The rain battered against Snape as he walked along the narrow pavement, stepping over the deepest of the cracks, but ignoring the small ones. Their road had been in need of repair for nearly fifteen years, and weeds had long grown between the stones.

The security wards did not cover the alleyway between his old childhood home and the neighbours, but the house wall was, and he touched that lightly with his hand as he passed. Not more than a moment later he was at the front door, standing passively with his arms crossed in the rain, as a face scowled at him through the cracked glass.

"What have you done this time?"

The voice was rough from years of smoking, and accusatory from years of despondency.

"Hello Mum," Snape answered, stepping into the tiny hallway past her.

She slammed the door behind him, causing the knickknacks on the shelf in front of the stairs to rattle.

"If you've come to warn me about me life, you can just put a sock in it and save your breath," Eileen warned, following Snape through the sitting room and into the kitchen.

"I wouldn't dream of it," Snape sarcastically responded. "Where's Dad?"

"Upstairs, puffin' away, inn'he?" she huffed, watching as Snape dug a box out from the cupboard under the stairs. The dull yellow kitchen was dingy and out-dated, the effects from years of smoking and cooking in small quarters. The gloomy rain pattering against the window kept the room dim, as the two bulb overhead light no longer had the power to keep the shadows of the room at bay.

"Avoiding you?" Snape conversationally asked, searching through an old box of tin toys for something.

"Likely," Eileen answered, as she studied him. "You want food? Skinny as a rail again you are."

"I am the same weight I was when you last saw me," Snape answered, reaching into his pocket for something. He withdrew an envelope that was far too large to have fit in the pocket it came from, and gave it to his mother, before turning back to the cupboard.

 Eileen opened the envelope and her eyes softened as a stack of reddish-maroon fifty pound notes revealed itself.

"Pickpocketing?" Eileen asked, her sarcastic tone slipping with a bit of gratitude.

"Prestidigitation," Snape smirked, giving the same answer he always did. He could hear her counting the money quietly, before placing it in the old tobacco tin atop the fridge. He usually gave around a thousand pounds to his parents every two or three months, and while his mother pretended that they were only taking the charity to take the ‘evidence of pickpocketing' out of Snape's hands, Snape pretended that the chunk of his pay packet wasn't an apology for what he'd done in his youth.

"Ah," he said, and the moment was gone as quickly as it had come. He unfolded himself from the cupboard door, holding up a small male action figure. It was not Superman, nor Spiderman, nor even Batman, but instead the figure of a Death Eater. Once Snape put it on the floor and cancelled the spell on it, the figure rose to its normal height. It was a shop mannequin with a uniform, and Snape started pulling the clothes off.

"Who's that then?" his mother asked, dumping three heaping spoonful's of instant coffee mix into a mug.

"Evan Rosier's uniform," Snape answered, folding up the clothes and placing the mask on top.

"Rosier?" Eileen asked, as she searched the cluttered and small kitchen counter for sugar. "Been in hiding, has he? No one's heard from ‘im since the first war."

"Hiding six feet under," Snape clarified, stuffing the clothes into a bag and banishing the mannequin. "Killed by Alastor Moody."

"Oh, and you're going to pretend to be him?" Eileen asked, giving Snape a rough look. "Fancy trick, that is, bringin' a man back from the dead. None o' the rest of us can do it."

"Plenty did it when the Dark Lord fell," Snape answered. "And I need only fool idiots."

She narrowed her eyes at him, trying to assess his intent, but Snape had long ago learned to hide what he was up to.

"You think he's comin' back," Eileen stated, crossing her arms over her threadbare apron. She was still holding onto the hot coffee mug, and Snape could see the patch of skin by her elbow turning red from the heat.

"Don't tell me you can't feel it," Snape snapped. His expression softened in apology, but no words were said. Neither of his parents had fled during the first war, and Snape hadn't returned home early enough the night they'd been targeted. His mother had bounced back, but his father...

"Oh, I see the signs," Eileen answered, not moving. "An' once again I see you rushing in there head first. What happened to Dumbledore, boy?"

Snape turned out of the kitchen, moving back into the front room and skimming his fingers along the bookcase.

"Dumbledore's trust in me is even stronger than it was ten years ago," Snape commented, pulling out a book on genealogy.

"You got that look on your face like you're going to break it," Eileen said, standing by the stairs.

Snape dropped his head forward a little, before moving it to the side and cracking the back of his neck.

"And you still haven't forgiven me for breaking yours, Mum," Snape said, turning to face her. It was like staring down the Headmaster again, back when he'd been a boy and in trouble once more.

"You didn't break me trust," Eileen said, nodding once at her son. "You broke me expectations."

Snape rolled his eyes, slipping back into his normal sarcastic self.

"Don't start."

He walked across the room and to the front door, making sure his overcoat was buttoned up all the way.

"You should settle down. Have a family," she continued, ignoring his warning. "S'not as bad as you think."

"I'm not even going to consider responding to that," Snape said. He leant down quickly and pecked his mother on her forehead, keeping the book in his hand held tight.

"Maybe after the war. Goodbye, Mother," Snape cheerily said, narrowly avoiding a very minor hex as he slipped out the door. He waited for thirty seconds before nudging his head back in.

"You will leave, when he returns?"

For a second her stern façade fell, and Snape saw the mother he remembered as a child, the one to give him quiet comfort when his primary school classmates bullied him. A shuffling noise came from upstairs, as his father moved about in the bedroom very slowly and with the aid of a strong cane.

"Yeah," his mother answered. "Said we would, didn't we?"

Snape nodded, and the tension on his shoulders relaxed a little. He knocked on the doorframe with his knuckle, hating the awkward seconds of goodbye that always happened when he stopped in at home.

"I won't be late next time," Snape finally said, stepping out of the house and leaving before he could hear his mother's response.

.....

There weren't a lot of places one could meet and have a discussion without being suspicious. It was one of the things Snape had learned early on in his career as a Death Eater and then spy, and to this date he still disliked the plethora of tiny cafes he normally found himself in. The sitting, the waiting, the playing with his tea spoon as he listened to the important parts of the conversation and tried to not let other patrons hear anything. This time the meeting place had been his idea though, and he'd chosen a park in Newcastle upon Tyne.

Snape had arrived early, dressed in all black, with the outer robe of Evan Rosier's uniform, and with his features disguised to look like Rosier. He had the mask in a bag he carried, but Snape didn't expect to need it for longer than the few second's recognition to confirm who he said he was.

Selecting a bench not far from the rugby pitch, Snape leaned against the tree just to the left of it and waited. His eyes roamed over as much of the park he could see, though they lingered on a shadowed patch of trees that Snape expected Pettigrew to apparate to. On the pitch in front of him a rather loud match was on going, though it was only loud due to the parents at the side lines. It looked to be a group of young teens, Snape suspected, as they all seemed to take no issue with running about on the cold, mucky ground.

Snape allowed himself a moment's thanks that Potter had no desire to participate in such Muggle group sports. He knew he would have attended anyway, stood on the side lines and glared down any other parent that tried to engage him in conversation as he watched the little idiot try to kill himself on the field. Thankfully, Potter was skilled enough to be completely taken in by quidditch instead, which was something Snape didn't mind watching, and which he was able to openly use magic to fix any grievous injuries.

Just over the dull cheering from a goal scored, Snape heard the painfully obtrusive sound of poorly performed apparition coming from the patch of trees. Pettigrew then emerged, looking worse for wear than he normally did.

"Good lord, it's been thirteen years, could you not have purchased a new set of clothes?" Snape cuttingly asked, as Pettigrew approached.

"You're rather finely dressed for one who's supposed to be dead," Pettigrew sneered, seemingly unbothered about the remark of his personal grooming habits.

"Oh, but one shouldn't believe all the rumours," Snape answered, still leaning against the tree with his arms crossed. "Moody's mad enough to believe that he'd killed the queen if he saw a crown fall."

Pettigrew let out a horrid squeal of a laugh that fortunately only lasted a few seconds.

"So it's just you then?" Pettigrew said, and Snape immediately recognised the test.

"And the lot in Azkaban," Snape answered, pushing himself up and walking closer to Pettigrew. "Who, I have little doubt, are proudly loyal for serving their time. I find, however, that we are much more useful to the Dark Lord outside of prison."

"And you're ready to come back," Pettigrew asked, his eyes beady and sharp, and his expression more than a little rat-like. Snape had no doubt that his presence would be reported to the Dark Lord, and he was very careful to keep himself in character as Rosier. It was very likely that Pettigrew would downplay Snape's next offer, in order to remain in the best graces of the Dark Lord.

Snape curbed the intense desire he had to reach out and snap the man's neck.

"I never left," Snape silkily said. "Instead, I have been researching, and I am given to understand that you are in the need of a potions brewer."

"Didn't know you could brew," Pettigrew said, his wand hand twitching as he looked out over the field.

"But you're still here, which leads me to believe that you are more in need than you'd like to admit," Snape concluded.

"Our last brewer may have defected in the last war," Pettigrew allowed.

"Fortunate, for me," Snape answered. He opened the bag he was carrying, leaving it open wide enough for Pettigrew to see the mask inside.

"Wolfsbane. I'm certain you can find a test subject to confirm that I brew with precision. I shall await your owl, to this post box address," Snape said, slipping a piece of parchment to Pettigrew with the potion phial.

"Wolfsbane?" Pettigrew muttered, seemingly to himself. 

"I assume time is of the essence?" Snape asked, already bored of the meeting.

"Not exactly," Pettigrew imperiously said, as if he were announcing the schedule of royalty. "Spring is the time of regrowth, not late autumn."

Snape raised his eyebrow, before looking around at the bitter bleakness and brown of everything around them. The dirt ground was dry and crumbled, and the grass hung limply in patches, just waiting for the first covering of snow.

"Until winter, then," Snape said, nodding his head and stepping back toward the tree. There was a small portkey in his pocket for Snape to return to Hogwarts, as he couldn't apparate directly to the school, and apparition could sometimes be traced.

"The test first," Pettigrew said, holding up the bottle and shaking it.

Snape scowled, irritated that his mind realised Pettigrew's importance while being alive, and that it once again overrode his baser desire to simply dispose of him.

.....

Harry crept along the edge of the wall as he led Ron and Hermione further into the dungeons. On the Marauder's Map was a small room marked ‘Music', and it was too small to be a classroom, so Harry had wondered if it was a room for practicing music. If so, he hoped that something in there could tone down the screeching of the egg and reveal the clue.

"How far is it, Harry?" Hermione whispered, ignoring Ron. She was still angry with him about his attempt at asking her to the Yule ball, but had wanted out of the tower and so had followed them.

Almost everyone was still upstairs in the Great Hall, enjoying the remnants of Christmas breakfast, but the dungeons had an uncanny echo and in the silence they were keeping as quiet as they could.

"Just down past the potions storage cupboard," Harry whispered back. Harry gave a quick glance to the map once more, blinking in confusion at the label. "Why is Mr Crouch here?"

"Crouch?" Ron asked, leaning forward to look at the map. "On Christmas?"

"Not only him," Hermione said, pointing at another label approaching from the kitchens. "Igor Karkaroff's here too."

"And they're coming this way," Harry said, folding the map quickly and shoving it into his pocket. "Time to re-route."

They'd just managed to slip into a room that Harry hoped was empty, when Professor Moody's voice suddenly boomed down the hall.

"The very coward himself," Moody said, his tone much more malicious than Harry remembering it being when Moody had turned Malfoy into a ferret.

"I am no coward," Karkaroff hissed, his voice echoing down the hallway.

"No, that's right," Moody scoffed. "You're simply a helpful informant."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione all turned to look at each other. Informant? Ron mouthed the word ‘tournament', but Harry shook his head. Somehow, he knew it was something bigger than the tournament.

"I'll be watching you, Igor," Moody warned, the clunk of his wooden staff booming down the hall as it hit the stone. "And I will make sure you pay for what you've done."

Hermione suddenly sneezed into her sleeve, muffling most of the sound but allowing just enough that the conversation between Karkaroff and Moody fell silent.

"Sorry," Hermione whispered, and they frantically looked for another way out of the oddly bare little room they'd ended up in. The clanking of the cane against the stone told Harry that Moody wouldn't be too far off, and all three knew that was not the sort of conversation any student was meant to overhear.

"Dammit," Harry said, pushing against one wall with his free hand. "There has to be a way out."

Neither of the other walls had any sort of mark or door in them though, and just as Harry pulled his hand away from the wall, he noticed that wood had begun to form beneath his handprint.

The egg was tossed to Ron, and Harry quickly slapped both hands against the wall. Lines shot out from under his fingers and a door formed within seconds.

"In, in!" Hermione urgently whispered.

All three squeezed into the door at the same time, the clanking sound growing louder and louder, and Harry quietly shut the door behind him. He hoped it would disappear into the wall, but had no way of checking.

"Away from the door," Harry whispered. "Moody can see through it."

They all took a step back, staring at the door as if expecting Moody and Karkaroff to burst through. After a few moments it was apparent that they wouldn't, and Harry let out a big breath.

"Close one," Ron said, with a grin.

He handed the egg back to Harry and they stepped away from the door, properly looking at the room they'd ended up in. It was a very fancy indoor bath, though Harry likened it more to a pool house of sorts. In the middle of the room was a giant circular pool, with what appeared to be submerged seating under water. Along the wall to their right was a long bench filled with stacked towels, and well-lit stained glass windows that had mermaids in them. To the left were rattan lounge chairs and back wall had a small plain door, and what, oddly, looked to be a beverage refreshment area.

"What is this place?" Ron asked, looking around and up at the domed ceiling.

"Some sort of private bath, likely," Hermione answered, standing next to Ron. "We probably shouldn't be here."

"We're never where we should be," Harry said, walking up toward the pool. "I wonder how warm..."

His foot caught on a tiny rough edge of tile floor, and Harry tripped forward. The egg tumbled out of his hands and all three watched with a grimace as it bounced at an odd angle and plopped into the pool.

"Blimey," Harry muttered, sprawled out on the floor.

"Bad luck, mate," Ron said, standing safely back from the edge of the pool.

Harry crawled over to the edge and peered in, spotting the egg submerged at the bottom of the pool, which fortunately didn't seem to be that deep.

"Guess I'll have to go get it," Harry said, standing up and tugging off his robe.

"And while you do so," a deep voice said, from the other side of the pool, "your two friends can explain why it is always you three getting into places you shouldn't be."

Professor Snape stood with his arms crossed, at the plain door against the far wall. He did not look at all impressed to find Harry, Ron, and Hermione in the private pool-bath room.

"Go on, Potter," Snape said, after Harry hadn't moved for a moment. "I know you can swim."

"Rats," Harry muttered, pulling off his jumper. He took a second to be very grateful that he was wearing boxer shorts, as he didn't want to jump in with just pants. Hermione was one of his best friends, but there were just some things he didn't want her to see.

The room was silent as he pulled off his layers, as Hermione had tried to explain how they'd ended up there, but Snape had stopped her.

"Hang on," Harry said, pulling off his socks. "Can't I just use a summoning spell to get it?"

Snape didn't move, though he did tilt his head slightly to the side.

"No. I think perhaps you should go into the water after it," Snape answered, though it came out more like an order.

"Git," Ron grumbled.

"Ron," Hermione hissed, watching as Harry stepped into the pool and under the water, in one fluid movement.

Ron was watching Snape though, who still hadn't moved from the wall.

"You're not actually angry we're here," Ron said, before slapping his hand against his mouth, as if the words had slipped out on their own.

Before Snape could answer, Harry popped back up out of the water and shook his head, spraying water droplets everywhere.

"I can hear the clue!" Harry said, grinning. "You have to listen to it under water."

"What was it?" Hermione demanded, forgetting Snape and stepping over to Harry's pile of over clothes. "What's the next task?"

"I've no idea," Harry shrugged, still excited. "I need to listen again."

He turned to go back to where the egg was, underwater, before glancing back at Ron.

"Thanks for getting us out of trouble, mate!" Harry happily said, dipping under again.

Ron looked up, confused, and saw that Snape was no longer there.

....

Harry felt like an overdressed tart, and tugged ineffectually at his bowtie. He'd done the opening dance, and smiled for the cameras, and now just wanted to go back to the dorms. Hermione looked like she was having fun, and her dress was quite nice, but Harry found the whole thing boring. It was Christmas, after all, and he should be spending the time eating food until he was stuffed and playing with the new things he'd gotten for Christmas. Ron had given him a practise snitch that he wanted to try, and Snape had given him new clothes, a book, and some odd green slimy thing in a jar that he absolutely did not want to know about.

"God you two are dull," Seamus suddenly announced, plonking himself in the seat across from them. "Didn't get to take Cinderella to the ball?"

Ron scowled, but his focus was on Krum and Hermione, and he'd been scowling most of the evening.

"The twins are in the crowd somewhere," Harry said, shrugging.

"Have a few of these, then," Seamus said, grinning as he held out a bag of gummy bears.

"What's in them?" Harry asked suspiciously. Seamus had been experimenting with food since they'd first come to Hogwarts, and he didn't trust his dorm mate in the least.

"Gummy bears!" Seamus said, affronted. But he had a sparkle in his eye, and Harry knew that meant 'do not consume what you are being offered.'

Finally, a grin broke out on Seamus' face.

"You're getting paranoid, Potter," Seamus said, and popped a gummy bear in his mouth. "They are gummies, but there's firewhiskey in them. Leave them to soak in it overnight, and they become alcohol-infused."

Ron broke his gaze away from Hermione and stared at Seamus with a grin.

"You got that past the teachers?"

"Sure," Seamus said, popping another one in his mouth. "They look like regular gummies. McGonagall didn't even ask."

Harry laughed, looking over to where McGonagall was dancing with Dumbledore, wine glass in hand.

"You should go into business with Fred and George," Ron told Seamus, taking a few gummies.

"No, you really shouldn't," Harry corrected.

"I wouldn't say no," Seamus boasted. "Besides, the way old Moody's always sipping on his bottle flask, I'd say I'm safe."

"Yeah, Harry said, shifting his gaze to the front of the room, where most of the teachers had gathered to supervise. Moody was sitting on a chair to the side, tapping his good leg along with the rhythm of the song, and smiling. Not two minutes later Harry saw him take a long gulp out of the bottle flask from his jacket pocket, and twist his face up into a grimace.

"Every hour?" Harry asked, studying Moody. He realised that the staring would be rather obvious quite shortly, and calmly swept his gaze over the rest of the room. He spotted Snape easily, dressed in all black and standing next to a rather brightly outfitted Dumbledore.

"Yeah," Seamus answered, clearly uninterested. "Dean and I counted in class once."

A new song started and Seamus quite quickly leapt out of the chair, skipping toward the dance floor.

"Hey Ron," Harry said, watching the melee of students dancing to The Weird Sisters.

"What?" Ron asked, scowling at Krum again.

"What tastes awful and has effects that only last for an hour?"

Ron's expression turned completely confused.

"Poison?"

Harry shook his head, watching a shimmering blur storm over to where they were sitting.

"And shouldn't be mixed with cat hair," Harry clarified. "Hello Hermione."

"Harry," Hermione greeted, before turning a flash of fury on Ron. "Will you stop glaring at me!"

"I'm not the one who went to the dance with Viktor bleeding Krum!" Ron argued back, instantly forgetting what Harry had mentioned.

Hermione huffed with irritation, stamping her foot on the floor and just missing Harry's own foot. He shot up to his feet to avoid further risk, and watched Hermione storm off. Ron quickly followed, and Harry decided to go along as well as he was bored out of his mind at the dance.

"Hermione!" Ron called, catching up to her as she stomped up the stairs toward Gryffindor tower. "I don't get why you'd go with him, instead of me!"

Ron's face turned brilliantly red as she spun to glare at him, and he quickly corrected.

"With one of us. Harry or I."

Hermione looked on the verge of bursting into tears, or throwing her purse at Ron. She chose the latter, and Ron only just ducked in time to avoid getting nailed in the side of the head.

"Fine!" Hermione huffed, and now the tears started to escape from the corners of her eyes. Harry stood still behind Ron, half scared/half worried, and completely unsure of what to do to help.

"Do you want to know why I went with Viktor?" she demanded, her voice breaking. She didn't wait for Ron's verbal answer, but he'd probably just stared dumbly and nodded, if Harry knew his best friend as well as he thought he did.

"Because I was tired of waiting for you to ask me."

She barely waited for her words to sink in, before letting loose a small little whimper of frustration and fleeing back upstairs. The noise made Harry feel horribly guilty, and he wasn't even the one to have had disappointed her.

"Go," Harry said, picking up the purse and giving it to Ron. His friend looked both stricken and confused.

"But..." Ron said.

"She forgave you for making fun of her in first year, when she was all alone," Harry said, shrugging. "But there's no troll to save you this time."

Ron nodded and took up the stairs, two at a time, nearly tripping at the top.

Harry shook his head as he watched Ron race down the upper balcony hall. He didn't want to return to the tower so quickly, but didn't really have anywhere else to go. The professors were all at the dance, supervising, so he knew the rest of the castle would be quiet. Deciding to eventually head down to Snape's, Harry took the long way to the dungeons and started toward the kitchen.

Even the portraits were mostly empty as he passed, as the majority of the painted people had moved to the Great Hall for the ball. The walls were warm around him, and as Harry approached the kitchen he could smell the cloves and cinnamon and apples that went into the hot apple cider served with Christmas dinner. Overwhelmed with an urge to have some, and burrow in Snape's flat with a good book to enjoy the rest of Christmas, Harry picked up his pace toward the kitchens.

Just as he turned the last corner, Harry nearly stumbled into Professor Trelawney. He heard the sound of clinking glass bottles as she stumbled, and Harry fought back a grin as he watched her try to keep hold of the wine bottles.

"Mr Potter!" Trelawney gasped, staring at him as she straightened up and tried to look imposing. "But why are you not at the ball?"

"Feeling a bit peckish," Harry lied, pretending not to notice her hiding another bottle in her robe pocket.

She gave him a confused look and Harry slowly added to his statement.

"The kitchens...they're down here."

"Yes, of course, Potter," Trelawney nodded. "But you..."

Before she could finish the sentence, her arm shot out to brace herself against the wall near Harry's head. Her eyes lost their focus, and her head turned up at an awkward angle.

"The end is set before the beginning...in the time of the shortest night...when the one marked as the Dark Lord's equal meets the power of he with the greatest story never told..."

"Professor?" Harry asked, stumbling back from Trelawney.

"The power of he with the greatest story never told..."

Her eyes suddenly snapped up and Harry jumped a little, waiting to see if she'd say anything else.

"Are...are you alright?" Harry asked, slightly concerned, but really wanting to get away from her. She'd acted like this once before when speaking of the prophecy of Wormtail's return the year before, and Harry was quite certain that he wasn't ready to hear another prophecy.

"Potter? What are you doing down here?"

Just like last time, Harry thought, with a sinking feeling.

"Just going to get a drink," Harry answered, and before she could say anything else, Harry slipped into the kitchens.

Fifteen minutes later, he had used his key and was in Snape's flat, staring at the crackling fire in the fireplace. A scrap piece of paper was on the coffee table, onto which Harry had written every single word of what Trelawney had said. He still hadn't a clue what it meant. His hot apple cider was still steaming though, and Harry held tightly to the warm mug as he thought.

Who was the one marked as the Dark Lord's equal? Harry's scar on his forehead was certainly the most prominent mark from Voldemort left on anyone, but it hardly made Harry equal to Voldemort. Although, hadn't Dumbledore said that some of Voldemort's powers were transferred to Harry that night? At least the Parseltongue had been.

Harry shook his head and stood up off the couch, moving to the other side of the coffee table where the fireplace was. The flat was fairly warm, but Harry was feeling tired and had a bit of a chill. It was only half nine though, so still a bit early for both Snape to return from the dance and for Harry to go to bed.

Staring down at his clothes, Harry suddenly felt itchy in the dress clothes and wanted to change. He didn't have any clothing in the dungeon flat, but Snape did. It only took him a few moments to find a new-looking pair of pyjama bottoms and an old t-shirt to wear, and then Harry was back in front of the fire.

He'd decided it was more than likely that he was the marked one Trelawney was talking about, but it still didn't explain ‘he with the greatest story never told.' The grammar of the sentence confused him, and he wrote it down on the scrap paper several times as he tried to work it out. Someone who was mute? Someone unpopular? Someone who didn't know what powers they had? Or maybe someone who did, and who didn't want recognition for it.

Harry heard movement from Snape's office, and put the paper down. Snape would be able to figure it out. Snape was smart enough.

"Did you honestly think no one would notice the youngest champion leaving the ball?" Snape asked, sweeping into the room and working on unbuttoning his jacket.

"I figured you would," Harry replied, looking up from where he was sitting cross-legged in front of the fire. "It was boring. And it was a good thing I left, because I ran into Professor Trelawney."

"Literally?" Snape asked, raising an eyebrow. The jacket was finally removed and hung on a hanger by the front door.

"Almost. Made a lot of noise; she was carrying some bottles."

"No doubt," Snape replied, with a sly smirk.

"I think she told another prophecy," Harry continued, and he watched the smirk slip from Snape's face.

"Another?" Snape asked, interest laced into his voice, along with a note of caution.

"Last year she told me one about Pettigrew returning to Voldemort," Harry explained, flexing his toes toward the fire. "This is what she said tonight."

He plucked the paper lightly off the coffee table, as if it did not contain words that had bemused him for the entire night since hearing them.

Snape took the paper, his lips moving silently as he read the words over and over, pacing into the kitchen.

"Dad?" Harry called, knowing Snape could hear him behind the kitchen wall. "Who is the one marked as Voldemort's equal?"

There was a moment of absolute silence in the flat, and Harry couldn't even hear any sounds of Snape moving in the kitchen. Silence like that wasn't good, Harry knew, especially as Snape never hesitated to comment on something when he felt it was warranted.

Snape came back into the sitting room, holding the paper in his hand and studying Harry, down on the floor. Snape was still dressed up in his teaching clothes, as he'd been wearing at the ball, and he looked bloody imposing.

"You are."

Harry felt his stomach twist uncomfortably, and he stared at the fire. Two small salamanders were shifting about in the white wood at the base of the fire, and they stopped scuttling when they felt Harry's eyes on them.

"That's not the first prophecy she's made about me, is it?" Harry asked.

Snape peered down at him, his expression telling Harry that Snape knew the answer, but wished to see exactly how much Harry knew before revealing anything.

"Perhaps not. Why would you think so?"

Harry shrugged, before answering.

"Last year, when she warned me about Pettigrew coming back to serve his master, I told Professor Dumbledore. And he said something like it being the second real prediction she's ever made."

Harry looked back up at Snape. "And that, well. He should offer her a pay raise."

Snape rolled his eyes with such exaggeration that Harry thought it might cause Snape a headache.

"Naturally, he would be happy at that. The first prediction was that the Dark Lord would mark you as his equal," Snape said. "And we've all noticed the result."

Harry put his hand up to his forehead, covering the stupid scar. Snape started to unbutton his shirt, and walked into his bedroom area.

"Is that all it said?" Harry asked. He'd spent enough time with Snape now to know that the man, while he didn't really lie to Harry, didn't seem to mind withholding information. Which, Harry thought, was technically different from lying.

"I would think you'd be more concerned about the second task, and what sort of feat you'll have to pull for it," Snape answered, still in his bedroom.

Withholding information then, Harry thought, nodding to himself. He made a mental note to ask Dumbledore later, about any prophecies or predictions about himself.

"I know what it means," Harry called, checking his apple cider mug and finding it sadly empty. "It means I'm going to get wet."

Snape emerged from his room, changed into the more relaxed clothing he normally wore around his flat, and walked past the chesterfield to get to the washroom.

"But why will you be getting wet?" Snape pointed out. "And shall I assume from the theft of those clothes that you will be spending the night here?"

Harry looked down at his clothes and then back up to Snape, hoping that he was making guilty-looking puppy eyes. He'd seen Dudley do it thousands of times, but Harry had never really learned how.

"Please?"

Snape waved his hand with slight irritation, as if he didn't know why he put up with Harry. The door shut firmly behind him, so he didn't see Harry's smile.

Snape did have a point though, all he knew about the second task was that something would be taken, and that he was going to have to swim. Humming to himself, to catch the rhythm of the clue, Harry started to recite.

Come seek us where our voices sound,
We cannot sing above the ground,
And while you're searching ponder this;
We've taken what you'll sorely miss,
An hour long you'll have to look,
And to recover what we took,
But past an hour, the prospect's black,
Too late it's gone, it won't come back.

"I know it's the merpeople," Harry then said, still sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace. The golden egg was still upstairs in his room, but he had memorised the clue inside it. "Hey, why was I able to get into that fancy bath thing?"

"Because it's set to my wards," Snape answered through the door. "The room belongs to whomever is Head of Slytherin house."

"Oh," Harry said, thinking.

"You've been there long enough. Get away from the fire and leave some heat for me," Snape grumbled, coming out of the washroom.

"What exactly are they going to take?" Harry asked, ignoring Snape's order. "The merpeople."

"Something you'll sorely miss," Snape parroted back, nudging Harry out of the way as he passed. Harry sprawled out on the floor, so he still had plenty of heat from the fire, but wasn't blocking it.

"A person?"

"I would assume so," Snape answered. "I can't see you risking your life for a text book."

"Hah," Harry said, closing his eyes. He rolled to the left a moment later, as Snape nearly stepped on him. "You're doing that on purpose, to text my reflexes."

"No, I fully intend to step on you," Snape answered, heading back for the washroom.

Harry squinted with one eye open and saw Snape put some sort of foamy potion in his hair.

"What's that?" Harry asked.

"Student repellent," Snape dryly responded.

Harry rolled his eyes before shutting them again. He was lying on thick carpeting in front of the fire, absolutely relaxed. It was an odd feeling, as it was one he'd never had at the Dursleys', even in his cupboard. There was always some sort of tenseness, even when he was sleeping, that Harry couldn't quiet figure out. Maybe it was a form of anxiety? Harry pulled his arm inward as Snape almost stepped on his hand, keeping his eyes closed.  Or perhaps it was just always part of him that was on guard.

He sat up suddenly with his eyes open, misjudging the distance of the coffee table and nearly braining himself on the edge. That was it. Harry felt safe in Snape's flat, both of them, and he could fully relax because he knew he wouldn't be attacked there. Oh sure, Snape was sarcastic and seemed mean, but Harry knew it was mostly an act. Unlike the Dursleys', when Snape said something mean to Harry, it was to teach him a lesson. Not to remind him that he was worthless.

Another thought occurred to Harry, a much more troubling thought, and he regretfully left the fire to go into the kitchen. Snape was standing in front of the kettle, his now potion-greasy hair tied back as he measured enough of the special hot chocolate Harry had given him to make two cups.  He was wearing what he normally wore at night in the summer; pyjama trousers, a shirt, and his bathrobe, and looked to be so much younger than his Professor image.

Harry looked down at his own borrowed clothing, the pyjama pants folding under his feet at the bottom like slippers, because Snape was taller than him and the clothes were longer.

"Dad?" Harry asked, standing by the tiny kitchen table and running his finger along the edge. "What if they take you?"

Snape flicked the kettle on and looked up at Harry with a considering look.

"And why would they take me instead of Mr Weasley or Miss Granger?" Snape quietly asked.

A steady stream of reasons passed through Harry's mind, flashing in front of his eyes like ticker tape. You gave me a home. You gave me my own clothes. You're training me to survive. You gave me a room. You actually care, that I do more than just fight Voldemort.

Harry blinked and shook his head, before shrugging.

"No reason," he answered.

"John," Snape continued, but Harry interrupted him.

"There's no reason. Ron and I are friends again, so it'll probably be him," Harry said, smiling a little. "Or Hermione, but she'd put up quite the fight. Do you think I should warn them?"

One of Snape's eyes constricted a little, as if he were trying to focus on something with one eye through a microscope.

"The Headmaster will not allow me to be taken," Snape said, instead of answering Harry. "He will not risk your guardianship being found out. Not now."

"What do you mean, not now?" Harry asked, confused. "What's so important about now?"

The kettle clicked off, but it took Snape a few second's delay before he started to pour the water.

"Your godfather is applying for guardianship, in absentia."

Dread filled Harry's stomach, and he could feel that panic wasn't far off.

"He can't do that, can he?" Harry asked, his voice a slightly higher pitch than normal.

"He doesn't even have the right forms," Snape said, a small sneer on his face. "And I would like to see him try."

"But he can't, right?" Harry asked again. "Dumbledore would stop him too?"

"Harry Potter," Snape said, putting the kettle down and turning to face Harry. He slowly crossed his arms and his face set into a very stern look.

"I have spent a year and a half training you, feeding you, clothing you, looking after your welfare, and planning out how to prevent the Dark Lord from coming after you. I do not regret a single moment since my decision to take you in, however, darker days are to come, and if Sirius Black thinks that he can win some sort of paper war against me, he is about to sorely find out how wrong he is."

Harry had never had anyone speak so strongly about him, and he didn't know whether to laugh or maybe hug the man out of gratitude. He settled for a large smile, and nodded at Snape.

"Thanks, sir."

Snape hummed slightly in agreement, and handed Harry a hot mug.

"The new prophecy may turn out to be more informative than you thought," Snape said. "Fetch the pensieve, and we'll look together."

"Okay, Dad," Harry said, and all the dread he'd been feeling moments earlier vanished. Once again, Harry remembered that he was not fighting this alone.

The pensieve was sitting on Snape's desk, next to a rather oddly wrapped parcel that was addressed to someone named ‘Evan Rosier', and had the word breakable all over it. Harry didn't recognize the name, but he did remember that he'd originally wanted to talk to Snape about Professor Moody. He couldn't think of why though, and hoped that the reason would come to him later.

It did, at around four in the morning when he blearily woke from an odd dream. Harry wrote the word ‘polyjuice' down on the back of a serviette from the kitchen table, stumbling back to the couch and dropping the serviette on the coffee table. He didn't notice that he'd missed, and as the writing was all but illegible, a house elf tossed it in the fire the next morning as the flat was cleaned. Harry was up in the Great Hall eating breakfast while the note burned, laughing at Seamus and his hangover, and had completely pushed it from his mind.