Perhaps it was the novelty of having nothing to clean and no one to breathe down their neck, regularly belittle, and occasionally chase them with the cast-iron frying pan, but Harry and the system thoroughly enjoyed their morning alone in Severus Snape's house. The shower (warm and longer than the customary three minutes) had invigorated them, and the new clothes made Harry feel properly clean for the first time in almost a year. With the Dursleys', he'd been lucky to get "new" clothes once every few months, and it was always Dudley's cast-offs. He swam in them, and once they were grimed with the dirt and dust of his plentitude of chores, he wasn't allowed to wash them except once every Saturday. Even then, his clothing went in a separate wash, and it never seemed to work very well by then. The dirt was too well ingrained.

These new play clothes, however, were like heaven. Mended and slightly tatty, yes, but they actually fit him, much better than anything else he'd ever worn. And they smelled clean, with a hint of wildflowers. Even Kitten was pleased with them, and the accompanying striped socks. No shoes, but they hadn't planned on leaving anyway. Tom had taken Snape's warning to heart. Besides, even if they left, where would they go? It's not like the Dursleys wanted them back. Nor did they even know how to get there from here. They were utterly lost, and here was as good a place as any. Tom was confident that if Snape proved dangerous, at the least, he could knock the man out and run. It might not be easy, but he could manage. No one expected a scrawny eight-year-old boy to even know he had magic, much less be able to wield it like a weapon.

But there was time enough for that later, and for now, Tom was more than content to let Raven trail into the erstwhile library, running her small fingers over the rows of books and pulling out old favourites with a happy sigh. She always put them back, however, and finally rested in the overstuffed armchair with a new one entitled The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring. It sounded interesting, and Raven had always liked fantasy tales.

She was so engrossed in it that Tom had to practically yank her attention away to remind her that it was time to eat again. She scampered into the kitchen and made another sandwich, eating it in quick, neat bites, eager to return to her book.

One moment, Tom cautioned. He'd realised they had only a few hours until Snape returned, and they hadn't the faintest what they would tell the man. What are we going to tell him?

We ran away to join the circus? Jay suggested sarcastically, slouching against the wall in their internal sanctum, a smirk tugging at his mouth. Tom merely rolled his eyes.

We ran away at all? Blue spoke up, hesitant, twisting her hair around one finger.

As much as that approach would sound nicer than the truth, I'm not sure that's a good idea, Tom said as they climbed back up into the slouchy armchair, book resting on the side table for now. If we ran away, he would assume our family was looking for us and try to return us. We've got to find a way to dissuade that, yet not let on who our supposed family is.

Nothing came to them, and in the end, Tom supposed they would simply have to wing it and judge their replies by Snape's questions. By mutual agreement, Tom was elected spokesperson for when Severus Snape returned.

Raven had nearly finished her book when the front door clicked open. Tom immediately switched out, fumbling to place the book again on the side table and wait, his hands folded in his lap. There was a loud crash, a muffled curse, and finally, Severus appeared in the doorway, looking exhausted.

"Ah," Snape said, almost pleasant. "You're still here."

"Yes, sir," Tom replied, ever alert, though Snape appeared far too worn out to accomplish much, either magically or physically.

"What did you do all day?" Snape inquired as he made his way to the couch and flopped down, pushing a throw pillow out of his way.

"Read mostly, sir," Tom said, holding up the fantasy book as evidence.

"Ah, that's a good one," Snape nodded, massaging his temples with his thumbs. "Now. The time has to come to talk."

"Yes, sir," Tom said, sitting up just that bit straighter. Anxiety thrummed through all of them.

"I want to know-and please don't try and lie to me, I'll know if you lie-I want to know why you were on the streets last night," Snape said, quite seriously, and fixed them with that infamous dark gaze.

Tom took a deep breath, mentally preparing for the best lie he could come up with on the spot, and scratched at his fringe, dislodging the wayward strands just long enough for the vivid, lightning-bolt scar to be revealed.

The effect on Snape was galvanic. He sat upright faster than Tom would have believed possible, tension screaming from every pore. Tom jerked back, nearly upsetting the armchair, as he prepared his magical stores. Stunning or petrification, either would work in this instance, wouldn't it? Or perhaps some sort of physical attack?

But instead of attacking, Snape merely stood up. His eyes now resembled chips of black ice as he paced closer, and that pleasant look had utterly vanished from his face.

"What are you doing in my house, Harry Potter?"