"At least Snape believed we were just being Gryffindor idiots, dosing Crabbe and Goyle," Ron said glumly, as he watched Harry packing his school trunk. "If he'd known we'd actually managed to get into the Slytherin Common Room…"

"I suppose," mumbled Harry. "But I really think he went overboard in the punishment."

"Yeah," Ron nodded. "A hundred points apiece from Gryffindor, and I get attached to Percy-the-Prefect round the clock for the remainder of the holidays. Percy is NOT pleased, and that's putting it mildly." He sighed. "I'd bet a hundred galleons, if I had them, that Mum will send a Howler to breakfast tomorrow morning."

Harry kicked angrily at his bedpost. "What about me? Snape himself is escorting me to the Dursleys' house for the rest of the holidays. I'm feeling sick at the very thought." The black-haired boy wrapped his arms around his middle. "I really really REALLY don't want to go." He closed the trunk lid over the last of his belongings. "And I can't imagine how they'll react when I show up on their doorstep without any warning. But it won't be good."

Ron's red head nodded solemnly. "Yeah. Especially after they didn't even want you coming back to school this year." He frowned in concern. "Do you … do you think they put the bars back up on your window?"

Harry shrugged. "Guess I'll find out," he said gloomily.

"Potter!"

Both Second Years jumped as the Potions Master's voice jarred the peace of their dormitory. The twisting stairwell in the tower didn't seem to reduce Snape's sharpness as his demand for Harry's presence rose upwards from the Gryffindor Common Room.

"I'm coming!" Harry shouted. More quietly, to Ron, he added, "I am so doomed."

"I'll walk down with you," Ron said staunchly, and he followed Harry's trunk as it bumped down step after worn step.

Snape was waiting impatiently by the portrait door. "Hurry UP, Potter."

Dragging his trunk a bit faster, Harry headed for the Fat Lady's portrait, but he stopped long enough to look back at Ron before entering the seventh floor corridor. "Happy Christmas, Ron."

"You, too, mate. And good luck."

Snape's talon-like fingers grasped Harry's bicep and pulled him through the doorway. "MOVE, Potter."

Harry looked back one last time as Snape hustled him away toward Dumbledore's office. Ron was still standing in the open doorway, and Harry heard Percy's strident voice ringing from within the Common Room: "Ronald Weasley, don't even THINK about leaving my sight!" Ron gave an exaggerated shrug for Harry's benefit before stepping back inside the Common Room.

Silently, Harry accompanied the dour Potions professor to the Headmaster's office. At first, the boy had been surprised to learn that they were to Floo to the Leaky Cauldron, rather than travel to London via the Hogwarts Express, but he didn't complain. While the train was fun when he was in the company of his friends, he could barely force himself to imagine the horror of being shut in a small compartment with Severus Snape for hours on end. As much as Harry dreaded going to Number 4 Privet Drive for the holidays, if he HAD to go – with Snape, no less – better to just get it over with quickly.

And so they did, emerging from the Floo in the crowded wizard pub only seconds after leaving Dumbledore's office. Snape barely gave Harry the time to wave to Tom, the bartender, before they entered the tiny courtyard outside Diagon Alley. Before Harry could realize that the man in black did not intend to enter the Alley itself, Snape grimaced as if he'd bitten a lemon and pulled Harry tightly against his billowing robes before whirling like a midnight cyclone.

The world spun, melted, contracted, and spat Harry out in the alley near Wisteria Walk in Little Whinging. The first thing he spotted was some of Dudley's graffiti on a neighbor's rubbish bin. Startled, he stumbled backward and tripped over a corner of his trunk, which Snape held in a tight grip.

"Wha – what just happened?" Harry gasped. "How did we get here?" He turned wide green eyes upward to meet those of his teacher. "Professor?"

Snape snorted, but his voice did not sound amused. "We Apparated, Potter. It's a means of Magical travel." He thrust the trunk toward the boy, who automatically grabbed the handle.

"Why didn't we do that from Hogwarts, then?"

"Too far," Snape said tersely. "Do you know where we are?"

Harry nodded.

"Then lead the way."

Obediently, Harry moved off, although he couldn't help the slowness of his footsteps.

The Dursleys would be SO angry to see him back for Christmas…

"Professor, could we please go back to the castle?" Harry asked, no – begged – in a low, urgent voice. "Please? I'll do anything – any detention you want to give me, no matter how long it lasts. Please?" He looked up at Snape and stopped short, stunned that the man was now attired Muggle-style in beige slacks with an insulated russet nylon jacket zipped closed against the December chill.

Snape's face, however, remained utterly implacable. "Nonsense, Potter. You are exiled to Surrey until the beginning of spring term."

"But, sir! I'll do ANYTHING! Please … don't leave me here. Not with … them." Harry's voice trailed off miserably as he stared into the man's bottomless black eyes.

Snape didn't even bother to respond this time. He simply shoved Harry's spine, propelling him forward past the gaily-lit houses of the neighborhood which the boy had hoped to leave behind until next summer. Neatly-pruned shrubs boasted Christmas lights, and beribboned wreaths festooned every door they passed. Behind proper sheers, more Christmas lights shone fuzzily within every lounge window, illuminating artificial Christmas trees weighed down by the latest designer ornaments, thick ribbons, shining garlands, and faux icicles. The very sight of all this electric joy depressed Harry to no end.

"Privet Drive," Snape announced all too soon, looking away from the boy's beseeching gaze as he read the street sign. "Let's go."

They seemed to reach Number 4 in no time, even with Harry literally dragging his feet against Snape's grip on his elbow. Uncle Vernon had undertaken his usual lighting spree, winding blinking lights around the outdoor lamp post, up the small fir tree next to the drive, along the border of every window overlooking the street, and added a jolly St. Nick, complete with glowing sleigh and reindeer to the tiny front lawn. Aunt Petunia had outdone herself, hanging the largest wreath yet upon the front door – the pungent scent of fresh-cut evergreen permeated the air over the porch, and the wreath itself sagged beneath the addition of heavy apples, oranges, and pears. Momentarily distracted, Harry wondered how the real fruits managed not to rot, but perhaps Petunia kept replacing them every day or so?

"Please, Professor!" he begged again, his eyes staring worriedly up through his glasses. "Please don't leave me here! Please!"

Snape's hand hesitated before his finger pressed the doorbell, which was nearly lost amidst the prickly surround of shiny holly leaves.

"Please!"

Those green eyes…

Snape looked determinedly away and rapped sharply on the door.

"Please, Professor!"

The door opened.

"Boy!"

Harry gulped. This was even WORSE than he'd imagined…

"Aunt Marge?" he whispered in horrified disbelief. "What are … what are you doing here?"

"I've come to stay for Christmas, of course." Her moustached lip curled up disdainfully against the underside of her nose. "Why are YOU lurking about on my brother's front step? You're supposed to be in that juvenile detention center until next summer, aren't you?"

She waved a hand to emphasize her question, and to Harry's dismay, he saw she was waving a wine glass, sloshing the dark red contents onto Petunia's expensive carpeting. Obviously, not her first glass of the evening. Not to mention, an opened bottle dangled from her other hand… Desperately, he tried one last entreaty. "Professor, could we PLEASE just go back to the school? PLEASE?"

Snape was frowning now. But he addressed himself to the swaying Muggle instead of responding to the boy's question. "I am Severus Snape. It was my duty to escort Potter to his relatives' home for the Christmas holidays. May I inquire as to your identity, madam? You do not appear to be Petunia Dursley."

Marge let out a guffaw that had Harry automatically checking over his shoulders for eavesdroppers at the neighbors' houses. Vernon – and especially Petunia – would never do anything to attract negative attention, if they could help it. But Marge kept weaving on her feet in the open doorway, punctuating her words with the sloshing wineglass. "Petunia!" she blasted. "I should say not! I'm Marge!"

Snape's lips tightened. "Is Petunia or Vernon Dursley at home? I should like to speak to them."

Marge laughed loudly, and Harry heard several doors opening across the street. Her unrestrained belch caused Snape to wince, and Harry could hear distant snickers…

"I repeat – Is Petunia or Vernon Dursley at home?"

"Nope." To the wizards' disgust, Marge actually swigged from the wine bottle. "Out Christmas shopping." She leaned forward and peered closely at the dark man. "Your hair REALLY wants washing."

Just let me die, Harry thought hopelessly. Just let me die. Because Snape will kill me anyway.

He could actually FEEL the anger radiating from Snape's body, a faint magical sizzle dancing across the boy's skin as the Potions Master attempted to maintain sufficient control not to hex Marge Dursley all the way into the New Year.

"Here they come!" shouted Marge, gesturing streetward with the wineglass, which suddenly left her empty-handed as it sailed across the porch and landed in a bed of winter pansies lining the front walk.

Harry and Snape turned to watch the Dursleys' vehicle turn awkwardly off the street into their drive. Vernon glared fixedly at his nephew, while Petunia stared in horror at the cluster of neighbors gawking at her house, and Dudley laughed and pointed at Marge's wineglass upended among the pansies.

"Professor, PLEASE … PLEASE take me back to Hogwarts. PLEASE."

Against his will, Severus Snape looked down at Potter. Those emerald eyes had glued their desperate gaze to his soul.

"Please, Professor! I'll do ANYTHING…"

Potter…

"BOY!"

Vernon Dursley's moustache stood practically on end as he stomped toward his front door. Petunia fluttered behind, her hands making shooing motions toward the neighbors, then toward the figures on her own porch. Dudley waddled along in their wake; having retrieved the wineglass, he now kept swiping his fingertip over the inside to gather droplets of merlot to sample.

"BOY! What the devil are you doing here?"

"Mr. Dursley?" Snape stepped into the angry man's path. "I am Professor Severus Snape. I teach at Potter's school, and I – " He hesitated as Vernon's face paled abruptly before returning to a furious shade of crimson. "I have brought Potter home for Christmas. He will not return to school until classes resume in January."

"NO!" Vernon's shout echoed up and down the length of Privet Drive.

Snape jerked involuntarily at the man's unexpectedly loud protest. "I beg your pardon?"

"No, I said! Absolutely NOT! That BOY will NOT be in our home for Christmas! We'll not have his – FREAKISHNESS – spoiling our holiday! Take him away!"

"Vernon! Shh! The neighbors will hear!"

Snape noticed that while Petunia tried to quiet her husband, her angry eyes never left Potter's slight form shuffling uneasily under her glare.

"Professor, please…"

How could Potter imbue a whisper with such agonized desperation? Squaring his shoulders, Snape turned to leave. "We shall expect his return by train on January ninth." For some reason, he felt compelled to add, "If Potter does NOT arrive on schedule, OUR PEOPLE will come here to conduct an investigation." Not surprisingly, the Dursleys' jaws opened and closed spasmodically. But as for Potter – rather than appearing reassured, the boy's shoulders slumped and any light of hope faded from his emerald eyes, before he hung his head and stared down at the porch beneath his worn trainers.

Snape swept down the front walk, and the pansies rippled as if caught in a draft of trailing robes, even though the man wore only slacks and a jacket. He looked back once. Just once. But it was enough to see Potter shoved roughly through the front door by his uncle. Kicking his conscience every step of the way, the dark man exited Privet Drive to Apparate back to the Leaky Cauldron.

Inside Number 4, Harry braced himself. He was on his own. Despite all of his pleading to the contrary, Snape had left him to the unlikely mercy of the Dursleys.

-:- -:- -:-

An hour before sunset on Christmas Eve, Harry stumbled through the deserted park nearly a mile from Privet Drive. His mind absently processed what his bleary eyes saw – an icy rim lining the perimeter of the duck pond, though the center remained darkly unfrozen; a whirlwind of birds warming themselves with frantic flight before settling in for the cold night; scraps of bright giftwrap and a trailing ribbon littering the stark ground beside a wooden bench.

Had it not been for the gift wrap, Harry would have collapsed onto the bench. As it was, the signs of recent human presence grated on his raw nerves, and he forced himself farther on, slumping down at last onto a grassy spot sheltered by three evergreens. Painfully, he drew his legs up beneath him, sitting cross-legged, elbows on knees, palms gently supporting his aching head.

The past few days since his arrival in Little Winging had proven horrific. Aunt Marge, of course, had taken the smallest bedroom during her extended stay, so Harry had ended up sleeping back in his old cupboard under the stairs. In fact, unless Harry was actively "being useful" by performing specific chores, he'd been ordered to STAY in the cupboard at all times, so as not to "inconvenience" Aunt Petunia's various groups of guests who came by daily to enjoy her "Christmas hospitality". The boy could only listen to their inane conversational drivel through the brass vent in the cupboard door while he sat silently, nursing the latest batch of bruises inflicted by Uncle Vernon, Dudley, or occasionally Petunia herself. The only bright spot in the dark dungeon of his exile lay in the fact that Ripper had been left to board in a kennel over the holidays, so he didn't have to worry about being bitten by Aunt Marge's vicious little fiend. And, he had to admit, at least the cupboard prevented Marge's constant haranguing , since Petunia feared the parade of visitors witnessing her sister-in-law flinging invective at a closed cupboard door.

But it was the latest skirmish with Dudley which had sent him fleeing Number 4 on Christmas Eve. Harry suspected his left arm must be broken, and possibly a rib or two, along with a badly blackened eye which was now swollen nearly shut. Harry had garnered these token of familial contempt when Marge complained that Harry had taken too long washing his face in the bathroom, and Dudley had obliged her request that he "take care of the matter" by punching Harry's clean face before shoving him backwards down the stairs.

Given that Petunia's latest round of guests had arrived just in time to see him tumble down and land sprawling at the foot of the steps, Harry had forced himself to his feet and excused his abrupt exit past the twittering feminine chorus of "Are you quite all right?" and "Poor lad!" Aunt Petunia would never forgive him for landing amidst her arriving guests in such an uncouth fashion, so he beat a hasty retreat down Privet Drive and around the corner. With no particular goal in mind, he'd stumbled along until he reached the deserted park.

Carefully heaving a shallow sigh against the pain in his ribs, Harry finally looked up and focused on the sunset as he tried to regroup. Did the Restriction against underage wizards using magic outside of school apply to healing injuries? He'd suffered other injuries in the years before going to Hogwarts, and his relatives had always freaked when he healed "abnormally" fast. But that just happened – he'd never consciously attempted to heal himself. Would a conscious attempt even work? And if it did, could he get into trouble for it?

Harry blinked rapidly as the sunset colors swam before him. Maybe he'd better play it safe and not even try. If he healed overnight in his cupboard while he was sleeping, maybe the Ministry of Magic wouldn't consider it a deliberate violation. But healing in the cupboard would necessitate his returning to the Dursleys, and they'd be so ANGRY to see him darken their doorway once again…

Wiping his eyes, Harry concentrated on the delicate outlines of the tree branches silhouetted blackly against the colorful southwestern sky. A myriad of crisscrossed thick limbs, smaller branches, and crooked twigs traced starkly-beautiful random patterns upon the glowing heavens.

Like black lace, Harry thought, smiling slightly at the whimsical imagery. Black lace against the winter sunset.

Winter lace!

That was it, Harry decided. He'd admired the lacy evening silhouettes every winter, but he'd never bothered to put a name to it until now. Winter lace. Winter lace against the warm hues of the frigid December sky.

The boy sat silently, absorbing the meeting of earth and sky as the heavenly colors shifted from brilliant gold to a deeper tangerine, then segued into his favorite sunset color – flaming pink – before fading a bit toward a softer rose, then quiet violet… Superimposed over the play of light, the black patterns of winter lace remained steadfast, firmly anchored to the earth even as the trees stretched up to touch the glowing glory from above.

Eventually, the streetlights flickered on along the streets lining the park. Then the public Christmas tree burst into artificial brilliance, its multicolored electric lights reflecting in the rippling waters of the duck pond. Car headlights glowed in passing as last-minute shoppers headed toward their festively-decorated homes.

Harry shook his head. Nothing manmade could possibly rival the natural beauty of the lace-lined sunset. As the last of the evening light faded, the tree branches gradually lost themselves against the clear night sky, where the first stars of Christmas Eve began to appear.

It would have been so perfect, Harry thought, if he'd been anywhere but Surrey. Why, oh, why, had Snape left him on the Dursleys' doorstep?

Why…

-:- -:- -:-

Many miles away, in the isolated warmth of his dungeon quarters at Hogwarts, Severus Snape kept asking himself, why, oh why, had he left Potter on the Dursleys' doorstep? Why…

Something was wrong with Potter's situation. He KNEW it!

He'd known it then, and still he'd just left the green-eyed brat with those Muggles. He should have taken him away… That drunken Marge – AUNT Marge? Obviously from the huge husband's side of the family… And Petunia had always been quite nasty in general, but especially regarding all things magical. Snape snorted contemptuously. He doubted the woman's outlook had improved with age. And the … large … boy – some sort of cousin to Potter, wasn't he? Definitely took after the bad-tempered man in more ways than one. Snape sipped his firewhiskey, contemplating. After all the years he'd dealt with children, there was something about the large boy which set off alarm bells. If the boy hadn't been Muggle, he would have been a Slytherin, without a doubt…

The firewhiskey warmed a slow trail to the Potions Master's stomach.

What really bothered him was not being able to discern Potter's true reasons for why he didn't want to be left at Number 4 Privet Drive. He had attempted a mild form of Legilimency toward the end, peering intently into Potter's pleading green eyes, but the boy's mind had blocked his inquiry… Not consciously, obviously, but as a result of having to hide details of his home life from other, more overt, intrusions, probably over a period of years.

Snape took too large a swallow and sputtered a bit.

He'd tried skimming through Potter's mind, to no avail, and was left with the same plaguing questions. WHY did Potter want to leave his family? Why would he BEG for detention at school, as opposed to spending Christmas at home? Oddly, he could not penetrate Potter's mind about anything regarding Number 4, although he HAD seen Potter envisioning detention upon detention, scrubbing cauldrons and floors, preparing Potions ingredients, cleaning bedpans, writing enough lines to fill the Hogwarts library… But NOTHING whatsoever concerning his aversion to the Dursleys.

Snape's sense of unease grew. At the time, standing on the Dursleys' porch, he'd thought he couldn't possibly take Potter back to Hogwarts, not after INSISTING to Dumbledore that Potter be banished from the castle until classes resumed in January. He'd have looked quite the fool, and Severus Snape never deliberately took any action which would result in his looking foolish. It was bad enough, as he well knew, to be MADE to look foolish by other … parties.

But those green eyes kept staring at him…

Pleading…

The messy black hair, the oversized clothes – large enough to have fit the bloated cousin – the worn trainers, the skinny frame… All in such contrast to the wealthy, well-dressed Dursleys…

He sipped again, considering. If Potter could HIDE his thoughts… Well enough to prevent Snape from seeing what Potter feared to even THINK of…

The memory of those emerald eyes – so like his mother's – fixed desperately upon his own… "Please, Professor! I'll do ANYTHING!"

Snape swore and flung his half-drunk firewhiskey into the smoldering embers in the grate. He'd left Potter several days ago… It might already be too late! He grabbed a handful of Floo powder and cast it down, shouting, "The Leaky Cauldron!"

He emerged from the emerald flames into the dim light of the pub. Nodding to Tom, the Potions Master billowed into the tiny courtyard and Disapparated.

Seconds later, he billowed up the front walk of Number 4 Privet Drive. The door was just opening and a gaggle of chattering women spilled from the house into the lamplit dusk, calling over their shoulders to their frazzled hostess, "Oh, I do hope you find the poor boy soon" and "Such an awful tumble he took" and "I'm sure I saw him BLEEDING as he ran out the door", and – whispered loudly to one another – "I can't believe Petunia doesn't even seem to CARE!"

Snape absorbed the hubbub as he pushed his way past the women, forcing them to detour into the pansies on either side.

"Well, REALLY!"

"Who could he possibly BE?"

"Never thought Petunia was one to keep such rude company!"

"Did you see that CAPE dragging along?"

Petunia Dursley hadn't quite managed to close the front door to Number 4 upon her own mortification before Snape forced it open again.

"Who? What – ? YOU!" Petunia shrank backwards from the angry wizard. "Snape! How DARE you enter my home!"

Snape waved aside her outraged question as irrelevant. "Where's Potter?"

The woman's lip curled disdainfully before she sneered, "How should I know?"

The Potions Master leaned down to glare into her face. "Potter is your NEPHEW. You were ENTRUSTED with his CARE. Surely, a caring aunt should know where her nephew is, don't you think?"

Petunia sniffed dismissively. "Well, sorry to disappoint you, but that fr – boy – does as he pleases. He's nothing but trouble. Always has been. We're better off when he's not around, so I really can't be bothered to trouble myself over his whereabouts."

Before Snape could reply, a new voice broke in.

"The ungrateful whelp ran out the door." Marge descended the carpeted stairs, flicking her thick fingers through the gold tinsel garland twined around the railing. "If you ask my opinion, my brother and his wife have treated him too well through the years. They should have just left him at an orphanage and washed their hands of him when he was still a baby. But look at him now – he throws their generosity back in their faces and runs out into the cold. THAT'S the kind of brat he is."

Marge looked Snape up and down. "It's been how many days, and you STILL haven't washed your hair?" She snorted in disgust. "You should be ashamed!"

Telling himself that the moustached Muggle bitch wasn't worth the magical energy required for a good hex, Snape focused his attention on Petunia. "So, Potter ran off? That's what you're saying?"

The pretentious woman shrugged. "Haven't you been listening?"

"And you don't know where?"

Petunia planted her hands on her hips. "You need to leave, Snape. Vernon will be home soon, and you'd better not be here when he arrives. Or else."

A nasty sneer curled the corners of the wizard's mouth. "Threatening me, Petunia?" he said softly. "Me? I would have thought you'd learned your lesson when we were children."

The Muggle paled. "Just get out of here, Snape. NOW."

"Not without Potter's belongings. Where is his room?"

Petunia hesitated. "Er – Marge is staying in it."

Snape's black eyes darted between the women. He silently withdrew his wand, ignoring Petunia's gasp of dismay.

"Point me Harry Potter's room." The wand swiveled upon his palm and pointed toward the stairs. He started up.

"You can't – "

But the wand overrode Petunia's protest, swiveling toward the banister railing, then tugging Snape's fingers downwards. Puzzled, he retreated to the ground floor and walked past the stairs. The wand whirled abruptly to point to a short door beneath the side of the steps. Curious, Snape bent to open it, noting the sliding bolt on the outside of the door. His expression darkened at what the bolt implied… Behind him, Petunia moaned.

But the cupboard under the stairs told its own story. Not only was Potter's trunk jammed beneath the treads, a small mattress lined the floor, topped by a thin blanket and several unlaundered changes of clothing, clearly recognizable as the rubbish which Potter habitually wore when not in his school uniform. In fact, the very shirt he'd worn several days earlier lay in a heap, and Snape's features tightened as he noticed fresh bloodstains on the shirt's front…

He backed out of the cupboard and glared fiercely at the Muggles. Waving his wand, he intoned, "Accio Harry Potter's belongings."

Most items zoomed from within the cupboard itself, but interestingly, several significant pieces swooped down the steps, including Potter's invisibility cloak, a photo album, and – of all things – Potter's wand. They must have been secreted somewhere upstairs – perhaps an attic? – where the Dursleys would be less likely to come across them. Mentally, Snape applauded the boy's rationale, but the idea of the boy carelessly wandering away from the warded property without his wand caused Snape to bristle irately.

The moustached aunt had shrunk against the wall, if it could be said that someone of her bulk could shrink at all, gasping as she saw Potter's belongings flying around on their own. Based on her reaction, the woman must never have been informed as to her "nephew's" magical nature. Well, he'd simply take care of that before taking his leave.

Noting that none of the wrapped gifts overflowing the carpet beneath the family's garishly-flashing Christmas tree had responded to his summons, the Potions Master forced down a new wave of anger. Presumably, the Dursleys did not intend any of those gifts for Potter. Snarling under his breath, Snape collected Potter's trunk and scant other belongings, shrank them, and tucked the results into a pocket of his trailing robes.

As he passed the women still trembling by the front door, he advised Petunia in his darkest tones, "Dumbledore WILL know of this." Pointing his wand into Marge's shocked face, he growled, "Obliviate!"

Severus Snape stepped out onto the porch just as Vernon Dursley's expensive car turned into his drive. Through the tinted glass, Snape could see the man's furious expression darken as the robes billowed down the Dursleys' front walk.

"Point me Harry Potter."

Ignoring the enraged Muggle struggling out of the car, Snape set off on foot, heading into the light of the dying sunset, following his wand's quivering tip.

-:- -:- -:-