The glasses were folded and placed carefully on Snape's desk. Harry sat in the middle of the worktable, his hands gripping the edges and his feet swinging. The first thing he was handed was the glass of fizzy red potion.

"All of it?"

"Yes," Snape answered. "According to Flamel's notes, it will last for twenty-four hours."

"Let's hope so," Harry said. He took a swig of the potion, and shuddered as the fizzy solution bubbled through him.

Snape motioned for him to lie back, making sure the pillow was directly under Harry's head. He placed several plain white towels beside Harry, and pulled his stool up closely. Harry squirmed under the attention, finding it weird to have Snape leaning over his head.

"I don't think I can stay still," Harry warned, feeling his legs already twitching in nervousness.

"Hmm, perhaps I should have fetched the shackles from Filch's office," Snape said, turning in his seat as he prepared something out of Harry's range of view.

"Filch doesn't have shackles," Harry sputtered, narrowing his eyes as Snape came back into view. Something cold hit his forehead, and he could feel Snape's fingers rubbing the numbing salve over his scar.

"Been to his office a few times?" Snape asked, catching Harry. He'd finished with the salve, and Harry's forehead was numb. The outside of his scalp, around the scar area, felt tingly.

"Once," Harry admitted. Snape clanged something metallic against the tray, and Harry tensed up.

"Smell this," Snape said, putting a small white strip of parchment in front of Harry.

"What is it?" Harry asked, taking it. There were no markings on the parchment, and it smelled of vanilla. He was about to ask again, when he felt a calming rush flow through his body, and his limbs grow much heavier. Apparently it was Snape's version of a sedative.

"I will be asking you question throughout the procedure," Snape informed him, putting a pair of sterile latex gloves on. "To test whether it's gone or not."

"Okay," Harry quietly said. The pockmarks on Snape's lab ceiling were blurry without his glasses, which Harry somewhat regretted having to remove as it would have given him something to focus on instead of thinking about the surgery Snape was doing.

It was very odd, being this close to Severus Snape. For once the man had nothing in his eyes but pure concentration, his eyebrows narrowed as he focused intently on Harry's forehead. He'd drawn a small dotted line around Harry's scar, but due to the numbing salve, Harry hadn't felt it.

"Do you have any music you could play?" Harry asked, closing his eyes. It was weird to have Snape staring so intently at him and not be doing legilimency.

"I prefer to work in silence," Snape slowly answered. His wrist moved and something light passed the corner of Harry's eye, which he could see through his eyelid.

"What are you doing?" Harry asked, fearing that Snape was cutting him and it wasn't going well.

"Concentrating," Snape replied.

"Not what I meant," Harry grumbled. He felt pressure on his head, from Snape steadily holding him to work, but no pain. Snape still didn't speak for a few more minutes, but he did then release a small sigh of breath and sit up straighter. Something was whisked to the tray, and then a towel was quickly dabbed at the sides of Harry's head.

"What happened? Am I all right?" Harry demanded, unable to move his body away despite his panic.

"You're fine," Snape said, grabbing the syringe from the tray. "Flesh wounds always bleed a lot."

Harry opened his eyes widely to stare up at Snape, who was working quickly and moving between three different objects from the tray.

"It's really not very comforting that you know that," Harry said, fighting to stay calm.

"Halfway done," Snape said instead, not addressing Harry's comment.

"How can you do that without feeling sick?" Harry asked, trying to focus on a dark spot on the ceiling.

"When I was fifteen my father accidentally sawed his thumb off. I had to sew it back on."

Harry's mouth went slack in surprise.

"Did you really?"

"No," Snape said, and Harry could hear the smirk. "I used magic."

"Git," Harry muttered. "Why don't you just use magic for this?"

"That will be," Snape said, pursing his lips in concentration as he carefully lifted something away, "an hour of sweeping the floors in my flat, for disrespect."

"Sorry," Harry muttered, sure that he had two warm spots on his cheeks.

"I cannot use magic, as it is a curse scar and magic tends to repair things back to their previous state, something we are trying to avoid."

"Oh. Right."

There was a clanging noise, as Snape banged down tweezers or something similar on the tray.

"You've got the scar off?" Harry asked, mentally imagining what it looked like on his forehead. This turned out to be a bad idea, as he started to feel queasy thinking about a large bloody gash. He wondered what was underneath, if it was a layer of flesh, or just a thin covering over the bone of his skull.

"Yes," Snape answered, changing the angle he was working on and letting Harry see the black venom-filled syringe. An odd smell started to fill the room, one that took Harry a moment to recognize. It smelled like burnt bone, like when the dentist had drilled his tooth the very first time he'd ever had a cavity. The realization of what Snape was doing to him physically hit Harry hard, and his head started to feel light and disorientated.

"I'm really thirsty," Harry said, his voice sounding far away.

"You're also very pale," Snape said, sounding like he was on the other side of the room. That couldn't be true though, because there was his hand and...was that blood on his hand?

"I'm done," Harry whispered, closing his eyes.

...

Harry felt himself being pulled slowly up into a sitting position, his head heavy and slightly aching. There were still no sounds in the room, and it felt much colder than it had when he had first sat down on the table. Snape said nothing, instead hooking his arm under Harry's knees and across his shoulders to hoist him up. Harry's head fell back against Snape's shoulder as he was moved out of the lab and toward the warmer living room.

Snape knew he was slightly awake, but he didn't make Harry walk. Instead he continued into the living room and to the back of the couch, where the little red army cot was still set up. Harry was gently let down onto the cot, which was warm from the fire in the room. A light blanket was placed on top of him, and he grumbled as Snape double-checked the bandage on his forehead. Warm and happy to be off the hard worktable, Harry closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

...

"Harry."

"Mmmhph," Harry mumbled, pulling the blanket closer. It was tugged down from his grip, and Harry scrunched up his face in confusion.

"Harry, open your eyes."

Disorientated over the voice ordering him awake, Harry squinted his eyes open and tried to focus on the black figure in front of him.

"Headache?"

Harry rubbed his eyes with his fingers and it clicked in that it was Snape talking to him, that he'd woken up in Snape's flat. The memory of the scar surgery rushed back to him, and Harry tried to sit up.

"Is it gone?"

Snape, who was sitting again on the stool near Harry's camping cot, leaned forward and carefully peeled back the linen plaster that was on Harry's forehead.

"You still have a scar, but I believe the horcrux is gone."

Without saying anything else, Snape waved his wand in a slow arch over Harry's bed, conjuring an image of a small snake. Harry concentrated strongly on the photo and tried a few words, each time looking to Snape for confirmation.

"No parseltongue," Snape said, banishing the image.

"That's all right," Harry said with a sigh. "How's it look?"

"You'll need a glamour," Snape proclaimed, checking out the scar again. "But so far it looks promising."

"Brilliant," Harry said, struggling to sit up. Snape sat back to give him the room. "Thank you."

"Hmm," Snape hummed agreeably, pleased at his work.

"One left," Harry said, stretching.

"One left," Snape agreed. He stood and walked to the main part of the living room, sitting down in his favourite chair. "Get out of bed, that house elf Dobby brought hot chocolate."

"I'm going to miss Dobby," Harry said, carefully climbing out of the cot.

"Not to worry," Snape said, a little smile on his face. "You have plenty of sweeping to do to remind yourself of him."

....

On the night before the Hogwarts Express left, Harry sat on his bed with his journal, staring through the small window by his bed at the starry open night. His trunk was packed, his wardrobe empty, and Hedwig had been told to show up at breakfast so she could go into her cage. Like all the other boys in his dorm, Harry had carved his name under his bed, with the collection of many past generations. He couldn't sleep though, lost in thought that this could be his very last night ever at Hogwarts.

He and Snape had made the plans to destroy the final horcrux over the summer, but neither of them knew what would happen after. Would they be thrust back to their own time? Would they have to track down Quirrell and kill the Voldemort possession in his mind? Or would things simply continue, Harry as an almost nineteen year old in an almost twelve year old's body? With the last option he could at least grow up with Sirius, but his heart ached for the close friendship he'd had with Ron and Hermione. It already was slightly different, not quite as close, likely due to the age difference and the lack of reason the mature early. No, Harry was well aware that his relationships with Ron and Hermione would never be the same in this world.

Harry closed his journal quietly and placed it into his trunk. Snape was likely asleep, or perhaps of a last prowl through the halls of Hogwarts, savouring his own last night in the castle.

They'd made plans to go to Little Hangleton on Friday, to seek out the final ring horcrux. Snape wanted to destroy it at the decrepit little house, remembering what it had done to Dumbledore, but Harry had tried to convince him otherwise. He was anxious about what would happen afterward, and wanted to prolong the finality of destroying the horcrux.

He also wanted a chance to say goodbye to Sirius first, in the event that it did transport them somewhere, or worse.

Taking his wand, Harry traced it over the bottom on the headboard, just under the line of his pillow. He left four words, four scratchings of the plainest truth in his life, either times of them.

"This was my home."

Shutting his eyes, Harry fought off the night and tried to sleep.

....

Harry sat on one of the hard wooden benches at King's Cross station, his trunk and Hedwig's cage beside him. The Weasleys had already left, after Harry had reassured them four times that he was all right to wait for his relatives himself. Harry couldn't remember if the Dursleys had been late to get him after his first year, but he wasn't overly concerned. It wouldn't be too difficult to get to Little Whinging.

"Come on, boy, I haven't all day," his Uncle's gruff voice sounded, breaking into Harry's thoughts.

"Hullo, Uncle Vernon," Harry dutifully replied, carefully standing up. On the Hogwarts Express he'd placed his wand, journal, and invisibility cloak, into a plastic bag and cello taped it to the inside of his t-shirt. Vernon didn't notice it as he grabbed his trunk and the cage, and Harry knew that he just had to make it back to the house and then he could hide the items in his room.

He also expected that he'd be able to cast alohamora without a wand, but he'd made preparations just in case.

"Hmmph," Vernon grumped, walking ahead of Harry. "Traffic's already horrible, get moving."

When they finally arrived back to Privet Drive, Harry found that his memories had been quite correct. Vernon had immediately confiscated his trunk, locking it up in the cupboard under the stairs, and assuming that all of Harry's magical supplies were in the trunk. He was allowed Hedwig's cage up to his room, and Harry gratefully shut the door as he settled back in.

The room looked very bare, very different from the place he'd left only a year earlier. His old calendar was on the wall, the days until September 1st crossed off in bold red marker, and a badly drawn sketch of Hagrid was pinned underneath. He flopped onto his bed, kicking his shoes to the floor. The plastic bag parcel from under his shirt was yanked out, and Harry unwrapped it to find the journal warm. What could Snape have said? He'd only left Hogwarts early that morning, and as far as he knew, Snape would meet him at the end of the week, and they'd go to find the ring.

"Remember to alter your scar's appearance in the morning. Do not hex the Muggles."

Harry smirked at the message. Snape had successfully cut out the horcrux, but the scar leftover didn't quite look right. It only required a small bit of magic to fix though. The 'don't hex the Muggles' message seemed to be an afterthought, and one that Snape wasn't all that concerned about. He likely just didn't want to have to deal with Dumbledore or the Ministry if Harry did end up jinxing them.

.....

Harry woke up at just past seven the next morning, listening to his Aunt's footsteps in the hallway outside his door. It was almost eerie how he immediately recognized the sound, not having heard it in more than a year. Stretching, Harry pulled himself up out of bed and reached for his glasses. His journal was under his pillow, shoved under there after he'd had a written argument with Snape the night before. They'd argued over how to find Quirrell within Gringotts after the ring was destroyed, but it was more of an amusing argument than an irritating one, at least for Harry.

After pulling on some ratty tracksuit bottoms, Harry concentrated on his scar as he looked into an ornate hand mirror Snape had given him. They'd spent an hour practising how to wandlessly and subtly cover what the scar had turned out. Snape's stitching skills were quite impressive, but he'd not been able to replicate the exact lightning bolt shape that had been there. Harry figured that out of anyone, Aunt Petunia was probably the first person who would recognize how it had changed.

She was down in the kitchen with her coffee, sitting at the table in an old bathrobe and with her hair in curlers. She scowled at Harry when he came in, but didn't tell him to go away.

"I don't want you playing any funny tricks on my Dudley," she warned. Harry got himself a glass of orange juice and sat down at the table with her.

"I won't," Harry said, trying not to shrug. He knew how much shrugging and indifference to her warnings irritated her, and he wanted to keep her in a good mood this morning.

"I wanted to thank you," Harry said.

Petunia gave him a very suspicious look, and stood to pour herself more coffee.

"For what?" she snapped, and Harry could tell she was mentally trying to catalogue anything that she might have done for him.

"For taking me in," Harry answered, watching her carefully. "I know you've never wanted me, but you took me for my protection-"

"You know nothing of that night," she interrupted, a mixture of emotions on her face.

"I know more than you think," Harry quietly said, remembering the crying little boy in his cot, watched over by his mother's grieving friend on the floor. Before she could say anything else, Harry continued.

"I know Dumbledore told you to take me for my protection, and you did. And it worked."

Petunia was back at her seat, dumping copious amounts of sugar into her coffee. No wonder she always seemed high strung.

"What worked?" his Aunt asked, her voice lowered. She seemed to be stewing in her annoyance, that she'd been forced to take Harry. But he was family, by blood, and Harry knew that Petunia had secretly still somewhat cared about her sister.

"I met Voldemort at school this year," Harry bluntly said, watching her face for reaction. "He'd possessed one of the professors, and tried to kill me twice."

She gave him a stony glare, as if trying to ascertain whether what Harry was telling her was real. Harry hadn't ever lied to his Aunt though, and he suspected that she knew that.

"He couldn't do it though. Because of what you gave me."

"Hmmph," Petunia harrumphed, looking out the window into the back garden. The neighbourhood was still mostly asleep, but the birds were out and she watched them landing on the fence.

"Not a very safe school that man is running," she finally said, and Harry could tell that she felt slight validation for taking him in as a baby.

"Well," Harry said, with a small smile. "It's not so easy when the other side knows magic too."

Petunia gave him a piercing look, and drank the rest of her coffee.

"Twice?"

She was curious despite her stubborn pull not to know or care anything about Harry's world. Harry supposed that she did want to know, did want to hear about encounters with the man who'd killed her sister.

"Yeah," Harry said, taking his glasses off to clean them with the bottom of his shirt. "The first time he hexed my broom, and I nearly fell sixty feet to the ground. Professor Snape saved me from that. The second time he tried to strangle me, but when he touched my skin, it burned."

Petunia wasn't listening any more though, she had her face furrowed in concentration and was working over the name on her lips.

"Snape."

"He teaches potions," Harry continued, watching her carefully. She seemed to be mentally grasping to remember the name, and the scowl told Harry that she was quite certain it wasn't a positive association.

"Severus," Harry finally said, when it was clear that his Aunt couldn't recall what exactly it was about the name Snape that she disliked. Severus, however, brought an instant grimace to her features.

"Severus Snape, what a horrible boy," she sneered, gripping her coffee mug tightly. "Arrogant and nasty and lead my sister straight to her death."

Harry stayed silent as she let out her rant, considering to himself that Snape had retained the ability to be downright nasty, and that Petunia was eerily correct on the last bit as well. Snape's arrogance was sometimes warranted though, as the man was an utter genius with potions.

"I suppose you don't want to see him on Friday then, when he comes to pick me up."

"No, I most certainly do not!" she snapped, clanging the cup on the table. "And you tell him he is not to step foot anywhere near this house, or you will be spending the rest of the summer locked in your room."

The swinging door to the kitchen opened and there was a pause as Vernon turned himself on just the right angle to fit through the doorway.

"What's this? You'd best not be bothering your Aunt, boy," Vernon grumbled, looking only half way awake, his hair sticking up in tufts and his house coat ratty.

Harry resisted the urge to say something smart in return. He couldn't much help the sarcasm in his tone though.

"I wasn't. I just told her that my professor is picking me up on Friday to run an errand. Thought you might like a day without me."

"That's a bit odd, isn't it? I'd think they'd have had enough of you too," Vernon proclaimed, wedging himself into his chair. Aunt Petunia rose to make more coffee, and Harry was certain that Dudley was still snoring upstairs - after all, it wasn't yet nine am.

"You'd think," Harry muttered.

"Tell him to meet you at the grocer's on Main," Petunia sharply said, scooping a precarious amount of coffee grounds out of the tin. Despite the large amount of coffee, Aunt Petunia seemed to be brewing more anger than anything to drink.

"I can't," Harry slowly said. "Hedwig's cage is locked."

There was absolutely no way he was going to tell her about the communication journal, and Harry figured Hedwig would probably enjoy the exercise.

"I'm not letting that ruddy bird out," Uncle Vernon warned, shaking the little cafe spoon in his large fingers at Harry.

"Then I suppose Professor Snape will have to come here," Harry shrugged.

"We'll not have one of those freaks showing up here!" Vernon exclaimed, banging his hand on the table. There was a moment of silence as they all looked upward, to see if Dudley had woken. Harry didn't much care if he had.

"You'll write one note, one note, and the bird can deliver it," Vernon said, in a low voice. "That's it."

"All right," Harry agreed, knowing not to push any further.

"And see if this Snape person can take you overnight. We've company on Saturday."

It was added on as almost an afterthought, as Harry had risen from the table.

"He's a teacher, not a babysitter," Harry said, giving his Uncle a stupid look. Fortunately Uncle Vernon was immersed in the newspaper and didn't see it.

"Well, he did save your life," Aunt Petunia coldly said, her voice clipped as she took eggs, rashers, and tomatoes out of the fridge. The implied 'but not Lily's' hung heavily in the air. "If he values yours so much, why doesn't he just take you for the rest of the summer?"

Uncle Vernon looked up in confusion, sensing something was being left unsaid. "What? What did you do?"

"That was a broomstick accident that he knew the counter curse for," Harry said, his face in disbelief at her misunderstanding. "At the end of the year though, that was your protection that kept me alive. The blood protection."

"But he still managed it as well," Aunt Petunia said, staring straight at Harry. "He wanted to save you, and he did. You don't need the blood protection."

Vernon had turned an ugly colour at the mention of a broomstick, and wasn't taking too well to not leading the conversation.

"That's not how it works," Harry argued back. "Snape had to be there at the right time for the counter curse. With the blood protection, you don't have to be. I'll still be safe."

"Fine," Petunia said. "As my active participation isn't necessary, I expect you to stay out of our way for the summer. Be seen and not heard, and try to avoid even being seen."

Harry stood back and looked between his Aunt and Uncle. Uncle Vernon was smirking, apparently happy his wife had finally spoken up.

"So, you'll just pretend I don't exist?" Harry asked, remembering what the August before first year had been like. "What about meals?"

Petunia gave him a glare, and Harry could see the hatred that she still carried over the death of his mum.

"You know where the kitchen is," Petunia said, crossing her arms. "If not, I'm sure your professor can step in and take you somewhere."

Harry opened his mouth to say something, before snapping it shut. Whatever Snape had done as a child, it was quite certain his Aunt still hated him for it. And now that she knew Snape had saved Harry, and not her sister, she loathed him.

Turning without another word, Harry walked out the kitchen and back upstairs. Friday was three days away, and then he'd be out of the Dursleys'. While he hated growing up here, he at least knew that his Aunt and Uncle would make sure he had a roof over his head. He missed a meal or two sometimes for punishment, but he'd grown up knowing that he at least had a home.

Flopping himself down on the bed, Harry wiped away the dampness from the corner of his eyes. In his previous life, Aunt Petunia had never made it so clear that she resented taking him in. He'd suspected, and had certainly felt second rate growing up. But in the past seven years he'd had great friends and the Weasleys, and Sirius, and...and he'd forgotten what it was like to feel unwanted.

Pulling out the journal from under his pillow, Harry blinked his eyes clear and reached for a biro from his desk drawer. The fourth one worked, and he scratched a small note to Snape.

"Friday pickup's okay. Aunt Petunia doesn't want you here, wants me to meet you at the grocer's on Main."

Harry supposed it was rather bland and to the point as a message, but he didn't feel like getting into detail, and he felt rather stupid to be upset. His Aunt and Uncle had always acted this way toward him. He should have expected it, even though Aunt Petunia actually voicing her dislike of him was rather like a cold glass of water to the face.

He wanted to look through the photograph album Hagrid had again given him at the train, but it was in his trunk under the stairs. He'd get it later; he didn't want to deal with the Dursleys right now. Instead, Harry took his glasses off and laid his head down on the bed, dreaming about another life in which he had a family that loved him.

When he woke, he was comfortable and disorientated. It felt like there was a warm hand on his cheek, and Harry could hear the muffled sounds of summer out his window. A lawn mower whirring back and forth, some children's shouts, and a dog barking. Lifting his head up, Harry saw that the warm feeling had been Snape's reply in the journal. Replies, to be precise, as the man had left a quarter of a page's worth in very neat cursive.

"Doesn't want me there, or a wizard there?" Snape had written.

He'd started writing something else, only to scratch it out to complete intelligibility. To his embarrassment Harry noticed that he must had had one or two tears drop as he'd fallen asleep, and they'd not only been absorbed by the paper, but they had been circled by Snape's steady hand.

"Even as a child, your aunt was offensive and spiteful. She was extremely aware of the exact impact of her words. Fortunately, I share the same traits and very much looking forward to conversing with her on Friday. Stay at the house, I will meet you there."

Harry smiled as he read the note, feeling a bit better. Snape hadn't ever been a popular child, and he seemed to understand what Harry was feeling. Or, he really did want to be a dick and visit the house to mock his Aunt, and making Harry feel better was an unexpected happy side effect.

In any event, Harry reminded himself that he didn't have to stay that long. He'd make it to Friday, being ignored by the Dursleys, and then head off with Snape to find the ring horcrux. If everything went as planned, they'd find it on Friday and be able to destroy it. Snape theorized that when they destroyed the ring, they'd go back to their own time. Harry thought it wouldn't happen that easily, and so had made a back up plan to go after Quirrell. After all, Quirrell still housed a part of Voldemort within him.

Three days. He could easily relax at Privet Drive for three days.

...

The doorbell rang at just past eight in the morning, its tinny sound echoing up the stairs. Harry, unsure of when Snape planned to arrive, had packed his few things the night before. His trunk was in the cupboard under the stairs, and Harry hadn't bothered to go after it. Heeding the loud pounding of rain outside his window, Harry threw on a jumper quickly and walked to the top of the stairs. He was just in time to see his Aunt Petunia open the door, and quickly slam it. Harry was pretty sure the dark shadow standing under the front awning was none other than Snape.

"That's rude," Harry said, watching the lock on the door turn open by itself.

"I told you not to bring him here," Petunia hissed, the first full sentence she'd spoken to him since their argument in the kitchen.

"Well, he's here now," Harry pointed out. The door opened, and Aunt Petunia quickly stepped back.

"Get out of my house," she growled, forgetting Harry to focus on Snape. "I'll ring the police."

"Yes, that would be logical," Snape sneered, flicking some water off the top of his cloak. "Spend the time to telephone the police, wait for their arrival, fill out a complaint, and listen as they merely tell me to leave the property. Or," and here Snape stopped looking bored and fixed Petunia with a knowing glare that he normally gave his students, "stand aside, and the boy and I will be gone in less than three minutes."

Harry bit back a smirk.

"Hullo, Professor," Harry said, still at the top of the stairs.

"Potter," Snape said, his voice clipped like it normally was when he was teaching a class. "Three minutes."

It only took thirty seconds for Harry to return to his room, quickly make his bed, and grab his little rucksack. He'd get his trunk out of the cupboard, and carry Hedwig down carefully. Only thirty seconds or so, but there was already an intense conversation happening at the bottom of the stairs when he returned.

"That is a boy, not a robot," Snape growled, crowding Petunia's space. "Not to be ignored or locked away."

"What do you care?" Petunia hissed, crossing her arms and standing up straight. "You don't have to deal with him every day -"

"You made the same promise to care for him that I did," Snape snapped, shutting her right up.

"Er," Harry said, coming down the stairs. "I need some stuff from my trunk."

Aunt Petunia stalked off into the kitchen, and Snape withdrew his wand. The cupboard door clicked open, and Harry fished out his wand and Marauder's map, just in case they needed it.

"Good bye, Aunt Petunia," Harry called, as they turned to step out into the rain. There was no response.

...

In a much better mood than he had been over the last three days, Harry banged on the door to Grimmauld Place. There was no buzzer, and the doorknocker had hissed at him, so Harry just used his fist. It still took a few minutes to be answered though, and Harry saw that the blast of old rock music from the door opening made Snape's lip curl up in distaste.

"Harry!" Sirius said, opening his arms for a hug. He was wearing huge maroon velvet robes, and an ugly multicoloured shirt underneath. He looked like an actor from a bad 70's film, and Harry bit back a laugh.

"Hi Sirius," Harry replied.

"Come out of the rain," Sirius ordered, giving the sky a dirty look. "There's someone I want you to meet."

Sirius was already back in the house and off to the kitchen by the time Snape and Harry managed to brush the rain off themselves. Snape had cast a waterproof charm over both of them, but water still managed to get all through Harry's hair. Walking back down the hallway, followed silently by Snape, Harry heard familiar voices and laughter in the kitchen.

"Remus," Harry quietly said, pushing open the door.

Harry had wondered how Remus Lupin had spent his days before coming to teach at Hogwarts. He'd apparently spent his time job hopping, working odd and short jobs up and down the country. His clothes were in better shape then they had been when Harry had met him in third year, but he still looked worn and burdened.

"Your father, Remus, and I, we were all quite the group of friends at school," Sirius said, taking Harry by the shoulder to lead him over to Remus. Sirius ignored Snape completely, barely allowing Remus to say hi to Snape before launching into a grand retelling of the Marauder's days. Fortunately, Kreacher remembered quite well the events of two weeks previously, and was quite happy to serve both Harry and Snape a fine tea with snacks, to Sirius' irritation.

"I don't know what's wrong with that bloody house elf," Sirius said, glaring at the back of Kreacher's head.

"I like him," Harry absentmindedly said, chewing on bits of a scone.

Snape had seated himself at the far end of the table, and was lost in a map that he'd unfolded across the scratched tabletop. Snape had used a travelling agent to procure himself a map of northern England, and they'd found Little Hangleton as little more than a red speck on the map. Harry wasn't quite sure how they were going to find the house, but he did remember that it was up atop a hill, hidden behind a stone wall and plethora of shrubbery. Snape had darkly commented that apparition to the town wouldn't be an issue.

Glancing up, Snape caught Harry's eye and gave him a curious look. He then looked to his watch, and cleared his throat.

"We leave at half eleven, Mr Potter," Snape announced. "Best have your little fun time before then."

His unspoken message was clear, at least to Harry. Leave nothing unsaid that he wanted to tell his godfather, as they'd be leaving at 11:30 and it might be the last time he saw either Sirius or Remus again.