Harry managed to fall asleep, but it was a thin, uneasy doze, easily broken by the slightest noise, of which there were plenty. This park seemed to be where every drunk in England gravitated, judging from the hoarse shouts and stertorous breaths that emanated from the wretched denizens that roamed just outside their cluster of bushes. At least everyone seemed to avoid this bush, likely from the thorns. Jay had already had more than one run-in with the wickedly sharp points, and blood stained their shirt in several rusty spots.

Still, it made for a spectacularly unrestful night, and Tom was about ready to give up and take them to the strange man's house when a man with a very tattered overcoat and wild greying hair nearly fell on top of them. A shriek tore free from Harry's throat before anyone could stifle it, and the man looked right at them through the thorny cluster of branches, an odd look coming into red-threaded eyes.

It was a look that Tom remembered from both his Voldemort days and from telly, and it was a look that told him they needed to get the fuck out of there.

Jay, he whispered harshly inside. The man had stumbled to his feet, trying to maintain balance and brush away the thorns that had broken away and embedded themselves in his clothes, but he wouldn't stay there long. Jay, we have no other choice.

Fine, Jay grumbled, pressing his heels into the dirt, ready to scoot out as fast as the body could move. But when it turns out we've gone out of the frying pan into the fire, it's your bloody fault.

Acceptable, Tom murmured, and Jay shoved them out of the bushes, ignoring the little stinging bursts of pain that came from the thorns raking across their skin. One scratched dangerously close to his eye and he winced, biting his lip hard.

"Hey, don't run off!" the man shouted after him, lurching toward him until Jay fancied he could catch a whiff of the man's sour breath. But Jay was already gone, sprinting across the foggy, dark-shrouded park, toward the house on the corner.

There was a sort of porch in front, cluttered with god knew what, and Jay crashed right into a heavy, musty-smelling box, bouncing off it and landing hard on his arse. He muttered several harsh and rather inventive curses as he saw a light click on upstairs, muted amber through the window.

Shit, Jay thought. If he'd not made a racket enough to wake the entire neighbourhood, he might have been able to stay crouched in a corner of the porch until daylight. Now, of course, that was entirely out of the question.

Sure enough, only a few moments later, the front door creaked open and the same greasy-haired man stood there. He had a slightly amused smirk on his face as he took in the trembling eight-year-old.

"Lost?" the man murmured sardonically. Jay bit his lip harder, willing himself not to tell the man to shove it where the sun didn't shine. In a blink, Tom forced his way back out, trying to look as old as possible.

"You could say that, sir," he said in a slightly deprecating tone. "If I could stay here for the rest of the night, it would be greatly appreciated."

"I wouldn't have made the offer earlier if I didn't intend to fulfill it if necessary," the man retorted, holding the door open wider. "In. You can clean up just at the end of the hallway there."

Tom nodded gratefully and ducked past the man. This close, he smelled like several intriguing spices and that same musty smell that had invaded the porch. It was like even the man himself had been packed away for ages.

The hallway had only a bare lightbulb to light it, so Tom nearly stumbled multiple times as he made his way into the bathroom at the end, examining his face in the cracked mirror. They looked terrible. Hair mussed and full of leaves and other detritus, eyes wild and puffy with sleep deprivation and tears, thorn scratches puffed, red, and still oozing blood. It was a miracle the man had decided not to renege on his offer!

This needs a woman's touch, Kitten said and delicately pushed her way out, surveying their appearance with mute distaste and setting it to rights as quickly as she could with a washcloth, liberal amounts of soap, and a heavy use of the faucet. It took several minutes, but finally, they were roughly presentable. She'd even managed to dab at their shirt and get some of the worst stains out, although she had no chance at all of fixing the tear in the hem.

"Thank you," Tom murmured aloud as he took over hosting. Kitten nodded and flounced back to her corner inside. Tom sighed. She was such a touchy girl...

The man was waiting at the end of the hallway. He'd apparently only moved to close the door and now leaned against it, stern and austere-looking in black pyjamas and robe.

"Better," the man nodded in approval. "Now. My name is Severus Snape. What might yours be?"

Tom froze, the name setting off bright alarm bells in his head. Severus Snape...Snape...where had he heard the name before? He knew he had.

Death Eater.

"Tom, sir," he blurted out. He thought he saw a muscle twitch in the man's forehead, but Tom was a common enough name, after all. It couldn't possibly be connected to the Dark Lord. "Rather not tell you my last, if it's all right with you."

Snape's mouth twisted, but in humour or anger, Tom could not quite tell.

"All right, Tom," he acknowledged. "There's a guest room across from the loo. The kitchen is to my left. I request that if you are hungry, you make yourself only a sandwich or something of the like. Kindly do not make off with anything you deem valuable, you will not be pleased with my response. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going back to bed."

And with that, Severus Snape stalked back up the stairs, leaving a thoroughly dumbfounded boy standing in his foyer.