Harry woke up with a start, feeling a weight heavier than the blanket on him before hearing a loud crash of noise. As he blearily sat up, Harry saw that three pairs of shoes, two books, various cushions, a stack of pencils, wooden potion ingredient bowls, and a ball had been stacked on top of him.

"Not very observant while you sleep," said Snape. He was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper and drinking coffee, looking entirely unperturbed by the mess Harry's movement had caused. It took Harry another two seconds to remember that it was the Christmas holiday, and there was no urgent need to move. His stomach grumbled though, so Harry made the effort.

"Seems I'm a bit tired after an attempted kidnapping," Harry grumbled, stretching. He stepped over the mess, not bothering to pick a single thing up, and zeroed in on the coffee machine on the kitchen counter. During the summer, Snape had always brewed enough in the morning for six or seven cups, and Harry had begun drinking one with breakfast.

"You didn't leave the castle," Snape said, still reading the paper. "It wasn't a kidnapping."

"Definitely felt like one," Harry grumpily answered. He dumped sugar into his coffee and brought it to the table, where he saw that Snape had a basket of rolls and some jam.

"Perception, John, is always key," said Snape, lowering the paper and staring at Harry. His tone was serious, and Harry filed it away in his brain as Something to Remember, as it sounded like an important piece of advice.

"Any lessons for the rest of this holiday?" Harry asked, trying, and failing, to spread jam on a roll without making much of a mess.

"No," Snape answered. "Has the Headmaster mentioned anything of the spell that was used to protect your life?"

"No," Harry quietly said. "He just said that my mother's love saved me."

Harry would have missed the ugly curl of Snape's upper lip, had he not looked up at Snape's frustrated growl.

"Blood magic, Potter. An ancient form of magic that is no longer practiced, and was seemingly called upon by the willpower of your mother. It is the very same reason that you are in theory protected at your Aunt's home, as you are related, by blood, to Petunia."

"Right," Harry said, putting the jam knife down and wondering why Snape had such a strong opinion of his Aunt. "That was mentioned a bit, yeah."

"A bit," Snape scornfully repeated. "That is your task. Research the blood magic, and find out what, exactly, is protecting you from the Dark Lord."

"Great," Harry said. "We're already in the library this whole break, working on a defence for Buckbeak."

"Whinging will gain you no sympathy," Snape said, rising from the table and taking his cup to the kitchen.

"But you know Malfoy's faking it!" Harry objected.

"Of course he is," Snape replied. "But there is nothing I can do about it, and I assure you, the Headmaster will provide Hagrid with some form of help during the hearing."

"So I can tell Hermione that we don't need to do any further research?" Harry asked, slightly hopeful. Not that he didn't mind helping Hagrid; it was just that the research on old hippogriff cases was incredibly boring.

"If you wish to tell your friend Hagrid that you no longer want to help him, by all means, do so," Snape said, washing the dishes in the sink.

Harry sunk into his seat a little, a heavy weight in his stomach as he felt a bit ashamed. Hagrid had been his first contact with the wizarding world after he'd lived with the Dursleys, and though he was a bit strange sometimes, he was a very caring man and Harry couldn't imagine letting him down.

"No sir," Harry said, picking up another roll for breakfast. "I'll do it, and help Hagrid too."

"Of course you will do the assigned research," Snape said, picking up a stack of parchment from his desk and bringing it to the table to correct. "I have your word that you will behave, in order to continue the lessons."

He held up his hand, and a small picture frame unearthed itself from the pile of papers on the desk, floating over to where they were sitting. Snape had framed the signed ‘contract' that had restarted the lessons, and Harry blushed, though he couldn't figure out why.

"Oh, and a late Christmas gift," Snape said, tossing a small paper envelope at him. Harry opened it to find a long black leather cord in it, almost like a shoelace, with a bead on one end and a loop on the other.

"Thanks," Harry said, running the cord through his fingers. "What is it?"

"Wrap it around your ankle and attach it. Three times should be sufficient. It has a tracking spell," Snape said, starting to tick off and comment on an essay.

"Oh. Aren't anklets more for girls?" Harry asked, trying not to sound ungrateful.

"And criminals, yes," Snape said, and Harry swore the man was trying not to smirk. "Your tattoo idea, while a very good solution, would be a permanent one and require permission from a guardian for the tattoo itself. This is not as inconspicuous, but I trust you will keep it on at all times, hidden under a sock if you feel so strongly about the style."

"I'll wear it," Harry said, twisting down to put it on. "It'll be spring soon, and you know how Voldemort likes to wait until I'm almost done classes before he does anything."

Snape paused, his quill over the bottom half of the essay for a moment, before he continued writing.

"Get out, Potter. Go to the library and irritate someone else."

Harry smirked the entire way upstairs.

...

The Forbidden Forest, now that Harry had been into it twice (and nearly died, twice), still held a dark, malicious feeling to it. Harry gripped the broomstick tightly as he followed Snape, who was walking with a confident step. Harry supposed that if Snape often went to the forest for potion ingredients or such, that he should be confident.

The shadows and peat scent in the forest started to lighten as they walked though, and Snape's final turn off the path took them to a rather large clearing. Harry could hear animals around, likely inspecting and watching them, but couldn't see any, and he winced as he looked up into the bright, cold sky.

"Stay within the tree clearance," Snape said, standing to the side of the path and crossing his arms.

Harry glanced up at the ring of tree branches surrounding the clearing, and then back down at the school broom in his hand.

"The broom's cursed, isn't it," Harry said, his eyes raking over the scuffed handle and bent twigs at the bottom.

"How would you know?" Snape asked, partially sarcastic, and partially serious.

"You won't let me fly high enough to cause serious damage if I fell," Harry pointed out. 

"Get on the damn broom," Snape huffed, though he didn't sound quite angry. "And that is a sufficient height to cause damage."

But Harry was off, flying as smoothly as he could on the rickety school broom. He did a few low laps around the clearing, getting a feel for the broom, and was about to turn back to Snape when an orange dodge ball hit him.

Harry opened his mouth to protest the attack, but snapped it shut and twisted out of the way of the next ball.

"What are you doing?!" Harry yelled, dipping and turning as well as he could with the broom as Snape sent a barrage of dodge balls his way.

"Fighting in the air is not the same as on the ground," Snape calmly said, his eyes completely focused on Harry's moves as he fired.

"He's not going to launch things at me!" Harry yelped, barely catching a tree branch with his foot as he flew by Snape.

"Get out your wand and defend yourself!" Snape barked, pausing long enough for Harry to fumble and pull his wand out. He spent a few minutes dodging the balls and trying to shoot them down, but still ended up getting hit more often than not.

Snape kept up the dodge balls, but after Harry's aim started to improve, Snape had some switch to attacking Harry from behind the broomstick.

"You cheater!" Harry yelled, firing blindly over his shoulder and nearly setting a tree on fire.

"Think!" Snape snapped back, watching him. Harry was getting consistently pelted now, and in a frustrated huff, yelled out ‘protego'. He'd meant to say pause, as if they were playing a Nintendo game and he was overwhelmed by the course, but to his surprise, the shielding spell defended him.

"Good," Snape said, still volleying the orange hard foam balls at Harry, from all sides. "Keep it up."

Harry did, though at first he could only spare enough attention from the shield to fly in a set circle, and barely avoid the trees. He still kept the balls out though, and started thinking of himself as flying in a protected bubble. It worked, as the visual was much stronger than just the casting word in his mind, and Harry was then able to devote more attention to better flying.

"Now hit the target," Snape ordered, pointing with his hand toward a crude target in between two trees. He was no longer conjuring dodge balls, but instead had the already conjured pack flying tightly around Harry, as if they were a gang of air-born wizards.

Harry flew a few more loops of the clearing, concentrating on both the shield and the target. He had no doubt that as soon as he fired a spell at the target, his shield would drop and he'd get attacked. Harry wasn't sure that he could fly, cast, and keep up the shield at the same time, but he could see why Snape was testing him on it. He couldn't personally imagine Voldemort flying a broom and attacking Harry, but if Voldemort had the same group of Death Eaters that he had in the first war, it was possible that they would.

Harry made one more loop around the clearing, before raising his wand and preparing to cast. He could feel the shield flickering around him, but he focused on the target and tried to imagine his spell passing through his shield, not breaking it. The power flowed out through his hand, and Harry saw it smash slightly off centre on the target, and had just enough time to smile in triumph as his toe snagged a branch of the tree nearest him, and his concentration shattered. Orange dodge balls pummelled him as he fell, and Harry hit the ground with a thump.

"Ow," Harry grumbled, blinking at the shadow standing over him. He must have blanked out for a few seconds, as Snape had not been standing right beside him on his way down from the tree.

"When the choice is between dropping the shield or getting a concussion, drop the shield," Snape said, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he stared down at Harry.

"Noted," Harry said, nodding slightly. That turned out to be a bad idea. "I think I might sick up."

....

"Stay awake," Snape ordered, walking down the hallway toward his office, and leaving his door open.

Harry was propped up on Snape's armchair (because he couldn't lay down on it), with a blanket around him, a glass of water in his hands, an empty potion bottle in front of him, and a slowly receding headache. Snape had refused to let Harry go back to the dorm, as his concussion meant someone would have to check on him every two hours, and Snape didn't trust Harry's friends to do it. He also didn't want to bother explaining things to Madam Pomfrey, so Harry had been brought to the dungeons once again.

"Your little friends are either thoughtful, or have a well-hidden malicious streak," Snape said, bringing a small bag into the room as he returned. It held Harry's pyjamas, his notebook, and the first Weasley jumper he ever received, which was too small for him now. Harry used it as a security blanket of sorts, as the yarn was very warm and smelled of the Burrow. Snape seemed to have figured out what its was.

"It's warm," Harry deflected, immediately putting his hands inside the jumper.

Snape surprisingly said nothing, and sat down on the chesterfield beside Harry.

"I've a question," Harry said, keeping his hands in the jumper but looking up at Snape. "Why were they called Death Eaters? That's a funny name, isn't it?"

Snape gave him a look that Harry was sure expressed how mad he thought Harry was.

"One cannot be afraid of anything if one regularly eats death," Snape cryptically answered, as if he'd been given that very answer long ago.

"But that doesn't make sense," Harry argued. "How do you eat death? You can't get fat on ghosts, at least, but you can still be afraid of loads of things. Even Voldemort's afraid of Dumbledore."

Snape blinked at Harry, and he had a blank look on his face.

"It's a metaphor, Potter," Snape finally said. "And the name is used to instil fear in the minds of others, and to empower the Death Eaters themselves."

"Right," Harry said, very carefully nodding so as not to worsen his headache. "Fear in a name only increases fear of the thing itself."

"Precisely," Snape agreed. He was looking through a book on magic rituals, which had a few rather gruesome looking stains on the spine.

"He could have called them the Ghosts of the Night," Harry mused, gently feeling the side of his head to test where he'd bumped it on the ground. There was a bit of a raised welt, and it was rather tender.

"The Ghosts of the Night?" Snape asked, disdain in his voice. "Keep up with your studies, Potter. You do not have the imagination to be a super-villain."

"Hah," Harry grumbled.  "Aunt Petunia hates you, doesn't she?"

Harry closed his eyes against the spots dancing across his vision, and wished that Snape could have given him a stronger pain potion.

"Most certainly," Snape immediately answered, not even slightly disturbed at the thought or the sudden topic change.

"Must have been from when you were kids," Harry continued, watching for Snape's reaction. "I went to live with her when she was twenty-three, and I know she never had anyone from our world around the house."

"Is this a new parlour trick?' Snape asked, marking the current page he was on with a scrap of parchment. "Showing off your spectacular bounds of logic after two years of uninspiring participation in potions lessons?"

"You don't have to be so mean," Harry said, scowling. "You told me to figure out the blood magic, and I was wondering why she agreed to it, if she hated everyone from our world."

Harry snatched his notebook up from the coffee table, taking comfort in his research notes as he glared at Snape.

"And?" Snape asked, tapping his finger over the paragraph he was reading.

"And nothing. There's lots of information about my parents dying, but no one says what happened after."

Snape looked up at him this time, and Harry strongly wished he wouldn't as his eyes were a bit damp.

"Petunia Evans grew up in the same town that I did: Cokeworth," Snape said, pointing toward the picture of the house on the wall. "Forty-two houses away from mine. She was a domineering elitist with a disdain for the working town reality that she lived in, and harboured every dream to escape. She left at the age of eighteen, not wanting anything to do with her sister, parents, or any reminder of where she came from. I imagine that this is how she ended up in such a boring Muggle suburb, and the sight of her strange nephew on her doorstep one morning likely hardened her hatred of everything related to our world."

Harry's mouth opened slightly, his face slack with surprise at the amount of information Snape had willingly given.

"I was not there, that night, but I suspect that Petunia didn't as much agree to the blood magic protection, but that it was foisted upon her."

Harry swallowed hard, and concussion be damned, felt like curling up and going to sleep.

"I was, you mean," said Harry.

"Yes, well," said Snape, picking up another book from the stack on the coffee table. "Use that as motivation. The quicker we defeat Voldemort, the faster you can leave their house."

"But I don't even know how that works. Dumbledore told me that it's because we share the same blood, that I'm protected. It can't be that simple, can it?"

Snape sighed.

"It is the blood, and also because she took you in. She is your guardian, Potter. She fills the same role your mother did."

"No, she bloody doesn't!" Harry snapped, standing up suddenly and feeling dizzy as a result. "She never has!"

He stormed off toward the bathroom, which was only a few steps away, and glanced off the doorframe as he swayed unsteadily.

"Potter!"

Harry could tell by the pause in Snape's yell that his sudden tantrum had caught Snape off guard. He'd not snapped at Dumbledore the first year, when Harry had been told that it was his Aunt who kept him safe, but after he had seen other families of his friends, and faced danger at the school on multiple occasions at the school, Harry didn't buy the excuse any more.

Aunt Petunia may have kept him safe when he was younger, but Harry got into enough trouble on his own, and he no longer wanted to be in any sort of debt to her for protection or otherwise. Especially not how she had treated him as a child, as if he were some sort of Oliver Twist.

He leaned forward against the sink, his fingers pressing into his temple to push away the light-headedness he felt. After doing the research on blood magic, and how strong his mother's love had to have been in order for Harry to gain the protection, he had the sick feeling that his Aunt's hatred was wasting away at the spell.

He swallowed away a dry heave as he remembered the past summer, when Snape, a man who didn't even like him that much, had moved him into the office room on a cot after hearing just once that Harry didn't like sleeping in wide open spaces. Aunt Petunia had kept him in the cupboard for years, ignoring Harry's yells as a little boy, when he'd had nightmares about his parents' death and the bright green light.

Harry barely heard the doorknob turning beside him as he fought to clear the thoughts out of his head. Nothing had changed, since he'd been a little boy. His Aunt had always hated him, and the blood protection spell had worked in first year against Voldemort, so Harry told himself to quit being maudlin.

"John."

Snape's voice sounded quite distanced, as the man was standing right beside him. Snape's hands were cool, his fingers thin and very strong as he drew Harry out of the washroom. The powerful grip on his shoulders kept Harry upright, though his feet didn't seem to like the movement and his body felt like it should be lying down.

"Shall I assume that the concussion is behind your little fit?" Snape asked, his tone dry. They moved past the coffee table, and toward the opening in the wall near Snape's desk.

Harry opened his mouth to argue, but then shook his head, making himself dizzier.

"Fine, yeah. That's the problem," Harry grumbled, letting himself be pushed onto a rather large and comfortable bed. His head was pulsing, and Harry just wanted to sleep it off though he knew Snape would be checking on him every two hours to make sure he was okay.

"In order for the spell to work," Snape repeated, his voice calm as he pulled Harry's glasses off, "Petunia had to fill the role of your mother."

Harry rolled from his side onto his stomach, keeping his eyes closed so the tears couldn't gather that quickly at the side of his eyes. Aunt Petunia would never replace his mother. Harry would never let her.

"Listen very carefully to what I say," Snape told him, sitting at the edge of the bed. Harry found it a bit odd that he was lying on Snape's own bed (though at least he was on top of the duvet), and Snape was sitting by his feet.

"In order for the spell to work, a mother figure must be present, in blood relation, to you. Petunia Dursley will never come close to comparing with your mother, however, for your protection, the association is a successful one."

"Change the spell," Harry said, his voice almost lost in the duvet. He didn't move.

"And whom would you prefer sacrifice themselves for you this time?" Snape asked. It was a mixture of sarcasm and seriousness, and Harry blindly lifted his leg to see if he was within range of kicking Snape.

"I never wanted them to die for me," Harry said, pinching his eyes shut, even though one tear managed to escape. "I don't want anyone else to, either. You're training me, and that will be enough."

He heard nothing from Snape's end of the bed, but felt a blanket draped over him and tucked securely around him. Harry felt an odd sense of comfort, and amused chagrin as he realized that his legs were now pinned down.

"Your faith in me is both astounding and a little concerning," Snape mused, sitting back down the bed. Harry could hear that Snape was scribbling in a notebook, and belatedly realised that his headache had almost vanished.

"You're scary as hell," Harry slowly said, fighting sleep. "Who wouldn't be afraid of you?"

"The Dark Lord isn't," Snape said, and his tone was slightly more serious. "And he isn't afraid of you either."

"Why would he be?" Harry asked, his eyes closed and his face pressed into the duvet. He wasn't up high enough on the bed to reach a pillow, but was perfectly comfortably without. "I'm thirteen years old. I'm not exactly an even match."

"A thirteen year old boy who has already defeated him once," Snape responded, placing emphasis on the last words of the sentence.

"Doesn't matter," Harry muttered, pulling the blanket around himself up higher, as he was cold. "He'd have to be really stupid, like Dudley, to try the same thing again."

Harry almost fell asleep in the silence, as Snape pondered quietly, and flinched when Snape stood up quickly.

"You'd be surprised."

Harry was going to question that, but his head was the comfortable sort of warm now and sleep took him before he could ask.

....

The private brewing room, which was behind two locked doors and a false shelf in a cupboard, was in the dungeons and a ten-minute walk from Snape's flat. While he often brewed in his kitchen at home, Snape preferred to keep his school flat free from potions, mostly because there was always something on the go at Hogwarts and brewing bases to the students' class potions took up a lot of space.

Still, Snape was rather fond of the room. It was warm and had a long table bench set up along one wall as well straight down the middle. Cauldrons of various sizes and makes were stacked according to dimension on a rack bolted to the wall, a shelf beside it had ladles, scoops, and spatulas in every size imaginable, a small desk sat in one corner of the room, with several potion recipe texts on it, and the stone floor had cushioning charms on it for prolonged periods of brewing. Snape also had an impressive amount of sharp knives on the shelf above the ladles, to slice, chop, dice, mince, smash, or cube his ingredients easily.

Snape also enjoyed the room because only a handful of people at the school knew it actually existed.

"Good evening, Severus," Dumbledore greeted, shutting the door behind him. Dumbledore didn't often visit Snape while he brewed, but Snape didn't actually mind. He had nothing to hide in the room, and he sometimes found conversation to be stimulating enough that it unblocked whatever problem he was currently working on.

"Headmaster," Snape answered, carefully weighing powdered Graphorn skin.

"Have you had a chance to look at Harry's new Firebolt?" Dumbledore asked, moving over to the desk to take a seat.

"I assume it is naturally the best and most expensive model," Snape answered, his eyes locked on the potion he was currently brewing as he added the powder. "There is no need for me to look."

"Severus," Dumbledore tutted, though he didn't sound angry. "He received it as a gift, anonymously-"

"Yes, yes," Snape said, standing back up after all the powder had gone in. "I have inspected it for wayward potion infusion, but have found nothing."

"Ah," Dumbledore said, with a smile. "And how are the lessons going?"

"Save for a minor disruption, they are progressing at a smoother rate than initially anticipated," Snape answered, chopping up beetroot in efficient and even slices, with speed and accuracy that used to make his father lament Snape's potential as a top-rate chef.

"Mr Potter has proven himself quite unlike his father?" Dumbledore asked, his voice carrying amusement.

"That has always been an excuse," Snape snapped, holding up the knife and pointing it at the Headmaster. "Which you are well aware of."

Dumbledore sighed, leaning forward to look at the books Snape had open on the desk. Most were turned to pages about regenerative draughts, but one had a particularly gruesome chapter up about phantom limbs and amputations.

"You have not told Harry of the promise you made to me," Dumbledore stated, and it was not a question. Snape answered it anyway.

"And that I begged your forgiveness? No," Snape answered, his voice cold. "I have not told the boy that I sent his mother-his parents-to their deaths. I have not told him that the only way to redeem myself, and to escape your wrath, was to promise my life to keeping him safe."

There was silence in the room for a moment, as Snape double checked the recipe and added six vanilla seeds, concentrating carefully to ensure he only added six.

"It would not make for proper tea conversation," Snape finally said, irritated by the silence. Dumbledore did not laugh, however, but instead gazed thoughtfully over at Snape. Snape could see the look out of the corner of his eye, and imagined it (with exasperation) as one a father might use when his son was tinkering successfully with something.

"Do you not think Harry will find out?" Dumbledore asked, his voice gentle but not placating.

"He is not stupid," Snape immediately responded, feeling oddly defensive. He'd been rather impressed at the apology effort that Potter had presented (as much as it had been Granger's idea), and had not been lying when he'd told Potter that his research concluded things Snape hadn't yet found. And while Potter was rather intelligent, and listened well during the lessons, Snape knew exactly how dangerous it was to let his guard down in the castle, so he'd never made any outward sign of his acceptance of Potter.

"I would prefer, however, that such revelations are not made until long after the Dark Lord has been defeated."

"Hmm," Dumbledore hummed, standing up from the desk. He picked up a jar of Salamander ash from the table to the left of Snape, and brought it over. "Are you afraid that he'll blame you? There is no way you could have known who Voldemort would target."

Snape put his knife down on the chopping board, clenching his fingers around the warm wooden handle, and gave Dumbledore a look that would have curdled milk.

"Potter wants to murder Sirius Black for betraying his parents and breaking their fidelius to the Dark Lord. My crime is not so dissimilar."

"But you've been training him. I have faith that Harry will see that as you making up for such mistakes in the past," Dumbledore insisted, watching the silvery blue potion come to a rolling boil.

"This is true," Snape said, grinding two grams of coral starfish into a pestle. "He seems to have forgiven you for leaving him unwanted on his relatives' doorstep."

Dumbledore visibly flinched, and Snape sighed, feeling remorseful.

"My apolo-"

"No, Severus," Dumbledore said, holding up his hand. "You are entirely correct. I can only be thankful that he has."

Snape nodded, not desiring an argument over Potter's childhood at the moment. What was done had been done, and it seemed to have shaped Potter into a non-Malfoy type child, which was acceptable to Snape's standards.

"Speaking of his deplorable relatives, who actually has legal guardianship of Potter?"

Snape added the starfish to the beetroot mix, and prepared to add it to the rest of the solution.

"The Dursleys by proxy," Dumbledore answered, his expression thoughtful. "Sirius Black is his official godfather, but of course, the paperwork was never completed while he was in Azkaban."

Snape paused in the brewing process, muttering a stasis spell over the cauldron. He cradled his forehead in his hand, rubbing his temple.

"Are you saying that Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, is without a legal guardian in either the Muggle or magical world?"

"I-"

"And that the one person legally able to claim such guardianship, has not only escaped from Azkaban, but been spotted around and IN the castle?"

Dumbledore looked to be fighting a smile, which Snape had absolutely no appreciation for.

"Twelve years is a long time to let something slip by as a slight of mind," Dumbledore excused. "I highly doubt, thankfully, that even the Ministry is inefficient enough to allow an escaped prisoner to claim guardianship."

"No," Snape said, sighing. "But he can complete the paperwork, which in addition to being in charge of Potter, also grants him complete access to Potter's vault. Which I assume, based on my wonderful memories of James Potter, is not exactly empty."

"I don't believe the Blacks' vaults are empty either," Dumbledore mused.

"Not the point," Snape grumbled.

"In any event, the goblins will not allow Sirius Black to access Harry's vault."

"Really?" Snape asked, a smirk forming on his face. "Lucius Malfoy has been to Azkaban twice, and I assure you, he knew of every knut, sickle, and galleon moving within his vault, under his command."

"Yes, well," Dumbledore said, though he looked like he was trying not to smile as well. "Somehow I don't believe Sirius Black would have greased the same wheels as Lucius Malfoy, as I think the saying goes."

"No," Snape agreed, pulling a sack of beetle eyes off the shelf to his left. "But it remains that Sirius Black was named by the Potters as the boy's godfather, and the goblins will know that."

"Hindsight is twenty-twenty," Dumbledore pondered, making Snape wonder if he'd received a daily calendar of proverbs and phrases for Christmas. "Though you are correct that a solution is required immediately. Have you any ideas?"

Snape sat down on his stool with a huff, his spindly legs folding up in front of him as his feet perched on the bottom rung of the stool.

"That ex-house elf of the Malfoys seems to be particularly fond of him," Snape mused.

"Severus," Dumbledore warmly said. "Perhaps Lupin? He was a great friend of James and Lily after all..."

"And a werewolf," Snape snapped. "Unacceptable."

"You're correct," Dumbledore said, ignoring the barb in Snape's tone. "The Ministry would never allow it. I am too old, alas, and busy with this upcoming war."

He trailed off, thinking to himself, and Snape sat in silence at the worktable. There was a periodic table of elements on the wall across from Snape, which he glanced over as he resisted telling Dumbledore that the Headmaster was not the only one to anticipate another battle.

"I suppose another member of the Order, like the Weasleys or yourself, would be the best candidate."

It was meant to get a rise out of Snape, to incite him into a tantrum of yelling and cursing old ghosts of the past. But Snape had been training Potter since the summer, and like then, resigned to the fact that Lily's child was a target, and one Snape gave his word to protect.

"I would not object, although the logistics of hiding the information would be somewhat of a nightmare," Snape calmly replied, picking up his knife again to prepare the next ingredient. It wasn't often he could surprise the Headmaster, and Snape rather enjoyed the slightly stunned silence.

"Might I suggest that you actually ask Potter what he would prefer. Your last housing placement for the boy did not turn out particularly pleasant for him."

"Ah, no, it did not. But you may find that it is very difficult to resist doing what you think is best for someone," Dumbledore said, and he had the grace to look abashed.

"Is it?" Snape asked, working quickly at the chopping board. "For all students, or just for him?"

Snape did not mention his wayward youth, and how easy it had been for him to turn against everything he'd planned for himself when he and Lily were children in the summers. All it had taken was one bitter spring night, and the knowledge that his life and safety was not even worth the suspensions of two pranking students, never mind expulsions.

Once again, as Snape expected, Dumbledore did not apologise.

"I will ask Harry what he wishes," Dumbledore said instead, as if he knew that the time had long past to make up for his poor decision regarding Black and Potter's prank.

Snape nodded, and waited until the Headmaster had just reached the door.

"He can cast a fully corporal patronus," Snape offhandedly said, feigning interest only in his potion, but there was no mistaking the smugness in his voice. He expected surprise from Dumbledore, and perhaps a teasing remark about Snape's potential as an effective professor, and kept his smile hidden in the silence.

"Well done, Severus," Dumbledore said, and for a moment Snape wondered why Dumbledore would sound proud. "Once again, I have severely underestimated you."

"You doubted my ability to teach him?" Snape coolly asked.

"No," Dumbledore replied, and Snape could hear the smile in his voice. "I think perhaps I may have miss-judged both your stubbornness."

...

When the next Hogsmeade weekend arrived, Harry didn't consider for a second going into the village. He left his order with Ron instead, and enjoyed a slow breakfast in the Great Hall. It had snowed earlier in the morning, and Harry was in absolutely no rush to leave the warm castle. Snape had scheduled training just before lunch, but Harry had a good three hours to kill before then.

"Harry," Lupin said, walking down the bench aisles in the middle of the Hall. "Have a few minutes for tea?"

Lupin had a smile on his face, though he looked tired and a bit rough around the edges.

"Sure," Harry shrugged, putting away the notebook he'd been doodling in and slipping off the bench.

Lupin's office was filled with just as many interesting creatures as it had been in the fall, though Harry was now well practiced at ignoring them.

"I wanted to ask if you're interested in learning how to cast a patronus," Lupin said, bringing a battered tea set out of his office as Harry plunked down into a chair. "To fend off those pesky Dementors."

"Oh," Harry started, completely at a loss for what to say. His lessons with Snape were strictly confidential, and Harry was fairly certain he was supposed to hide his talent. "I've been a bit too busy to think about it, to be honest."

"Ah," Lupin said, pouring the tea. He had a smile on his face though, and it somehow smoothed out the harshest of the scars on his face. "Things aren't well in the tower?"

"Not really," Harry said, stirring sugar into his tea. The tower, Lupin had said, with familiarity. Harry wondered if Professor Lupin had also been a Gryffindor. "Ron's rat has gone missing, and it looks like Hermione's cat ate it. Buckbeak, Hagrid's hippogriff, is going to be executed because of stupid Malfoy, and Ron and Hermione aren't speaking to each other at all."

"Anything else?" Lupin asked, his eyebrow raised.

"Sirius Black," Harry answered, his tone lacking any of the amusement that Lupin's had held.  It had been absolutely terrifying the week before to wake up to Ron's yells, and see the slashes in the bed curtains from the knife Sirius Black had held. What had worried Harry most was not so much how Black had gotten in, but how he'd managed to slip out with all the yelling, panic, and lights flickering on.

"How far we fall," Lupin murmured, looking down to his clenched hands for a moment.

"You knew him, didn't you?" Harry carefully asked, trying to keep any sort of accusation out of his voice. The school was relatively small, always had been, and Harry had known since Christmas that Snape, Lupin, his father, and Sirius Black had all known each other rather well.

"We were inseparable as schoolmates," Lupin answered, eager to tell the story, as Harry thought he would be.  "Your father, myself, Sirius Black, and a fourth boy, Peter. Called ourselves the Marauders, and got up to as much trouble as I imagine Ron, Hermione, and yourself get into."

Harry's ear twitched at the name of the group, and his thoughts immediately flew to the worn piece of parchment in his back pocket. The Marauder's Map, it was even labelled, and had four creator's names.

"What happened?" Harry hollowly asked, trying to fight the urge to flee the room and return to his dorm, so he could inspect the map in his pocket. It was his father's, and Harry not only wanted to know which of the four names was his dad's, but to inspect every inch of the map and see if he could find his father's writing.

"People change, Harry. Greed, lust, and power - they change. Sirius came from a very old Pureblood family, and perhaps he could not resist his own upbringing in the end," Lupin said, holding onto his mug, though the tea had long gone cold.

"You think he did it for power as well?" Harry asked, his mind racing as he fought to imprint everything Lupin said. He wasn't as good as Snape at picking out the important pieces of information, not yet. "To be Voldemort's right hand man?"

"We may never know," Lupin answered. "He's spent twelve years in Azkaban, and just one is enough to drive anyone mad. But if anyone deserves it, it's him. He betrayed your father, and in that explosion, killed our other friend Peter Pettigrew."

Harry shook his head, unable to imagine turning on his friends like that.

"He won't get to you, Harry," Lupin suddenly said, breaking Harry's thoughts and sounding determined. "You've many people here to protect you."

After the tea had settled, and Lupin had excused himself with the mention of not feeling his best, Harry walked back to his dorm in silence. He was still itching to read the map, and look for traces of his father, but something else was sticking out in his mind and it was bothering Harry that he couldn't connect it. Peter Pettigrew, the fourth boy, had not come up in much of Harry's research, but he was quite certain that he'd seen the name a few times before.

...

"Ah, Harry, I was hoping to find you here," Dumbledore's voice echoed in the little hallway by the prefects' bath. All five boys froze, and the colour change ball they'd been kicking around skittered through their feet. It was early March, and though the grounds were somewhat dry, it was still mucky out and they'd chosen to play inside, against the rules.

"Hello, sir," Harry said.

Dumbledore completely ignored the fact that Harry, Ron, Fred, George, and Seamus should have been outside.

"I need to quickly go over some paperwork with you, in my office, if you have a few minutes?"

The colour change ball rolled over to Fred, coming to rest against his foot. Five seconds after it had stopped moving, it belched out a foul colour spray mixture onto Fred's shoes.

"Uh, yes, I think I can," Harry said, giving his friends a shrug as Dumbledore smiled.

"Excellent, off we go then," Dumbledore said, turning toward his office. "And Misters Weasley, the house elves are only able to get so many stains out of clothing, do be careful."

Harry had a small grin on his face as he followed Dumbledore to the man's office. If the house elves couldn't get stains out of everything, he could only imagine Mrs Weasley's reaction to some of the messes Fred and George made.

"Tea, Harry?" Dumbledore asked, settling down into his chair.

"No thanks, sir," Harry answered, sitting in one of the guests' spots.

"Nothing to worry about, Harry, there are just a few forms to go over that I have overlooked in the time that you have been here," Dumbledore reassured, holding up a few pieces of parchment.

Harry was worried though, as he knew very well that his Aunt and Uncle wouldn't bother filling out any forms for Harry's school, regardless of whether he absolutely needed them or not.

"This is just a formality, of course, but it has been brought to my attention that your Aunt and Uncle don't have legal guardianship over you."

"They don't?" Harry interrupted, a mixture of confusion and a tiny bit of hopefulness rising within.

"They do in a moral sense, I suppose," Dumbledore said. "As they have agreed to care for you."

Harry made a face at that, which Dumbledore didn't comment on.

"However, we will need to assign someone as your legal guardian to ensure your accounts are properly taken care of, any permission forms may be granted, and for any medical emergencies that may arise."

Harry personally thought that should have been done when he'd first arrived at Hogwarts, but he was far more focused on what else having a proper caretaker would mean to say anything about it.

"So, someone else will be my guardian?" Harry asked, trying to settle the excitement that was building in his stomach. It was too easy; there was no way he could leave the Dursleys just like that.

"Yes, for all legal matters, you will have a guardian from the magical world to handle your affairs."

Dumbledore sounded like he was choosing his words very carefully, and Harry wondered if he wasn't doing it so that Harry didn't get the wrong idea.

"What if I don't want it to be just a formality?" Harry asked, regretting the words as soon as they'd left his mouth. He'd learned as a child to never let the Dursleys know what he really wanted, as they'd make absolutely certain that he didn't get it. And somehow, Harry knew that Dumbledore wouldn't let him leave his relatives' house that easily.

Dumbledore sighed a little, giving Harry a sympathetic look and pushing a dish of candies across the table. Harry hated the look, and wanted to smack the candies away, but he knew a tantrum would definitely not get him anything.

"You need to stay with the Dursleys, Harry. They are your only living blood relatives, and they are what keep you safe from Voldemort."

Harry bit his lip so hard that he tasted blood, but he was able to reel back the smart response that was at the edge of his tongue.

"So," Harry said, taking a calming breath, "I just have to pick someone who will be able to sign forms for me."

"Yes," Dumbledore nodded, studying Harry. Harry didn't keep eye contact though, because he'd done that with Snape once or twice before and figured out that the man could almost read minds that way. Harry wasn't certain if Dumbledore could, but he wouldn't have been surprised if that were the case.

"Someone responsible and trustworthy, like perhaps the Weasleys, Professor Lupin, or even myself. Professor McGonagall would be delighted as well, I'm sure."

"Fine," Harry said, as politely as he could manage, standing up quickly and taking the papers from the desk. "I'll think about it and bring them back."

"Certainly. I do suggest that you complete the forms quickly, however. And I would like to see first who..."

"But you just said I'm an orphan," Harry calmly said, stopping Dumbledore's words. "So if I choose someone, and they sign the paperwork, that's it, isn't it?"

He tried to appear as naive and innocent as he could, though Harry's mind was racing. Dumbledore wanted him to choose a guardian and wanted it to be someone proper, but as Harry didn't officially have one, Dumbledore couldn't do anything about whom Harry ended up choosing.

The silence in the room was suddenly filled by a warm laughter, and Harry looked at the Headmaster with a bit of surprise.

"I see now why the Hat took so long to decide your placement," Dumbledore said, with a smile that only held amusement in it. Harry felt calmer, as he had been a bit nervous to go against the Headmaster's wishes. "Somehow I think you have more Slytherin in your personality than what Voldemort gave you in that scar."

Harry could feel his face heating up at the compliment, and thought it best not to comment.

"I'll bring these back soon, sir," Harry said instead, giving a wave as he exited the office.

Harry didn't actually need that much time to choose whom he wanted. That answer was easy, but convincing said person to agree would be a bit harder. Harry took out the Marauder's Map as he walked (he still couldn't figure out how to ask Lupin about it without the map getting confiscated) and looked to see if his coast was clear. Most of the students had gone into the Great Hall for lunch, so Harry started to make his way downstairs.

When he reached the dungeons, Snape's office still showed two people inside, Snape himself and a Ravenclaw that Harry didn't know very well. Harry sat down on the floor in the shadows, knowing that even if Slytherins passed down the stairs to his dorm they wouldn't see him, and started reading over the forms that Dumbledore had given him. They were written in boring legal language, but seemed to be official guardianship papers that would allow an adult to act for Harry when things needed to be signed in an official capacity.

Feeling only a little confident, and taking the chance that it would help his case, Harry took out a quill from his robe pocket and wrote a name down on the first line. Severus Snape. Harry had no doubt that Dumbledore could get extra copies of the form if Snape said no, but as it was a similar agreement to the contract Harry had signed in December, he held hope that new forms wouldn't be necessary.

Harry's eyes glanced over the map as he waiting for the Ravenclaw to leave, and noticed a flickering name tag down by Hagrid's hut. Peter Pettigrew, the fourth Marauder and the one supposedly killed by Sirius Black.

"Skulking in the shadows, John?" Snape suddenly asked, startling Harry. Snape was standing in his open office doorway, and had somehow seen Harry. "If you're going to stalk people, practise on someone who wasn't a spy."

He left the doorway, walking into the office and leaving the door open for Harry. Harry scrambled up, clutching the map and the forms as his mind flew in scattered directions. Snape used to be a spy? Was that after he'd left Voldemort? And Peter Pettigrew was alive? He'd have to find out if the Map could be tricked into miss-labelling people, but if not, it meant that Pettigrew hadn't been killed twelve years ago. If he was here at Hogwarts, then maybe Sirius Black was targeting him, and not Harry? It was a long shot, but Harry had been wondering why Black had slashed Ron's bed and not his own, when the trunks underneath the bed were clearly marked.

"What's wrong with you?" Snape asked, staring at Harry. Harry's face was twisted into an odd expression as he tried to make sense of the information bombarding his mind, and proper language failed him as too many thoughts crowded his brain.

"Peter Pettigrew is alive," Harry blurted out, shoving the paperwork at Snape. "And I want you to be my guardian."

Later, after Snape had stopped staring and pushed him through to his private flat, made some coffee, and forced Harry to tell the whole story behind his sudden declaration, Harry realised that Snape's expression had been one of the funniest he had ever seen.