“He’s almost as skinny as you are.”

“At least his moustache is bigger than hers.”

Dudley’s mouthful of ice cream went down the wrong way, giving Harry the perfect excuse to thump his cousin HARD several times, his fist sinking into Dudley’s soft back as vanilla ice cream, fudge sauce, and chopped walnuts spewed grossly from the choking boy’s mouth.

“Did you – did you have to say THAT?” gasped Dudley, his small eyes streaming. He smeared the back of his hand across his mouth and chin, trying to rid himself of the sticky remnants of his third dessert of the evening.

Harry Potter grinned.

It wasn’t often that he and Dudley were on the same page about anything, but Aunt Marge’s unexpected appearance – arriving two days early for her annual visit at Privet Drive – had united them, temporarily at least, in a common cause: debating the pros and cons of the tall, thin man whom Marge had introduced rather dramatically as her “boyfriend”.

The main debate, of course, had had to wait until after supper, which Harry had been pressed into preparing while Aunt Petunia entertained her guests. Dudley, sent upstairs to dress in his best, had then sat – first in the lounge, then at the dining room table – staring at the thin, sandy-haired man whose piercing blue eyes missed no detail of his surroundings. From the kitchen, Harry couldn’t make out too much of the man, except that his waving hair curled slightly over his starched collar, a bit long for current fashion, but neatly styled, nonetheless. The blue eyes framed a straight, narrow nose, while a long, thin moustache drooped down past his chin, reminding Harry of a photo he’d once seen of a blond Lhasa Apso.

“So, what’s he like?” Harry muttered sideways at Dudley when the other boy came to the kitchen to refill the ice bucket.

“Dunno. Awfully quiet.”

Harry snorted. “Well, Aunt Marge is doing all the talking, isn’t she? He can’t get a word in edgewise, it looks like.”

A couple of ice cubes clattered onto the kitchen floor and Dudley kicked them toward the sink. “Yeah. Every time Mum or Dad asks him a question, she butts in and answers for him.”

“How’d they meet?”

Dudley’s laugh sounded darkly gleeful. “He was sitting on a park bench when she passed by, walking her dogs, and Ripper peed on his leg.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. “And he still asked her out?”

“Go figure.” Shrugging, Dudley carried the ice bucket back to the lounge.

Utterly bemused, Harry picked up the melting cubes and tossed them into the sink. After checking the thermometer protruding from the roast – another ten minutes or so to go, he could tell from long experience – he turned on the heat beneath the pared, chopped potatoes to begin boiling them. A fresh vegetable medley went into the steamer basket, but he would wait until the potatoes were done before starting the other vegetables. He quickly minced fresh herbs for the accompanying butter sauce, thankful that his aunt had already prepared a cream pie earlier that day. At least he wouldn’t have to make a dessert tonight. He sniffed appreciatively at the scent of roasted garlic seeping from the oven; the foil packet containing the garlic to mash with the potatoes sat neatly on the wire shelf alongside the roasting beef.

A boyfriend! For Aunt Marge? Never in a million years…

“Boy! Boy!”

Automatically, Harry turned the stove heat down to medium under the potatoes before hurrying to answer the shouted summons from the lounge. “Yes, Uncle Vernon?”

“How long until we eat?”

“The salad is ready right now, sir.”

“Well, then.” Vernon stood up, stretching a bit.

Petunia stood as well. “Mr. Lawson, would you come through to the dining room?”

Her well-manicured hand gestured gracefully, but Harry had to compress his lips to hide a grin as Marge grabbed Mr. Lawson’s arm in a death grip, practically dragging him from the lounge. Petunia fluttered helplessly behind them for a moment as her sister-in-law took the wind out of her sails, then turned her head to hiss at Harry, “Change shirts before you serve.”

“Yes, Aunt Petunia.”

He took the stairs two at a time, stripping off the stained, oversized button-down shirt the moment he was out of sight of the dining room. Dashing into the smallest bedroom, he rifled through his wardrobe for the cleanest, best-fitting shirt he owned – a bright yellow T-shirt with an unmistakable Weasley “W” stenciled in crimson upon the single pocket. One of Fred’s – or George’s – passed down to Ron, who had already outgrown it, the shirt had landed in his open trunk sometime during Fifth Year, and he’d been pleased to discover it once he’d returned to Privet Drive for the summer. It was the one non-uniform item he owned that he could wear in public without people staring at him with either revulsion or pity.

Tugging the yellow shirt over his head, he ran down the stairs just as the Dursleys and their guests finished seating themselves at the dining table. Aunt Marge kept up a non-stop monologue – fortunately not directed at Harry, for once – as he served the salad plates which Petunia had generously filled from the large wooden bowl beside her place. After Harry set the lightly-woven basket of warm, whole-grain dinner rolls between Aunt Marge and her gentleman friend, Petunia nodded her dismissal, and Harry returned to the kitchen to drain and mash the potatoes and start the other vegetables cooking.

The roast beef had a chance to rest while the family was eating their salads, and Harry took advantage of a few free moments to observe the boyfriend through the crack of the kitchen door behind which he was standing. Thin, composed, taciturn, the man ate quietly, smiling at Marge’s one-sided banter, nodding or shaking his head in response to questions posed by Petunia or Vernon. Every time the man glanced at Dudley, the nervous teen managed to drop bits of salad or silverware on the tablecloth and thick rug. Marge continued to dominate the conversation until Harry took up the empty salad plates and returned with the platter of thick beef slices. He followed with the serving bowls full of roast-garlic mashed potatoes and the colorful array of steamed vegetables, fragrant with herbed butter sauce.

Each time Harry entered the dining room, Mr. Lawson’s blue eyes gave him an appraising look, which Harry returned as discreetly as possible. The man looked ordinary enough, not visibly deranged, as far as Harry could tell. But there MUST be something wrong with him, mustn’t there? For him to be interested in Aunt Marge in the first place, especially after Ripper had peed on him in the second place.

Harry’s only experience with romance had been with Cho Chang, and he simply couldn’t reconcile the fresh wonder of that relationship – while it had lasted – with the image of Aunt Marge fawning over Mr. Lawson… He was beginning to feel the urge to gag every time Marge simpered – too reminiscent of Umbridge – and he shuddered inwardly whenever Marge’s rough hand caressed her complacent suitor’s arm through his tailored dove-gray blazer. If the poor fool only had any sense, he’d be shuddering, too!

Oddly, although he’d filled his plate to overflowing as usual, Dudley didn’t immediately plunge into his main course. His eyes locked with Harry’s just before the younger boy exited the dining room, and Harry saw the same confusion in his cousin that he himself was feeling. Who WAS this man? And WHY was he involved with Aunt Marge?

Back in the kitchen, Harry began cleaning up the pots and pans as quietly as possible. Aunt Petunia did not like to hear metallic clattering during mealtimes. During the washing up, Harry kept an eye on the dinner progress, and a few minutes before Uncle Vernon and Dudley finished their second helpings, Harry started the coffee maker. By the time the family and guests had settled into the lounge for dessert, the coffee had brewed, and Petunia beckoned Harry to serve the coffee and cream pie. Mr. Lawson actually opened his mouth to respond to Harry’s query about how he took his coffee, but Marge inserted, “Black as Hades,” before laughing loudly and handing the quiet man his cup and saucer. Harry and Dudley exchanged a wry glance before Harry left the lounge to begin clearing the dining room table.

Is this what Aunt Marge wanted? A man she could walk all over? And Mr. Lawson – didn’t he MIND being trodden upon? Why, Harry hadn’t heard him utter a single word since they’d arrived almost three hours ago. Marge had veritably muzzled the poor man! How could anyone possibly put up with that sort of oppression in a long-term relationship? Similar thoughts kept spinning through Harry’s mind as he removed the dinner plates and cleaned up the mess at Dudley’s place. The man just HAD to be mental. It seemed the only explanation!

Quickly, he scraped the plates and loaded the dishwasher. That left only the dessert plates and coffee cups. Laughter sounded from the lounge, with Marge’s endless monologue rising and falling.

Heaving a sigh of relief, Harry quickly served his own supper, chewing a well-done slice of beef from one end of the roast. He didn’t see how Uncle Vernon could eat rare meat – even medium was stretching it, as far as Harry was concerned. The potatoes had turned out great, thanks to Mrs. Weasley’s tip about incorporating roasted garlic. And he’d finally been able to try Hermione’s suggestion for livening up vegetables with fresh herbs in butter sauce. Harry had been cooking for years, but tonight’s meal definitely ranked among his best successes, he decided.

More laughter from the lounge. Harry put his own plate into the dishwasher before meandering along the hall to retrieve the dessert plates and coffee cups.

“He’s a food critic!” Marge was exclaiming with obvious pride as Harry entered the lounge and silently went about gathering up the china. Dudley was just finishing off the final slice of cream pie. No dessert for himself, Harry realized. Par for the course.

“What kinds of food do you criticize, Mr. Lawson?” Dudley asked, swallowing a huge forkful of pie.

Years of practice kept Harry’s expression relatively impassive. That, and the fact that, for Dudley, the question was actually intelligent. He had three main topics in his conversational repertoire: boxing, computer games, and food. If Aunt Marge had to date someone, at least he appeared to be above the level of boxing and computer games!

“Oh, he does write-ups for restaurants here in the U.K., as well as on the Continent, in Canada, and even in the States,” Marge replied, as Mr. Lawson’s mouth opened briefly, then closed again in resignation. The sandy-haired man merely nodded in agreement toward Dudley.

“Huh.” Dudley looked Mr. Lawson up and down, seeming to pause on the drooping blond moustache. After scraping the tines of his fork over the china plate to scoop up the last remaining traces of cream filling, Dudley handed his plate to Harry, but the fork slid off and clattered loudly onto the cherry cocktail table.

“Boy!”

“Sorry, Uncle Vernon,” Harry apologized for Dudley’s shortcomings.

“Clear up and get out!”

“Yes, sir.”

“And put the good mattress on the bed for Marge. Put your mattress in the … you know.” Vernon suddenly seemed to remember he had company.

Harry stared at his uncle. “She’s sleeping here?”

“Where else would she sleep, boy?”

“But…” Involuntarily, Harry’s eyes darted to meet those piercing blue ones sitting next to his aunt-by-marriage.

“Well? Speak up!”

Harry’s trainers shuffled on the carpeting. “Um … well, she’s with Mr. Lawson…”

“So?” Vernon pressed.

“I … er … I thought they’d be staying in a hotel.”

“What!” Marge struggled to her feet, her face reddening. “Whatever gave you that idea!”

Harry shrugged wildly. “Well – no one said anything to me! I just assumed…”

“Well, you assumed WRONGLY!”

The red-to-purple face must be a family trait, Harry thought randomly as Marge advanced furiously upon him. And heaven help him, he could never explain what he blurted out next: “So, you’re both staying here? I really think the bed is too small for two – OW!”

“BOY!” thundered Vernon, grabbing Harry by the hair of his head. “SHUT IT!”

“HAHAHAHAHAHA!” Dudley had thrown back his own head, laughing harder than Harry had ever seen him do.

“DUDLEY!” shrieked Petunia, and her son rolled over on his end of the sofa, burying his face in a throw pillow, but he couldn’t stop laughing.

Vernon dragged Harry from the lounge and threw him against the hallway wall.

“My SISTER,” he enunciated with fierce deliberateness, “is a RESPECTABLE (with spittle spattering Harry’s face) woman who does NOT stop at HOTELS with MEN!” A pause for breath, which did nothing to ease the purple hue of his features. “My SISTER,” he emphasized further, “STAYS with FAMILY.” Another pause. “Her GENTLEMAN friend will be spending HIS nights at a hotel.” Pause. “ALONE.”

From the lounge came a confusion of “… our nephew … quite disturbed … strangers upset him …” and “… juvenile delinquent … St. Brutus’ … bad blood …“, punctuated with Dudley’s muffled snorts and guffaws.

Vernon was glaring daggers at Harry.

“Yes, Uncle Vernon. I’m sorry. It was quite thoughtless, I’m sure.”

“To … say … the … LEAST.”

Vernon yanked Harry off the wall and frog-marched him to the doorway of the lounge. “Now, BOY – APOLOGIZE to your aunt.”

Obediently, Harry faced Marge and began, “Aunt Marge, I’m really sorry for my thoughtless comment. I really didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just that nobody had explained to me beforehand – “

SLAP!

Harry’s head jerked nearly halfway around under the weight and force of Marge’s hand cracking against his cheek and jaw.

“You – FILTHY – little DEGENERATE!”

Marge’s voice sounded at close range, although Harry could not see her for all the stars still flashing before his eyes from her slap.

“An orphanage would be too good for you, boy, and look how you’ve dragged down decent folks for years! My brother should never even have you home for the summer – just leave you in that detention center all year – let them give you beatings every day! That’s what you deserve, boy! Just like your filthy mother! A drunken bitch who whelped and then left you to burden my brother’s family! Bad blood will out – “

CRACK!

Petunia gasped, staring at the large mirror over the fireplace. A maze of fractures split the reflected lounge into uneven portions. They all stared, even Mr. Lawson, and the mirror’s cracking had finally put an end to Dudley’s laughing.

Harry stared, too, in utter confusion. Accidental magic – it had to be. But it couldn’t have been him! Not this time! He could always feel it building up inside him, like an intense pressure, before the power burst forth. But not this time! He’d still been trying to clear his vision, to quiet the ringing in his ears. Yes, he’d heard Marge’s diatribe, but his already having heard it several years ago had lessened its immediate impact this go round. He hadn’t done magic this time. He HADN’T!

But his relatives were all glaring at him as if he had, Harry realized, swallowing hard. And done it, furthermore, in front of Mr. Lawson. Aunt Marge’s boyfriend.

If the poor man had any sense at all, he should make a run for it. Now!

But Mr. Lawson continued to stand as if rooted to the Oriental rug, staring at the ruined mirror.

Petunia, forever determined to be the perfect hostess, finally attempted to force a return to normalcy for the sake of their guest. “Clear this up,” she said to Harry, pointing at the dessert dishes. “Then do as your uncle instructed you,” she continued, deliberately refraining from mentioning the mattresses and the small bed. “Be quiet as you work.”

“Yes, Aunt Petunia.”

The moment that Vernon let go his arm, Harry loaded the tray with the used china and dessert serviettes. As he headed down the hall toward the kitchen, he heard Petunia suggest, “Mr. Lawson, would you care to sit in the garden? It’s delightfully cool in the evenings, and I think we could all do with a breath of fresh air.”

“Of course he would,” Marge stated firmly, and clutching the hapless man’s arm, she dragged him through the French doors to the garden. Vernon and Petunia exchanged rather telling glances before following suit.

Dudley, however, followed Harry to the kitchen, and as the black-haired boy applied ice to his bruising cheek, pulled out a carton of ice cream to concoct another serving of dessert. After a minute, Harry recommenced his after-dinner routine. Neither boy spoke while they worked at their respective tasks, but once the dishwasher was running, the counters had been wiped, and Dudley had downed half of his fudge-nut sundae, Harry asked, “What do you think?”

“You mean, will they get married?”

Harry shrugged. “I hadn’t thought that far. I just wondered what your opinion of Mr. Lawson was. You’ve spent more time with him. Good guy or bad?”

Dudley chewed thoughtfully on some walnuts. “Hard to say. He really DOESN’T talk. But Aunt Marge seems to like him well enough.”

Harry frowned. “Maybe the question should be, what does he see in her?”

The other boy shrugged in turn, spooning up warm fudge sauce. “I head mum say that opposites attract. Maybe a bloke who doesn’t talk much likes a woman who does?”

“Maybe.” Harry stared out the kitchen window to where the adults sat in the gathering dusk at the garden table. Aunt Petunia had lit a glass-encased candle, and the soft flame flickered like a teasing snitch. “A food critic. How weird is that?”

“What do you mean?” Dudley frowned at him, confused.

“Well, don’t they have to eat a lot of food?”

Dudley snickered. “Oh, now I get it.” He scooped up a huge spoonful of his sundae. “I probably look more like a food critic than he does.”

“I didn’t say that!”

“You didn’t have to.” He shoved the ice cream into his mouth, talking around it before he swallowed, “He’s almost as skinny as you are.”

“At least his moustache is bigger than hers.”

Dudley choked, Harry thumped, and Dudley gasped, “Did you – did you have to say THAT?”

Harry grinned.

Dudley grinned back.

For a moment, Harry felt like he had a real cousin. Almost. But he was wise enough to know that this lull in mutual animosity could never last.

“I guess I’d better get to work on the mattresses before they come back in. Just leave your bowl in the sink. I’ll wash it later.”

Dudley nodded, and Harry turned to leave the kitchen.

“Hey, Harry?”

“Yeah?”

Dudley grinned widely. “Good one! About the bed!”

“Don’t let your parents hear you say that, Dud. Or Aunt Marge!” Harry shook his head ruefully.

“It was still good, though!” Dudley began scraping his spoon around the bottom of his bowl.

Chuckling, Harry headed off to deal with the mattresses. Odd, what Dudley found amusing. Harry wondered, since Dudley seemed to be in a receptive sort of mood, whether he should tell his cousin that he hadn’t done magic, but the broken mirror on the wall of the lounge seemed to stand as evidence against him. Maybe … maybe accidental magic changed with age? Maybe he couldn’t feel it as strongly when he got older? He was almost sixteen, after all. But really, who knew? Maybe he could owl Hermione about it…

Sighing, he climbed the stairs and stripped his bed. Rather than taking his lumpy thin mattress all the way down to the cupboard right away, he dragged it just into the upstairs hall and leaned it against the wall, where it sagged sadly. He then opened the door to the large, walk-in closet at the end of the hallway. The thick, pillowtop mattress that they kept for Marge stood vertically against one wall. Lifting the mattress a couple of inches off the floor, Harry moved it several feet, then set it down. Lift, move, set down. Lift, move, set down. He wasn’t permitted to drag this mattress.

Eventually, he got the mattress through his bedroom door and toppled it onto the springs. He heard the bathroom door close as he flung the bottom sheet over the thick mattress. By the time he was positioning the blanket over the top sheet, he sensed Dudley watching him from the hall, but he kept his back to the door, disinclined to engage in conversation while he was working. Dudley quietly withdrew before Harry had topped off the bed with the guest duvet and Marge’s special pillows.

Quickly, he straightened his own meager belongings before the obdurate woman could see the room and find something to complain about. Then, Harry tied his own worn sheets, blanket, and pillow into a bundle and threw it down the stairs. Next, he dragged the wobbly mattress to the stairs and pulled it down, rounding the newel post as he kicked his bundle aside. He propped the mattress against the post until he could open the door to the cupboard under the stairs.

Squatting at the opening, he considered. His trunk took up a lot of the horizontal space, lying down, and he’d barely have room to get into the cupboard himself if he stood it on end against the inner wall opposite the door. The trunk was too long to fit sideways under the low part of the stairs.

Heaving a sigh of disappointment, Harry realized he’d have to remove the trunk, shove in the mattress, then lay the trunk along the far edge of the mattress, while he slept on the half nearer the doorway wall. At least he was skinny enough to fit. And, thankfully, he wasn’t claustrophobic. Forget making up his “bed” – he’d just lay down a sheet and roll up in the blanket. If he had enough room to roll. Too bad he couldn’t shrink himself; then he could sleep on top of his trunk!

Growling in irritation, he dragged out the trunk, pushed in the lumpy mattress, and then maneuvered the trunk back into the cupboard atop the mattress. He was just shaking out his sheets and blanket from the bundle when a voice behind him spoke in a dreadfully-familiar, silky baritone: “What, in Merlin’s name, do you think you are doing, Potter?”

Snape!

For an endless moment Harry couldn’t even breathe. What was SNAPE doing in his uncle’s house?

With his heart pounding from the burst of adrenaline, kneeling by his pillow inside the cupboard under the stairs, Harry slowly turned his head to peer over his shoulder into the piercing blue eyes of Aunt Marge’s boyfriend.

For a long moment, Harry merely stared at Mr. Lawson, wondering why he was there, too. But, as it turned out, there was no “too” – Severus Snape’s billowing black robes were not standing next to Mr. Lawson. Nor behind him. Or anywhere within Harry’s sight, for that matter.

Before Harry’s brain could catch up to the situation, Mr. Lawson spoke. “I asked you a question, Potter.” In Snape’s voice. Snape’s unmistakable – and impatient – voice.

“Uh…”

Mr. Lawson’s lips tightened beneath the drooping blond moustache. His icy blue eyes narrowed. He glanced quickly over his dove-gray shoulder at the sound of Marge’s loud laughter drifting in through the doors to the garden.

“Explain yourself, Potter. Immediately.”

Harry finally found his voice. “Professor … Snape? What are you doing – “

“I asked you first, Potter.” The unnerving blue eyes scanned the inside of the cupboard under the stairs. They took in the lumpy mattress and bedraggled bedding, Harry’s school trunk, a few random remains of childhood toys carefully arranged on the far ends of the shelves of cleaning supplies. “Why did you put this mattress in here? And the blanket. And the pillow. Explain yourself.”

Heat flooded Harry’s cheekbones, heat that had nothing to do with the stuffiness on the inside of the cupboard. Of ALL people to discover him in here… But the boy’s chin went up. He could only brazen it out and hope for the … well, hope that all of Slytherin wouldn’t learn of this humiliation, come September.

“I sleep here, Professor. When Aunt Marge comes to stay.” No need to tell the blond git that he’d actually lived in the cupboard for ten whole years. “There’s not a guest room, so she sleeps in my room, and I move in here for a few days. It’s no big deal,” he added as off-handedly as he could. “Though I’ll admit it was easier before I had my school trunk to contend with. Before I went to Hogwarts, I mean.” Better stop before he began babbling. “So, what’s YOUR story, Professor? You’re not – you COULDN’T be interested in … her?” he finished in a whisper, his green eyes as round as saucers.

Snape’s smirk was unmistakable, despite his disguise.

“Perish the thought, Potter,” he muttered, his sharp gaze examining the broken toys thoughtfully. “I’m here strictly on Dumbledore’s orders.” His icy glare bored into the boy’s wide eyes. “Although, if it were up to me, you would have remained unaware of my identity.”

Harry waited for some elaboration, but when none came, he asked the obvious, “But it’s not up to you? Sir?”

The blond man’s lips tightened again as he knelt down to peer back under the stairs. His wand appeared without warning, casting a bright Lumos into the cobwebbed depths of the cupboard, beyond the feeble reach of the low-wattage bulb just inside the door. The intricate webs shivered as a couple of spiders scurried from the onslaught of brilliant illumination.

Harry shuddered slightly. As long as he couldn’t SEE the spiders…

“How long do you stay in here?” Snape asked quietly. Surprisingly, there was no detectable sneer of disdain or amusement in his voice.

“Um … until Aunt Marge leaves,” Harry answered, refusing to look at the cobwebs.  “Maybe if you broke up with her, she’d leave faster. You know – go home to recover from a broken heart.”

Snape snorted, causing his blond moustache to quiver.

“Mr. Lawson?” Aunt Petunia’s voice trilled from the garden. Her call was repeated a few seconds later. “Mr. Lawson?” Closer this time.

“She’s coming in,” Harry whispered, not realizing that an expression of trepidation had crept across his features, or that Snape had seen it.

“Long story short, Potter, I am here to examine the efficacy of the wards. It may take several days. You will not leave the boundaries of this property in the meantime. Do you understand?”

Harry nodded, even though he didn’t comprehend the reasons behind Snape’s orders. Not that they were really Snape’s orders. Obviously, Dumbledore was lurking in the background. And for Snape to put on the “Mr. Lawson” act, there must be something truly important in the offing. After the Ministry … after the Veil … Harry would have done ANYTHING to thwart Snape himself, but he would obey Dumbledore’s wishes in the end. But only for Dumbledore’s sake. Not Snape’s. In any case, he’d have to play along with the git. And besides, it might be interesting to see just how far the man was willing to play Marge for a fool…

“Mr. Lawson?” In the kitchen now.

As he stood up, Snape shoved a cold metal object into Harry’s hand. “Canary cream,” he whispered, “at any sign of trouble. Tap it once. Keep your wand on your person at all times.”

A Portkey, Harry realized.

“Mrs. Dursley,” Snape said smoothly as Petunia entered the hallway. “I was just getting acquainted with your … nephew, did you say?”

Petunia’s mouth twisted, an automatic reflex to any mention of Harry, the boy knew.

“I’m so sorry that he bothered you, Mr. Lawson. I do apologize.” She tucked her manicured hand into the man’s elbow and coaxed him toward the French doors on the far side of the lounge. “Marge is eagerly awaiting your return. May I fix you a brandy?”

Harry stared after them until they had disappeared into the garden. Then he looked down at the Portkey. An old Muggle police whistle, he saw, and he grinned as he wondered if Arthur Weasley had something to do with it. Obviously, Dumbledore must have charmed it, given the Canary Cream password. He wondered where it would take him. Hogwarts? The Burrow? Or – he swallowed hard – Number 12 Grimmauld Place? Or some other Order safe house? He slipped the chain around his neck and tucked the whistle under his shirt when he heard Petunia’s quick steps crossing the kitchen tiles.

“Boy!” she spat, her whisper full of venomous contempt. She grabbed Harry by his hair and pulled him from the cupboard.

“You listen to me and you listen well.” Petunia leant down to glare at Harry where he crouched on his hands and knees upon the hallway carpeting. “Marge finally has the chance for some happiness in her life, and YOU are NOT going to MESS THINGS UP for her! You stay away from Mr. Lawson, do you hear me?”

Harry nodded, rubbing his sore scalp. “Yes, Aunt Petunia.”

“You don’t speak to him – you don’t even LOOK at him!”

“Yes, Aunt Petunia.”

The woman exhaled sharply through her pinched nose before standing straight again.

“Good.” She smoothed her skirt, then her hair. “Now, since Marge is busy with Mr. Lawson, you’ll need to take Ripper for his nightly walk.”

“ME?” Harry’s eyes bugged out. “But – but Aunt Petunia, Ripper hates me! He always has!” A fleeting image of being treed by Ripper when he was much younger flashed through his mind, followed by Snape’s warning not to leave the property.

“Nonsense. It’s the least you can do for Marge, to make up for all of the trouble you caused earlier.”

“But – “

“He’s in the garden shed. Here’s his leash. Get to it.”

Harry sighed as he took the length of sturdy leather. “Yes, Aunt Petunia.” How he would ever get out of this jam was beyond him… And with Petunia following upon his heels, he didn’t even have an opportunity to run upstairs and grab his wand from its usual hiding space under the floor of his bedroom. He couldn’t help feeling that he was leaping from the frying pan into the fire…

All four of the Dursleys were in the garden with Mr. Lawson when Harry quietly walked from the kitchen door through the dusk to the garden shed. He could sense Snape’s eyes following him as he frantically tried to come up with a plan. Dumbledore must have a reason for not wanting Harry to leave the property. If Harry took Ripper – if he succeeded in taking Ripper – for the dog’s usual stroll around the neighborhood, Snape would assume that Harry was deliberately defying Snape himself. And if there truly WAS danger lurking beyond the boundaries… Well, after the debacle in the Department of Mysteries, any of the Death Eaters who had not been captured there – or even Voldemort himself – might decide to show up on Privet Drive, seeking revenge against the Boy-Who-Lived. Given Dudley’s and his experience with the Dementors last summer, Harry simply couldn’t discount any possibilities.

The leather leash tapped against his leg as he stopped outside the shed. He could hear shufflings and snufflings from just behind the metal door. If only Ripper had been tied up! But Marge had insisted that her cutesy-wutesy have the run of the shed, if he had to be confined to accommodate Mr. Lawson’s wishes.

Taking a deep breath, Harry lifted the latch and opened the door just enough to slip in. It spoke volumes that even at his age, he could still slide through a smaller crack than the stout dog could. His hand fumbled frantically for the light switch even as he slammed the door shut with a flat, metallic slap.

Grrrrrrr … grrrrrrr … grrrrrrr…

Ripper’s fangs glimmered in the light of the bare bulb.

Harry wished he could just hex the stupid dog once and for all. It would almost be worth an owl from the Ministry of Magic.  At the very least, one little Petrificus Totalus until he could get the leash on… But he didn’t even have his wand.

Grrrrrrr … grrrrrrr … grrrrrrr…

“Hey, Ripper, want to go for a walk?” Harry tried to sound bright and eager, forcing himself to smile encouragingly at the fierce dog.

GRRRRRRR… The shed’s metal walls actually vibrated with the deep growls emanating from the short, round mass of fur quivering threateningly in the middle of the floor.

Well, the invitation would have worked with Fang, Harry sighed morosely. Too bad Hagrid wasn’t here. Surely, the gentle half-giant would have had SOME sort of effect on a growling Muggle dog, even if only to cow it into submission with his own impressive size.

Harry screwed up his Gryffindor courage and snicked open the hook on the leash. “See, Ripper? LEASHIE. Nice WALKIES. GOOOOD doggie.”

GRRRRRRR…

Okaaay, so the dog wasn’t as stupid as Harry had hoped. Or sounded.

“C’monnn, Ripper…”

GRRRRRRR…

Slowly, slowly, slowly… The hook approached the metal loop on the collar under Ripper’s chin. No fast moves…

Ripper lunged.

“YOW!” Harry’s yelp was an automatic response to seeing the teeth-laden jaws snapping shut just short of his fingers.

ROWF-ROWF-ROWF!!!

Backpeddling from the charging canine, Harry tripped over something, which knocked something else over, and that set up a domino effect with the garden tools… Some long-handled tool – rake? hoe? – bounced heavily off of Ripper’s head…

YIIIIIPE!

“BOY!”

It was the only time in his entire life that Harry had been glad to hear Uncle Vernon’s shout. The shed door was suddenly thrown wide open. “BOY! What in heaven’s name are you doing to Marge’s dog – “

Said dog shot through the open door like a Weasley-beaten Bludger, careening around the twilit garden in full voice. Harry scrambled to his feet, stumbling through the fallen tools toward the doorway, leather leash still clutched in his hand. Like a small brown tornado, Ripper spun in tight circles as he rounded the table and chairs, pausing just long enough to wet down Mr. Lawson’s immaculate trouser leg.

“Infernal BEAST!” Snape’s angry shout – the one he habitually used in the Potions Dungeon – shattered the dusk, and lights went on in the windows of the houses on either side of Number 4.

“M-M-Mum!” stammered Dudley, pointing at their outraged guest. “He SPOKE!”

Petunia’s face was a study in horror as her head twisted frantically back and forth between her sister-in-law pursuing the canine cyclone, screeching, “RIPPER-WIPPER-WIPPER!”, and their guest, who stood flicking the reeking fabric of his wet trousers in undisguised disgust.

“Oh, Mr. Lawson!” Petunia’s hands fluttered like drunken butterflies. “I’m so terribly, terribly sorry! It was … it was our nephew’s fault – “

The man scowled at her furiously, his blond moustache quivering at the tips. “Mrs. Dursley, it was hardly your NEPHEW who … ruined … my trousers. I distinctly saw a DOG raise its leg in passing.”

“RIPPER-WIPPER-WIPPER!”

Petunia paled as several neighboring windows were thrown up so as to give the grinning observers a better view of the chaos occurring at Number 4. Ripper spun past, growling enthusiastically now with the sheer exuberance of it all, while Marge charged alongside the neatly-pruned hedge in hot pursuit. “RIPPER-WIPPER-WIPPER!” Her high falsetto echoed off the buildings, causing more lights to go on in the row of houses which backed against the alley beyond the Dursleys’ garden.

Before anyone could speak further, the light in the shed went out, followed by a sharp snap and a started outcry, then several more sharp snaps in the black silence of the shed.

“RIPPER-WIPPER-WIPPER!”

The dog suddenly broke free of his tornadic spin and made a charging beeline for the seated Dudley.

“Agh! Get off!” shouted Dudley, flinging his legs high, bringing his shoes to rest on top of the garden table, narrowly missing the glassed-in candle and brandy snifters.

“Dudley! Put your feet down at once!” hissed Petunia, her eyes flickering toward the neighboring houses with dismay.

“But Mum, I don’t want Ripper to pee on me, too!” Dudley whined loudly.

Petunia groaned as she heard chuckles coming from an overlooking window. And she groaned again when Ripper decided to squat in full view of everyone to finish the other half of his business.

Marge pounced on the dog, grabbing him by the collar while he was busily scratching grass over his odiferous offering. Vernon approached, leather leash in one hand, and gripping Harry by his upper ear. Handing the leash to his sister, he ordered the boy, “Clean up that mess. NOW.”

“Yes, Uncle Vernon.”

“Then take that – Ripper – for his walk. Be quick about it.”

Harry opened his mouth to say … something … something to explain why he shouldn’t leave the property, although after what had just happened in the shed, protesting a direct order from Vernon would be a decidedly unwise course of action. But before he could think of anything to say, Snape’s voice smoothly cut in.

“Surely, the animal has had a good run already.”

Harry’s startled eyes met those of his disguised professor. For a brief moment, something whispered across his consciousness … and before he thought to break eye contact, the briefest glimpse of the inside of the darkened shed, Uncle Vernon silhouetted against the faint dusk beyond the open doorway, the swinging leather dog leash…

“Not to mention,” continued the faux food critic, “the dog certainly has no need for further … relief.”

Dudley snickered before Mr. Lawson shot him an icy-blue glare.

“Quite right,” agreed Marge, holding the end of Ripper’s leash in a firm grip. “The boy can clean up the mess and go to bed early. Right, Vernon?”

“Indeed,” Vernon said in a hard voice. “Get to work, boy.”

“Yes, Uncle Vernon.”

Harry went for the shovel as the Dursleys began to bid Mr. Lawson a good evening. He found it impossible to believe that Snape would ever return to Privet Drive, the wards notwithstanding, after Ripper had peed on his leg a second time. But as he scooped up Ripper’s deposit, he heard Mr. Lawson agreeing to come to luncheon the next day, followed by an outing in a nearby park with the family (less Harry, the boy strongly suspected), and dinner later on at an upscale restaurant (definitely without their unwanted nephew, Harry knew without being told). He did have to wonder when Snape would even have the time to examine the wards. Oh, well – Harry would be content enough to stay on the Dursleys’ property, as long as they weren’t there! And as long as Marge took Ripper with her…

Back in the house, Harry quickly went through his nightly routine in the bathroom, making a quick trip to his bedroom to extricate his wand from beneath the floorboards before descending the stairs to open his cupboard door. He was just setting a battered plastic pitcher of water on one of the shelves when the taxi pulled up in front of Number 4. Harry knelt inside his cupboard, pulling the door almost shut. He could still see Mr. Lawson standing by the open front door, extending his hand to shake Vernon’s.

“We’ll speak again,” the departing guest said, but his eyes were focused on Harry, just visible through the crack in the cupboard door, not Vernon, and Harry knew the words were intended for him alone.

The cupboard door abruptly slammed shut, banging Harry painfully on the side of his forehead. He heard the bolt slide home as Petunia spoke just inches away.

“Good night, Mr. Lawson. It was such a pleasure meeting you. We’ll look forward to seeing you again tomorrow.”

“Good night, Mrs. Dursley, Mr. Dursley, Master Dursley.”

A chorus of good-byes ensued, followed by a pause. And then –

“Good night, Mr. Potter.”

Stunned, Harry could barely croak a response through the grate in the cupboard door. “Good night … Mr. Lawson.”

“I’ll walk you to the taxi,” Marge announced peremptorily, and Harry could envision her dragging the blond “boyfriend” by his arm down the front walk.

The cupboard door jerked violently against the sliding bolt before the bolt was slid back. Yanking the door open, Vernon glared fiercely at Harry, whose back still burned from the shed.

“WHAT did you MEAN, boy, by saying ‘good night’ to Mr. Lawson?” Vernon demanded.

Harry’s stomach clenched painfully, though he tried to respond reasonably. “But Uncle Vernon, he spoke to me directly. I hadn’t planned to speak to him at all, but when he spoke to me, I was afraid it would be rude not to reply. I didn’t want to offend him – for Aunt Marge’s sake.”

After a very long moment, Vernon slammed the cupboard door shut once more.

Harry slowly exhaled.

Eventually, he stretched out in the narrow space alongside his trunk, pulling the blanket up over his suddenly-chilled body. Breathing the fresh air through the crack under the door, he slowly fell into an uneasy sleep.

-:- -:- -:-

Severus Snape sat quietly in the unassuming room of his Muggle hotel. He did wish for a lounge chair, but he refrained from transfiguring one of the rather plain, straight-backed chairs. No sense in attracting unwelcome attention from … unwanted … quarters. Instead, he sat at the plain table, his elbows resting on the flat surface, fingers steepled before his contemplative face.

To say that the situation in which he’d found Potter was surprising would be gross understatement. Add disturbing – even shocking – and the explanation for the wavering wards became quite evident. Dumbledore’s silver instruments had certainly failed to tell the whole story – merely indicated that the wards had weakened ... again. As a result, Dumbledore had sent Snape to investigate.

The Headmaster’s extensive dossier on Potter’s relatives had made it child’s play for Snape to locate Marge Dursley. A relatively simple matter to then arrange to put himself in her path – and that of her blasted mutt. Although, that first wet trouser leg had proved fortuitous, in the end, as Marge had insisted on reimbursing his cleaning bill – never mind that a simple, though belated, Tergeo had done the trick. To demonstrate that he bore her no ill will (HA!), he had invited Marge to dinner (sans chien, of course), and with a combination of flattery and well-timed flicks of his concealed wand, ingratiated himself into the position of her “boyfriend”, much as the appellation made him want to gag.

His expressing genuine interest and feigned enthusiasm in meeting her family had caused Marge to run off at the mouth about her highly-successful brother (“In drills, you know. Grunnings Drills.”), her socially-adept sister-in-law (“The most charming hostess you’ll ever meet.”), and their incomparable son (“Quite the young man! Takes after his father, naturally.”).

But when Snape had asked if her brother had other fine children, Marge had shaken her head in denial, her lips pursed disapprovingly.

“I shouldn’t say anything, of course, but if you are to meet them, I suppose I had better warn you,” she’d said rather darkly. “They have this … nephew. Ungrateful lout, he is. Dumped on my brother’s doorstep when the brute was just a baby. Vernon and Petunia took him in out of the goodness of their hearts, but is the boy grateful, I ask you? NO! Quite the contrary! And he’s made their lives an absolute misery for nearly fifteen years now.”

That, Snape could believe. Easily.

“He’s the terror of their neighborhood. Doesn’t have any friends, obviously. No decent parents would allow their children to associate with the likes of him. It’s all genetic – bad blood, bad genes, bad attitude. Vernon was forced to send him to St. Brutus’ Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys when the brat was only eleven years old! Incorrigible, I tell you! He lives there during the school term, but they WILL have him home for the summer. Not that he appreciates their magnanimity in the least, the little wretch. Always picking fights with their Dudders and beating up the neighborhood children. Why, Vernon had to get his own son into boxing so the poor child could learn to defend himself properly! Even so, that obnoxious little beast almost got his own cousin killed last summer. Tried to claim it was evil demons that nearly did Dudley in, IF you can imagine! Quite seriously, they should just lock the freak in a padded cell once and for all, and throw away the key!”

Marge had taken several gulps of wine and come up gasping for air.

At the time, Snape had found himself frowning over his salmon soufflé. As badly as he knew Potter to behave at Hogwarts … somehow, the woman must be still be exaggerating. A bit.

But tonight, upon meeting the Dursleys as a family, his opinion had begun to waver.

First of all was the lack of a proper introduction between “Mr. Lawson” and Harry Potter. Not to mention, the Dursleys’ lack of addressing Potter by any proper name. If they addressed him at all, they simply called him “boy” in varying tones of obvious dislike.

Potter himself had remained unobtrusively in the background throughout the evening, separate from the rest of the family. He had set the dining table for five without being told not to include a place for himself, and although Petunia had instructed him what to cook for dinner, Potter had obviously undertaken the entire preparation all by himself, while the Dursleys entertained their guests in the lounge. To Snape’s everlasting surprise, Potter had produced a delightful, tasty, well-balanced meal, even if it killed Snape to admit it to himself.

Then, the boy had served dinner quietly and efficiently, his adeptness at waiting upon his relatives in the dining room certainly acquired through extensive prior experience. The only misstep had occurred later, in the lounge, when his cousin committed the gaffe of dropping his fork on the cocktail table, for which Potter – for some unexplained reason – had unhesitatingly taken the blame.

But the idiotic Gryffindor’s mistaken assumption that Snape and Marge would be staying together at a hotel, compounded for the worse by his comment about the Dursleys’ guest bed being too small for two…

Snape’s own reaction at that moment had been split between silent fury and unadulterated amusement, but he winced now, remembering Vernon virtually yanking Potter’s hair out by the roots, followed moments later by Marge’s powerful whiplash crack across the slight boy’s face. Bizarrely, Petunia had seemed far more concerned with maintaining the social niceties, rather than caring about the physical abuse being inflicted upon her nephew – her own sister’s child. As for the Dursleys’ son… Dudley had roared unceasingly over Potter’s verbal blunder. The garbled excuses involving references to a disturbed nephew, a juvenile delinquent, and St. Brutus’ fell over each other as the women attempted to reassure “Mr. Lawson” that Potter and his presumed problems were really nothing to do with the Dursleys at all.

The family distanced themselves from Potter both socially and verbally, reinforced by further evidence of ostracism in the absence of framed photographs of the dark-haired boy in what was supposed to be his own home. Their own rotund son was featured prominently on nearly every wall and tabletop throughout the house, but to a casual observer, Potter did not even exist, unless one were to actually catch sight of the boy.

When Snape had excused himself from the garden to visit the bathroom, he had observed Potter struggling to fit the thick mattress on the small bed in the threadbare bedroom, the one with nearly a dozen Muggle locks lining the outside edge of the door. Beyond the laboring teen, a small window appeared to have actual bars affixed to the outside. Without a doubt, Potter must spend a certain amount of his summer holidays imprisoned in his own room. Snape could only frown in puzzlement at the animal flap at the bottom of the door; surely, Potter’s owl did not use it?

The sagging mattress which Potter had dragged down to the cupboard under the stairs was obviously his regular bed mattress. As for the cupboard itself – whatever Potter tried to shrug off, Snape could tell that the cupboard hadn’t only seen use during Marge’s infrequent visits. Despite the recent cobwebs, he could detect indications of long habitation, not the least of which involved numerous shoe scuff marks along the base of the walls, and small, grubby handprints higher up, all the way to the back of the space. Although one might assume that a child could be rudely shoved into the cupboard for a brief time-out, the carefully-arranged broken toys suggested otherwise, since punishment would normally preclude access to playthings. Someone had obviously valued the broken toys as a means to while away long hours of isolation from the rest of the family – while bolted into the cupboard with the ventilation grate on the door.

Sighing heavily, Snape rubbed his tired eyes.

Marge’s comment about Lily … calling her a drunken bitch … Snape had lost control. For the first time in over a decade, he’d allowed accidental magic to erupt, causing the lounge mirror to crack. How he wished he could deliberately split Marge herself into as many pieces. How DARE she malign Lily like that! And where did Marge get the idea the Lily was a drunk? None of the other Dursleys had attempted to correct her, but then again, Marge had also stated that Potter spent the school term at St. Brutus’ Secure Center. Did she know the truth about Hogwarts, or had the Dursleys contrived a believable fiction about St. Brutus’? A fiction which Marge herself believed? Had they also fed her a story about Lily being a drunk? Did … did Potter himself believe it? Petunia had always been a nasty piece of work, but even so…

Snape shook his head, missing the feel of his long black hair swinging against his cheeks. There was really no point in negating the glamours for the duration of his stay in Surrey, but the trimmed blond hair made him feel off balance for some reason.

He scowled, rubbing his temples now.

That business in the shed. With the belt. And Petunia bolting Potter into the cupboard just as Snape was leaving… Did Dumbledore have ANY idea how Potter’s relatives treated him? Little wonder that the wards around Number 4 Privet Drive had weakened. How COULD Potter possibly consider that house his home? Easy enough to understand now – after five school years – why Potter had always stayed at Hogwarts during the Christmas holidays. What kind of Christmas could he have expected here? The Dursleys may have been his relatives, but they hardly qualified as family – not in the heart, where it truly counted. And, more importantly, where the blood wards counted.

Based on Snape’s single evening of observation, Dumbledore definitely needed to fear for the wards at Number 4. A few more blow-ups like those which Snape had already witnessed, and the wards might fail completely. More disturbingly, without warning. For some reason, the wards had previously suffered serious compromise, shortly before the beginning of Potter’s Third Year. Dumbledore had visited Number 4 and attempted to boost the magical power, but he’d expressed concern afterwards, and he began monitoring via his silver instruments from that point on.

Snape now wondered what exactly had happened to cause that severe weakening during that summer before the boy’s Third Year. He’d only heard random talk about Potter “blowing up his aunt” – but now he considered. Had Potter struck out at Petunia? Or at Marge? And why? At the time, Snape had merely sneered at the Boy-Who-Lived and his apparent belief that he could flout Ministry restrictions against the use of underage magic. Now, however, he felt compelled to learn the full story, from either Dumbledore or Potter himself.

-:- -:- -:-

Harry spent the entire morning cleaning, cleaning, cleaning Number 4 as punishment for existing in the face of Marge’s new love life.

“Nearly ruined everything, didn’t you, boy?” growled Vernon over his sizeable breakfast as Harry poured more coffee.

“I’m sorry, Uncle Vernon. I promise it won’t happen again,” said Harry, keeping his voice quiet and even from long experience.

“See that it doesn’t,” Vernon ordered, dosing his coffee heavily with cream and sugar.

“Yes, Uncle Vernon.”

Petunia stood near the back door, frowning mightily at her nephew. “Mr. Lawson will be arriving precisely at twelve-thirty for luncheon. I want the entire downstairs spotless, as well as the bath and the stairs and upper hall. You may skip cleaning the bedrooms – except for Marge’s, of course – so you can get started on the crudité tray, the sandwich tray, and the fruit tray. Quarter the pineapple first, then arrange the other types of fruit between the pineapple spokes on the pink tray.”

“Yes, Aunt Petunia.”

“And don’t forget the spinach dip and the fruit dip.”

“Yes, Aunt Petunia.”

“It goes without saying that you will trim the crusts from the bread.”

So why did she say it? “Yes, Aunt Petunia.”

“All the sandwich makings are in the refrigerator. Be sure to cover the sandwich tray with a double layer of plastic wrap so the bread doesn’t dry out before we eat. You’ll be quartering the sandwiches, of course, but I’ll want seven of each type of sandwich – “

“SEVEN?”

“Don’t interrupt me, boy! Vernon and Dudley will obviously want seconds on everything, so allow an extra full sandwich of each type to accommodate them.” Petunia pursed her thin lips. “That Mr. Lawson doesn’t look as if he eats enough to be a proper food critic, so I doubt he’ll wish for more than a single sandwich – four quarters of his choice, that is.”

“Yes, Aunt Petunia.”

“Well, don’t just stand there!” Petunia said angrily. “Get on with your work! He’ll be here any minute!”

Harry glanced at the kitchen clock. The big hand was on the four, and the little hand perched just above the eight. “Right, Aunt Petunia. I’m going.” He decided to vacuum the entire downstairs while the Dursleys were finishing breakfast, then do dishes before dusting every surface in the lounge, dining room, and foyer. Then he’d either tackle the bathroom and Marge’s room, or – if they were still occupied, start on the various food trays until he could work upstairs. Dudley smirked at Harry through a forkful of scrambled egg, but the amusement in his eyes looked genuine, rather than malicious, and Harry realized that Dudley was already anticipating the new adventures of the day which Mr. Lawson’s arrival would doubtless bring.

“What are your plans for the day, dear?” Vernon asked as Harry exited the kitchen.

Behind him, Petunia sighed in exasperation. “I need to replace the lounge mirror. I’ll select one and demand that it be delivered and installed before noon, so I’d better leave now.”

Dudley snickered, then gulped his orange juice when his mother – for once – glared at him. “But Mum – what if they don’t have one just like the one that … broke?”

Vernon waved his hand dismissively. “Just get SOMETHING of the right size, and if it doesn’t work out, we’ll return it later. But I want that cracked monstrosity out of sight when Mr. Lawson arrives.” He reached into his pocket and handed the car keys to Petunia. “There you go, dearest. We’ll see you in a bit, won’t we Dudders?”

As Harry unwound the power cord from the vacuum cleaner, he heard Petunia hesitate. “Vernon… “

“Yes?”

“Why don’t you and Diddykins go out to amuse yourselves while … Harry … works here. I don’t want any … incidents … which might delay his getting everything ready for Mr. Lawson’s arrival. I’ll see if Marge will come with me to get a mirror. That way, the boy won’t be interrupted or … slowed down.”

Vernon raised an eyebrow. “You really want to leave HIM here alone?”

“He’s got plenty to occupy his time,” Petunia replied tersely. “He just needs space to get everything done in a timely manner without any … incidents. You know what I mean.”

“Right, then.” Vernon threw his napkin on the edge of the table, and he didn’t bother to retrieve it when it slid to the tiled kitchen floor. As Petunia went upstairs to fetch Marge, Vernon said expansively, “So tell me, Dudders – what would you like to do while we’re waiting for Mr. Lawson’s arrival? Your wish is my command.”

The large boy waved his hands excitedly. “There’s been a new shipment of video games at the electronics store. Why don’t we go look through them and get some? Please, Dad?”

Harry almost plugged his own finger into the wall electrical outlet instead of inserting the vacuum cleaner plug when he heard his cousin say “please”. A polite request instead of a strident demand? Had Snape worked some sort of weird magic on Dudley last night?

“Excellent idea!” agreed Vernon, lumbering to his feet. Dudley shoved back his own chair, and the two of them followed Petunia and Marge out to the car. “No need to hurry back for us, Pet,” Vernon said as he was shutting the front door. “You just drop us off and we’ll get a taxi home by noon.”

The front door of Number 4 bumped shut, and the vacuum cleaner drowned out the sound of the car starting up a few moments later. Harry hurried through his chores in record time, knowing from years of experience the fastest way to accomplish multiple tasks to Petunia’s exacting standards. His own room looked like Marge had set a tornado loose in it, but he quickly made up the bed and organized her scattered cosmetics and other sundries on his battered desk, while hanging up several discarded suits which lay draped over the end of the bed and his rickety chair. Did it really matter WHAT she wore to impress Mr. Lawson, he wondered. As far as Harry could tell, Marge looked pretty much the same, no matter how she was dressed… Perhaps her moustache had something to do with that.

After scrubbing the bathroom, he scurried back downstairs and cleared up the breakfast mess before getting started on Petunia’s food trays. He began by making the required dips, to give them a chance to chill thoroughly. Then he cut the vegetables, arranging broccoli and cauliflower florets, baby carrots, cucumber slices, and tiny tomatoes in groups around the bowl of spinach dip in the middle of the tray. Plastic wrap over everything, tray into fridge, then on to the fruit tray…

Having dealt with quartering the pineapple, leaves included, he carefully removed the core, then sliced the pineapple fruit into bite-sized pieces, leaving them in place upon the quartered, leaf-tipped rind which stuck out like four spokes from the center of the large round fruit tray. Harry washed and dried the red grapes, using scissors to cut the large cluster into smaller segments, which he arranged between two of the pineapple spokes. Next, he tackled the finicky business of peeling the oranges, also taking time to remove the thin membrane covering the sides of each section without allowing the section itself to fall apart. With the tip of a fine knife, he cautiously finessed out the seeds. The orange pieces were carefully laid in the next space between the pineapple spokes. Strawberries were much easier to deal with – simply wash, dry, and arrange artfully in the third space on the fruit tray. The final section he filled with thick peach slices, after he’d peeled away the fuzzy skins and removed the pits.

Again, plastic wrap over everything, and on to the sandwiches.

Harry never knew when it happened – probably about halfway through the chicken-pecan salad sandwiches, or maybe the salmon salad – but he suddenly got the feeling he was being watched. Automatically, he continued to layer various sandwich ingredients on an assortment of sliced artisan breads, skillfully trimmed of their crusts, while stretching out his senses, trying to discern from which direction the unwarranted scrutiny came. Smoked ham and Swiss with watercress … dining room? Sliced turkey with spinach and roasted red peppers … doorway into the foyer? Spicy chicken with sun-dried tomatoes and avocado spread … sliding door into the garden?

The hideous prickling continued to toy with the hairs on the nape of his neck as he quartered and arranged the sandwiches on two trays. Petunia might fuss about the extra tray, but thirty-five whole sandwiches, quartered, simply would never fit on a single tray. Breathing deeply and evenly, Harry twitched his nostrils, attempting to draw in any intruder’s scent over the fragrance of the food directly in front of him…

There!

In a draft from the open kitchen window, he finally caught the scent that didn’t belong. Something subtle, yet somehow familiar. Something not of Privet Drive. Something not outdoors, not coming in through the window. Something here. In the kitchen. Between the window and Harry himself.

Someone.

Casually, Harry wiped his hands clean on a towel, and in the same moment that he dropped the towel back onto the table with his left hand, with his right he whipped his wand from the waistband of Dudley’s old jeans, the movement so fluid it would have earned points for Gryffindor from Filius Flitwick. The Ministry be damned, he had every right to defend himself –

“Potter!”

Harry actually staggered from the effort it took to NOT cast a swift Petrificus Totalus toward the kitchen window after all.

“Professor…” he gasped weakly, recognizing Snape’s dark tones in the void between the table and the window.

“Indeed.”

Harry’s arm fell to his side, but then he forced it up again, still aiming for the void. “What did you throw at me in your office?”

The silence became tangible before Snape finally answered with a sneer, “A jar of cockroaches.”

Harry still did not lower his wand. “Show yourself.”

“We do not need to attract the attention of the Ministry, Potter. And cancelling a Disillusionment Spell would constitute magic performed at this address.”

Sighing, Harry finally tucked his wand away. “Right.”

“I suppose it is gratifying to know your degree of caution.”

The Gryffindor snorted. “Well, you are invisible. I had to be sure.”

Snape took a step toward the table, and Harry forced himself not to retreat a matching step. He stood his ground by the large jar of mayonnaise. If he absolutely had to, he could always clobber Snape with the jar. Or temporarily blind him with a large blob of mayonnaise. Provided he could figure out where to aim the spoon…

“More disturbing is the length of time it took you to realize I was here.”

Harry stared in the direction of Snape’s voice. “How long HAVE you been here?”

“When did you become aware of my presence?” Snape countered.

“Er … while I was making the chicken salad – or maybe salmon salad sandwiches.” He shrugged. “Definitely one of those two.”

The void snorted. “Pathetic.”

“What? You mean you’ve been here longer than that? I’ll admit, it took me a bit to figure out exactly WHERE you were. But I knew someone was watching me for quite a while.”

“I’ve been here since you started peeling the oranges.”

Harry’s mind whirled. That was barely halfway through the fruit tray! He’d finished the fruit tray, wrapped it, put it away, along with leftover fruit, gotten out all the sandwich ingredients, made the chicken and salmon salad fillings, then started concocting the sandwiches… He groaned, realizing that Snape was right. The man had been hiding in plain sight for a very long time, indeed…

Snape scoffed. “Quite. You definitely need to work on your awareness sensitivity.”

Holding onto a neutral expression with an effort, Harry replied deliberately blandly, “I’ll take that under advisement.”

“Don’t get flippant with me, Potter,” Snape warned.

“I wasn’t, Professor!” Harry replied, irritation evident now in his voice. “I actually agreed with you. I mean, you could have been ANYBODY, and I wouldn’t have known it until too late, if you’d been on the other side. You know… “

“I do know.” Snape’s voice sounded flat.

Harry huffed in frustration. “So, why are you here? Early, I mean. ‘Mr. Lawson’ isn’t supposed to arrive until twelve-thirty and it’s only – “ he turned to look at the kitchen clock, “ – eleven-forty! Oh, Merlin! They’ll all be home any moment! You’ve got to get out of here, Professor!”

“Not to worry, Potter,” Snape said quietly. “They’ll never see me leave. But where did they go?”

“Well, Aunt Petunia and Aunt Marge went to buy a mirror to replace the one that broke last night and – Oh NO! There’s the delivery van now! She said she was going to demand that it be delivered by noon…” He waved his hands frantically. “I’ve got to let them in to hang the new mirror! And Uncle Vernon and Dudley went to the electronics store to look at video games – they’ll be taking a taxi home…”

The doorbell chimed, and Harry hurried to the front door, hissing over his shoulder, “Not a SOUND!”

Harry signed for the mirror delivery, and then directed the men to the lounge mirror with multiple cracks running across it. “Aunt Petunia never said what she wanted done with the old one,” he hesitated. “I don’t know if we’re keeping it... “

One of the delivery men unfolded the orders papers again. “Hmm. Looks like we’re supposed to take it away. See here?” He pointed at a hand-scribbled notation authorizing the removal of the damaged mirror from the premises.

“Okay. Right. You’d better take it, then,” Harry agreed, glad that the decision wasn’t up to him.

After that, it was a matter of moments to take down the old mirror, hang the new one in its place, clean up the wrappings, and take everything away as Harry showed the men out the door. At least that had gone all right.

“You still there, Professor?” he called toward the kitchen, hoping that Snape had taken his leave.

“Yes, Potter,” the invisible man replied sardonically. “You won’t get rid of me as easily as you did the mirror.”

Harry hurried back into the kitchen. “I’ve got to get this cleaned up before Aunt Petunia gets home,” he said, gesturing at the sandwich ingredients littering the table top. He could only hope that Snape would take the hint to leave.

The invisible presence didn’t budge. “I really only came to let you know in advance that I shall not be accompanying your relatives to the restaurant this evening.”

“You’ve cancelled?” asked Harry, staring at nothing. “Aunt Marge will be beside herself,” he added, snickering.

“No, I haven’t cancelled. Not entirely. They will agree to meet me at the restaurant, but when they arrive, I will have been called away, and – to compensate their disappointment – their five-course meal shall be prepaid by me, whatever they choose to order.”

“Oh.”

“Meanwhile, I shall return here, to study the wards while they are enjoying a leisurely evening dining out at a most exclusive restaurant.”

“OH!”

“I don’t suppose you could find a way to beg off dining out with them.”

Harry laughed. “I seriously doubt that they were planning to include me in their evening, Professor. Especially after last night.”

“Good enough. I shall expect to see you here, then, say seven forty-five? Their reservations are for eight o’clock.”

“Right.” Harry turned toward the front door reflexively as he heard the sound of the Dursleys’ car pulling into their drive. “They’re back. My aunts, at least. The others were going to take a taxi home.”

The sound of invisible robes brushing across the kitchen floor preceded Snape’s exit, the sliding door moving silently aside to accommodate his departure.

In the next second, the front door opened, with Petunia sweeping in to announce, “Oh, dear! I think I liked that mirror much better in the store than on my own wall!”

“Never mind the mirror, Petunia!” Marge urged. “My Mr. Lawson will be here any moment, and I need to freshen up before he arrives. You’d better see to the boy. It’s a wonder he didn’t blow up the entire house while we were out.”

In the kitchen, Harry stifled a snort. If only Marge had known how many cauldrons he’d blown up in Potions… Her prediction might have been more than mere hyperbole. And then he was glad that Snape had already left; imagine if HE’D heard Marge’s comment! Harry could just hear the numerous variations on Snape’s typical snide comments regarding his ability – or, rather, the lack thereof – in the Potions Dungeon applied nastily to Harry’s work in Petunia’s kitchen.

-:- -:- -:-

Much to Dudley’s disappointment and to everyone else’s relief, luncheon with Mr. Lawson went off flawlessly. Marge, as usual, did all of his talking for him, leaving Mr. Lawson free to sample the results of Harry’s culinary efforts without having to join in the general conversation. During one brief lull, when Marge had excused herself, Mr. Lawson finally addressed Petunia, praising her fine selections for each of the trays which she had presented with pride to the food critic.

Watching Petunia simpering and preening with pleasure, Harry inwardly fumed, knowing that Snape was fully aware of exactly who had actually prepared the luncheon trays. However, he realized the whole charade was necessary in order to get the family out of the house later on, and besides, who would have expected to praise a teenage boy for organizing such a visually-splendid array of delicious offerings? At least Petunia had arrived home with a bakery box of professionally-prepared petits-fours for the after-luncheon coffee served in the lounge. Harry had only attempted to make petits-fours once in his entire life. He’d had to spend two days in the cupboard as a consequence.

The Dursleys and Marge accompanied Mr. Lawson for a relaxing walk in the nearby shady park – without Ripper, of course – while Harry stayed at Number 4 to clean up after lunch. He sighed as he rewrapped an entire tray with plastic. Petunia had gone WAY overboard this time, demanding that Harry make such a surfeit of sandwiches. At least he’d had the foresight to arrange only half of each type on each tray. But he imagined he’d be eating increasingly stale leftovers for the next week – or until the chicken and fish went off.

When the group finally returned to the house, with Marge’s voice preceding their arrival by well over a minute, the kitchen was spotless under Petunia’s quick glare of appraisal, all the way across the dining room from the lounge.

“Until this evening, then,” Mr. Lawson inserted quickly when Marge stopped talking long enough to draw a much-needed breath.

“We’ll see you then,” Vernon agreed, shaking Mr. Lawson’s hand. “Looking forward to it!”

Nods to all of the Dursleys, and a quick glance to Harry’s shadowy form lurking in the doorway leading from the foyer into the kitchen, then Mr. Lawson allowed Marge to drag him to the curb where a taxi awaited him.

-:- -:- -:-

The four Dursleys departed Number 4 Privet Drive at 7:30 p.m. precisely, with Dudley regaling Marge about his latest favorite computer game.

Harry sagged in relief as the expensive car drove away. Marge had wanted to leave Ripper in the house, but for once, Vernon had seen reason – reinforced by Petunia’s careful coaxing – and requested that his sister confine the dog to the shed until their return.

“After all, the boy will be here, and you know how much he always upsets Ripper,” Vernon had wheedled, taking Marge’s arm in his meaty hand and urging her toward the back door, an unhappy Ripper tugging backwards against the leash’s pull on his collar.

“All the more reason to confine the boy to the shed instead of Ripper,” Marge declared forcefully, balking at the threshold, glancing down at her cringing pet, who obviously was not looking forward to another long sojourn in the dark shed. “Ripper is a house dog, not a kennel dog, Vernon. And that shed of yours is completely unsuitable – there’s no air circulating in there! My poor wittle Ripper could suffocate while we’re gone!” She bent down to scratch the dog behind his small ears, making Ripper whine in anticipation of being banished once more.

“Nonsense!” said Vernon. “If you don’t hurry up, we’ll be late for your date with your Mr. Lawson. Put the dog in the shed. We won’t be gone all that long, just for dinner.”

Sighing, Marge exited the house, practically dragging Ripper across the garden. Petunia stared anxiously at the neighbors’ houses, hoping nobody was watching Ripper. All day long, she’d had to fend off various comments from grinning neighbors following the previous night’s fracas. Why, oh why, did Marge insist on bringing that horrid little beast with her when she visited?

“BOY!”

“Yes, Uncle Vernon?”

Vernon planted himself squarely in front of his nephew. “You are to spend your evening in the cupboard. You will not come out for anything, do you understand?”

“Yes, Uncle Vernon.” Harry stifled a sigh. Even knowing that Snape was supposed to arrive didn’t make him feel any better about the situation. If anything, it would be even more humiliating, especially if the Dursleys locked him in before they left. Harry wouldn’t be able to open the house’s exterior door to Snape, and if Snape himself had to rescue Harry from the locked cupboard… “May I please use the bathroom before you leave, then?” he asked quietly. “That way, I won’t have any reason to leave the cupboard while you are gone.”

Jerking his chin toward the stairs, Vernon gave silent permission, and Harry took the steps two at a time. Just as long as they didn’t lock him in, didn’t lock him in, didn’t lock him in… Less than two minutes later, Harry trotted back down the stairs, just as Marge reappeared in the foyer. Without being told, he ducked into the cupboard and pulled the door shut behind him.

“Petunia, stop fussing with your hair!” Marge ordered. “You’re going to make us late.”

Her sister-in-law turned from the foyer mirror and swept up her designer purse. “I’m perfectly ready to go. Dudley? Turn off the telly, dear. We’re leaving.”

Harry held his breath in the cupboard, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t hear the sound of the sliding bolt shooting across the side of the door. He could follow Dudley’s lumbering progress from the lounge to the front door, followed by Marge, whose voice sounded only slightly fainter after she’d exited the house. Then Petunia’s light steps clicked across the porch. Only Vernon remained in the foyer, and Harry closed his eyes, imagining his uncle debating whether to lock him in or not. After a long moment, heavy steps approached the cupboard. Inwardly, Harry groaned.

“Petunia says you did a good job with the luncheon, today, boy,” Vernon muttered through the air grate in the door. “For that reason only, I’m going to trust you tonight to STAY IN THAT CUPBOARD. If you come out for ANY reason, I will lock you in there until Marge goes home. Do you understand me, boy?”

“Yes, Uncle Vernon,” replied Harry, heaving a quiet sigh of relief. “I’ll be good, sir. I don’t need anything. I’ll stay in my cupboard while you are out this evening, I promise.”

Vernon snorted loudly. “See that you do, boy. You won’t like your punishment if I find out you’ve disobeyed me.”

“Have a nice dinner, Uncle Vernon,” said Harry, just wishing the Dursleys would leave. The cupboard itself really wasn’t so bad, as long as nobody was in the house to taunt and torment him through the door.

“Hmphh,” grunted Vernon, pushing himself into a vertical position.

A few seconds later, the front door shut loudly, and before long, Harry heard the car pulling out into the street.

At last! He allowed himself to relax, leaning fully back against the cupboard door itself, since the rear wall was blocked by his school trunk. After a while, the light filtering through the ventilation grate showed 7:35 p.m. on Harry’s cheap wristwatch. Ten minutes till Snape. He chuckled in the gloom. It kind of reminded him of a film he’d listened to part of, long ago, where some character kept saying, “Five minutes till Wapner.” He’d drifted off to sleep in his cupboard, while his aunt and uncle watched the video on the lounge telly.

Eight minutes till Snape. Would the man know how to ring a Muggle doorbell? Or would he just knock?

Six and a half minutes till Snape. Surely, the Potions Master would be prompt. This was his plan, after all. Besides, Harry couldn’t imagine Snape being late for anything. He always turned up, even when you didn’t want him to!

Four minutes till Snape. Harry cracked his knuckles nervously. Just what was the man hoping to prove or disprove about the wards guarding the Dursleys’ house? And how would he go about it? Harry would have to leave the cupboard to let Snape into the house, but Harry hoped none of the neighbors would see Harry himself out and about while the Dursleys were gone, much less mention it to Vernon or Petunia… He’d promised to stay in the –

WHUMP!

Without warning, Harry flopped flat on his back on the foyer carpet, staring up in complete befuddlement at an inverted Severus Snape in the guise of Mr. Lawson, who was standing directly over him, holding the cupboard doorknob in one hand while his blond moustache drooped down toward Harry.

“Mr. Potter, I presume?”

Harry scrambled awkwardly to his feet. “Er … yes, sir?” Then he added, “How did you get in? I thought I’d hear you ring the – knock on the door.”

Snape regarded him speculatively. “And you were just waiting in that cupboard for the fun of it?”

“Well, no, not really.” Harry frowned. “Uncle Vernon said he wouldn’t lock me in, if I promised not to come out while they were gone tonight. I figured I’d stay in there until I heard you at the door.” He glanced nervously at the sheers covering the foyer window onto the street. “You never know when the neighbors might be watching. And if one of them told Uncle Vernon they’d seen me through the windows while the Dursleys were away… “ He sighed. “So now you’re here, I’m out of the cupboard, and someone might still see.”

Snape was staring at him, he realized. He shrugged. “No helping that, I guess. Just get on with the wards or whatever you need to do, sir.”

“The neighbors purposely try to get you in trouble with your relatives?” asked Snape.

“Er – not deliberately, I guess.” Harry bit his lip unconsciously, but the taller wizard took note of the boy’s unease. “They don’t realize that they’re getting me in trouble, I don’t think. But they believe all the lies that Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia have told them over the years, about me being a criminal type. That makes the neighbors nervous, and they’ve always kept a close eye on my whereabouts, especially if I’m wandering the neighborhood, or anywhere near their own kids that I went to primary school with, or when they know the Dursleys are gone.” He gave a brittle laugh. “I think they think they’re doing their duty by the Dursleys, keeping an eye on me.” He shrugged. “They certainly believe that they’re protecting themselves from me.”

When he dared to peek up at Snape, the saw that the man was not sneering, but regarding him rather thoughtfully.

“I see.” Snape glanced at the window sheers himself. “You needn’t panic, Potter. Albus Dumbledore has already notified the Ministry of Magic that an adult wizard will be performing magic at this house tonight, in the interests of maintaining the protective wards which guard the Boy-Who-Lived. Before I unlocked the back door and let myself in, I had already cast a Muggle-Repelling Charm on the property.” He waved his wand over Harry. “Now we are both protected by a Notice-Me-Not Charm for the duration of my stay here. Nobody should be the wiser, whether you are visible through the windows of this house, or if you accompany me outdoors, so long as you remain within the boundaries of the property. Do you understand?”

Harry nodded vigorously, the relief evident on his features. “Yes, sir. So, what do we do to test the wards, then?”

“An excellent question,” Snape said, leading the way, inexplicably, into the kitchen. “I shall need to ask you some questions about the household and your experiences here, but first – have you had supper?”

“Sir?” Harry gaped at the blond professor. He suddenly realized that Snape was wearing his trailing black robes over Mr. Lawson’s Muggle suit. The image seemed so off kilter that Harry could barely assimilate it.

Snape sighed impatiently. “Your relatives have gone out to dine at a fine restaurant. Did they bother to give you supper before they left, or are they planning to bring you a doggie bag?”

Harry bristled a bit. “They’ve never brought me a doggie bag. Sir. And Uncle Vernon made me get in the cupboard before I’d thought about a meal. Usually, I try to take a pitcher of water in there with me, but – “

“Then your answer is ‘no’, is it?”

“Yes. No. Well, yes, my answer is no,” Harry ground out, aggravated that he couldn’t even seem to speak coherently when Snape was around, even if he did look like Mr. Lawson.

“I daresay there are plenty of leftovers from that magnificent luncheon,” Snape said with a sneer.

“Aunt Petunia will notice if anything is missing,” Harry said before he could stop himself.

Snape glowered. “She doesn’t actually count the sandwiches, does she?”

Harry ducked his head. “Yeah,” he muttered. “She’ll count anything, to make sure I don’t ‘abuse’ their hospitality. That’s how she puts it,” he defended, when the older man’s blue eyes darkened.

“Go ahead and eat, Potter,” Snape instructed. “I shall replace anything you use up. Your aunt will be none the wiser.”

The teen needed no further urging. He quickly loaded a plate with leftover sandwich quarters, some veggies and spinach dip, and a few pieces of fruit. Bemused, he watched Snape wave his wand and the missing items were magically reproduced in their proper places on the various trays. “Wicked!” he said admiringly. “It would be so much simpler if I could do magic like that while I’m here in the summer.”

“Your relatives will not be gone indefinitely,” Snape warned. “Eat up, while I do a preliminary scan of the interior of the house.”

Harry nodded, his mouth too full of a spicy chicken sandwich to speak. He quickly made his way through the rest of the food on his plate while Snape wandered the rooms, murmuring softly while wielding his wand toward the walls, floors, ceilings, windows, and doors. By the time the professor returned to the kitchen, Harry had already washed and put away his plate and fork.

“Tell me, Potter,” said Snape, brushing absently at the dangling blond moustache, “What exactly happened here near the end of summer just before your Third Year at Hogwarts?”

Harry gaped at the man. “That summer… “

“Yes, Potter, that summer. Quickly, if your please. The wards wavered noticeably shortly before you ended up at the Leaky Cauldron, and Professor Dumbledore needs to know what happened to cause that.”

“Er – I guess it was after I blew up Aunt Marge… “

“Blew her up … how? Be specific.”

Harry sighed. “She’d been insulting my mum. Like she did last night, you know? And I just – lost it. And the next thing I knew, Aunt Marge began to inflate like a large balloon, getting bigger and bigger… And then she drifted outside and floated away up into the sky.”

Snape stared at the boy intently. “What happened then?” He did not believe that the act of simply inflating a relative, regardless of how obnoxious the person might be, could cause the wards to waver as strongly as Dumbledore had said they had.

“I left.”

“You left?”

Harry nodded emphatically. “Yep. Up and left. Took my school trunk and my wand and walked out of the house. I told Uncle Vernon any place was better than living here, and I left, ended up on the Knight Bus, and spent the rest of the summer at the Leaky Cauldron.”

“Hmm.” Snape nodded slightly, his blue eyes narrowing. “That would possibly explain it.”

“How?” Harry wondered.

“Tell me, Potter, when you left the house that day, did you ever intend to return here to live?”

Harry stared at Aunt Petunia’s clean kitchen floor, finding the design of the tiles rather fascinating. “Mm… I really don’t know. At the time, I wished I never had to come back, but realistically, I knew I didn’t have any other home. And though I’d already asked Dumbledore if I could stay at Hogwarts during the summer, he’d said no. And the Weasleys already have so many kids… So, I really don’t know what to say. I didn’t want to live here, but aside from that one time I escaped to the Leaky Cauldron, I’ve never been able to live on my own. I guess I knew I’d have to come back here sometime. I just wished I didn’t.” He looked at Snape. “I know that’s not much of an answer, professor, but it’s honest.”

“Fair enough, Potter. The fact that you did not want to live here probably caused the abrupt wavering in the blood wards, but your inner knowledge that you would have to return kept them from collapsing completely at that time.”

The blond man looked out the kitchen window at the innocuous back garden. Such a pleasant setting, if not for the Dursley family. A bit too pruned for most magical folk, but still, one could dwell happily here, if only the company were pleasant. Unfortunately for Potter, the company was anything but.

“You mean… “ Harry bit his lip before continuing, “The wards almost fell because I stormed out of the house that day?”

Snape nodded. “I believe that would be the most logical explanation.” He sighed. “After observing the interaction between your relatives and yourself yesterday, it’s little wonder that you lost control. The lot of them would try Merlin’s patience.”

Harry chuckled darkly. “I don’t doubt they would.” He paused before asking, “So, are the wards okay now? Or are they still weak?”

Snape turned, causing his robes to billow over Mr. Lawson’s suit. “The Headmaster attempted to strengthen the wards that summer after you left, but he had no real concept of what had happened. I can say, the wards are not at full strength in the present moment, and it is unlikely that they will return to full strength, unless you can embrace Number 4 Privet Drive as your heartfelt home.”

Harry scoffed. “Not much chance of that, then.”

Frowning, Snape looked at the boy seriously. “You must do your best, Potter, whatever you feel personally toward your relatives. Another blow-up of that sort could cause them to fall precipitately, and Death Eaters could be slamming open your front door before you could blink.”

“They – do they really know where I live?” he asked, feeling a bit stupid for asking.

But Snape nodded once. “Yes. They’ve known for years. They simply cannot breach the wards. Well, they haven’t been able to, thus far. But if the wards fall, you and your relatives would become easy victims.”

Swallowing hard, Harry asked, “But what about the Order of the Phoenix? Couldn’t they – “

“Believe me, Potter. The Dark Lord monitors everything concerning you. Once he detects the absence of the wards at this residence, it will be overrun within seconds – just the time it takes to Apparate. Almost certainly, the Order would be too late to save you.” Snape shook his head, causing his blond moustache to drift back and forth. “There is only so much that Dumbledore himself can do magically to sustain the wards. Your best chance to stay safe is to develop a personal attachment to this house, if not to your relatives. Make this YOUR home, no matter what. You may hate the people who live here, but as long as this house is home to you personally, the wards should continue to hold. Focus on the house itself, Potter. You must do this, for your own safety, and your relatives be hanged.”

Harry gave a short, hard laugh. “It’s a lot to ask, Professor.”

Snape grimaced. “Then I’ll make it a short version. Do you really WANT to die, Potter? Do you want to die horribly?”

Harry shook his head, hugging himself unconsciously. Too easily, he flashed back to that night in the graveyard, the circle of Death Eaters, the Cruciatus Curse, Cedric…

“Then make this your home. For unless this IS your home, you WILL die. And you will die quite horribly. Understand?”

“Yes,” Harry whispered. He cleared his throat. “Don’t you have to, you know, check the outside, too? The property lines, I mean?”

The man quirked an eyebrow. “I already did, before I entered the house. As far as I can tell, your explanation is sufficient to account for the weakening of the wards, and their sudden wavering that summer. I have no further need to prolong my visit to Surrey.”

Harry looked at Mr. Lawson’s blond hair and moustache, and he laughed. “What about Aunt Marge?”

Snape snorted. “I suppose I shall have to break her heart. Any ideas about the most effective way to do so?

The Gryffindor burst out laughing. “You could always pee on her leg!”

To his utter shock, Severus Snape guffawed, although it wasn’t quite as shocking as it might have been had he looked like himself. “Poetic justice, indeed, Potter! But I don’t need to get involved with Muggle law enforcement.”

Harry was still chuckling. “Well, you could advise her as a food critic that she needs to go on a highly-restrictive diet.”

Just as Snape smirked appreciatively, the sound of a car turning into the drive distracted both wizards.

“It’s them!” hissed Harry. “I thought they’d be gone a lot longer. I don’t think they’d even have had time to eat a five course meal!”

“I’ll leave now,” said Snape. “I shall contact Marge tomorrow, and that should be the end of that. Hopefully, I can avoid doing anything to her leg.”

Harry bent double and scuttled off toward the cupboard under the stairs, hoping the Dursleys wouldn’t be able to see him through the front windows, despite the charms Snape had cast. “Bye, professor,” he called softly, before he dove into the cupboard and pulled the low door shut.

In the kitchen, Snape Disillusioned himself before slipping out through the sliding door.

“How very rude,” Petunia was hissing under her breath as she arranged fresh flowers from the garden in her favorite crystal vase. “He cancelled without saying a word to us, or at the very least to poor Marge, then expected us to eat a late dinner without him.”

Harry stared at her with wide eyes. He’d had plenty of practice acting surprised through the years, and he knew he projected the very picture of innocence, even though Snape had apprised him of his plans for the previous evening.

The Dursleys had barely checked on Harry after returning home, so this was – as far as they were concerned – the first Harry had ever heard of the dinner that never took place.

“So, he just left you stuck at an expensive restaurant, after he’d invited you?”

Petunia snorted in an unladylike fashion. “The maître d’ informed us that Mr. Lawson had prepaid the meal – told the restaurant to charge anything we ordered to his credit card – but that still doesn’t excuse his absence. Marge was beside herself at being stood up in such a fashion, Vernon was furious, and I decided we’d probably better skip the meal altogether.”

That surprised Harry. He hadn’t heard any food preparations after the family had returned home. Were they all so upset they simply couldn’t eat?

“We ended up going to Marge’s favorite seafood restaurant for a quick meal instead. At least she knew what to expect there, unlike with Mr. Lawson. Personally, I think she would be well advised to break it off with him.”

“Oh.” Harry really didn’t know what to say, not being privy to the finer elements of adult relationships, even among normal people, and Marge and the remaining Dursleys never seemed quite normal to him, even if they viewed him as the freak of the family. “Do you think he’ll ring her again? I’d actually thought he was rather nice, if a bit quiet. Maybe something unavoidable came up and he really and truly couldn’t get out of it in time to meet you for dinner. And he was very generous in offering to pay for your dinner, after all. All four of you,” he added.

Pursing her lips, Petunia considered. “Well, if he does ring, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Marge hangs up on him.” She turned the vase this way and that, tweaked a pink rose to the right and a white lily twice to the left. “There. That should do it.” Gathering her floral scissors, she nodded to the remains of several fern fronds and the flower stems that littered the kitchen counter. “Clean up this mess before you go out to weed the flower beds.”

“Yes, Aunt Petunia.” Harry’s answer was rote as he watched her carry the vase into the lounge. Cheerful sunlight streamed into the kitchen as he tidied the counter. Deciding he’d better use the bathroom before going outside – he never knew when the next opportunity to do so would arise – Harry headed for the stairs.

He’d barely put his foot on the bottom step when the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it, Aunt Petunia,” he called.

Twisting the doorknob, Harry opened the door to none other than Mr. Lawson, wearing a navy suit today. The blond man was carrying a smallish box in his left hand, a gift-wrapped box tied with a satin ribbon.

Harry stared at the box. Some inner sense told him this was going to lead to a scene with Marge, and with the mood that the rest of the family were in, it probably wouldn’t turn out well.

Mr. Lawson’s eyes gave nothing away as he studied Harry hesitating in the doorway. He twitched his head slightly to the left, as if indicating the lounge, and Harry finally found his tongue.

“Won’t you please come in?” He stepped aside to allow the man to enter the foyer.

“Thank you,” said Snape’s voice as he stepped over the doorsill.

“I’ll just get Aunt Petunia,” Harry murmured, hurrying toward the kitchen when he didn’t see her in the lounge. Heaven only knew he wasn’t about to call Marge downstairs himself. Let someone else take the blame for bringing her into contact with her Mr. Lawson once more.

Harry stopped short as Petunia exited the kitchen.

“Well, who was it?” she demanded impatiently. “I do hope you didn’t leave a caller just standing on the porch.”

“No, ma’am,” said Harry, feeling nervous all of a sudden. “I asked him in, very politely.”

“Who?”

He swallowed. “Mr. Lawson.”

“What!” Petunia’s face pinched unpleasantly. “Of all the nerve! He shows his face here after last night?” Suddenly, she glared at her nephew. “And you let him in, after all I told you? Where is your brain?”

Harry pointed toward the front of the house. “But he has a box, Aunt Petunia. It’s gift wrapped, like he means to give it to Aunt Marge. Maybe it’s an apology? And what if she wanted to give him another chance? I couldn’t just send him packing, not like that. See?”

Petunia wrung her hands indecisively for a moment. Then she squared her shoulders. “I’d better see what he wants,” she muttered. “And then I’ve got to tell Marge… Oh, dear. Oh, dear me.” She stalked off toward the front door, and Harry thought he caught “… give him hell...” under her breath.

Not wanting to miss any of the action, he crept to the doorway between the kitchen and the end of the foyer.

“I see,” Petunia was saying. “Well, I suppose it’s her decision to make.” She fluttered her hands toward the lounge, as if shooing Mr. Lawson toward the sofa. “Take a seat. I’ll let her know you’re here.”

From the safety of the doorway, Harry watched her trot lightly up the staircase as the blond man disappeared through the lounge door.

After several seconds of tense silence, Harry heard Vernon’s outraged bellow from upstairs, followed by Marge’s strong protest. Then Vernon’s heavy steps thundered down the stairs, shaking the doorframe beneath Harry’s hand.

“I’ll shift him!” Vernon vowed loudly, but his sister was descending hard on his heels, demanding to have her say first. They both vanished through the lounge doorway, followed a few seconds later by Petunia.

Harry jumped when the door behind him from the kitchen to the garden suddenly opened, admitting Dudley, who made a beeline for the fridge.

“What’re you doing, then?” the large boy asked, rummaging through the tray of leftover sandwich quarters to find his favorites.

Harry put a finger to his lips. “Mr. Lawson is here. Aunt Marge is going to give him what for.”

Shocked, Dudley dropped several sandwiches on the floor. “No way! Let’s go see!” He shoved past Harry and started for the lounge, eager to see the next go-round involving the blond suitor. Harry followed quietly, trying to keep Dudley’s body between him and trouble, which could come from any of the four adults in the front room.

“… entirely unavoidable, and I do regret it,” said Snape’s smooth voice, gently entreating an unseen Marge. “I had so been looking forward to your company last evening, and I do beg your forgiveness.”

A silence followed, and Harry leaned sideways to peer past Dudley’s pudgy bicep at the frozen tableau in the lounge. Vernon, his face more purple than red, stood with his arms akimbo, ready for action, if Marge decided not to forgive Mr. Lawson. Petunia had her arms crossed in front of her, her fingernails digging into the flesh above her scrawny elbows. Marge stood slightly in front of them, glaring down at Mr. Lawson, who had sunk to one knee on the thick Persian rug, left hand over his heart, and right hand extended toward Marge, presenting the gift-wrapped box.

Harry’s jaw dropped, even though he knew this had to be an act on Snape’s part, for Snape would never go down on one knee before anyone. Except maybe Voldemort himself, and that only to preserve his cover as a spy.

Marge, for her part, gradually stopped bristling, and she eyed the box with reluctant curiosity. “I … suppose … I might … be able … to … forgive you,” she finally managed.

“Oh, thank you, thank you, my dear,” said Mr. Lawson with a deep sigh, bowing his head over Marge’s hand, which he had suddenly grasped with his empty left hand. His drooping blond moustache brushed her rough flesh. “You are so very gracious.”

“What’s in the box?” asked Dudley. “Is it an engagement ring? Are you going to marry Aunt Marge?”

“Dudley!” admonished Petunia. “Don’t be so presumptuous! You’ll embarrass Mr. Lawson.”

Harry ducked again behind Dudley before his relatives could spot him and somehow blame him for his cousin’s behavior.

Mr. Lawson rose to his feet and, with a flourish, handed the elegantly-wrapped gift box to Marge. “I’m afraid it’s not an engagement ring … yet,” he said with a smile.

Harry shuddered. Only he knew it was Severus Snape, and only years of dealing with Snape allowed him to hear the underlying tone which heralded impending doom for the relentless man’s intended victim. Those icy blue eyes flickered briefly to the Gryffindor, and Harry realized this was Mr. Lawson’s end play.

“Yet?” Marge gasped. “You mean … there’s a future for us?” The solidly-built woman looked ready to swoon at the very thought.

“Oh, yes,” purred Mr. Lawson, his drooping moustache quivering with restrained emotion. “However, we must first attend to one little issue… “

Marge stared breathlessly into his blue eyes, which gleamed with a dangerous light, or so she imagined, having read romances in years past, where the hero’s eyes always managed to gleam with a dangerous light as he regarded the heroine. She had often used to imagine what it would be like to find herself in the role of a romantic heroine. And now, after all these years, it was finally happening to her – really happening!

“An issue?” she whispered.

“Open the box,” her paramour whispered back. “The moment I saw this, I thought of you.”

Marge gave a high-pitched giggle, completely out of character for her. Slowly, drawing out the moment, knowing it was one she would forever remember, she pulled one end of the satin ribbon, teasing it out of its knot. Then, she pulled the other end of the ribbon. She looked dreamily into the sparkling blue eyes, seeing her suitor’s eager anticipation as the ribbon fell away from the box. Carefully, she eased off the wrapping paper, hugging the bliss of her ignorance to her heart for a few seconds longer. In a moment, she would know. She would know what Mr. Lawson thought of her, what made him think of her…

She opened the box.

And stared.

And stared.

Then she glared suspiciously at Mr. Lawson.

“This… THIS reminded you of ME?” she grated. “Dare I ask why?”

Dudley couldn’t contain himself a moment longer. He pushed forward past his parents, and he grabbed the open box.

“A razor?” he squeaked. “Why’d he get you a razor?”

Harry clamped his hands over his mouth to keep from making a sound. He would never have believed Snape would actually do THAT! And the man had been down on his knee to put on his act! Ron and Hermione would never believe this one! Never in a million years!

Even the blond moustache couldn’t hide a decidedly Slytherin smirk.

“Well, there is the problem of your moustache, and I simply couldn’t conceive of kissing a woman with facial hair,” Snape’s voice stated bluntly. “I don’t know if I could even face kissing a woman with razor stubble, but the moustache must go, if there’s to be any possibility of my seeing you ever again.”

Marge’s skin tone abruptly turned from red to plum, nearly matching her brother’s in hue, and she flung the box with the razor at Mr. Lawson’s mocking face. The blond man neatly sidestepped the squared-off missile, which flew across the lounge to bounce off the new mirror.

“What a pity,” Snape sneered. “It was a very fine razor, indeed. Such a shame you couldn’t appreciate it.”

By now, Harry’s jaw had dropped halfway to the floor. The horrible tone coming from the man’s mouth, his choice of words, would have been at home in the Potions Dungeon, when he was flinging invective at his least favorite Gryffindor. Harry had just never seen this degree of Snape’s ire and disgust directed at anyone other than himself, but Marge was getting the full treatment!

“OUT!” shouted Vernon. “GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!” He advanced upon Mr. Lawson, his meaty fists swinging. “GET OUT BEFORE I KILL YOU, YOU SWINE!”

Marge’s ex did not have a clear path to the front door, and Vernon showed no sign of stepping aside to let him pass. In fact, it appeared certain that Vernon was prepared to wallop Mr. Lawson if the man tried to leave by way of the front entrance, a fact which the blond man quickly discerned, and he turned to exit through the connecting dining room’s garden door.

“OUT!” Vernon bellowed, advancing on Mr. Lawson from behind as the blond fumbled with the tricky catch on the door.

The entire family followed Vernon through the dining room, as Mr. Lawson finally worked the door open and stepped quickly into the garden, only to be set upon by Ripper.

“Damn-blasted dog!” came his angry shout as he kicked his leg, trying to dislodge the canine, who had snagged the man’s trousers with his sharp teeth. Ripper gave a sharp yelp as the fabric tore asunder, sending the dog sprawling across the thick grass.

Mr. Lawson didn’t hesitate. He sprinted for the back fence, racing ahead of the four-legged terror, and leapt upwards to hook his fingers over the sturdy vertical boards. Before he could pull himself up and over, Ripper raised his own leg high and soaked the man’s ankles one final time. With a cry of disgust, the blond man hauled himself over the fence, dropping into the alley between the Dursleys’ property and their neighbor behind them.

After quickly looking around to make sure he wasn’t being observed, Severus Snape Apparated away, leaving a pungent whiff of dog urine hanging in the air of the alley.

All of the Dursleys had rushed into the garden to watch Mr. Lawson’s flight, and Harry stood in the doorway, alternating between suppressing a hideous thrill of horror and trying not to give in to wild laughter at Snape’s incongruous exit.

“Guess you were too much woman for him, Aunt Marge,” said Dudley, laughing, catching Harry’s eye, and Harry grinned back at him. “But you’re better off without him. You need a STRONG man.”

“I quite agree,” sniffed Marge, leaning down to rub Ripper’s ears when he returned from chasing her erstwhile love to the fence. “A food critic, indeed! He was far too thin. That should have warned me off him straight away.” Without further ado, she turned to lead the family back into the house.

Harry backed away from the door to allow them room to enter, and he remembered what Snape had told him: focus on the house, not the people living in it. Let the house be his home, or else the wards will fall.

He could do that. The house did not have anything against him. He had a room here, when Marge wasn’t here, and the room had never done him any harm. The cupboard was his other space in the house, and the cupboard had never acted against him. It was only the people. The house he could live with. This house was his home.

And suddenly, Harry felt gratitude toward Snape for helping him to understand that simple fact.

Still, he had to laugh.

Too much woman! Ron and Hermione were definitely going to hear about this adventure! Harry grinned broadly as he closed the garden door.

-:- -:- -:-

Severus Snape landed before the iron gates of Hogwarts castle, still reeking of dog urine. With a sweeping motion, he Tergeo-ed his lower extremities, restoring order to his trousers, socks, and shoes. He then cast a quick Reparo to mend the ripped fabric below his knee. That horrible little beast, he thought with a worse-than-usual glower. He was well rid of Marjorie Dursley and her canine companion.

After quickly unwarding the gates, he entered the castle grounds, closed and rewarded the gates, then set off on his long trek to Dumbledore’s office. He could just see the Headmaster’s triple-appendage abode protruding from a tall tower, washed in warm summer sunlight.

For the life of him, Snape could never understand how Dumbledore could feel at ease living and working in quarters that stuck out into midair, several hundred feet off the ground. Didn’t the old fool ever worry that his aerie would come tumbling down someday? After all, the stonework had been done a thousand years ago, to provide the very first Head of School with a unique retreat, literally above and beyond the rest of the castle.

Snape shrugged. The Headmaster’s quarters was the Headmaster’s problem, not his. He really only worried whenever he had to personally set foot into Dumbledore’s office. Then, Snape was acutely aware that he was standing outside the main walls of the castle, hovering high above the unforgiving ground.

On his walk toward the castle, Snape considered the enigma of Harry Potter. He had already been aware of the boy’s unfortunate tendency to both attract trouble and to engage in it. Reckless Gryffindor didn’t begin to describe him. But now, having seen a more intimate side to Potter, the man began to understand why his young nemesis reacted to situations the way he did. Potter must have been horribly stifled by his relatives growing up, and still was, in fact. If anything, when given his freedom, he tended to overcompensate, throwing caution to the winds as he battled trolls, basilisks, evil Dark Lords and sadistic Defense teachers.

Potter’s fierce loyalty to people he considered his friends and family – like the Weasleys and his late godfather – grew from his being neglected and abused by uncaring relatives who were his genuine family. The boy should have lavished his attention on the Dursleys, but when that proved impossible, he transferred his affections to the other important figures in his life.

Snape sighed. He sincerely hoped that Potter could avoid further blow-ups with the Dursleys, although living with them was literally like living in a powder keg. The boy had walked out on his family once; the next time – Merlin forbid there was a next time – might prove fatal to them all. Perhaps Dumbledore should pay a visit to Number 4 and impress upon the Dursleys that the wards protected them as well as Harry, and the possible consequences for them all, were the wards to fall.

The Potions Master climbed the outer steps of the castle, murmured another unwarding spell before pushing open the grand doors, then closed and rewarded the entrance before ascending to the level of the Great Hall. A quick glance told him that the Headmaster was not enjoying a solitary early luncheon at the head table. Therefore, he would undoubtedly find the wizened Head in his office.

Not relishing the climb up to the seventh floor, Snape pointed his wand overhead as he stood within the massive stairwell and whispered, “Ascendio!”

He suddenly realized he had never Finited Mr. Lawson’s appearance when he felt the blond moustache blowing against his chin as his body arrowed vertically up the stairwell past the astonished portraits, landing at the top of the flight leading to the seventh floor. A quick wave of his wand removed the glamours and restored Snape to his habitual sartorial appearance, from the high-necked collar, down past his trailing robes, all the way to his comfortable boots. He hoped to never again don that blond moustache.

A couple of minutes later, he had reached Dumbledore’s gargoyle, which leapt aside when Snape merely glared at it. He rode up on the spiraling stone steps, and sure enough, Dumbledore bade him enter when he knocked upon the oaken door.

“It’s good to see you, Severus,” Albus Dumbledore greeted him with a twinkling smile. “Have you gotten everything straightened out at the Dursleys?”

“Indeed,” replied Snape. “At least, I hope so.”

Dumbledore frowned. “Do you anticipate further problems?”

The Potions Master collected his robes and sat in the leather chair opposite the Headmaster’s desk. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “All will depend upon Potter, but I believe I have impressed upon the boy the absolute necessity of embracing Number 4 Privet Drive as his home, regardless of how he feels about his relatives. They proved to be the catalysts in the situation regarding the wards wavering during the summer prior to Potter’s Third Year.”

“Ah,” said Dumbledore. “I can imagine.”

“Can you really, Headmaster?” asked Snape with a bit of a sneer. His dark eyes flashed between the hanks of long black hair framing his lean face. “Have you ever attempted to interact with the Dursleys?”

Dumbledore shook his head, his white beard swaying from side to side against his turquoise robes. “No, I have not had that pleasure.”

Snape snorted audibly. “I would hardly deem it a pleasure. If you had checked upon Potter’s situation, you might have discerned that he is treated quite vilely by his relatives, culminating with his fleeing their house at the time the wards weakened drastically three years ago. Quite frankly, I can’t blame him for setting off into the night, baggage in hand.” Snape paused, then added, “He appears to be routinely subjected to both verbal and physical abuse, as well as psychological and emotional neglect. Were you aware that they keep him locked in his room, unless they’re working him to the bone? Not to mention, they put bars on his window.”

Frowning, Dumbledore hesitated, then said quietly, “I see.” He sounded unutterably sad. “I shall have to look into this. Thank you, Severus, for bringing the situation to my attention.” Silence for an extended moment. “But you did complete your investigation, aided, I believe you said, by Miss Marjorie Dursley.”

A decided smirk crossed the dark man’s severe features. “Oh, yes,” he agreed. “Making her acquaintance helped me immensely in gaining access to the Dursleys’ home. And then, in the end, I had the great pleasure of breaking the dastardly woman’s black heart.”

Dumbledore’s grizzled eyebrows rose. “How exactly did you accomplish that, Severus?”

Snape grinned almost merrily. “With a razor, Headmaster. It worked most effectively.”

The Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry leaned back in his tall leather chair studded with nailhead trim and regarded his employee expectantly. “Do tell.”

Severus Snape settled back, crossing his legs, and did just that.

High above the castle grounds, amused male laughter peeled out through an open window on a protruding aerie.

-:- -:- -:-