The first few weeks after running away were exhausting for Harry. He slept in a new box, or doorway, or on a new bench every night, hoping to find some undisturbed sleep, only to be awoken by an irate shopkeeper or the homeless person who usually slept in that spot. His supply of food ran out all too soon, and he had to learn quickly how to pick out the good food from dumpsters. This skill was surprisingly difficult to master; the smell of garbage seemed to permeate even the best foods and Harry could not distinguish whether items were discolored, or read expiration dates if the food was packaged. However, it took only a few episodes of sicking up his food for him to learn the feel and smell of bad food or mold, and to learn the beginnings of which moldy foods could simply have their mold scraped off and which needed to be avoided entirely.

Eventually, he stumbled across a narrow alley which, after spending a night there, he discovered was uninhabited. It was not wide enough for two grown men to stand across it shoulder-to-shoulder, and though it only had the one opening, Harry found a rather sturdy, slightly bent drainpipe at the end that he learned he could shimmy up with some effort to reach the roof of one of the buildings. He also discovered that his new alley, though itself in a seemingly run-down and forgotten area, was within a few blocks of several rather nice dumpsters.

It did not take him too long to realize he was dressed far too nicely to be living on the streets. He got into a couple of scuffles with local kids who apparently thought he would have money for them to take, and were not opposed to shoving a blind kid around. He apparently stood out as a target in his relatively clean and comparatively nice-looking clothes. So, somewhat reluctantly, he spent one evening rubbing enough dirt and grime into his clothes to hopefully allow him to blend in better. He was loathe to tear any holes in them, knowing he would need their warmth as the months grew colder.

He discovered quite by accident, however, that he appeared to have an advantage when it came to begging. He had been trying to find a nearby park he had overheard some kids mentioning, thinking he might find some good trashcans to pick through, or at least a good patch of grass for a soft nap. Being still relatively new to the area though, he lost his bearings during the course of his search. He was standing on a street corner, debating which direction to head, when he felt someone press something into his left hand. Startled, he nearly dropped it, but after a cursory exploration with his fingers he discovered it was a coin. Someone had clearly taken him, with his grubby clothes and his white cane, to be a beggar and had decided to practice some charity on him. After that incident, he took to carrying around a paper cup he had found, making sure his cane was clearly visible when he would stop to sit or stand at busy intersections or walkways. At first, he felt rather odd, embarrassed almost to be taking advantage of his blindness in such a way; he did not like people to treat him differently. However, the hunger that had gnawed at him since his second week on the streets, and the coldness that had begun to set in as the year drew towards its end, convinced him to take every advantage he could get.

He took to begging only in areas where he could hear an adult begging nearby, trying to avoid attracting too much attention from the authorities and being put back in the system. However, if he roamed too close to the other beggars, they would often chase him off to protect their own potential earnings. As much as he hated having to run from a populated street corner during prime hours, he also understood that him encroaching on their space was a real threat to them. His youth and blindness tended to elicit more pity and he likely drew much more money from the crowd than they would, leeching away some of the money they might have received otherwise.

Harry would occasionally take his earnings to one of the more rundown grocery stores to buy some food. Despite his ratty appearance, they did not often question him or toss him out of the store. There was even a clerk that, every once in a while, would help him find things, reading out labels to him so he did not have to rely on the combination of feeling and guessing he usually employed. This same clerk was also generally much more patient with his fumbling handling of money. Although he eventually learned to tell the coins and few bills he received apart by size and shape, it was a slow process since he had never had opportunity to handle money previously, and he had no one to read off the values so he could match them to their feel.

Although Harry found that the world was mostly made up of people looking out for themselves, with a few bullies thrown into the mix of course, he did find occasional people, like the store clerk, who seemed to possess some amount of kindness. He learned to accept the kindness when he could find it, because it never lasted long. Lucy had stopped teaching him when he moved into a foster home, Ada had found a new family, Emily had brought Jack into her home and refused to see his vices, and even the nice clerk left the store some time in the winter.

Harry met one such woman on a bitterly cold day in early December. Hoping to avoid exposing himself in the chill wind that was blowing, he had been wandering the streets in search of a warm restroom he might be able to use. He knew that few, if any, places would both have a restroom available and allow a grubby child such as himself in the door. Eventually, he came across wide stone steps from which he could hear a couple of adults begging. Thinking that a place that did not force beggars off its steps just might allow him inside, he ventured up the steps and found the front door.

The room he entered was pleasantly hushed, with only the soft sounds of rustling papers and occasional whispered voices. Although he could tell the room was rather dim compared to outside, the way that footsteps echoed gave him the impression of an expansive space with a high ceiling. He stood uncertainly a few steps inside the door, unsure of how to proceed. Even extending his tactile senses to the edge of his limit (about ten feet by this point), he found nothing but a small sign a little to his left. Was there a help desk somewhere he could ask for directions to the loo? He heard a couple of people passing in front of him, should he ask one of them? Usually, Harry just wandered around until he found what he was looking for, but while that method was acceptable outside on the streets or even inside the little grocery store he occasionally visited, he was not sure how the people of this building would take to a street urchin meandering through.

His body was just beginning to relax slightly in the pleasant warmth when he heard footsteps approaching him. For a moment, he was afraid that whoever it was would toss him back outside into the cold, but instead they crouched down to his height and a woman’s voice spoke.

“Welcome to the library, young man. My name is Sophia. Can I help you with anything?”

Her voice was as cheery and welcoming as a hearthfire, and despite himself, one corner of Harry’s mouth curved upward in the timid beginning of a smile.

“Yes, ma’am. I was looking for the loo, could you point me in the right direction?”

“I can, or would you rather I took you there? It’s a bit complicated,” she explained.

“Er…” Harry hesitated for a moment. He had grown rather unaccustomed to following someone’s lead since leaving Emily’s; he enjoyed his independence, and was wary of accepting help he did not absolutely need. However, something about this woman seemed trustworthy. “Sure. Can I take your elbow?” He reached out his left hand, adjusting his grip on his cane.

Her hand felt wrinkled when she grasped his, placing it on her right elbow. They walked away from the doors and the echoing room down a hallway, and she described the way as they went.

She left him by the door to the men’s room, and as he pushed it open he turned around and said, “Thank you for your help. I’ll be able to find my way back on my own, you don’t need to wait.”

“Ok,” she said. Harry flinched slightly when he unexpectedly felt her hand on his shoulder. “Perhaps wash up a bit too, while you’re in there. You can hardly see the boy under all that dirt.”

Harry nodded mutely as he tried to gather himself, then she patted his shoulder and walked away.

Harry found himself returning to the library somewhat frequently. At first, he would use the excuse of needing the loo and leave immediately afterwards, but eventually he grew comfortable enough that he would sometimes find a place to sit and just stay for a while. He would usually sit on the ledge of one of the windows, feeling the warmth and light of the winter sun on his face without the bone-deep cold he now experienced nearly constantly.

Sophia showed him the library’s small collection of Braille books, allowing him to read them one at a time and carry them over to his spot by the window. He was not able to check books out as he was not a member of the library, but somehow the book he was currently reading was always available until he finished it. Occasionally, Sophia would even bring a small snack over to him as he read, like a bag of crisps or an apple, claiming that it was a part of her lunch that she had been too full to eat. He was not sure he believed her, but he knew better than to turn down free food.

The library became his refuge through the winter, and a place he felt safe. As long as he cleaned a bit of the dirt off his face in the loo before sitting down, everyone but Sophia would ignore him. And Sophia never asked him personal questions, at least not anymore. At first, when he was still using the restroom excuse and was afraid to stay for longer than a few minutes, she asked him a few times where his parents were or whether he lived nearby. He always fled as quickly as he could, and it would take him several days to work up the courage to return. The warmth of the library always enticed him into coming back, though, and eventually Sophia stopped questioning him.

Although it was a harsh winter, he got by somehow, and he became very grateful for the heated library. He tried to keep moving through most of the cold nights, stamping his feet and rubbing his hands to keep the blood flowing, and so he slept mostly during the day. He would often curl up in the library window and try to pretend he had just dozed off while reading. He also found a few places where warm air blew through dirty grates in the sidewalk, and he would sleep there when he found them unoccupied, at least until someone else shoved him off to try to take the spot for themselves. Harry also built himself a nest of cardboard and newspaper in his alley, and he would sleep there when the library was closed and all the grates were occupied.

He got into several scuffles, with both older boys and adults, over his warm winter coat. Living on the streets for a few months had taught him to fight a bit better, using a combination of hearing and touch and his extended tactile senses (until he grew too tired), on occasion identifying the general direction of movement with his residual vision, utilizing his cane as both a tool and a weapon, and working his small stature to his advantage as much as possible. Therefore, it was a while before he finally lost his coat in a fight against two teenaged boys, his cane snapping in the process.

After the boys ran off with his coat, Harry sat shivering in his hoodie on the sidewalk, the broken cane clutched in his hands. He tried fitting it back together, hoping the elastic inside might hold it in place, but the strand had torn a bit when the plastic broke and it snapped apart, leaving him with four short pieces of plastic. Frustrated, he angrily kicked them aside, and began to take stock of his injuries. He had a split lip that would likely be swelling soon, and his ribs felt tender and sore to his touch. His right hip was throbbing, but that was likely only partially due to it being struck; his hip had been bothering him frequently in the cold, and since he spent so little time warm he was nearly always limping a bit.

Tired and sore, he made his fumbling way back to his alley, trying to keep his extra tactile senses open. He collapsed into his nest when he reached it, all of his energy spent, and slept.

The next few days were exhausting for Harry. He used his extended tactile senses as much as possible to navigate, unable to ignore his body’s need for food and warmth although his injuries were screaming at him to rest. But keeping his extended sense open for longer than about forty-five minutes a day was impossible, and trying to push this limit only increased the strain and fatigue he felt. He tried searching for a stick, but it was impossible to find one long and sturdy enough in the middle of London. Once, he found a long piece of rusted drainpipe, but it was too heavy for him to swing properly and rang loudly against the ground, which felt too much like announcing to the world his predicament.

He stumbled into the library a couple of days after losing his cane, limping towards a window and collapsing onto the wide ledge. It took him seconds to fall deeply asleep, and he woke to Sophia’s voice and a touch on his shoulder. He flinched violently away, then relaxed when he remembered where he was.

“It’s nearly closing,” Sophia told him, concern in her voice. “Where’s your cane?”

“Lost it,” Harry mumbled, shuffling away towards the door. He struck his right hip against a chair and had to bite his lip to keep from crying out. He stood for a moment trying to massage the pain down, then hurried on when he heard Sophia approaching him from behind, escaping out the door before she could ask him any more questions.

He did not return to the library for a couple of days, wary of Sophia’s questions, but its warmth and a safe place to sleep eventually became too much to ignore. When he came inside, he heard Sophia call him, but he moved toward the window in an attempt to ignore her. Concentrating too hard on the sound of Sophia approaching him, he nearly knocked into the person who was sitting in his usual window seat. Embarrassed, he mumbled an apology and proceeded to the next one. He was intercepted, however, by Sophia.

“Harry, there you are,” she said brightly. “I wanted to give you this.”

Within him, a strong need to escape and to maintain his pride warred with his desire for whatever it was that Sophia had for him. Eventually, the need to escape was overcome, and he hesitantly stretched out one hand. He felt something hard and rubbery push against his palm and he grasped at it, exploring it with his left hand.

It was a cane, folded up with the handle loop wrapped around it. Trying to contain his growing hope for fear of disappointment, he slowly felt the tip and then extended its length, tapping it against the ground to ensure all the pieces had snapped into place. It was nearly identical to his old cane, the only difference being that it was slightly longer; he supposed he must have grown a bit at some point, for it actually probably fit him better.

“One of our patrons left it here a while ago,” Sophia was explaining. “We have a limit on how long we’ll keep things in the lost-and-found before we get rid of them. So you can keep it.”

A bit dazed, Harry nodded, one corner of his mouth involuntarily curving upward. He had been so tired… He used his new cane to find the window he had been heading towards and curled up in it, the folded cane held tightly to his chest as he slept.

Later, he realized that it was unlikely Sophia had actually found the cane in the lost-and-found. It fit too perfectly, felt too new, and he could not imagine anyone who would need such a cane leaving it behind. Nevertheless, he never said anything of his suspicions to Sophia because he knew he needed the cane. He might not have lasted much longer without it; the fatigue had been settling into his bones and made the cold feel inescapable. He was left with an overwhelming feeling of gratitude towards the kindly matron at the library, one he hoped that someday he might be able to express.

xxXxx

Severus Snape sat in an armchair by the fire in his quarters, a bottle of firewhiskey cradled in his hands as he stared into the flames.

Failure. The word rang in his mind. He had failed at everything. He had failed to win Lily’s heart, failed to withstand the Dark Lord’s manipulations as a teenager, failed to save Lily’s life, failed as a spy once the Dark Lord was dead… and now he had failed at finding Harry Potter, the boy he had sworn to protect.

“Severus.”

He had been searching for going on three years now, and there was still little to no sign of him. And as he failed at finding Harry Potter, he was failing as a teacher. He knew how the students referred to him, knew the only ones who defended him were some of the children in his own house (though they of course did not include the children of Death Eaters), and even they did so only out of loyalty.

“Severus!”

The call finally penetrated his thoughts, and he looked up. Dumbledore stood before him, looking down at him with some concern. It showed just how far gone he was that he had not even heard the floo.

“Yes, Headmaster?” he intoned flatly.

“We will find him, Severus,” Dumbledore assured him.

“How can you be sure?” Severus moaned, uncharacteristically giving in to the inevitable conversation immediately. He rubbed his forehead with his hand. “And in what state will he be when we do find him? We have no idea where he has been these last few years. And even before that, we have no idea how the Dursleys may have treated him; abandoning him does not indicate great parenting behavior. All we have discovered is the car accident that seemed to be the catalyst to his being abandoned.”

“I have confidence, Severus. He will be at Hogwarts in time to join his year mates for their first year this September. In the meantime, Severus, I am worried about you. You have been withdrawing further and further these past couple of years. You accept help from no one in anything. It is not healthy.” Dumbledore frowned as he stated this.

“I am fine, Headmaster, I have told you before,” Snape growled. “I have always been a private person.”

“You have become downright reclusive, Severus. There is more to life than the mission,” Dumbledore chastised him gently.

Snape shook his head and took a swig from the bottle.

“Things will be different this summer, Severus. I will not allow you to spend every waking moment, and even some moments you should be sleeping, scouring the countryside as you too often do. We will find him, the regular patrols that you suggested are still maintained, but running yourself into the ground will not help you protect Harry.” Dumbledore’s eyes flared briefly, reflecting the light of the flickering flames.

Snape simply stared into the fire sullenly, not moving when Dumbledore sighed and threw a pinch of floo powder into its depths and left.

xxXxx

By the time spring began to melt into summer in the city of London, quite a lot had changed for Harry. The struggles of the winter had taught him how to fight much better, using everything he could find in himself or his environment to his advantage. He had eventually covered up the whiteness of his cane with dirt to make it less visible as a symbol of his blindness, deciding that although it had its advantages (particularly in begging), it made him seem too vulnerable and too much of a target. He was unsure how obvious his blindness was from the sight of his eyes, so he still wore the Chelsea cap pulled down low on his head, partly to protect him somewhat from overhanging objects his cane would not find and partly to obscure the sight of his cloudy eyes just in case. With a fair amount of trial and error, he had eventually learned to pick simple locks, allowing him to get into the dumpsters outside of the nicer establishments. He even learned how to stay alert and listen for clues to when he needed to open his extended tactile sense, allowing him to save the energy for when he truly needed it. However, by the summer, Harry was able to push his tactile senses out to thirty feet around him and he could use it for a total of two hours a day before the ability gave out.

One day, he was waking up from his nest in his alley, enjoying the feel of the morning sun on his face, when he heard faint flapping and then an odd twittering sound from somewhere behind his head, around where the bent drainpipe was. Surprised to hear what could only be a bird come so close to him, he greeted it.

“Hello, little one. Sorry, I don’t have any food to share. You’d be better off going to the park.”

But the bird’s pleasant twitter turned into a loud screech. Startled, he jumped to his feet, opening his extended sense of touch on instinct and stretching it towards the bird. Oddly, he found what felt like a thick piece of paper attached to one of its legs.

He frowned. “Did you get yourself caught somewhere, little one -- er, not-so-little one?”

But on further inspection, he realized the paper was a letter in an envelope, and it appeared to be tied to the bird’s leg.

“That’s an interesting way to send mail,” he muttered. “Bloody impractical, training carrier pigeons; he’s obviously lost.” Then, turning to the bird, he slowly approached and gently asked it, “Would you like me to take that off your leg for you? Maybe I can figure out how to deliver it for you. Might get me a reward of some kind, too,” he added to himself.

He reached out a hand warily, hoping the bird was as domesticated as he was supposing, and grasped the letter, gently removing it from its leg. He picked up his cane and headed towards the opening to the alley, closing his extra tactile sense as he heard the bird fly away.

Harry walked briskly towards a street corner a few blocks away that he knew Timothy could often be found at. Timothy was an older homeless man he had met a couple of months before. Harry had been sitting with his paper cup on the same street as him, trying to maintain enough distance to avoid threatening the other beggar but keep close enough to avoid raising suspicions from passers-by. Timothy had unexpectedly approached him and asked if he could sit beside him. In the middle of some mumbles, he had given Harry a proposition to regularly sit beside each other when begging and split their earnings. Ever since, Harry had often sat with Timothy, listening to his disjointed ramblings and occasionally conversing.

Unsurprisingly, Harry did hear Timothy’s mutterings as he approached the intersection. Timothy seemed to have the curious characteristic of appearing at times to be completely insane, and at others wiser and more firmly rooted in reality than most others around him. At the moment, Timothy’s chatter seemed mostly coherent, so Harry hoped he would be helpful.

“Timothy,” Harry cut in, interrupting Timothy’s train of thought to get his attention.

“Why look at y’se’f, it’s Harry!” Timothy began, but Harry hurried on.

“I was wondering if you could tell me who this is addressed to, I thought I might be able to get some money for delivering it or something,” Harry explained, handing over the letter.

Timothy took it, then exclaimed, “Why it’s you’s!”

Harry held back a sigh. “Yes, I know I found it, but I was wondering if you could help me read the name and address on the front.”

“No it says you!” Timothy protested. “It even says you’s home on’t.”

Harry furrowed his brow. “My home?” he asked, confused.

“Yes, yes, you’s home, you’s alley down th’street. Hee-yah, let’s see wot ‘t says.” Harry heard Timothy begin tearing the envelope.

“No, don’t --” he began to protest, reaching out, but he was interrupted by Timothy reading the letter out. It was a bit difficult to make out completely from Timothy’s odd pronunciation, especially since a few of the words were unfamiliar, but Harry thought it went something like this:

*Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,

Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,*

“-- Ach, carn’t make out tha’ scrawl. Hmph. Do you s’pose tha’s why you’s friend’s still ‘round, then? They’ve g’t this whole list of stuff next…”

“What do you mean, my friend is still around?” Harry asked, a bit absentmindedly. He was contemplating the contents of the letter. It was quite far-fetched, even sounded rather crazy. Logically, he knew it was rather likely that Timothy had just made it all up. But something about it seemed to fit. He did seem to do some rather strange things at times… And there was his ability to extend his sense of touch…  

“You’s friend, that owl. The one wot dee-livered it. Must need a reply ‘r summat,” Timothy explained.

Harry paused, then decided not to question how Timothy knew the letter’s method of delivery. “It’s an owl?” he asked. “I guess it did seem big… And it’s still here? Quick, can you help me write a reply? Is there any pen lying on the ground or something?” He waited impatiently while Timothy looked around, wishing he could trust him enough to open his extended tactile senses and search himself.

“Ach, no pens,” Timothy said, “but hee-yah.” He shoved a sliver of what felt like some soft rock or hard wood into Harry’s hand. “This’ll write f’you.”

“Will you do it, please, Timothy? I’ll tell you what to say, just write my exact words, ok?” Harry asked, trying to be patient.

“Nah, nah,” Timothy protested, patting Harry’s hand closed. “You be fine. My hands ‘r big bird claws like you’s friend’s, they not’s writing v’ry well.”

Knowing not to argue, Harry nodded and reached for the letter. After asking which side was the blank side, he set the sliver to the paper, dredging up half-forgotten letters and methods from over two and a half years ago when he would sit with Ada. He checked with Timothy that the words were clear enough (“They’s bi’ messy, but they’s there”) and then hesitated for a moment, suddenly uncertain. Was this crazy? Could he trust these people? Did he even want to go to a school? What if they sent him back to Emily’s, or perhaps even to the Dursley’s? His grip tightened in anger and fear, but then he remembered the past winter, the one he had barely survived. How many more could he make it through? And even with all the tricks that he had learned, did he really want to spend the rest of his life on the streets? In fifty years, would he be like Timothy, a half-crazed man with a begging cup in one hand and a beer bottle in the other?

Decided, he stuffed the letter back into the envelope, then carefully scrawled “Hogworts” (guessing at the spelling) onto the back side. He asked Timothy for help tying it back onto the bird’s leg, then listened to it flapping away, simultaneously hoping that his life would change and worrying what would happen if it did -- and suddenly concerned that the school would send their reply by owl and he would have to go through the whole ludicrous process again.

xxXxx

“Albus! Albus!” Minerva McGonagall came hurrying into the headmaster’s office, uncharacteristically discomposed.

“Yes, Minerva?” Dumbledore stood and came around to the front of his desk, curious as to what could so agitate the usually unflappable woman. “What is it?”

“I was just sorting through the first-year replies and I found this!” She held out a letter.

Dumbledore took it and examined it, frowning. “This is just one of the acceptance letters,” he said.

“The other side, Albus,” Minerva explained quickly, impatient.

Dumbledore flipped it over and found scribbled writing that read:

I.m sorry I don.t know anything about Hogworts. Please explain.

Before he could ask any questions, Professor McGonagall handed him an envelope. “It came in this,” she said, brimming with only partly-contained excitement.

Mr. H. Potter

The Smallest Alley

Grove Street

London

Dumbledore’s head snapped up after reading this, and without saying a word he strode to the fireplace. He tossed a pinch of floo powder into the flames and called out, “Severus Snape’s Quarters!”

Several minutes later, Snape was pacing the floor in front of where McGonagall and Dumbledore stood, his face impassive aside from the crease in his brow and focused intently on the ground.

“How could we not have considered this before?” McGonagall queried breathlessly.

“We had discounted all magical methods from the very beginning as they are too easily traceable by the Ministry,” Snape snapped in reply. “I have not even thought beyond Muggle methods for the past year and a half. Foolish,” he hissed to himself under his breath. “It is fortunate we even received a reply.”

“Indeed,” Dumbledore stated. “Our best course of action is to retrieve him here immediately. From the address, it appears he has been living on the streets in London, likely alone. Hopefully it will not be too difficult to convince him to come. Severus, I trust you are up for the job? You should leave as soon as possible.”

At this, Snape stopped pacing and looked up. “Me, Headmaster? Surely--”

“There is no one better, Severus,” Dumbledore interrupted him, not unkindly. “I trust you completely, you will be quick and discreet, and I believe you have as good a chance as anyone of gaining Harry’s trust.”

Snape swallowed and nodded, knowing better than to voice his disagreements. Once decided, the old man was not easily persuaded. “I will leave at once,” he said, and swept from the room.

xxXxx

A couple of days after sending the response back, Harry was crouching on a crate in his alley, idly contemplating whether a trip to the library would be worthwhile. He had been so distracted since the morning the owl had come, dangerously so at times. He was not sure how long post by this method would take, or even how trustworthy an owl was with mail, and so he could not decide whether to hold out hope or give it up as some absurd fantasy he had allowed himself to fall prey to.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of someone entering his alley. Suddenly on alert, he opened his extended touch, relaxing his body so he could be ready to move at any moment without giving the appearance of shifting at all.

“Harry… Harry Potter?” His head snapped up at hearing his name. Surprise and fear whirled within him, though his face remained the impassive mask he had grown accustomed to wearing over the past two and a half years. His thoughts turned to the letter he had sent, and, steeling himself and gathering confidence like a cloak around him, he hopped off his crate and stepped forward. He brushed the hair out of his eyes and switched his cane to his left hand, stretching his hand forward with more assurance than he felt.

“I’m Harry Potter,” he stated, his voice held steady by sheer force of will.

He heard and felt the man step forward, then pause for so brief a moment Harry might not have noticed if he had not been attuned so completely to his surroundings. Before he could process the possible meanings of this, the man’s hand grasped his in a firm shake.

“Hello, Mr. Potter,” the man said, his voice deep and smooth. “I am Professor Snape. I am here to take you to Hogwarts.”