concealed by the diameter of Hagrid's next-to-last brownish coin. He didn't know what he'd do if he ran out of those brown ones before they got rescued. Did these owls ever make change? Or, if Harry were to tuck a silver or gold coin into the leather pouch, would change arrive with the next paper delivery? How little he understood of this new world and its customs...

But now he shoved all of his questions and speculations aside. The pretty gold owl stood waiting on the table, its leg outstretched.

"Gooood owl," Harry crooned softly. "Verrry good owl."

Immediately, the owl became suspicious. This black-haired boy was almost certainly up to No Good. Most wizards treated owls of all sorts in a matter-of-fact manner, not this slowly- creeping approach as the boy rounded the corner of the table. This boy was obviously Up To Something.

As Harry extended his hand toward the coin pouch, he was holding the folded paper pressed tightly against the near side of the coin with the ball of his thumb, careful to show the owl only the plain metallic surface of the other side of the coin. "Gooood owl," he repeated softly.

The golden owl cocked its head in alarm. This was NOT the normal way in which wizards made payment. Something was Wrong! As the boy's trembling hand came within reach, the owl pecked at it-HARD!

"OW!" yelped Harry, dropping both the folded message and the brownish coin on the rough table. That peck had drawn BLOOD!

Before he could even think beyond the pain, the golden owl had snapped up the coin from the table and flown through the doorway into the foggy morning light.

Foiled again...

Harry rummaged through the trash box and found a nearly-clean paper napkin, which he pressed hard against the wound to stop the bleeding. Another perfectly good plan down the drain. What WAS it with these owls anyway?

At length, the peck wound stopped oozing blood, and Harry discarded the wadded up paper napkin. Hagrid hadn't come to yet, so Harry opened this latest edition of The Daily Prophet, wondering if he'd learn anything more about his would-be favorite teacher, Professor Snape. Sadly, as it turned out, no-not today.

But there were plenty of other stories and articles, including one about the previous day's attempted robbery of a Wizarding bank called Gringotts-something had almost been stolen

from a high-security vault located in the catacombs deep beneath the bank.

CATACOMBS! Harry's eyes popped at the very word!

The Gringotts Goblins-GOBLINS?!-refused to comment on the vault or its contents. However, a grim-looking Albus Dumbledore had been seen conferring with the Head Goblin shortly thereafter, and speculation was rife throughout Diagon Alley that the targeted vault's contents may actually belong to Hogwarts' Headmaster himself.

Harry laid down the newspaper and pulled Hagrid's coins from within his pocket, studying them again. Gringotts must be where people kept their Wizarding money, tended to by Goblins. The coins looked foreign enough, he thought, turning the heavy gold one over and over. A pity that other gold coin had fallen through the crack-it was probably the most valuable of the three types, and undoubtedly the silver coin would rank just below it. And a newspaper was worth a brownish one.

Harry bit his lip, considering.

If he had to use one of the other types of coins, he decided, he'd send a silver one with the paper owl, just in case they wouldn't return change. No sense wasting Hagrid's money unnecessarily. He wouldn't want for Hagrid to be rescued and nursed back to health, only to discover that he'd gone broke to owls while trapped in the Hut!

After checking the solutions to the previous day's puzzle page, Harry realized he'd have to learn a lot more about the Wizarding world to succeed at the crossword. The word search, on the other hand, was simple enough-just find and circle the given words, not that Harry understood "hippogriff" or "wolfsbane" or "petrificus totalus".

Deciding to save the rest of the news for later, he refolded the paper and, sighing, collected the empty bottles to refill with seawater. He felt as if he were dragging rather badly as he descended the Rock to squat down at the edge of the endlessly undulating water. If they weren't rescued soon, Harry realized with a fearful shudder, he would rapidly lose all of his remaining strength. He wouldn't be able to keep on making fresh water. Accustomed as he'd been to going hungry at the Dursleys', his punishment of "no meals" was usually accompanied by "stay in your cupboard". He had never had to expend this much energy while going without food-not this up-and-down-the-Rock, carrying full bottles, carrying cold cloths for Hagrid, trying to outwit owls...

Harry Potter, age eleven, was near to total exhaustion.

He had just one more idea to outmaneuver tomorrow's owl. If that failed, he might just have to give up entirely.

The boy seemed to crumple for a moment. Then, his chin went up. He wouldn't give up-he

WOULDN'T! Not as long as he had ANY strength. Hagrid had said "they" would come-he had to keep Hagrid alive, even if he couldn't get a message to go out with any future owls. He had to keep faith in being rescued. Hagrid hadn't given up, and neither would Harry.

Harry put one heavy foot in front of the other, step by heavy step, as he climbed back up the Rock to the Hut of No Return.

After refilling the kettle and fueling the fire, he rested a bit, then took an easier out and soaked Hagrid's cloths with seawater from one of the extra bottles. It would save him one immediate trip back down the Rock. As he laid the cold T-shirts back over Hagrid's face and torso, the large man groaned, but he did not wake. Harry had no idea of how long Hagrid could last. Certainly, he'd had a sturdy constitution before getting hit by Vernon's shotgun blast. He should actually be dead already, shouldn't he? After getting shot like that? For some reason, though, Hagrid still breathed. And Harry just had to try to keep him alive.

Deciding to conserve his strength as much as possible, Harry spent most of the day stretched out on the sofa, reading and rereading the copies of the Prophet. Inevitably, he always returned to the photo of Severus Snape, Potions Master. Harry would hold the Prophet up, envisioning that Professor Snape was standing in front of the brightly-lit Potions classroom at Hogwarts, instructing Harry and his classmates how to make-hmm...

In fairy tales, Harry had heard of "Love Potions", but he didn't know how they worked. If he spiked Dudley's ice cream with a Love Potion, would he fall in love with the next girl who walked by? Would she slap Dudley's face if he tried to kiss her? Or, would the Love Potion cause Dudley to attract girls in spite of themselves? Would Dudley run his out-of-shape self to death trying to escape a female stampede raging up and down Privet Drive?

Harry giggled at the ridiculous image he'd conjured up.

And what sorts of Potions could he invent to use on Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia? Or even Aunt Marge-now THERE was a thought! Giggling with evil glee, Harry launched himself into a new daydream involving cauldrons, bubbling potions, and a smiling Severus Snape patting him approvingly on his shoulder...

Shortly before sunset, Hagrid awoke and drained several bottles of fresh water. Harry did make two tiring trips down the Rock this time as a coppery twilight fell over the sea. He had to refill enough bottles to keep the kettle going all night, and he took Hagrid's cloths along on the second trip, slinging the cold wetness across his own shoulders as he slogged his way back up the path with bottles also tucked under his thin arms.

After tending to Hagrid, Harry settled on the floor near the fire, hoping the warmth would dry the seawater which had soaked through his own T-shirt before he took a chill. The breeze had picked up, causing the Hut to rattle and shake.

As evening deepened into full night, Hagrid himself seemed restless, though Harry couldn't tell whether it was due to fever or the noisy banging of loose boards around the Hut. At one point, Hagrid actually began to thrash about, and Harry crawled forward to place a comforting hand upon his brow.

"There, there, Mr. Hagrid," Harry crooned, in much the same tone he'd used upon the golden owl. "It's okay."

Hagrid seemed to quiet for a moment, then, without warning, one of his meaty hands blindsided Harry, knocking his glasses flying across the interior of the Hut. Harry knew it was an accident-Hagrid was barely conscious, after all. But, oh, that had HURT, he thought, pressing his fingers to his throbbing right temple. And WHERE were his glasses?

By the dim light of the fire, Harry began to search, his heart sinking when he located HALF of his glasses. The frames, previously broken by Dudley during one of his infamous "Harry Hunts" with his gang, had been taped together across the nose. Hagrid's inadvertent blow had knocked the frames apart once amore. Sighing, trying to hold back useless tears, Harry continued to crawl around the floor of the Hut, feeling every square inch of the grimy wooden boards.

Finally, he thought he spotted a blurry reflection of flickering firelight lurking under the table. He reached forward, capturing the flicker of gold, and yes! He'd found the other half of the frames, the side with the strip of adhesive tape still dangling from the nosepiece. Hopefully, he'd be able to fix them back, since both lenses were undamaged.

As he sat crosslegged under the table, Harry tried to fit one side of the nosepiece into the tiny hole in the middle of the overlapping curl of tape. If he could just squeeze everything together HARD enough, it might just stick...

A slight noise, separate from the usual noises of the shaking Hut, distracted his efforts, and Harry's unfocused gaze sought Hagrid's large form, which seemed to have calmed down. Perhaps he had lost consciousness again, Harry mused.

And then-he realized that someone was standing in the open doorway of the Hut. Uncle Vernon?

Harry held the two halves of his glasses together over his eyes, which widened enormously in wonder as he stared at the figure silhouetted against the rising moon...

A tall man, far too lean to be Uncle Vernon, stood cautiously, the illusion of bulk provided by long black robes billowing in the sea breeze. His shoulder-length ebony hair blew across his face momentarily, and while his left hand swept his hair aside, his right hand extended into the dimly-lit Hut, pointing a short stick of some sort toward the shadowed corners of the room.

"Lumos..." drifted quietly to Harry's ears as the tip of the man's stick lit up, bathing the room

with a bluish glow of light.

Harry's heart thudded hard against his ribs.

THIS, he knew-THIS ... was a WIZARD!

The Wizard aimed his stick this way and that, the blue glow illuminating the sagging walls of the Hut. From his seated postion under the table, shielded in part from the bluish light by the heavy bench ranged along one side, Harry watched in open-mouthed wonder as the Wizard- a WIZARD!-carefully entered the Hut and knelt beside Hagrid's unconscious figure. The Wizard ran his stick-which Harry quickly deduced must be a "wand", just like in the fairy tales!- slowly over the fallen man's long form, head to toe and back again.

And then, the realization hit Harry-help had come at last! After days and days-and despite owls, owls, owls-help had arrived. Hagrid would be okay. And they'd both finally be rescued!

"Sir! Sir!"

The Wizard whirled in a defensive crouch, almost concealing the involuntary, startled movement he'd made at Harry's sudden shout.

Clutching the halves of his glasses in both hands, the boy scrambled out from under the far side of the table and rushed toward the Wizard draped so dramatically in black.

"Please help him! Please help Mr. Hagrid! My uncle shot him with a shotgun, and I'm afraid he'll die. He has an awful fever, and he's mostly unconscious. Please help him!"

Severus Snape stared at the boy, an impossibly-thin grubby urchin in oversized clothes, who regarded him with startlingly green eyes in Lily Evans' softly-oval face.

"Please, sir. Can you help him?"

The emerald eyes flickered from Snape's blurred features to Hagrid and back again. Snape felt shaken as those eyes stared at him so seriously. All these years... Somehow, he'd assumed that Potter's offspring would have hazel eyes, just like his despised sire... But... Hadn't Dumbledore said something? Many years ago? That baby Harry had his mother's eyes? And that drawing he'd found in the Cupboard-the one of a small, black-haired boy with blue tears falling from green eyes... Why had it taken him so long to realize?

"Sir?" asked Harry again, hesitantly now, since the Wizard had not yet spoken.

Snape mentally shook himself. "Yes," he replied, his smooth baritone a balm to the boy's taut nerves. "I shall send for help."

With that pronouncement, Snape gave a quick wave of his wand and an instant later, a silvery form shot forth and joined them in the room.

Harry jumped back, startled, then brought the halves of his glasses up before his eyes to see that it was a transparent, silvery doe!

"Wow!" he exclaimed admiringly, not really sure what it WAS, but he was convinced that the beautiful doe HAD to be Magic!

Before his jaw had finished dropping, the doe leapt forth through the open doorway of the Hut and flashed away over the moonlit sea.

"Sir! What was THAT?!" Harry continued staring after the doe, which had now disappeared.

Rather than answer immediately, Snape reached out and took the pieces of Harry's glasses from him. His long, pale finger probed at the bedraggled strip of tape attached to one nosepiece. "What have we here?"

"My glasses, sir," Harry replied, squinting a bit now as he gazed up at the Wizard. He wondered if Wizards didn't need to wear glasses. Perhaps they had perfect vision? But then, Hagrid had said that Harry was a Wizard himself, so maybe not? "They got broken. Again. It really wasn't Mr. Hagrid's fault-he was thrashing around and hit them by accident. I was just trying to fix them back when you came."

Snape frowned at the round frames, reminiscent of those worn by Harry's father. "Occulus Reparo," he murmured, pointing his wand at the worn pieces.

Even to Harry's blurry observation, the halves of his glasses seemed to jump together with a little snap. When the Wizard handed them back, Harry was delighted to see them whole once again. "Sir!" he blurted, "These are as good as new! Thanks!" And, more shyly, he asked, "Was that Magic? REAL Magic?"

"You are welcome," replied the Wizard after a moment. "And yes, that was Magic."

Harry put on the glasses and received another surprise as the Wizard's face came into clear focus for the first time.

"I-I KNOW you!" Harry stammered. "I know who you are! I've seen your picture in The Daily Prophet!" He ran to the table and snatched up his favorite page. "See?" He pointed at the photo. "You're HIM! You're Professor Severus Snape! You're the Potions MASTER!"

He stared up at Snape, his emerald eyes alight with undeniable admiration. "It's an honor to meet you, sir!" When Snape did not immediately take the hand which Harry had extended to shake, as Uncle Vernon had instructed Dudley was the polite thing to do during introductions, Harry figured he must be doing something wrong-perhaps Wizards didn't shake hands? Quickly, he tucked his hand behind his back and added, "I'm Harry, sir. Harry Potter."

"Mr. Potter." Gravely, Snape inclined his head to acknowledge the remainder of the introduction.

Harry pointed at the newspapers on the table. "The owls kept bringing them, but Mr. Hagrid couldn't read them. I was hoping he wouldn't mind if I did?" That came out as a bit of a question, since Harry really didn't know what Hagrid's response would be if the question were actually put to him. "I used his coins to pay the owls, since I hadn't any money of my own."

Fumbling somewhat with the large handful of coins, Harry pulled all of Hagrid's remaining change from his pocket. "See?" He looked searchingly up at Snape. "I wasn't going to keep his money. I was just keeping it safe after the second owl knocked one of the gold coins through a crack in the floor. I didn't want Mr. Hagrid to lose any more money."

Snape's lips twitched involuntarily at the boy's earnest confession. "I am certain that Hagrid will grateful for your help."

Harry stared down at the handful of coins. "What should I do with these now, sir?"

"Keep them safe, Potter. You may return them to Hagrid when he has recovered."

Harry beamed. "Yes, sir! I'll do that!" He carefully tucked the coins back into his pocket, and when he looked up again, he realized that two other people had joined them in the Hut.

"Good evening, Severus," said the Man-Who-Looked-Like-Merlin, except he was wearing half- moon spectacles, which settled Harry's earlier wondering about whether Wizards ever wore glasses.

"Headmaster."

"Good evening, Harry."

Harry gaped at the elderly Wizard in flowing teal robes. "How-how do you know who I am, sir?"

"I am Albus Dumbledore, Harry, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. And, to answer your question, it was I who sent both Hagrid and Professor Snape to find you."

"Oh." Harry digested that kernel of information. Then he looked into Dumbledore's kindly,

twinkling blue eyes and said sadly, "Mr. Hagrid is hurt, sir. My uncle shot him."

Dumbledore nodded. "I shall let you tell me all about it in a moment, Harry." He turned to the second new arrival, saying, "Harry, this is Madam Pomfrey, a Medi-witch who is our school nurse at Hogwarts."

Harry's eyes popped slightly-a Medi-witch? The woman was busily running her own wand hither and thither over Hagrid's large form, frowning in professional concentration as glowing numbers and polysyllabic words materialized in thin air over Hagrid.

"Ma'am," Harry murmured politely, not quite sure that he should interrupt her care of poor Hagrid for something as mundane as an introduction.

Without turning her head, Madam Pomfrey acknowledged Harry's presence by saying, "I shall tend to you in a moment, Mr. Potter."

"Er..." Harry hadn't realized that he needed tending to at all. "No hurry, ma'am. I'm quite all right."

"We'll see about that," the Medi-witch replied, and the boy couldn't tell whether he should take that as a promise or a threat.

Dumbledore chuckled and Professor Snape smirked, Harry noticed, so maybe it wouldn't be too bad.

"Poppy, do you need anything?" Dumbledore asked.

The woman straightened, shaking out the folds of her plum-colored skirts. "Actually, it would help if we could levitate him onto the table."

Before Harry could protest that Hagrid was almost twice as long as the table top, Dumbledore had waved his wand, sending the Prophets sailing neatly onto the sofa, elongating the table, and adding magical support to the underside to uphold Hagrid's substantial weight. Then, with another wave, Dumbledore levitated the injured man and hovered him over to the waiting table.

Harry gawped shamelessly.

"More Magic, Potter," said Snape, looking sideways down at the boy, who was so different from what he had expected.

After groping for words, Harry finally got a few out. "Can I learn to do that? Could you teach me? Please, Professor Snape?"

"I hate to disappoint you, Potter, but I only teach Potions. Professor Flitwick will teach you the Levitation Charm and the Hover Charm, among many others."

"Charms? So, Charms are Magic spells? I thought it might be lessons on how to be charming in Wizard society."

Snape snorted and almost made a scathing remark-until he saw the boy's serious expression. Potter ... really WASN'T joking, he realized.

Harry's face reddened and he stared down at his tattered trainers. "I'm sorry, sir. I guess that did sound pretty stupid." He chanced a glance back up at Snape. "I didn't even know I was a wizard, sir. Not until Mr. Hagrid told me. And he couldn't tell me much more because he was so hurt. Really, everything else I know about wizards I learned form reading those." He pointed at the neat pile of Prophets now stacked on the arm of the sofa.

"I didn't even know that wizards were REAL," he added. "Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia always told me there was no such thing as Magic."

Harry saw Snape and Dumbledore exchange glances.

"Why don't you sit down and tell us about it, Harry," Dumbledore invited, waving his wand to transfigure the lumpy old sofa into a cushy, floral chintz version. Gingerly, Harry sat down, and when the sofa proved to be quite comfortable, he gave a slight bounce of pleasure.

"Severus?"

"I shall stand, thank you, Headmaster."

Dumbledore smiled. "Now, Harry, why don't you start at the beginning and tell us how you ended up here."

"In the Hut of No Return?" It just popped out before Harry even knew he'd spoken.

"The Hut..." Dumbledore's voice trailed off, his silvery eyebrows rising as he regarded the boy.

"Well, the Hut on the Rock," Harry giggled. "But I was thinking we'd never get rescued, though Hagrid said someone WOULD come, and all of you DID, but I began thinking of this as the Hut of No Return. It's what it felt like."

Snape smirked again, and it caused Harry to grin up at him.

"Very well," said Dumbledore. "Start at the beginning."

"Okay," agreed Harry. "It started the day after my eleventh birthday. The morning that the first

owl arrived."

He told of his relatives' apparent fear of the mysterious letters, how they'd finally fled the house to outwit the owls, and had fled cross-country only to find more letters waiting for them at every hotel or B&B they'd begun to check in to. How Uncle Vernon had finally rented the Hut on the Rock, and how he'd spent the week shooting at owls to prevent their delivering "those ruddy letters". How Hagrid had been shot when he arrived to hand-deliver the letter which Harry had later discovered in his pocket. How the Dursleys had left Harry and Hagrid abandoned without food or much water four days ago. How the newspaper owls-

"No food or water for four days, Harry?" Dumbledore interrupted. "Here..." He waved his wand, and a bowl of steaming chicken broth appeared, which he set on a quickly conjured table, followed by a heavy goblet of water.

Harry gaped at the steaming broth, and he jumped slightly as a spoon popped into existence upon the table. "Really, sir..."

"Eat, Potter," said Snape in a no-nonsense tone. "Your story will keep until you've eaten."

Harry looked back and forth at the older wizards. "Well, thank you. Both of you. This smells delicious." He dipped the spoon into the rich, golden broth and sipped... Oh, it was like tasting ambrosia! Busily, Harry spooned broth into his mouth, savoring every portion before he swallowed.

"Albus, could you come here, please?" called Madam Pomfrey.

Dumbledore laid a hand on Harry's shoulder as he rose. "I shall return," he promised. "Be sure to drink some water," he advised before joining the Medi-witch.

Harry obediently took a tiny sip of water, but he was far more interested in the chicken broth.

"You should drink more water," Snape urged quietly. "You may not realize how dehydrated you've become."

"But I'm not," Harry protested, diverted momentarily from the broth. "I MADE water for Mr. Hagrid and me."

Snape stared at him.

"What do you mean, you ‘made' water? Aguamenti? With wandless magic? You do not yet have a wand, do you?"

Harry stared back. "Agua-what?"

In response, Snape incanted, "Aguamenti," and a stream of clear water spouted from the tip of his wand.

"Wicked!" exclaimed Harry.

Snape was looking at him expectantly.

"Er-no, sir," Harry denied, shaking his head. "I don't have a wand, and I don't know how to make water like that. I had to do it the hard way."

"The ‘hard' way, Potter?" Snape frowned. "Expain."

Harry pointed toward the fireplace. "See? It's all there. I poured seawater into the kettle, and when it heated up, the steam made fresh water that filled up the bottles." He pointed again toward a neat row of filled water bottles stored on the floor in the corner by the fireplace-"his" corner, as he thought of it. "Mr. Hagrid drinks a lot of water when he's awake. I had to keep the fire going day and night to keep making fresh water for the both of us." Harry smiled up at the tall, dark man, his eyes alight with his success.

Snape examined Harry's eager face, seeing the pride of accomplishment suffusing his wan features.

"You ... set this up?"

Harry nodded, swallowing another spoonful of broth.

"Did Hagrid help you by telling you what to do?" Snape asked, knowing from having scanned Hagrid's injuries that the man could have done none of the actual physical labor.

"Nope," Harry replied, lifting the bowl to drink the last little bit of delicious broth. "I did it all myself."

Snape studied the makeshift setup-the kettle, the foil tube, the plastic bottle that continued to fill as he observed it, the supporting structure of wood and stone. "Where did you learn to distill water?" he asked at length, surprised and impressed that a mere child could successfully implement such an operation.

Harry left the sofa to kneel down in the warmth of the fire, peering up earnestly into the obsidian eyes that he'd studied so often in the newspaper photo. He couldn't believe he was actually speaking to Severus Snape, Potions MASTER, right here in the Hut of No Return!

"It was Mrs. Hedgepath, my teacher in Little Whinging. Her hair turned blue one day when she was shouting at me for something Dudley had done behind her back-Dudley's my cousin- and her hair turned blue and Dudley told Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia and they blamed

ME for her hair, but I didn't see how I could have done THAT, but Mr. Hagrid explained about accidental magic-Dudley's a lout AND a prat-and anyway, Mrs. Hedgepath brought a chemistry set to class one day-not the day her hair turned blue-and she showed us how to boil salty water to turn the steam into fresh water, that's all."

Both of Snape's eyebrows had risen during Harry's near-breathless recitation. He looked again at the boy's "still".

"I'm sorry," said Harry, shrugging apologetically. "I know it doesn't look like a real chemistry set. But I had to figure it out all by myself from the trash that the Dursleys left behind-it's a good thing the kettle was too hot to take with them-and it DOES work!" He pointed to the nearly full bottle. "Just a second, sir."

Harry scrambled up, feeling energized by having ingested the broth, and he selected an empty plastic bottle from his supply. After carefully removing the filled bottle, the boy slipped the empty into its place, scarcely losing more than a few drops to the dusty floor in the process, Snape noted with bemusement. Harry screwed the lid onto the full bottle and was ready to stash it in his corner when he suddenly thought of something.

"Sir? Would you like to try it?" Harry asked shyly, holding out the bottle toward the black-robed professor. "It's not cold, but it really is fresh water."

Snape nearly refused-having inspected the "still", he had no doubts as to its efficiency, however crude its construction may have been. Yet, he relented after a moment's hesitation, accepting the plastic bottle from the shyly eager child. He realized that Potter meant the offer sincerely, not just to offer him a drink of water, but to seek the approval of an adult, a teacher, for a process which he had learned in school, even if it was a Muggle school. Perhaps especially because it was a Muggle school and Snape was a Wizard.

The dark-eyed wizard inclined his head and unscrewed the bottle top. He took a sip, then a larger swallow before reclosing the bottle. "Quite fresh, indeed, Potter. Well done."

Harry grinned in delight, practically wriggling with excitement. "Thank you, sir! I KNEW you'd understand! You're the Potions MASTER, and Potions must be something like chemistry, right, sir?"

"An excellent comparison, Potter," Snape agreed.

"I knew it! I just knew it!" Harry virtually crowed. "I've always wanted to learn chemistry, especially after Mrs. Hedgepath demonstrated for us, and when I saw your picture in the paper, I just KNEW that Potions would be my very favorite class, because it must be like chemistry. That's why there's a cauldron on my list, right, sir?" Harry's face suddenly fell. "Only-I don't have a cauldron. Or any schoolbooks or other supplies. Or even a uniform. And I don't even know where to get a wand-the letter Mr. Hagrid brought didn't even say."

Harry's green eyes stared into Snape's black ones. "Where DOES one go to buy a magic wand, sir? And all of the other stuff on that list?"

Snape finally sat down on the chintz sofa, his hands folded calmly in his lap, but he could feel his blood racing throughout his veins.

Who would have thought?

Just this afternoon, he had been prepared to despise the son of James Potter. Potter's brat, as he'd always thought of the boy ... ever since he'd learned of the child's birth.

But how MUCH life could change in just a matter of hours. How much his PERCEPTION could change... He sighed, staring into the fireplace flames, considering everything that he'd learned since Dumbledore had sent him off to find Potter. To find Harry...

Those hideous Dursleys, that dismal Cupboard Under the Stairs, The Smallest Bedroom, the young boy's revealing artwork-none of this had he yet even had the opportunity to discuss with Dumbledore...

MERLIN!

Those horrible Muggles had left the child-a Magical child-alone on this Rock to starve to death! Abandoned by the same people who had openly attempted to murder Hagrid. But this child-the son of his old enemy-was also the son of Lily, his onetime best friend. And this child had managed to survive ... somehow ... in spite of the Dursleys' abuse, their neglect, and their utter abandonment. By his wits, Harry had survived-by his quick intelligence, and by his ability to extrapolate from a sterile classroom demonstration into crude, makeshift reality. Harry Potter... the Boy-Who-Lived ... had survived.

Harry Potter was smiling at him in eager expectation.

"Where, sir, if you don't mind my asking? Where should I buy things for Hogwarts?" And then his face crumpled. "I could never buy them ayway," he said sadly, his chin drooping towards his chest. "I haven't any money. The Dursleys never gave me an allowance the way they did Dudley. They always said I cost too much to keep as it was."

"Potter-"

"Severus, could you join us, please?"

Snape stood in response to Dumbledore's request, almost reaching out to place a hand on the boy's painfully thin shoulder. And then, he did.

Harry smiled at the warmth emanating from the strong, yet gentle grip.

"We shall continue our discussion, Potter. But first..."

Snape swept his robes over to the elongated table, raising a small cloud of dust from the grimy floorboards.

"Yes, Headmaster?"

Dumbledore was holding the palm of his hand just above Hagrid's torso where the shot pellets had struck. "Tell me, Severus, do you detect anything out of the ordinary?"

Snape used both his hands and his wand, feeling, feeling, sensing ... and his startled gaze met Dumbledore's. "But how...?"

Dumbledore looked over Snape's black-clad shoulder. "Harry, would you mind joining us?" he asked the boy, who was standing by the chintz sofa.

"Yes, sir?" said Harry, slowly approaching the wizards and Medi-witch surrounding Hagrid. He felt like such an outsider amongst the Magical grownups, although he could feel an undeniable yearning to be one of them. Someday. Somehow.

Dumbledore smiled reassuringly. "Harry, could you describe in detail how you cared for Hagrid after he was shot?"

Harry stared at the imposing elderly Wizard, sidling closer to Snape's black robes. "Am I in trouble?" he asked anxiously, wondering-if he had done something wrong, would they take Hagrid away and leave him here alone after all?

"Not at all, Harry, my boy. We're just interested in hearing about how you managed to save Hagrid's life."

"Oh!" Harry heaved a sigh of relief. "Well, he was bleeding pretty badly from the gunshot. While Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia and Dudley kept packing everything up to take away, I tried to keep pressure on the wounds to stop their bleeding. I knew about pressure working on the surface, unless it was a really, really deep cut, but I didn't know if it would work on his stomach and chest being shot."

"And why was that?" Dumbledore inquired, smiling.

Harry tried to explain his reasoning. "I thought if the shotgun pellets had gone deep inside, he might have internal injuries. Like organs and veins and internal bleeding."

"Quite right, Harry," asserted Dumbledore encouragingly. "Did you do anything beside applying

pressure?"

The boy shook his tousled black head. "No, not really. I just kept leaning my weight on the T- shirt, trying to put as much pressure on the bleeding holes as possible." He paused. "Oh, and I kept thinking, ‘Don't die, please don't die. Heal! Please heal! Please stop bleeding! Please stop bleeding!' And stuff like that."

He looked at the grownups. "It was sort of like a prayer, I guess. I really didn't want him to die."

Dumbledore, Snape, and Pomfrey all looked at each other.

"That would likely explain it," the Medi-witch said, approaching Harry with her wand.

Reflexively, he stepped back, concealing himself behind Snape's voluminous robes.

The Potions Master cleared his throat. "Come forward, Potter. Madam Pomfrey merely wishes to scan you. It will not hurt."

Harry hesitated, then took a timid step forward and stopped, staring in trepidation at the Wand, not at all sure that he wanted it pointing at HIM. However, he forced himself to stand stock still as the wand passed up, down, and all around him.

"Hey!" he said, surprised. "It really DOESN'T hurt!"

Snape snorted. "I did say as much, Potter."

"It's definitely Mr. Potter's magical signature all over Hagrid, Albus," Madam Pomfrey declared. "Through sheer will, the boy managed to work some powerful healing magic and, without a doubt, he saved Hagrid from bleeding out. In addition, the internal damage was allayed by his healing magic, and Hagrid is already on the mend."

"How badly is he injured, Poppy?" Dumbledore inquired at last, since the Medi-witch had remained uncharacteristically quiet during Hagrid's prolonged examination.

She sighed. "There is infection, of course, and extensive damage from the gunshot penetration, but I will be able to heal him completely, once we get him back to Hogwarts. Young Mr. Potter managed to keep his finger in the dike, as it were, and Hagrid will pull through. His fever is already coming down, thanks to the Fever Reducing Potion."

"Potion?" Harry's eyes brightened. "Can you teach me to make THAT, sir?"

Snape's lips twitched again, a glint of humor touching his dark eyes. "That IS on my syllabus, Potter. For your Fourth Year at Hogwarts."

Harry's shoulders slumped in disappointment. Just when WOULD he learn to do any proper Magic, he wondered. Suddenly, he felt exhausted. Having run for so long on nothing more than water and nervous energy, the accumulated stress of the past couple of weeks since the Dursleys had dragged him away from Little Whinging seemed to have finally caught up to him.

Apparently, Dumbledore picked up on Harry's state and clapped his hands together. "Very well, then. Time that we get everyone back to the school."

"Sir?" Harry was afraid to get his hopes up, but he had to ask. "I-I don't have my books or a wand or anything, but might I still come to Hogwarts? Please?" His question was directed to Dumbledore, but his emerald eyes kept darting hopefully toward Snape.

"Of course you're coming with us, Harry!" exclaimed the Headmaster. "We'd hardly leave you here."

"THEY did," muttered the boy, so quietly that only Snape heard him. Once again, Harry felt the warm fingers gently grip his shoulder.

"Poppy, can Hagrid Portkey?"

"I don't see why not," she replied. "Thanks to Mr. Potter's timely intervention, Hagrid can withstand the rigors of Portkeying."

"Severus?"

"One moment, Headmaster." Snape had walked back to the fireplace. "Potter, would you care for a keepsake?" He pointed at the steaming kettle.

Harry balked. A keepsake? Of the WORST experience of his entire life?

"A keepsake of your first scientific success?" Snape added, almost as if he knew he needed to counter Harry's thoughts.

"Oh!" No question, then. "Yes, I would, please! And the Prophets, too? I can keep them for Hagrid, since his money already paid for them."

"Anything else?"

"Mm... Maybe one bottle of fresh water?"

Snape smirked lightly and Harry grinned in response. He was getting used to the way the Potions Master expressed emotions, sort of showing the opposite of what he was really feeling sometimes.

Snape collected two bottles-one for his private collection of curios. After using his wand to dismantle and cool the kettle, empty it, and extinguish the fire, he then shrank all of the items and tucked them into his pocket under Harry's popping eyes.

"You can SHRINK things?" Harry squeaked in astonishment.

Dumbledore tapped him on the shoulder. "Take hold, Harry," he instructed, holding out a brass letter-opener. Bemused, Harry pinched the piece of gleaming metal between his thumb and index finger, as he observed the others doing.

Dumbledore waved his wand, Vanishing the soup bowl, spoon, and water goblet, and suddenly the lumpy sofa reappeared in place of the chintz.

"Hold tight, Harry," the elderly wizard said, his blue eyes twinkling.

Harry felt a sudden jerk behind his navel, and the Hut on the Rock disappeared in a kaleidoscope of rushing color and sound.

They landed in the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts, Snape's hand firm under Harry's bony elbow.

"Whoa!" shouted the boy, his emerald eyes wide with shock. "What just HAPPENED?!"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "That, my boy, was your first experience of travel by Portkey. It is a means by which wizards travel quickly over distance."

"WOW!" Harry looked himself over, but he couldn't see any visible difference in his appearance, although his blood continued to tingle, sort of like a sleeping foot awaking from numbness to awareness. Even as his mind came up with the comparison, the tingle had already begun to dissipate.

Madam Pomfrey enlarged one of the beds lining the left half of the infirmary. In fact, she turned the bed at right angles to all of the others so that Hagrid's length would not protrude into the walkway extending down the middle of the ward. After levitating Hagrid into the bed, she quickly curtained off her new patient's area for privacy prior to treating him.

Before Harry could ask how long it would take for Hagrid to recover, Dumbledore had waved his wand and something silvery flashed from its tip-some sort of exotic bird, Harry thought. It reminded him of the silvery doe which Snape had produced in the Hut. The Headmaster's bird soared away through the double doors into what looked like a dark corridor, and Harry could see ancient stonework reflecting the light of the bird's passage before it disappeared.

"Sir? What was that?" Harry asked Dumbledore. "Professor Snape made a silver doe in the Hut, before you came."

"That was my Patronus, Harry," the elderly wizard answered as he put a wrinkled hand on the boy's shoulder to guide him to a bed opposite Hagrid's curtains. "A Patronus serves various functions. Sometimes it can actively protect one from harm. Other times, it can carry messages. Professor Snape used his Patronus to summon assistance. I just used mine-a phoenix, by the way-to let the remaining Heads of House know that you have arrived. They shall be here directly to witness your Sorting."

"Sorting?"

"Yes. New First Year students traditionally get Sorted prior to the Welcoming Feast, just after their arrival at Hogwarts. However, since you were stranded in the Hut on the Rock, you missed the Sorting in the Great Hall, so we shall do it here in the Hospital Wing."

"Great Hall?" Harry's mind was having trouble absorbing all of the informaton. Or, maybe, fatigue was finally catching up to him.

Dumbledore smiled. "The Great Hall is where the hundreds of students and the staff members gather for meals, festivities, and other necessary assemblies."

"Oh."

"There you are, Albus!" A new voice caused Harry to twist on the bed to peer over his shoulder at the stern-looking witch whose Prophet photo he'd seen labeled as "Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall". Her bottle-green robes swept regally across the stones of the infirmary floor as she approached. And then she caught sight of the boy.

"And Harry Potter... You're here at last! We were so worried..." Her voice trailed off as she got a close-up view of Harry's soiled, unkempt appearance. "But-what has happened? Albus? Severus?"

Dumbledore raised a placating hand. "Why don't we wait for Filius and Pomona to arrive? That way, we need tell the story only once."

McGonagall wasn't placated in the slightest. "It was those Muggles, wasn't it?" she hissed, the sound causing Harry's black hair to want to stand on end for some reason. "Didn't I tell you, Albus? ALL those years ago? They were the WORST sort of Muggles! Didn't I TELL you?" she spat furiously, glaring daggers at Dumbledore.

Harry couldn't define the chastened expression which crept over the Headmaster's wizened visage at the witch's accusations, but he responded to it without meaning to. He giggled.

"What's a Muggle?" he asked when the adults all looked at him. "I mean, I saw the word ‘Muggle' in Mr. Hagrid's newspapers, but I didn't really know what it meant." He looked from one person to another, waiting for an answer.

Snape responded, with a smirk directed toward Dumbledore's discomfiture. "A Muggle, Mr. Potter, is a person born without Magic. One does not come to Hogwarts to learn to become magical. You are either born with the gift, or you are not. Those born with are witches and wizards from birth. Those born without Magic are Muggles for life."

"Nicely put, Severus," said a squeaky voice from somewhere behind Dumbledore's robes. The Headmaster stepped aside to reveal the shortest man Harry had ever seen. The top of his head

barely came up to the level of the mattress that Harry was sitting upon. The tiny wizard looked cheerful enough, with a friendly smile and warm eyes. "Harry Potter! Welcome to Hogwarts!"

"Er-Thank you, sir."

"Harry, this is Filius Flitwick, Hogwarts' Charms Professor," Dumbledore said, using the introduction as a way to avoid McGonagall's continuing glare. "Professor Flitwick is Head of Ravenclaw."

Harry nodded an acknowledgment, although he had no idea what Ravenclaw was. "Pleased to meet you, sir."

And then they were joined by another woman-a witch, Harry reminded himself, staring at her rather grubby, patched pointed hat and only slightly-less-grubby robes. He smiled suddenly, glad that there was at least one other person in this castle who looked as dirty as he did. He'd been feeling rather guilty about sitting on the infirmary's pristine white sheets in Dudley's soiled hand-me-downs.

"Hello, Harry!" the woman greeted him with a warm smile. "I'm Professor Sprout."

"You teach Herbs!" Harry blurted out. "It said so in The Daily Prophet!" Although, he couldn't help noting, in her photograph she'd appeared markedly cleaner.

"Herbology, yes," Sprout nodded. "The study of Magical plants as well as ordinary useful plants and herbs."

"Magical plants?" Harry's eyes saucered. "Wow!" There was so MUCH he had never imagined...

Behind him, Professor Snape cleared his throat. "Shall we get on with the Sorting?"

McGonagall suddenly whipped a rather ragged pointed hat from somewhere behind her robes. "This is the Sorting Hat, Mr. Potter," she informed him, cutting off Dumbledore's attempt to get a word in edgewise. "The Hat will Sort you into the House for which you are most suited, and you shall remain a member of the House for all of your years here at Hogwarts. The other members of your House will be like your family, and your behavior will affect not only yourself, but also the other members of your House. Good performance earns points for your House, while poor performance or rule breaking will lose points."

Harry nodded his understanding.

"Professor Flitwick, as you know, is Head of Ravenclaw House, which values intellect and studiousness," McGonagall continued. "Professor Sprout is Head of Hufflepuff, which values the qualities of teamwork and loyalty. Professor Snape is Head of Slytherin, which places an inordinately high value on-"

"Survival skills," inserted the Potions Master, "such as strategy, a cunning mind, self- preservation, and the like."

McGonagall sniffed rather obviously. "I would hardly describe-"

"Which is precisely why I did," Snape interrupted sardonically, flicking his wand so that one of the curtained privacy screens scooted between Harry and the Deputy Headmistress. "Pay no attention to that woman behind the curtain, Potter."

Harry laughed aloud, recognizing the altered line from ‘The Wizard of Oz' video, which Dudley had borrowed from his friend Piers because Aunt Petunia had refused to buy it for him. It was, in fact, the only thing Harry could ever remember her refusing to get for her precious Diddykins, and Dudley'd had to wait until she'd left the house before sneaking the tape into the VCR. Harry had sat on the hall floor to watch the movie from a distance.

"Really, Severus!" McGonagall exclaimed in irritation, abruptly moving the concealing screen back to its original position.

"Professors," admonished Dumbledore, although his tone was gentle and the blue eyes twinkled merrily above his half-moon spectacles. "Everyone at Hogwarts is welcome to his or her own opinion, but this is hardly the time or place to engage in a debate. Young Harry still needs to be Sorted." He smiled at the boy, who grinned brightly back, caught up in the spirit of the interchange among the colleagues. "Professor McGonagall is Head of Gryffindor, which values courage-"

("Sheer recklessness," Harry heard Snape mutter under his breath.)

"-among other fine qualities."

(Snape snorted.)

"Do you have any questions, Harry, before Professor McGonagall places the Sorting Hat upon your head?"

Harry stared up at Dumbledore. "Um..." He almost said ‘no', but then something occurred to him. "Sir? My parents-Mr. Hagrid said my parents were students here?"

Dumbledore nodded. "Of course they were, Harry."

Harry bit his lip. "What house-or houses-were they in, sir?"

Snape sighed audibly before Dumbledore shot him a quelling glance.

"Both of your parents were Gryffindors, Harry."

"Oh." Harry smiled in relief. "Well, that's it, then. That's where I want to be-in Gryffindor."

But McGonagall was shaking her graying head, even as she smiled kindly at him. "I understand your sentiments, Mr. Potter, but that's not how it works. We don't get to pick our Houses. We allow the Sorting Hat to do that for us. The Hat has been guiding our footsteps for the past ten centuries." She held up the Hat, holding it over Harry's head. "Sit up straight, now."

Harry sighed, sat up straight, and the Hospital Wing disappeared as the too-large hat drooped over his eyes. Ten centuries, huh? How, he wondered morosely, was a HAT supposed to determine his fate?

"FATE, is it?"

Harry jumped reflexively at the voice that suddenly went off in his head. "You-you can hear me think?" he whispered in his mind. "You can read my mind? But you're a HAT!"

"And you're a Slytherin," the Hat replied snidely.

"NO! NO, I'm NOT! I'm a Gryffindor! Like my parents! I'm not-not cunning or-or deviant or ANYTHING Slytherins value. I'm NOT!"

"I believe the word you're looking for is ‘devious'," the Hat smirked.

"Well-whatever. I want to be in Gryffindor, like my parents."

"Hmphh," the Sorting Hat scoffed. "You're far more Slytherin than either of them could ever have dreamed of being."

"But I'm NOT Slytherin," moaned Harry. "I'm NOT! I know I'm not a Ravenclaw-I'm not intellectual. But I could be a Hufflepuff. I've always worked hard, and if I had friends, I could be loyal to them and be a good team player. But I'd rather be in Gryffindor. I'm brave, you know. I just spent the past four days surviving on a Rock in the Sea-taking care of Mr. Hagrid, too. My relatives just dumped me there with no food and hardly any water, and I had to be brave to survive. Doesn't that count as courage? Doesn't that qualify me for Gryffindor?" pleaded Harry, still thrown off balance by the idea that he was pleading with a HAT. "Please, ANYTHING but Slytherin. I don't want people to think I'm ... dishonest."

The Hat seemed to consider his last statement more than those which had preceded it. "Dishonest? Is that what you think of Slytherins?"

"Um... It's what ‘cunning' means, isn't it? Or what it implies? A form of dishonesty, like how someone tricks others?"

"Tell me, Harry Potter," said the Hat in a gentler tone, "What are you really afraid of?"

The boy heaved a sigh of despair, blinking back tears. "I've always..." His breath hitched. "I've always wanted to have a different, better life. I wished for it on my birthday candles. Well, they weren't REALLY birthday candles-just the dinner candles, and I had to pretend. But I wanted so badly to start over and have a new life. Where people would like me, ‘cause nobody ever has. Where other people would respect me-or, at least, give me a chance to earn their respect, ‘cause nobody ever has. Everyone always writes me off as a loser, even my teachers, ‘cause I have to wear Dudley's horrible huge castoffs. I just want to be-NORMAL, okay? I just want people to see ME as NORMAL, like they would have done if my parents hadn't been killed in the car crash. Like if I had a real family and real friends, instead of always being alone, just struggling along on my own the way I've always had to do at the Dursleys'. I just really want to BELONG. Can you understand? And I just KNOW I'd still always be an outcast if you Sort me into Slytherin. If I ... If I saw a Slytherin," Harry's mental voice faltered, "I don't know if I could trust someone who was in a House that valued ... cunning. I'd always be afraid that the person was trying to trick me. Or hurt me somehow. I've had too much of that already at the Dursleys' and at my old school. Now that I'm at Hogwarts, I just want to have a NORMAL life. I want other people to see ME-HARRY-as NORMAL ... not ... a freak. I've always been treated like a freak..." his mental voice trailed off sadly.

Unbidden, the tears came, rolling silently down Harry's cheeks to trickle out beneath the Sorting Hat's floppy brim and drip off his chin onto Dudley's grubby, oversized T-shirt.

"Please don't put me in Slytherin! PLEASE! PLEASE! PLEASE!" he begged in his mind, concentrating with all of his might to communicate his desperation to the Sorting Hat.

The Hat heaved an uncharacteristic sigh, causing the watching professors to glance at each other questioningly.

"In that case, Mr. Potter," said the Sorting Hat aloud at last, "Better be-GRYFFINDOR!"

"Oh, THANK YOU!" Harry sobbed aloud before McGonagall could even life the Hat from his head. "Thank you thank you THANK YOU!"

Professor Sprout conjured a large, soft handkerchief, which Harry gratefully used to scrub the tears from his face. The white fabric came away grimy, and Harry realized how dirty his face must be. He'd often splashed seawater on it while filling bottles, but the Hut was so dirty...

"Thank you, ma'am," he said, uncertain whether she would want such a grubby handkerchief back. He held it out to her, rather tentatively, but she waved it back to Harry.

"It's yours to keep, Potter. Don't worry-a little dirt never hurt anyone!" The Herbology Professor waved her wand, and suddenly, the handkerchief was snowy white again. "I'll see you

in class. Good night."

Harry stared at the pristine handkerchief. "Good night, ma'am. Thank you!" With a little giggle he added, "I love Magic!"

Professor Flitwick also bid Harry a cheery good night and followed Sprout out the door.

"So, Harry, you got your wish," Dumbledore said quietly. "I hope you'll be very happy in Gryffindor."

"Oh, I will, sir!" Harry beamed at the Headmaster. Both the elderly wizard and his new Head of House were smiling at him. When he turned to look eagerly up at Snape, however... Somehow, the Potions Master seemed ... distant. Before Harry could question it, the Sorting Hat spoke up.

"Headmaster, Mr. Potter is under the impression that his parents died in a car crash."

The Hospital Wing went suddenly silent, save for an muffled incantation emanating from behind Hagrid's curtains.

"But," said Harry, "they did. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon said so." His fingertip automatically rubbed that particular spot on his forehead. "They said that's how I got my scar-that I was in the car when they crashed." He stared down at the holes in the knees of Dudley's floppy jeans. "Aunt Marge said they were driving drunk," he whispered, his cheeks flaming, "and they got no better than they deserved." He paused, not registering the shock on the adults' faces. "They never wanted me, the Dursleys. I think they always wished that I'd died, too, with my parents, so they wouldn't have been stuck with me."

Dumbledore finally spoke up. "Harry, that simply isn't true."

"Yes, it IS!" Harry burst out. "They did so hate me! That's why they treated me like-" He couldn't bring himself to put it into words, not specific words, anyway, so he ended lamely, "- like they did. Like they always did."

The Headmaster looked at McGonagall and saw the fire flashing again in her eyes. Then he looked hastily away to Snape, only to see a similar fury burning in the obsidian depths of the younger man's eyes. Dumbledore suddenly realized that Flitwick and Sprout had left before hearing the story of Harry's ... misadventures.

"Harry," said Dumbledore, "Your parents did NOT die in a car crash."

"Albus, I really don't think this is the appropriate time," McGonagall attempted to quell him.

"When, then?" The Headmaster looked at her severely, his eyes having gone a hard blue. "There are hundreds of people in this castle, and apparently Harry is the ONLY person

who does not know the truth about his parents."

"What truth?" Harry demanded, his eyes flashing green fire. "If they didn't die in the car crash-are they-are they ALIVE? Is that what you mean? Is that the truth I'm not supposed to know? Where are they? Why did they leave me at the Dursleys'? Why didn't they COME?" He leapt off the bed, his small fists clenched. "Where ARE they? I have the right to know!"

Suddenly, he felt the familiar warmth of the Potions Master's hand grasping his shoulder, and he turned away from Dumbledore to look up at the dark man's serious face. "Where are they, sir?" Harry whispered, certain that Snape, at least, would not keep the truth from him. He could trust Snape, he was sure of it, even if the man was the Head of Slytherin. Snape had come for him, even if his parents hadn't...

The Potions Master's face seemed to have gone a shade paler than usual, and his dark eyes looked sad, although the rest of his expression remained carefully neutral. "I'm very sorry, Harry," he said softly, "but both of your parents are dead. They simply didn't die in a car crash. Your relatives lied to you about that."

"Severus..." McGonagall said warningly.

"Harry," Dumbledore spoke quietly, "please sit down, and I'll tell you about your parents."

The boy sat, his empty stomach twisting, knowing - just knowing-this was going to be something far worse than a car crash. He even felt like he should already know... The Potions Master's warm hand remained on his left shoulder, like some sort of anchor.

"Harry," said Dumbledore, "James and Lily Potter did not die in a Muggle car crash. Instead, they were killed by an evil wizard. A Dark wizard known as Voldemort. Voldemort murdered your parents when you were little more than a baby."

The words washed over Harry, and he could almost ... almost...

"Voldemort also tried to murder you," Dumbledore continued quietly. "But we believe that the Killing Curse rebounded off your forehead, striking Voldemort. You were left with a mere scar, and Voldemort ... left."

Harry rubbed at his scar, frowning.

A Killing Curse. He'd been hit by a Killing Curse. And all he'd gotten was a scar? "Is that normal?" he asked, curious. "To not get killed if you get hit by a Killing Curse?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "No, Harry. It is impossible to survive the Avada Kedavra. But somehow, you DID. You are the ONLY person ever known to have survived the Killing Curse. That's why the Wizarding world refers to you as the Boy-Who-Lived."

Harry gaped at him, still feeling Snape's warm grasp on his shoulder. "The Wizarding ... WORLD?"

The warm fingers tightened slightly.

"You're famous," said Snape. But he kept his tone deliberately neutral. "Everyone in our world knows the name of Harry Potter."

Harry's shoulders sagged as he realized the import of Snape's words.

"And here at Hogwarts, I'd thought I could finally be NORMAL," he sighed.

Snape smirked, Dumbledore chuckled, and McGonagall rolled her eyes.

"You ARE normal, Harry," Dumbledore said. "You're also famous. Just don't let it go to your head."

Harry gave a wry grin at Snape's unmistakable snort. "I'll try, sir." And then he remembered something that Dumbledore had stated earlier. "You said that Voldemort got struck by the Killing Curse when it ... rebounded ... off of me? And that he ‘left'? Does that mean he died instead of me? Or did he just, you know, up and leave?"

Dumbledore smiled broadly. "Another long story for another day, Harry, my boy. I shall tell you, I promise. But the night is getting on, and you'll need to be examined by Madam Pomfrey before you go to bed. Suffice to say, Voldemort vanished ten years ago, and the Wizarding world believes that you vanquished him. We'll talk more about it later."

Harry stared at him. "They think that I-I vanquished Voldemort? ME?"

"Later," Dumbledore repeated firmly. "And here is Madam Pomfrey."

Frowning, Harry protested, "But she already examined me-in the Hut. Remember?"

"That was merely a preliminary, Mr. Potter," Madam Pomfrey informed him briskly as she bustled over from Hagrid's curtained-off bed to his own. "Now we're going to do the full exam."

"But..." Harry's emerald eyes darted from one adult to the next. "But it's late. Headmaster Dumbledore just said so, didn't you, sir?" Harry appealed to the most likely source of intervention.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "I never argue with Madam Pomfrey, Harry. She is the Medi- witch, not I. You should trust her judgment."

The boy's shoulders slumped. "I guess I don't have a choice, do I?" he grumbled, eyeing the Medi-witch's wand warily.

"We'll leave you to it, then." Dumbledore moved away from Harry's bed, followed by the two Heads of House.

"You're LEAVING?" the young voice shrilled in panic. Harry didn't want to be alone-not in this huge room with its vaulted ceiling, tall windows black with night, and a strange woman- witch-with a wand. Never mind that he'd just been Sorted into Gryffindor ... his courage seemed to have reached the end of its rope!

Dumbledore shook his head. "We'll be right here, Harry. We're just stepping aside to give you some privacy during the exam."

Harry looked toward Snape, who met his panicked gaze with a reassuring nod. Not that Harry FELT reassured, but at least they weren't leaving altogether.

"Okay," he mumbled, and the Medi-witch whisked the curtains closed.

After Harry had emptied Hagrid's coins from his pocket, Madam Pomfrey made short work of Harry's dirty clothing, having him hold up a sheet in front of himself as she Vanished first Dudley's hideous castoffs, then the layer of grit on the boy's slight body. He suddenly felt wonderfully refreshed, and he'd done nothing but hold up a sheet!

"Tomorrow morning, you may take a shower," she promised him. "In the meantime..." She waved her wand again, and Harry found that he was now attired in a hospital exam gown-he'd seen those on the telly. "Okay, Mr. Potter, if you would lie down on your back, please."

Harry obediently wriggled up onto the bed and stretched out.

As the Medi-witch ran her wand above his body this way and that, numbers and words glowed in mid-air once again, only this time they seemed to transfer to a floating length of parchment after Madam Pomfrey had studied them. The illuminated figures glowed briefly upon making contact with the parchment, then darkened to black. Over her muttered incantations in what Harry thought might have been Latin, he could hear snatches of low conversation between Snape, Dumbledore, and McGonagall from beyond the concealing curtains.

"... seen the Cupboard, Headmaster. There was irrefutable evidence ... long occupancy ... artwork ... record of neglect and abuse ... see for yourself..."

A rustling of papers being turned, slowly, one after the other.

A heavy masculine sigh.

A shocked feminine gasp.

"Didn't I TELL you, Albus..."

"Would you roll over, please, Mr. Potter? I shall need to examine your spine."

"My SPINE?"

"Just roll over please," and Harry rolled over, trying not to think about the gown's being open all the way down the back.

"... far too thin to have gone without food for just four days..." Snape continued.

"... amazing resilience..." murmured Dumbledore.

"That's as may be, Albus, but it doesn't excuse..."

"... I'm aware, Minerva..."

"... cannot return to those Muggles, Headmaster ... performed Legilimency ... all three have abused..."

"... not something that needs to be solved tonight, Severus ... an entire school year..."

"Well, Mr. Potter, your exam is finished. You may put on these pajamas and hop back into bed."

Harry looked questioningly at the Medi-witch as she rolled up the length of parchment, now filled top-to-bottom with ominous dark writing. "Here? I'm to sleep here?" At her nod, he asked, "But where do the other students sleep?"

"They sleep in dormitories in their Houses, Mr. Potter. You shall soon be sleeping in Gryffindor Tower with your classmates."

"A TOWER!" His eyes brightened at the thought. "Are there windows? Is there a view?"

Madam Pomfrey's eyes softened at the boy's hopeful expression. "Yes, you'll have a lovely view of the Black Lake, with the mountains beyond."

"A lake! And mountains!" Harry beamed. "That will be great after..." He paused. "That'll be great! Thank you, Madam Pomfrey. But how's Mr. Hagrid doing?"

She smiled. "Hagrid will be just fine, thanks to you. Now-pajamas!"

"Yes, ma'am!"

As soon as the nurse had vacated his space, he pulled on the striped pajamas, marveling at the perfect fit. Which reminded him... He really didn't have any other clothes. Would they allow him to wear these pajamas to class? Harry tried to imagine himself brewing The-Magic-Potion- That-Saved-The-World while wearing striped pajamas in Professor Snape's brightly-lit science laboratory. He sighed. Well, it wouldn't be the first time that other students had laughed at him for his attire.

"... various broken bones ... not properly healed ... obviously not treated by Muggle Healers ... chronic malnutrition ... physical exhaustion ... should remain in bed at least a week-"

At which words, Harry flung the curtains aside.

"Oh, PLEASE don't make me stay in bed for a WEEK! I'll miss classes! I'll be so far behind that I'll NEVER catch up! Please let me go to class! PLEASE!" He wondered if real witches and wizards would be as easily swayed by his desperate pleas as the Sorting Hat had been. For good measure, he opened his emerald eyes as wide as possible as he stared pleadingly up at the Medi-witch and the professors.

McGonagall's lips twitched. "Poppy, is there any reason why bed rest would be imperative in Mr. Potter's case?" Stressful rest isn't restful, you know. And Potter looks as if he'd stress instead of rest for the entire week."

"Minerva-"

"Why not allow Potter to attend his classes," Snape cut in, and Harry gave him a grateful smile. "Nutritive potions, supplemental food, and a positive environment will help with some of his issues. Pepper-Up Potion will give him a boost during the day if necessary, and I would recommend a dose of Dreamless Sleep tonight. A light meal before bed. A bowl of custard, perhaps?"

The other three adults stared at Severus Snape in amazement. They had all been subjected to his constant grumbling over the past week about the advent of the Boy-Who-Lived; now, he inexplicably seemed to have taken Harry Potter-a Gryffindor, no less!-under his billowing black wing.

"Severus? Are you serious? You heard what Poppy said."

The Potions Master nodded once. "I heard. But I agree with Professor McGonagall that settling into a routine would benefit Potter more than his lying restlessly in bed. However, all of his teachers should keep a close eye on him, and if he seems to be suffering ill effects from overdoing at any time, he would still have the option of bed rest."

The adults fell silent, considering Snape's recommendation.

Harry held his breath, his fingers crossed tightly behind his back.

"Very well," Madam Pomfrey finally relented. "But I want Mr. Potter to check in with me every day, immediately following lunch. If his daily scans do not indicate steady physical improvement, then I shall ORDER him to remain in bed until he has fully recovered."

Harry nearly jumped up and down in celebration, but he managed to restrain himself to a small bounce of joy. "I'll be good, Madam Pomfrey. And I promise to be here every day after lunch."

"Furthermore," the Medi-witch continued, "in addition to three meals a day, you shall have an energy bar mid-morning, another one mid-afternoon, and an evening snack before bed. You will not skip meals or snacks, Mr. Potter. If you do, I shall know, and you WILL be confined to bed. Understood?"

Harry nodded vigorously.

"Well," said Dumbledore, "that sounds satisfactory. Do you have any questions, Harry?"

"Yes, sir. About my clothes-well, I really haven't any. And I don't have schoolbooks or a cauldron or a wand."

Professor McGonagall smiled. "You'll have a Gryffindor uniform waiting for you by tomorrow morning, and all teachers have extra textbooks they can loan you until you obtain your own. Severus has spare cauldrons and potions ingredients, I'm sure-"

Snape nodded.

"-and I shall personally escort you to Diagon Alley to see Mr. Ollivander about your wand this weekend."

Harry smiled. "Thank you so much, Professor McGonagall. I really appreciate your help. But I don't know how I can repay you."

"Don't worry, Potter. We'll stop first at Gringotts so you can visit your vault."

Harry's jaw dropped. "Gringotts? The Wizard bank? The one that almost got robbed? I have a VAULT? With real money? WIZARD money? REALLY?"

Madam Pomfrey interrupted when McGonagall would have responded. "Save this discussion for the weekend, please. Or else my patient will be overtired in the morning, and I'll have to keep him in the Hospital Wing after all."

Dumbledore waved his wand, and a tray appeared, hovering above Harry's bed. "I believe

Severus recommended custard? But first, I've no doubt that Madam Pomfrey is ready to ply you with potions."

"Absolutely," the nurse agreed. "Into bed, Mr. Potter." She waited until he'd clambered into bed, careful not to jostle the tray, then handed him a slender vial. "Nutritive Potion. You'll take a vial with every meal."

POTION!

Harry eagerly gulped the contents, only to shudder in disgust. "That's-AWFUL!"

Snape smirked. "I can teach you how to make it, Potter. Nutritive Potion is on the Third Year syllabus."

"No hurry," Harry muttered, wiping his lips with the napkin on the tray. "That one can wait!"

"Blood Replenisher," said the nurse, handing him another vial.

Harry sniffed cautiously at the open end of the vial. "This smells even worse than the first. What does it do?"

"Normally, Blood Replenisher is given to people who have lost large amounts of blood through injury," Snape informed him, slipping into class lecture mode. "But it is also useful in treating anemia, which you are suffering from. It will aid in quickly building up your red blood cell count."

"Oh. Okay." Harry held his breath while he gulped down the Blood Replenisher. He handed Madam Pomfrey the empty vial in exchange for a stoppered one. "And this is...?"

"Wait until you've finished your custard before taking the Dreamless Sleep," Snape advised. "Otherwise, you may fall asleep with your face in the bowl. This potion will help you achieve deep, restful, dreamless sleep."

"Right," said Harry, setting the vial down on his bedside table. As he began spooning up the delicious custard-wondering how much Magic he'd need to learn before he could wave a wand and make food appear, and oh, wouldn't Dudley just DIE to be able to do THAT!-Snape removed Harry's meager collection of belongings from his pocket. He set the kettle and bottle and Hagrid's Prophets on the bedside table and enlarged them back to their original size. To Harry's surprise, Snape also produced a pile of artwork which Harry had done in Little Whinging, various small items that Harry recognized as having been in his desk drawer in The Smallest Bedroom, and a further wave of Snape's wand enlarged a collection of ... books?

Harry swallowed hard when he realized by the familiar gift wrap adorning several of them whose books those were. Not to mention, he easily recognized the worn, well-read few from

his cupboard. How could Snape have gotten them from the Cupboard? And the last he knew, those newer volumes had been hidden under the bed in The Smallest Bedroom...

"Sir?" he asked hesitantly.

"Yes, Potter?"

"Um... Where did... How did..."

Snape's dark gaze met the boy's troubled green eyes. "I paid a visit to your relatives earlier this evening, Potter. When I went looking to find you."

Harry gulped a bit. "Oh," he said, in a very small voice, staring down at his hands.

The dark man gestured toward the books. "I found these under your bed while I was collecting your belongings. I did not think you would wish to return to the Dursleys' house, and I tried to bring everything which I believed you would value with me."

"Oh," Harry said again, his thin cheeks flushing. "I-I-"

"Just spit it out, Potter."

The boy bit his lip uncertainly. "I guess you noticed the tags?"

Snape nodded. "It would seem that these books were originally intended for your cousin. I admit that I am curious as to how they ended up under your bed."

Harry twisted his fingers in the upper hem of the white sheet, crinkling the crisp fabric. "Well... That bedroom used to be Dudley's second bedroom."

"Second bedroom?"

"Yeah," said Harry, biting his lip again. "He had one bedroom to sleep in, and a second bedroom for all of his toys." He sighed, causing his thin chest to heave. "When I was told to leave my- my cupboard and move into his second bedroom, Dudley threw a fit because he didn't want me living in the same room with his toys. It didn't matter that most of them were already broken, one way or another. He still didn't want me playing with them. So Aunt Petunia told me to carry everything that Dudley wanted to keep into his main bedroom, and the stuff he didn't want was to be thrown into the rubbish bin."

"I see."

Harry looked up at Snape again, wondering what the Potions Master thought of his relatives and the cupboard and...

"So, I take it your cousin did not wish to keep the books?"

Harry shook his head. Maybe the tall man would understand. He didn't appear angry, not like Uncle Vernon got angry at everything involving Dudley. Angry at Harry, that was.

"I asked Dudley if he wanted the books-they were all new. Some hadn't even been opened. But he said no, just throw them in the bin." He paused, then added. "I don't think Dudley could read all that well. He never seemed to get decent marks in his schoolwork, and I never saw him pick up a book unless it was to throw it at me."

"Hmm."

Harry met Snape's eyes once more. "I couldn't-I just COULDN'T throw away perfectly good books, sir! I LOVE to read! It's my favorite thing, really. Something I could do when they-when they locked me in. Usually, I read library books. I had to hide them so Dudley wouldn't ruin them to get me blamed. And when he told me to throw those books away, I just couldn't do it. So I hid them way back under my bed-he was too big to crawl under there, and I was really hoping he'd never even look. I just figured... Well, somebody had spent money on them, and it would be a waste if nobody ever read them... Did I do wrong, sir?"

Snape shook his head slowly. "No, Potter. I believe you did exactly right. If your cousin told you that he did not care to keep the books, I don't see why you should not have them for yourself. I will have a house elf put the books in your dormitory, along with your other belongings. You'll find them there when you move into Gryffindor Tower."

"Oh, thank you, sir!" Harry exclaimed, gratitude shining in his eyes. Then, a thought struck him. "Did you say a ‘house elf', sir? What's a house elf?"

Snape nearly smiled. "Hogwarts has over four hundred house elves who care for the castle and its occupants. Normally, you'll never see one, but you will see the results of their devoted service every time you put on a clean uniform, visit a clean bathroom, and eat in the Great Hall. They are also responsible for cooking and feeding the hundreds of people within the castle walls. You, however, will have the responsibility for keeping your own dormitory neat. The house elves are not personal servants to the students, Potter."

"Oh," grinned Harry, "That's okay, then. I'm used to cleaning up after myself. And after the Dursleys, too. I'm quite good at it."

Snape did not dispute the boy's claim, as he'd seen how neatly the boy's personal items had been organized in both the Cupboard and The Smallest Bedroom. He did have a question for Harry, however. Something had been absolutely plaguing him since he'd first discovered it. Curiosity piqued, he had to ask.

"Just out of curiosity, Potter, who is this supposed to be?" asked the Potions Master, holding out one of Harry's crayon drawings and pointing to a person who appeared to be wearing both a dress and a moustache.

Having resumed spooning up his nutritious treat, Harry nearly snorted custard out his nose.

"That's Aunt Marge," he said darkly. "She's not related to me, not really-she's Uncle Vernon's sister-but I have to call her ‘Aunt Marge' anyway. She has this horrible dog named Ripper. That's him, there. That's a picture of the day he chased me up the tree. I was so afraid he'd bite me again. And Aunt Marge wouldn't call him off. They all stood in the back garden and laughed for hours while Ripper had me treed. She finally took Ripper and went home when it started getting dark. Then I could come down."

"And her ... moustache?"

Harry scraped his spoon around the bottom of the emptied custard bowl, wishing there had been just a bit more. "Oh, yes. She's got a big one. Just like Uncle Vernon's. It must run in the family."

Snape smirked, causing Harry to grin before his pink tongue came out to lick away a smidge of custard clinging to the corner of his mouth.

"And now, the Dreamless Sleep." He handed the vial to Harry, who sniffed the contents carefully.

"Hey, this one doesn't smell too bad." He sipped it, smiled, and downed the contents in two gulps. Almost immediately, he felt lightheaded and carefree. "That works fast..." he murmured, easing his tousled black head down against the pillow. "Thanks ... for everything ... Professor..."

And Albus Dumbledore, Minerva McGonagall, and Poppy Pomfrey watched bemusedly as Severus Snape gently tucked the covers around Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Slept.

Harry woke in the dim Hospital Wing, groping for a moment to remember where he was and how he had gotten there. Above the curtained panels surrounding his bed, he could see the tops of the tall, tall windows. The black night had faded to a pre-dawn shade of dark gray. A tiny wisp of cloud seemed to grow ever brighter against the sky as he watched, its pale ash color barely beginning to tinge with pink.

Morning was almost here, and it wouldn't be long until Harry could begin his new, better life at Hogwarts! Smiling, he rolled over and fumbled his glasses from the bedside table. He just had to find out what was making that awful ratchety noise across the room. How could anyone be expected to sleep through such a racket!

But his investigation got temporarily sidetracked when he caught sight of an array of items displayed upon the hard-backed visitor's chair next to his bed. A full school uniform, including a red-and-gold necktie and long wizards' robes! The robe even had a crest on it, with a rampant lion proudly captured in mid-roar. Shoes, which Harry could instantly see would fit him perfectly, and a pair of socks neatly rolled into one shoe. Beneath the plain white long-sleeved shirt, he discovered a pair of pristine briefs, just his size. Harry blushed a bit, but he was grateful that someone had thought of his needs beyond the regulation uniform itself.

Besides the clothing, he saw a stack of textbooks, a selection of that heavy paper like his school letter had been written upon-parchment, right?-some in sheets, some in rolls, plus two quills and a stoppered bottle of black ink. Imagine! Writing with FEATHERS! What a change from using Dudley's worn-down pencil stubs... And to top it off, a stout bag to tote everything in. Excellent!

As for the noise-

Harry crept cautiously from behind his bedscreens, following the sound to its source, his bare feet silent upon the cold stones, although he was pretty sure nobody could have heard him walking in leather shoes over the rasping, ratchety racket of...

He carefully pushed aside a curtain of the bedscreens across the aisle and realized it was Hagrid's snores which had awakened him.

Huh.

In the Hut, Hagrid had never snored as he'd drifted in and out of consciousness. Maybe the snoring meant he really was getting better, because snoring happens when you're asleep, right? Not unconscious? Harry shrugged. He was certainly glad if the snoring indicated that the sleeping large man was recovering, but it was just so LOUD!

He dropped the curtain back in place and nearly shot three feet into the air when a hand touched his shoulder.

"Mr. Potter!"

Harry sagged, his adrenaline rush causing all of his limbs to shake uncontrollably. "Madam Pomfrey!" he gasped, feeling his heart trying to pound its way out of his chest.

"What are you doing out of bed in the middle of the night? You should be sleeping!"

"Um ... I woke up when I heard-" he gestured at Hagrid's bedscreen. "It was kind of loud, ma'am."

Madam Pomfrey flicked her wand and Hagrid's snores abruptly ceased. At Harry's startled expression, the nurse explained, "Silencing Charm. It cancels sound. Hagrid is still snoring, but the noise won't disturb you anymore."

"Oh." Harry nodded. He was getting good at nodding at amazing information, he thought. "Magic again."

"Yes. Was there anything else you needed, Mr. Potter?"

Harry didn't think twice before blurting out, "A bathroom."

"Right this way," Madam Pomfrey said, directing him down the aisle and showing him to the door next to a narrow room which appeared to be her private office.

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Back to bed with you the moment you finish," she said sternly.

"Yes, ma'am."

For an ancient castle, the facilities looked modern enough, Harry noted as he flushed the toilet. Sinks and a couple of showers, which included animated dragons decorating the shower curtains, completed the room's accoutrements.

Leaving the bathroom, he ran on cold feet back to his own bed, carefully closing the bedscreen against the nurse's sharp watch. Before he climbed back into bed, he rummaged in the drawer of the bedside table, where Professor Snape had stashed his artwork and a few additional odds and ends from his room on Privet Drive. And ... yes! A penlight. Dudley's, to be precise, which his rotund cousin had inadvertently dropped in the flower bed under the lounge windows. Harry had kept it hidden in his drawer in the smallest bedroom after finding it while weeding Aunt Petunia's prized chrysanthemums. And Snape had brought it along with the artwork Harry had left in his desk at the Dursleys'.

Penlight in hand, Harry quickly perused the stack of textbooks on the chair's seat, extracting the volume required for his Potions class. After also pulling out the thick book on magical plants, he clambered back into bed, briefly chafing his cold feet to warm them before settling down under the covers to begin reading about Potions. To be doubly safe, he pulled the blanket all the way over his head to hide the thin beam of the penlight from being spotted by Madam Pomfrey.

Happier than he'd ever been, Harry prepared for his favorite class. He remained immersed in the world of potions and a myriad of intriguing ingredients as he read as fast as he could, astounded at discovering that werewolves were REAL while reading about a herb called "wolfsbane"-whoa!

At long last, he heard the nurse's soft step approaching, so he poked his head out from under the blanket and feigned sleep until she whisked open the bedscreen to reveal the rising sun peeking over the not-so-distant mountains.

"Time for your first nutritive potion, Mr. Potter. Along with a light snack. Professor McGonagall will be arriving to escort you to the Great Hall for a regular breakfast later, but this potion must always be taken with food."

"Yes, ma'am," Harry replied, downing the contents of the vial while wisely holding his breath.

The nurse gave a flick of her wand-how long until HE could do that?-and a floating tray appeared above Harry's knees. Upon it was a bowl of porridge, complete with brown sugar and cream, and a glass of orangey liquid which tasted like ... like a spiced pumpkin tart, Harry decided. Mmm... He eagerly set to work with his spoon as Madam Pomfrey disappeared behind Hagrid's bedscreen. By the time she reemerged, Harry had shoved the Potions texts securely beneath his puffy pillow and was still spooning up porridge. Not that porridge was necessarily his favorite breakfast, but to be able to eat an entire bowl of it instead of scraping the gummy leavings from the Dursleys' pot... What a magnificent way to start off his first day at Hogwarts!

"Madam Pomfrey?" Harry called quietly when the nurse left Hagrid's enclosure. He waved his hand to make sure he captured her attention.

"Yes, Mr. Potter?"

He pointed at his glass of orangey liquid. "I was just wondering-what is this? It's awfully good," he added hastily, not wanting the woman to think he was complaining.

"It's pumpkin juice," she told him with a smile. "Full of vitamins and nutrients."

Pumpkin juice! Who would have thought?

"Thank you," he smiled, and the Medi-witch returned to her office.

Harry had to wonder if his mum and dad had liked pumpkin juice as much as he did. He made it last, taking small sips after every few bites of porridge.

Just as Harry drained the last drop from his glass, the door of the Hospital Wing opened quietly. Professor Snape glanced his way and nodded briefly before disappearing into the nurse's office. Quick as a wink, Harry leapt from the bed, grabbing the Potions books from beneath his pillow and stashing them back in the pile of texts on the chair. It wouldn't do for Professor Snape or Madam Pomfrey to discover he'd been reading in bed instead of sleeping. They might not let him go to class! Harry tossed the penlight into the drawer and slid back under the covers a mere couple of seconds before Snape strode out of the office and headed directly for his bed. The man whirled his wand in a complicated movement before speaking.

"Good morning, Potter," said the Potions Master, his deep voice quiet. Harry didn't know if the man was being considerate of Hagrid, or if Hagrid could even hear anything-did the Silencing Charm that Madam Pomfrey had cast work both ways?

"Good morning, Professor! How are you?"

Snape's eyebrow went up, but he replied calmly, "I am quite well. And you?"

Harry grinned. "Just wonderful, sir! I can't wait to go to class!"

The dark man almost smiled. "I don't doubt that this will be a new and exciting experience for you." He flicked his wand and a second hard-backed chair suddenly appeared. After seating himself-how DID he manage all those folds of material so gracefully?-he looked at Harry ... stared into those wide emerald eyes ... and said gravely, "I have brought something for you."

Harry looked at him wordlessly, wondering. "Is it a potion?" he guessed at last. What else COULD it be?

Snape's lips twitched. "Not quite." He reached into a dark fold of his robes and silently withdrew a slender stick. The man hesitated, gently stroking the length of the polished wood with a slender forefinger. Then, slowly, ceremoniously, he turned the stick-a WAND, Harry realized-and held it out to Harry, handle end first.

The boy stared at the man. "For-for me?" he whispered.

Snape nodded. "Until you can be taken to Ollivander's to buy your own. You shall need a wand to use this week. I had hoped this one might perform suitably for you, since you already share magic with it."

"I do?" Harry's eyes were nearly popping as he reached out to grasp the pale, gracefully-carved wand. The wood felt smooth. Warm. Welcoming. Almost familiar in some unknown way.

"Give it a wave," Snape suggested, then immediately grabbed Harry's moving arm to direct the wand's tip AWAY from Snape. "THAT way, Potter, if you please."

"Sorry, sir," Harry apologized, flushing red with embarrassment. Gee... The very first time he'd held a wand, and he'd already very nearly blown it. Maybe being a wizard was more than a simple matter of blood and genetics, huh?

But then the reality washed over him, erasing his initial discomfiture at his own ineptness-a WAND! He was HOLDING a WAND! Harry could swear he could FEEL Magic! HIS Magic ... ready to flow through the wand...

He gently waved the wand, and a single golden spark shot out, floating weightlessly to the stone floor. "WOW!" Smiling with delight, he gave it a more definite wave and was rewarded with a shower of golden sparks. "WHOA! WICKED!"

"It seems to respond adequately to your magic," said the Potions Master, the corners of his black eyes crinkling, although Harry wouldn't have said the man was openly smiling. "You should experience no difficulty using it as a substitute until you obtain your own wand."

"Thank you, sir!" Harry held the wand in his right hand, gently caressing the blond wood. "You said that I already shared magic with this wand?"

Snape nodded.

The boy frowned at him in puzzlement. "How is that possible? And how do you know that, sir?"

The Potions Master sighed, the sigh so heavy that it lifted his black robes and seemed to take a long time deflating the voluminous expanse of fabric. "This wand belonged to your mother, Lily. I... I have cared for it since her death."

Harry stared down at the length of pale wood. His mother's wand. She had held this wand in her own hand. She had performed magic with this wand. Tears pricked at the corners of Harry's eyes, and suddenly his cheeks were wet. This wand was the closest connection he'd ever had with either of his parents since their deaths.

"I..." His voice choked before he could whisper, "I don't know what to say, sir."

Snape sighed again, smaller this time. "I am certain that Lily would be pleased to know that her wand works for you."

Harry nodded, wiping the back of his hand across his wet cheeks. "Thank you, sir. I-I'd like to believe that, too." He continued to stroke the wand, his fingertip caressing the graceful carvings, trying to remember something-anything-about his mother. Finally, he asked, "What's it made of?"

"Willow," Snape replied, adding, "known to have an affinity for excellent Charms magic. It also has a core of unicorn hair."

"UNICORN hair?" Harry gaped at him. "But unicorns aren't real!"

Snape Looked at him.

"Oh," Harry mumbled, remembering his earlier discovery of werewolves and realizing the error in his assumption. "I suppose ... well, if you say they are, they must be, then. But Aunt Petunia always said they were make-believe."

The man rolled his eyes, looking disgusted. But when he addressed the boy, his voice was even. "Set the wand aside for now. We need to have a serious discussion before you begin classes."

Harry obediently stretched sideways to lay the wand on the table. Then he sat up straight in the hospital bed, looking expectantly at Snape, wondering what serious thing the Potions MASTER was planning to tell him about Potions.

Snape stared deeply into Harry's emerald eyes, and the boy suddenly felt as if he had fallen into a deep, black tunnel.

"Potter..."

After a moment's hesitation, when the man seemed to lose his train of thought, Harry offered, "You can call me Harry, if you like, sir. You did once last night, you know. When you were telling me about my parents."

Snape shook his head slightly. "But I should not have done so. I always address students by their last names. It would be improper of me to address a student in a familiar fashion. I suppose that the set of unexpected circumstances in which I had found you led to my eventual breach of decorum."

"Oh," said Harry, thinking that he sort of understood what Snape meant. But after a moment's

further thought, he added, "But last night, classes hadn't started yet when we met, and we weren't at school to begin with, just in the Hut, and I didn't even have a uniform or books, so I wasn't REALLY quite a proper student last night, like I am today. So maybe you won't get in trouble with the Headmaster for calling me Harry last night, sir."

Snape couldn't repress a snort of amusement. The child certainly shared his mother's rather convoluted logic process. Lily had always been able to figure out a way to justify most anything, if she thought about it long enough.

"Perhaps," he agreed. "However, from now on, it shall have to be ‘Potter' all the way. Do you understand?"

Harry nodded vigorously, his tousled hair bouncing.

"But the matter which I wished to discuss with you goes far beyond forms of address." He looked at the boy waiting attentively. "Do you remember what the Headmaster told you of your parents' ... demise?"

"An evil Dark wizard murdered them."

Snape seemed to wince. "Yes. But you need to be aware that the Dark Lord was not acting alone. He also had numerous followers."

Harry's eyes widened. "But he's gone now."

"His followers, however, survive, Potter, and they are convinced that you destroyed their leader. Many of them would like to kill you in revenge."

Suddenly, Harry couldn't seem to breathe. "Kill ... ME...?" he finally gasped, twisting the bedclothes in white-knuckled fists. "ME?" he repeated, his green eyes searching Snape's black ones imploringly.

"Yes," said Snape, regarding him steadily.

"But... But... But this is Hogwarts!" Harry blurted out. "It's a Magic castle! They can't get to me here, can they? Wouldn't the Magic protect me?"

Snape leaned forward, regarding the boy intently. "You must understand. The Dark Lord's followers also have children-just as your parents had you. And the followers' children are also students here at Hogwarts."

Harry felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach. His mind began to whirl in a panic. His parents murdered. And people wanted to kill HIM. And THEIR children were right here in the castle... Even life with the Dursleys had never seemed this bad; even if they hated him, they

hadn't wanted to kill him. Except... Uncle Vernon HAD aimed the shotgun at him. And they HAD actually abandoned him in the Hut of No Return. They certainly hadn't meant to return for him, had they?-not after shooting Hagrid. They'd left him to die... And then he'd finally been rescued, only to find out that other people he didn't even know also wanted him to die...

Gasping ... gasping ... gasping ... gasping...

Harry heard the gasping sound, and he realized after a moment that it was his own breath heaving in the silence of the Hospital Wing. He struggled to control it-

But then Snape did something with his wand, and it was suddenly easier for Harry to breathe.

"One small sip," said Snape, extending a vial of pale violet potion. "It's a Calming Draught."

Harry sipped ... and the world began to slowly turn again. He could breathe. Deeply. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. When he felt in control of himself once again, his eyes sought Snape's.

"I do not mean to upset you," Snape assured him quietly, although Harry felt anything but reassured. "However, for your own safety-as well as my own-you need to be aware of certain circumstances which will affect your life from now on."

Still breathing, Harry bobbed his head slightly in acknowledgment. "I understand."

"Not fully," corrected Snape. "Not yet. Understanding requires both time and context in order to fully comprehend. For now, you must be aware that not everyone in the Wizarding world considers you a hero, including some students in this school."

Harry gulped. "Which ... which ones, sir?"

The Potions Master frowned. "I cannot name specific names. But you must always watch your back. The teachers on staff at this school are all dedicated to protecting you, Potter, but you must also do your part. Do not give your trust too quickly to anyone, or too blindly. Be particularly cautious regarding students from ... Slytherin."

The boy didn't even feel his jaw drop. "But you're the Head of Slytherin!"

Snape's lips tightened. "Which leads to another facet of our discussion."

Harry didn't know how many more facets he could take in all at once.

"Not all Slytherins would wish you harm. Likewise, not every member of the remaining houses would wish you well. Enemies may be found EVERYWHERE. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," he whispered.

"Additionally..." Snape paused, "Additionally, I fear that I am destined to disappoint your expectations of me as a teacher."

"What?" Harry's eyes popped again. This couldn't be! "How? Why? I don't understand, sir- you're the Potions MASTER!"

Snape slowly nodded. "Indeed. However, as you pointed out, I am also Head of Slytherin and, as such, have a long-standing reputation of favoring my own house when it comes to awarding points."

Harry thought that through, long and hard. Finally, he asked, "What does that mean for me, sir? As a student in your class? You would disappoint my expectations of you ... how?"

The corners of Snape's mouth twitched, almost as if he were trying to smile, although the rest of his expression could almost be described as sad.

"It means, Potter, that while you may be prepared to consider Potions your favorite class and give it your every effort, I cannot afford to give points willy-nilly outside the students of my own House. It would break a pattern which I have striven to uphold for more than a decade."

"So..." Harry frowned, concentrating, "Does that mean I wouldn't get credit I deserved, or does it mean that Slytherins get credit they don't deserve?" And before Snape could reply, he added, "And why do you have to maintain a ... pattern?"

The man gave a dark chuckle. "You are every bit as clever as your mother, Potter."

Harry's eyes glowed a warmer green at the compliment.

"In answer to your first two questions, yes, to both. As for the pattern," Snape's face seemed to lose expression, "In public, I must continue to favor Slytherin. Due to certain circumstances involving certain students whose backgrounds I have already discussed."

Suddenly, Harry began to see the light... "Those students. Their parents. You're..." He did NOT want to say "afraid", but the professor's intent was staring him in the face. "You're concerned about their parents' reactions, aren't you? But why? Have they threatened you or something? Couldn't you go to the Headmaster and have him set them straight?"

Snape stared deeply into Harry's eyes once again.

"I believe I have said enough for the time being, Potter. And, as I mentioned earlier, full understanding will come with time and context, which you undoubtedly will absorb through interactions with your fellow students through your years at here at Hogwarts. Suffice to say, if I fail to publicly acknowledge or reward your efforts in my class, rest assured that you

will be given the credit you deserve in the marks you earn, but only in my private record. Understood?"

"Yes, sir. Sort of. I just wish you could explain it ALL right now."

Snape's long hair swung darkly when he shook his head. "Not a chance, Potter. You will have to be satisfied with what I have offered for the time being, and allow the full context unfold in its own time."

Disappointed, Harry shrugged. "If you say so, sir."

"I do," stated the Potions Master emphatically. "And one thing further, Potter."

"Yes, sir?"

"This discussion is NOT-and I repeat NOT-to go farther than this hospital bed-right here, right now. You may NOT divulge any of this PRIVATE discussion to any other students now, or into the future. Do you understand?"

Snape was glaring at him. GLARING! Without warning, and with a single change of expression, the black-robed man's demeanor transformed into something utterly-and dangerously- forbidding.

Gulping, Harry replied, "Yes, sir. I understand." Even though he didn't, not really. Not the reason, that is. "I won't tell a soul."

"Good."

Harry nodded like a puppet.

"One other thing. Do not expect for me to become your favorite teacher."

"Sir?" Harry stared at the man in confusion.

"Last night, in the Hut, I had the distinct impression that you had already decided that Potions would be your favorite class, since you were so interested in chemistry."

At the memory, Harry couldn't help grinning. "Yes, sir!" he agreed whole-heartedly.

Snape glared again. "Regardless of your seeming obsession with Potions, I shall make every possible effort to discourage you from viewing me with admiration. You will NOT smile at me in class, Potter. Or anywhere else. Do I make myself clear?"

The young Gryffindor smirked a bit and began ticking off items on his fingers. "Right. Let me

see. I'm supposed to work my arse off and not complain when I don't get public recognition. I should probably pretend to hate the class even if I love it. I'm never to smile at you because the Slytherins' parents would threaten your job-for whatever reason that I'm not supposed to learn for several more years. And even if you're the greatest teacher I've ever had, I'm not to let on. Did I miss anything? Oh, and I'm never to mention a word of this conversation to anyone, not ever."

He opened his emerald eyes as wide as he could, just like he'd done with Madam Pomfrey the night before, staring at Snape with an expression of absolute, deliberate innocence.

"Five points from Gryffindor for cheek, Potter."

"What!" Harry was outraged. "But that's not fair!" Clenching his fists, he seethed under Snape's humorless, closed-lip smile. He couldn't believe that the Potions MASTER had just turned on him!

"Now you're catching on," purred Snape in his silky, deep voice. "That one was for practice, but the point deduction stands."

Harry glared at the man furiously, his fists still clenched as if to strike out, but he realized he couldn't do anything of the sort. He was powerless in the face of Snape's undisputed authority.

"Excellent, Potter. Keep this up, and we shall get on splendidly. Do not be late for class." Snape rose, shaking out the folds of his ebony robes. The morning sun angling across the width of the Hospital Wing put a tinge of color into his pale face. "As for your mother's wand, do treat it with all respect. Return it to me PRIVATELY when you have acquired your own, and I shall keep it safe for you until you have passed your N.E.W.T.'s."

"Newts, sir?" asked Harry, distracted despite his anger over being docked five points before he'd even gone to his first class. "Like eye of newt, toe of dog, or something like that? Wasn't that Shakespeare? Or maybe not? I've just heard kids chanting it sometimes. Uncle Vernon- well, I was never permitted to say it myself."

"Your Seventh Year final exams, Potter," Snape elucidated. "And you are to tell no one that you are using your mother's wand, or where you got it. Understood? It is simply on loan. Allow people to believe you obtained the use of a spare wand from your own Head of House."

More mysteries. But it was obvious that Snape did not intend to give a deeper explanation. Harry sighed. "Yes, sir."

Snape twirled his dark wand in another complicated pattern, one that reminded Harry of how Madam Pomfrey had made Hagrid's snoring go silent. Maybe Snape had made sure nobody could overhear them talking? That would make sense, if Harry was never to tell anyone what they had talked about. He watched as Snape opened the bedscreen shielding Harry's bed, and

Harry was delighted to see Hagrid's curious face peering at them from his own bed across the aisle.

"I shall see you in the Potions dungeon, Potter."

DUNGEON? Well, it was a castle, after all, but going to class in a DUNGEON...? In spite of himself, Harry just had to wonder if there were torture devices in the dungeon, in case the students did poorly at their lessons.

"'Allo, Perfessor! I didn't know yeh were talkin' t' ‘Arry over there. Madam Pomfrey tol'me how yeh helped t' rescue us from that Rock. Much obliged, Perfessor!"

"It is gratifying to see you looking so much improved, Hagrid. I wish you a full and speedy recovery."

"Thanks, Perfessor! Have a good day teachin'! It's a bran' new school year!"

Snape nodded regally before sweeping his robes along the aisle and through the door to the corridor.

"Hi, Mr. Hagrid!" Harry called, hopping out of bed and scampering across the aisle to greet the smiling bearded man. "How do you feel?"

"'Allo, ‘Arry! I'm feelin' much better, now that I'm back at Hogwarts, yeh know. An' yeh're here, too-I tol' yeh they'd come, r'member?"

Harry grinned. Hagrid's happiness was contagious!

"Yes, sir, Mr. Hagrid! And they really came! I'd just about given up hope," he confessed in a smaller voice, his head drooping to stare down at his bare toes. But it really seemed like they'd had to wait FOREVER for someone to rescue them.

"Nah," Hagrid shook his hairy head. "Yeh jes' have t' be patient, tha's all. An' do call me ‘Hagrid'-ev'rybody does. Jes' Hagrid, tha's who I am."

"And I'm just Harry," Harry said with a chuckle. Hagrid looked and sounded SO much better today! "But as for being patient-I tried and tried and TRIED to send for help while we were stranded in the Hut."

Hagrid's bushy eyebrows rose high on his forehead. "How'd yeh do that?"

"There were these owls, you see," Harry explained. "One came each day with a newspaper for you-wait a second!" He darted back to his own bed, collected the stack of Prophets and Hagrid's pocket change, and dashed back to present it all to the large man. "I hope you don't

mind that I read the papers," he said softly. "I didn't know anything about Wizards and I wanted to learn. I had to use your coins to pay the owls, but the leftover money is all there, except for one gold coin that fell through a crack in the floor. And there's one extra brownish coin, on account of I didn't know what to pay the first owl, or how, and it took off with that paper in its beak and didn't come back."

"Hmm... Tha' soun's like a full accountin', it does," Hagrid declared. "An' I thank yeh for payin' th' owls, ‘Arry. If yeh hadn't, th' Prophet mighta cancelled my subscription. An' it's jes' fine fer yeh t' read th' papers, but mind tha' yeh don't BELIEVE ev'rythin' they say. Th' Prophet has a nasty reputation fer printin' outlandish rubbish t' make sales. Mark my words-th' wilder th' story, th' more likely it is t' be full o' half-truths an' outright lies. R'member that, ‘Arry."

"I will, Hagrid, I promise," Harry said solemnly. And then he returned to the issue of the owls. "I kept trying to send out a message that we needed help, but those owls outsmarted me every single time. I did have one last plan to get a message out, but Professor Snape, Headmaster Dumbledore, and Madam Pomfrey rescued us before I had to try it."

Hagrid stretched, causing a lot of popping noises in various joints all over his body. "Yeh see, ‘Arry, yer problem was th' fac' tha' those partic'lar owls were newspaper owls. They ONLY d'liver newspapers, not pers'nal post. Yeh need a post owl t' send post. Jes' out o' cur'os'ty, what all did yeh try, anyway, t' get th' newspaper owls to take a message askin' fer help?"

Combining a bit of pantomime with his explanation, Harry entertained Hagrid by recounting his misadventures with each of the newspaper owls. By the time he'd finished, Hagrid was mopping away tears of laughter with the corner of his bedsheet. "Ach," he gasped through his laughter, "I wish I'da been able t' see it! O' course, if I'd been conscious, I coulda tol' yeh tha' those owls would never take a message." He chuckled deeply, causing the entire enlarged bed to shake alarmingly. "Jes' out o' cur'os'ty, wha' WAS yer final plan?"

Harry laughed. "Oh, that! I'd decided when the next owl showed up, I'd grab the paper and shove the message in between the newspaper pages while I had my back turned to the owl. Then, when I refused to pay, I figured the owl would do exactly the same as the first newspaper owl-just grab the entire unpaid-for paper and fly off with it. I hoped that whoever got the returned paper might open it, see the message fall out, and send help."

"Well, ‘Arry, tha' las' plan mighta actually worked!" Hagrid's laugh boomed throughout the Hospital Wing, causing several of the windows to rattle. "Tha' was right clever thinkin' on yer part, I mus' say."

"Thanks!" grinned Harry, his eyes sparkling greenly. "But I guess we'll never know now, will we?"

That set them both to laughing, just as Madam Pomfrey rounded the bedscreen to shoo Harry back to his own bed.

"Time for your shower, young man." She handed Harry a robe, a towel, and a washcloth, then pointed emphatically under the edge of his bed. "Your SLIPPERS are THERE. No more running about in bare feet. As a result of your ... ordeal ... your immune system is already fragile, and I do NOT want you to end up back in this bed due to illness, do you hear?"

Eyes wide, Harry nodded. "Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry about the slippers, Madam Pomfrey. I didn't see them there."

"Where else did you think they would be?" she demanded sternly.

"I-uh-I actually didn't think, you see. I'd never had..." Harry's voice trailed off in embarrassment.

The nurse's expression softened. "Well, never mind. Just run along to your shower, then dress. Your Head of House will be here soon to take you to the Great Hall."

"Yes, ma'am." And waving a temporary good-bye to Hagrid, Harry hurried off to the bathroom.

By the time Professor McGonagall entered the Hospital Wing, wearing black robes with tartan edging, Harry had dressed completely except for the red-and-gold necktie.

Uncle Vernon had always tied Dudley's ties, but Harry had never even had a castoff to practice with. And now this stupid length of striped fabric was defeating him even more obstinately than the newspaper owls had. Even Hagrid had been of no help.

"Don' wear ‘em, ‘Arry," he denied, waving away the tie that Harry had held out toward him in desperation. "No idea how t' tie ‘em. Yeh better ask someone wi' ‘sperience."

"Couldn't I just leave it off?" Harry whined. "I HATE this stupid thing!"

"Indeed not, Mr. Potter," stated McGonagall. "That tie is part of your school uniform, not merely frivolous decoration, and without it, you would not be properly attired."

"But-"

"Mr. Weasley is your prefect. He will assist you with your tie this morning."

A tall, red-haired boy stepped forward past McGonagall, his hand extended. "Percy Weasley, Potter. An honor to meet you."

"Um... Thanks," said Harry. "You, too." He put the offensive tie into Percy's outstretched hand, causing two younger students behind him to snicker with ill-suppressed amusement.

McGonagall whipped her head toward the boys, who appeared to be about Harry's own age. "Longbottom! Weasley!"

Harry couldn't understand why, exactly, but the stern witch's hissing admonition inexplicably-

and creepily-reminded him of Mrs. Figgs' cats.

"But Professor," said the younger student with red hair the same shade as the prefect's, "Percy was going to shake hands with Potter!" He dissolved into open laughter this time.

Harry's face suddenly flushed redder than the Weasleys' hair as he realized his gaffe. "Oh ... sorry," he mumbled, dropping his eyes to the floor.

"Don't mind my brother, Potter," said Percy as he shook Harry's hastily re-extended hand. "Ron is just being a prat. As usual."

Ron stuck out his tongue at Percy's back, causing Harry to grin involuntarily before Percy spun him around so that Percy was standing immediately behind Harry. With a weird-sounding incantation and a flick of his wand, Percy caused a mirror to abruptly pop into midair right in front of the pair of them.

"Watch closely, now," Percy instructed, whipping the tie around Harry's upturned shirt collar. Harry tried to follow the sequence of the flipping ends of the tie, but he lost track before Percy's nimble fingers slid the knot snugly against his throat. "There you go, Potter. Got that?"

"Um ... maybe. It went a bit fast," he admitted. Upon seeing Percy's reflection frowning at him, he added, "You must be quite good at it, I expect."

The tall prefect looked mollified. "It just takes practice, that's all. If you need more help, you may ask me this evening in the Gryffindor Common Room. Now, fetch your books-we'll be going directly to classes following breakfast."

When Harry lugged his bulging bag from his chair, McGonagall stopped him.

"Here is your class schedule, Potter. You won't need all of your books today." She flicked her wand, and Harry nearly staggered sideways as half of the books suddenly leapt out of his bag to float in mid-air. "I shall send these to your dormitory, Potter, along with the remainder of your personal belongings."

"Thank you, Professor," said Harry, clutching his schedule tightly in his free hand.

"Come on, you lot," ordered Percy rather imperiously, striding so rapidly that he was halfway through the corridor door before the younger boys could run to catch up.

"'Bye, ‘Arry!" called Hagrid. "Good luck!"

"'Bye, Hagrid!" Harry paused just for a second to wave back before stepping through the doorway into the halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

-:-

-:-

-:-

Hogwarts castle was HUGE, Harry discovered.

By the time the four boys had descended several flights of stairs (waiting in one case for a set of steps to swing over to them), navigated various identical-looking corridors (lined with statues, suits of armor, and moving portraits which could actually SPEAK!), and finally reached the massive doors leading into the Great Hall, Harry felt hopelessly lost. When he mentioned as much to Percy, the prefect tried to reassure him by saying that if he ever needed directions, he could ask any older student for assistance.

"Just don't ask the Slytherins," he warned. "We might never see you again."

"Why not?" Harry asked, wondering if he could acquire some of the "context" which Snape had seemed determined to deny him earlier.

"Liars, the lot of them, right, Perce?" said Ron emphatically.

The round-faced dark-haired boy, whose name Harry had learned was Neville Longbottom, bit his lip nervously. Harry suddenly realized that he was biting his OWN lip.

"How can you tell which ones are Slytherins?" Harry asked Percy quietly, not that he could be overheard above the breakfast uproar in the Great Hall.

Percy's finger pointed, his arm swinging from one long table to another. "Hufflepuff-yellow and black with a badger crest. Ravenclaw-blue and white with a raven crest. We're red and gold with a lion. And THAT table along the wall is Slytherin-green and silver with a snake. Watch your back, Potter. A lot of Slytherins will ... well, things could get nasty. If you have any problems with them, tell a teacher-anyone but Snape, that is. Or tell a prefect. Except for a Slytherin prefect."

"Snape?" Harry repeated, wondering why Percy would feel the need to warn him about the man-the WIZARD-who had rescued him from the Hut.

"Snape," said Percy, his lips twisting in disgust. "That greasy git third from the left at the staff table. He wouldn't do anything to help you, Potter. In fact, he'd probably award points to his own house if a Slytherin did something TO you. Slytherins look after their own, Potter. Remember that."

Seems like a lot of people were telling him to remember things over the past twelve hours or so, Harry thought, looking at Neville who returned his look of trepidation before they followed Percy and Ron to the Gryffindor table.

During breakfast, Harry caught Snape's gaze upon him several times. He didn't feel the least

-:-

-:-

bit tempted to smile at the Potions Master, however-not after hearing Percy's warning against all things Slytherin. Still, when the man's dark gaze segued into that familiar black glare, Harry realized that Snape had been observing him pushing his food around on his plate. Not that the food was bad-far from it! It was actually the best breakfast Harry had ever had the opportunity to eat. But his own concerns about Slytherin arising from the night before were now reinforced with the prospect of possible trouble-even threats?-and if he couldn't trust Slytherin students on principle and gut instinct, could he really even trust Snape if a Gryffindor prefect warned him not to?

But Snape HAD rescued him, Harry stubbornly reminded himself. And if Snape himself had warned Harry against members of the man's own house ... didn't that count for something?

He glanced up at the Head Table and saw Snape staring at him. The man deliberately made a show of eating a forkful of omelet, and Harry realized if he failed to eat a proper breakfast, Snape might decide to send him straight back to the Hospital Wing! Hurriedly, he scooped up scrambled eggs and began eating as much as his shrunken stomach could hold. He'd have to eat a good lunch and dinner, too-he didn't want to risk missing a single class. He washed down part of a sausage and a slice of tomato with half a glass of the delicious pumpkin juice before rising to follow boisterous Ron and quiet Neville off to their first class.

-:-

-:-

-:-

By mid-afternoon, following his after-lunch study period, Harry was almost drooping with fatigue. In just half a day at Hogwarts, he'd already climbed a bazillion steps going to and from classes, meals, and the library, as well as checking in twice with Madam Pomfrey as required. In addition, he'd mentally worn himself out in Charms class trying to make a feather float. To top it off, in the weirdest shock of all, his Transfiguration teacher, Professor McGonagall, had turned out to be a cat! Or vice versa. And they were saying that tomorrow's classes would include a ghost teacher-it was almost too much to take in all at once!

But even as his feet dragged a bit traversing the stone floors of the endless corridors, he gave himself a mental kick. He COULDN'T allow himself to droop-not now! It was finally time for Potions! A double class, at that! And if Snape saw how tired he was... Although Harry had downed a vial of Pepper-Up Potion after lunch when he visited the Hospital Wing, he'd squirreled away the energy bar Madam Pomfrey had handed him, tucking it into his trousers pocket. Now, he whipped it out and unwrapped it, chewing vigorously to get the snack into his system before Potions class began. Swallowing the last of the bar, Harry squared his shoulders as he joined a mixed throng of Gryffindor and Slytherin First Years headed to the dungeons.

The DUNGEONS! Harry couldn't tell if it was just the word itself which affected his perception, but these lower stone corridors seemed far gloomier than those on the higher floors of the castle. Were the flaming sconces somewhat farther apart? Were the stone walls damper? Certainly, the heavy doors occurred with far less frequency as the group of students trailed the length of the interminable corridors. Not to mention, the very atmosphere seemed to hang

-:-

-:-

heavily in their nostrils as they breathed. Definitely chillier than upstairs, Harry thought. If he were to exhale heavily through his mouth, he would almost expect to see his breath fogging in the air.

"I'm going to be pants at Potions, I just know it," mumbled Neville disconsolately as he and Harry turned a corner. "My gran thinks I should have inherited my father's expertise at Potions-he scored an Outstanding N.E.W.T., you know-but when she gave me a Wee-Wiz Potions Set last Christmas, I kept screwing up one potion after another. It didn't help that my Great-Uncle Algie kept shouting at me when I was working, telling me to put the ingredients into the cauldron in a different order. I was following the printed instructions, but he said the person who wrote the Wee-Wiz instructions must have scored a Troll on his O.W.L.'s. Anyway, my Wee-Wiz potions failed every single time. I'm going to fail First Year Potions, for sure."

Harry gave Neville a sympathetic look, even as his own heartbeat sped up. Since Harry had never had a Wee-Wiz Potions Set to practice with, what were his chances at succeeding at real Potions? What if he was the ONLY person in the class never to have a Wee-Wiz Potions Set? He'd likely be at the very bottom at the class, no matter how much he tried to read ahead...

"They also say," continued Neville in a whisper as they approached the Potions classroom door, "that Professor Snape is the WORST teacher at Hogwarts. That he hates all the students except for Slytherins." He swallowed audibly. "I'm DOOMED, Harry. Just DOOMED."

By this time, they had reached the doorway leading into the classroom, and Harry himself swallowed hard as he got his first glimpse of what certainly did NOT resemble the brightly-lit, professionally-sterile laboratory of his imagination. After swiveling his head to take it all in, he felt his heart plummet toward the hem of his robes. It was difficult to envision himself brewing The-Magic-Potion-That-Saved-The-World in this darkly-intimidating room, even if he didn't have the added humiliation of wearing striped pajamas after all.

The dungeon classroom contained lab tables and tall wooden stools, yes. But the walls! Harry heard other students whispering "Merlin!" in shocked horror as they caught sight of row upon row of shelves completely covering the walls, neatly filled with jar after jar after polished jar of what must be potion ingredients, but the sight made his stomach squirm-were those EYES? And TONGUES? From what animals? And what was that slimy purplish-green mass MOVING around in that jar? And that other jar, there on the end-live worms of some sort that Harry had NEVER seen in Aunt Petunia's flower beds. And they kept splitting into MORE worms, and MORE worms, and MORE worms... The jar filled more than halfway before Harry could even manage to find an empty stool to sit on. And that clawed foot-it kept flexing its claws, even though it wasn't attached to any sort of controlling body. Another jar of eyes, and these seemed to be actually LOOKING at Harry, following his progress as he moved forward through the classroom...

His stomach clenched as he averted his eyes from a jar that appeared to be three-quarters full of Ripper's vomit, that time he'd gotten into the rubbish bin after the spoiled macaroni

casserole... The sight made Harry suddenly wish that he hadn't made a point of eating such a goodly amount of food for lunch.

Willing himself not to look at the contents of any more jars, Harry finally found an empty stool and sat down between Ron and a bushy-haired girl who'd repeatedly shown off her witchly brilliance in all of their earlier classes. She'd been the only one to succeed in making a feather float in Professor Flitwick's Charms class; Harry's efforts with his mother's wand had barely managed to move the feather a few inches across his desktop. The girl's attitude was insufferably pushy-she never seemed to stop talking authoritatively, whether in class or between classes or at every meal, even though it was everyone's first day at Hogwarts. At the moment, she was engrossed in lecturing poor Neville about what she believed he'd done incorrectly in Transfiguration, never mind that Professor McGonagall herself had praised Neville's attempts.

Suddenly, the massive dungeon door crashed open against the stone wall, causing all of the students to jump sharply in reaction to the loud noise. Professor Severus Snape, Potions Master, swooped to the front of the classroom, his dramatically billowing robes creating a draft which caused the flames to falter beneath the cauldrons along that side of the room.

The bushy-haired girl sat bolt upright on her stool, wand in hand, ready for action, although Harry couldn't begin to fathom how she thought a wand would play into brewing potions in a cauldron. Seconds later, he smirked in silent satisfaction when Snape admonished the class about foolish wand waving, and the girl's bushy hair brushed Harry's robed arm as she leaned over to tuck her wand into her school bag under their table.

Harry struggled a bit with his quill, but he managed to take notes, hanging on Snape's every word as he feverishly scratched inky letters across his sheet of parchment. He could comprehend how potions could be used to "bewitch the mind" and "ensnare the senses", but how could a person possibly learn to "bottle fame" or "brew glory"? As for putting a "stopper in death"-he dutifully scratched the words with the tip of his quill, but his mind wandered a bit, wondering if a potion could have prevented the evil Dark wizard from murdering his parents. Or, at least, prevented them from dying...

Miss Pushy-Bushy was elbowing him rather rudely, and he looked up to see the Potions Master darkly staring down at him from the dais in front of the blackboard.

-:-

-:-

-:-

WHAT, in Merlin's name, was the boy writing?

Severus Snape could barely hear himself speak over the persistent scritch-scritch-scritch of Har-POTTER'S quill. Any second now, the tip would surely break under the pressure that the boy was unnecessarily exerting upon it. Doubtless, the boy-Muggle-raised as he'd been- was accustomed to abusing Muggle writing implements, but quills needed to be handled with

-:-

-:-

finesse.

SKRICKKK...

Snape shuddered inwardly, the sound of Potter's quill grating on his nerves as sharply as fingernails scraped across a blackboard. He just HAD to stop the boy from abusing his quill. Perhaps a pop quiz would take the wind out of his sails. And note to self: someone would need to take Potter in hand and teach him how to write properly. He would mention that to the bottle-green tabby over supper.

That bushy-haired witch had finally managed to get Potter's attention by elbowing him. At least Potter's quill had fallen silent, and the boy was now staring up at him rather warily. One pop quiz coming up...

"Tell me, Potter, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?" Snape waited for the boy to shake his head in understandable ignorance. After all, he would not have received his textbooks until shortly before Snape himself had visited him in the Hospital Wing, and he had still been in bed at that time. Just one question, that's all he'd ask. Just to let his Slytherin First Years-one in particular-report to their parents that he'd managed quite satisfactorily to put the Boy-Who-Lived on the spot in his very first lesson. One question would suffice-he did not wish to humiliate Lily's boy, after all. She would never forgive him for it. Lily had been so good at Potions, second only to himself...

To Snape's annoyance, the bushy-haired Muggleborn's hand shot into the air. That one-yes. He'd heard McGonagall and Flitwick speaking about ... Granger ... over lunch. He'd need to do something about her, definitely. She was actually waving her hand when he had specifically directed his question to Potter instead of to the class in general.

But even Potter was looking annoyed at the girl's eager hand. To Snape's astonishment, after Potter had glared briefly at Granger, the boy spoke up rather confidently. "The Draught of Living Death, sir."

Granger's hand plummeted so hard that she banged her elbow painfully on the lab table. Snape hid a grin by compressing his lips in apparent displeasure at Potter's response.

"Indeed. Well, then, let us try another question, Potter-where would you look if I asked you to find a bezoar?" While the Draught of Living Death was mentioned in the Potions textbook's introduction, bezoars did not appear until Chapter Three, which discussed various antidotes to common poisons. Even if Potter had skimmed the text's lengthy introduction during his hour- long study period, surely he could not have progressed to the actual chapters.

But before the word "bezoar" had completely left his lips, the Granger girl's hand was waving like a dirigible plum in a tempest.

"He's asking ME!" Potter hissed at the girl before responding to Snape directly. "Actually, sir, I would look first in your Potions ingredients collection," he said, waving his own hand to acknowledge the impressive compilation of carefully polished jars on the dungeon room's endless shelves, "since you'd almost certainly have some on hand. They do originate in goats' stomachs, but I could probably kill a hundred goats and still not find one, since they are relatively uncommon."

At least the little br-POTTER-wasn't going all puppy-eyed on him, probably remembering the points taken in the Hospital Wing for cheek, but Snape would push him for a complete answer. "Their purpose? POTTER, Miss Granger, NOT you."

The bushy hair flounced as she jerked her hand down, glaring sideways at Potter as if he'd stolen her thunder.

"Bezoars will protect against most poisons, sir, but due to their rarity should be used only in extreme emergency when no other antidotes are readily to hand."

Potter actually had the temerity to smirk as he quoted verbatim from the text. Far too clever for his own good, groused Snape mentally. That was the sort of Gryffindor idiocy- overconfidence-that could get the boy killed one day. He would do far better to play down his intelligence to keep his enemies speculating.

Well, even if the boy had thumbed through the actual Potions text, surely he could never have stayed awake all night reading "1000 Magical Herbs and Fungi". The Hospital Wing would have been dark, and without a wand, Potter could not have cast a Lumos to read by.

"Would you care to explain the difference between-SIT DOWN, you silly girl!" shouted Snape, as the bushy-haired witch shot off her stool, waving her hand energetically toward the vaulted dungeon ceiling. "I am addressing Mr. Potter, in the first place, and I haven't even finished asking the question in the second place-how could your arrogance possibly assume that you would know the answer before the question has been asked, you incompetent creature?" Snape glared fiercely at Granger as she sank onto the stool, her hand lowering but slowly, almost as if she was ready to give it another go if Potter failed to answer correctly this time. In spite of the man's black fury, the girl's hand continued to hover somewhere between shoulder level and the table top. Enough was ENOUGH!

"Ten points from Gryffindor for insubordination, Miss Granger."

The hand finally flopped into her robed lap.

"POTTER, can you explain the difference between Monkshood and Wolfsbane?"

A desperate, despairing groan emanated from Granger, causing Potter to shuffle his stool closer to the latest Weasley boy, but at least the girl's hand stayed beneath the table.

"Monkshood and Wolfsbane are the..."

The boy's voice trailed off momentarily, and Snape followed the shift in Potter's vision to see an angry scowl on the pale, pointed face of one of his Slytherins. The boy's ugly expression was topped by white-blond hair, and Snape knew instantly that Potter had already made an enemy. A dangerous one.

"They're the same plant, which is also known as aconite," Potter finished.

"Quite," murmured Snape, glancing around at the other students. Most of the Gryffindors were staring at Potter as if he were, indeed, a celebrity, while the Slytherins seemed to mirror varying degrees of Malfoy's discontentment. How Potter had managed to absorb such diverse information since being rescued last night, the Potions Master had no idea. But the pop quiz- ill-advised, in retrospect-was over. No sense in assisting Potter to dig himself a deeper hole than he'd already done. Snape swooped along the aisle between two sections of lab tables. "WHY aren't the rest of you writing this down?" he thundered.

Instantly, the Potions dungeon sprang to life with a flurry of quills and parchment. Everyone seemed focused on writing, except for Potter, and Draco Malfoy, who continued to glare resentfully at the dark-haired boy, who in turn was just now realizing that his correct responses would not earn back any of the House points which Granger had lost for Gryffindor.

-:-

-:-

-:-

Harry breathlessly caught up to Ron and Neville as they were passing the doors of the Great Hall, having run from the dungeons after being held back by Snape following the dismissal of the remainder of his classmates.

"So, what did the dungeon bat want?" demanded Ron.

Neville was still brushing vainly at the garish yellow stain which his boiled-over potion had left on the sleeve of his black robes.

"Oh, he just told me to get instruction in how to write properly with a quill. He could tell I'd never used one before."

"Yeah-that scratching was rather loud, mate," said Ron, laughing as he swung his bag over his shoulder.

As they climbed ever upward to reach the heights of Gryffindor Tower, Harry pondered silently over Snape's low-voiced (in spite of the protective wards he'd cast) admonition against showing off everything he knew, so as to keep his enemies guessing about his true abilities.

-:-

-:-

"But you ASKED me, sir," Harry had protested.

Snape had smirked mirthlessly. "True. But that does not mean that you are required to answer every single question correctly. Or at all."

Hmm... There had to be a catch...

"But, Professor, if I don't answer, won't you deduct points?"

"Naturally."

Harry's emerald eyes darkened stormily. "But that's not fair. I'd rather answer what I know, even if you don't give me points, than to fake a wrong answer and have you take them away. What's your point then, sir? I know there has to be a point in there somewhere!" he accused, frowning mightily.

To his surprise, Snape actually smiled, the smile even crinkling the corners of his eyes. "The point, Potter, is that you need to learn to balance knowledge with the dispensing of that knowledge. Nobody likes a show-off, you know."

The light clicked on over Harry's head-that bushy-haired girl. "Miss Granger, you mean?"

"Among others. But did you enjoy her attempts to answer every single question?"

"No, sir. I thought she was a right... Well, it made me angry, sir."

"As did your answers make other students-Slytherins in particular-angry. I fear you have already made at least one enemy."

Harry gaped at him. "Who?"

Snape was no longer smiling. "Keep your eyes open, Potter. Choose your battles carefully from now on, even in the classroom. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir. I think so."

"Very well. Dismissed."

And as Harry had turned toward the massive door into the corridor, Snape added, "You need to find someone who can instruct you in the proper use of a quill. If you keep on writing as you are, you will break several quills a day, Potter."

Harry nodded. "Yes, sir. I'll do that. And Professor?"

Snape raised an eyebrow.

"Thank you, sir. I'm sure I'm going to like your class, even if I have to pretend I don't," he added cheekily, points be damned.

Snape snorted audibly, even as he pointed a stern finger at the dungeon door.

As Harry had hurried to catch up to the others, he couldn't help feeling irritated that he hadn't earned any points in Potions, not even with the near-perfect Boil Cure Solution he had managed to brew by the end of the double session. But at least he felt certain, after his first Potions class, that he could truly trust Severus Snape, Potions MASTER, to secretly help guide him through the cut-throat complexities of his brand new, different BETTER life! Hogwarts was, indeed, a birthday wish come true!

Now, ten floors so much higher up that the air MUST feel thinner than the heavy atmosphere down in the dungeons, Harry waited while Ron and Neville gave the password to the Fat Lady's portrait which guarded the entrance to the Gryffindor Common Room.

"Just wait till you see our dorm room, Harry," Ron told him eagerly. "The windows look right out over the lake, and if you tilt your head far to one side at the west window, you can even see one end of the Quidditch pitch!"

"What's Quidditch?" asked Harry, his emerald eyes wide.

-:-

-:-

-:-

Far below, in the silent dungeon, the Potions Master silently considered the empty stool where Lily's boy had sat.

"Fifteen points to Gryffindor," he whispered.

-:-

-:-