It soon became apparent that whatever had allowed the owls to reach them at Hogwarts didn’t stretch to anywhere else.

This realisation shoved Snape into a towering rage, and Harry spent a fair bit of time standing in front of the kitchen window, listening to the bellows and crashing of glass emanating from the shed at the end of the yard. Somehow, he didn’t think the professor was going to brewing many potions anytime soon.

Sighing, he retreated back into the living room and scooped up the current Muggle notebook he was using. He hadn’t even seen Snape over the past couple of days, and the isolation was beginning to wear on his nerves. With the strange warding still active, he didn’t even have Hedwig to talk to. He wasn’t quite at the stage of talking to the walls yet, but he figured if Snape kept to his lab for much longer, then it wouldn’t be long before he was talking out loud to himself.

Settling himself sideways in the armchair, his legs dangling over one arm, Harry tried to force his brain back to his Charms homework. Debate the pros and cons of using a Fire-Making Charm, and the possible ways of countering it. How on earth was he supposed to write three feet of parchment on that?! Of course, the second essay topic was just as bad – What is the difference between a Hover Charm and a Levitation Charm? – and Harry had no idea how he was supposed to do that one, either.

It was a pity that Snape was more interested in potions and DADA than charms, Harry thought, otherwise he could have scoured the bookcases around him for clues.

With impeccable timing, as soon as he had the thought, the back door slammed, and Snape stalked into the living room, temper clearly still steaming. Harry hurriedly drew his legs back over the arm of the chair as Snape all but threw himself down into his own chair. Now didn’t appear to be a good time to pester Snape with school questions.

With brisk movements that all but screamed ‘I want to smash something against the wall’, Snape picked up a magazine from the pile of mail at the side of his chair and snapped it open. The pages obligingly stood upright and open for him, rather than falling inwards under their own weight.

Harry had just turned back to his homework, trying to find another pro for a Fire-Making Charm other than ‘to make a fire’, when Snape suddenly leapt to his feet as though his chair cushion had been made of springs.

“Merlin’s scorched beard!” the professor bellowed, glaring at a page in his magazine. Harry was quite surprised the thing didn’t just burst into flames right there and then. “When I get hold of that little—”

Whatever else Snape said, Harry didn’t hear it, as at that moment a loud buzzing noise filled his ears. Rubbing them didn’t work, nor did shaking his head – although his attempts were quite vigorous. Putting a finger in his ear and wiggling it, Harry looked at the professor to see if he was affected, too. It was a bit hard to tell, but he didn’t think so – Snape was frantically riffling through the pile of delayed owl mail, his mouth moving in between snarls.

Abruptly, Snape shot upright, apparently exclaiming in triumph as he brandished a letter. Tearing it open, his eyes scanned it rapidly.

“Um, sir?” Harry said, and then stopped. His voice had sounded . . . normal. Somehow, it was inside the buzzing.

Something in the air suddenly snapped and gave way, and the buzzing disappeared. Confused, Harry blinked up at Snape.

“Come along, Potter,” Snape was saying, already turning away. “I shall just barely be in time.”

Recognising that the professor was in no mood to give him any explanations, Harry scrambled to follow the man, tumbling out of the chair and dropping his still blank homework notepad onto the seat. Surprisingly, instead of reaching for Harry to apparate them somewhere, Snape was heading for the front door, shrugging into a long black cloak as he went.

Dark red fabric suddenly smacked him in the face. Pawing it off, and barely catching it before it hit the floor, Harry realised it was a brand-new cloak, and one of the things Snape had gotten for him a couple of weeks before. He hadn’t worn it before now – mainly because the only places they’d been to had been Muggle areas, but mostly because it was just too warm for cloaks.

Wondering where they could be going that would require warm cloaks, Harry clutched it to his chest and scurried after the professor, who barely waited for him to get through it before slamming the front door and immediately stalking off down the street.

They were heading back the way they’d come that first night, Harry soon realised, and his heart began sinking. Was Snape giving him up already? He’d tried his best not to set the snarly professor off, and had thought that he’d been doing quite well . . .

“Mind where you’re going, Potter!”

Harry froze at the sound of the professor’s voice – barely half a step before he would have crashed into the back of Snape. Gulping, he skipped backwards hastily, almost dropping the cloak as it got tangled around his legs.

“Do straighten up, Potter,” said Snape with a sigh. “And put that cloak on. The wizard we’re going to see is very old-fashioned.” Quite how that translated to having to wear a cloak, Harry wasn’t sure, but he swirled the garment around his shoulders anyway. Snape had drawn his wand and was muttering to himself. “Idiotic . . . honestly, why do they have to . . .” He made a noise of frustration, then loosened the hand around his wand, balancing it carefully in the middle of his palm. “For Merlin’s sake! Point-me portkey!”

The wand quivered, and then jerked itself around to point off towards their right. Snape glanced off that way, and sniffed haughtily.

“Come on, Potter,” he ordered, and stepped off the overgrown trail. “We’re looking for rubbish.”

“We’re looking for what?” Harry asked, sure he’d not heard that right.

“Rubbish, Potter, Muggle rubbish,” Snape said, briefly bending down to poke at something hidden in the grass. “We’re going to be using a public portkey. Only the Ministry is legally allowed to create portkeys, so unfortunately the item is always disguised as something a Muggle might expect to see.”

“So the portkey that you planted in my shoulder came from the Ministry?” Harry asked, as he too began looking for whatever rubbish he could find. How on earth am I supposed to tell a portkey from actual rubbish? he wondered.

Snape snorted derisively. “No, that came from Albus,” he said. “And it’s not something the Ministry knows about, so kindly don’t mention it to Fudge!”

Frowning, Harry was about to protest that he wasn’t likely to see Fudge again, let alone talk to him long enough to mention the emergency measure, when Snape let out an exclamation of triumph, and beckoned Harry over to him. Harry found himself looking down at the remains of what looked like a newspaper left out too long in the rain.

“Make sure you have a firm touch on it,” Snape advised, crouching down beside it, flicking his cloak out of the way behind him. “Otherwise you may be dropped somewhere else.”

I have to touch that?! Harry recoiled at the thought. “Um, why aren’t we apparating?” he asked.

“Because the wizard we are going to see is very paranoid, even worse than Mad-Eye Moody—” Who? Harry wondered. “—and his wards allow nobody through until he’s vetted them himself. This portkey will only drop us outside his wards. Now.” Snape gestured firmly for Harry to crouch beside him. “Make sure you touch this at the same time as I do, Potter. The one who lags behind will be left behind if we aren’t careful. Ready?”

Reluctantly, Harry lowered himself to the ground and reached out a hand, his fingertips hovering over the pile of what was now basically mush. “Three. Two. One,” Snape said, and they both pressed their hands to the portkey.

Instantly, a large hook tightened itself around Harry’s spine, and yanked him forward. Now that he wasn’t dazed and confused from dodging blows to the head, he was fully aware of just how dizzying the portkey travel was. Feeling as though his insides were being boiled and stirred with a stick, he screamed. He attempted to flail with both arms, but the hand he’d pressed to the portkey appeared to be stuck, so only his free arm moved. This was even worse than apparation, making Harry feel like he was in a high-powered washing machine, spinning end over end until he didn’t know which way was up.

And then, abruptly, he was crashing to the ground.  

Severus landed neatly on his feet and brushed his hands together, fastidiously dusting off the disintegrated remains of the portkey. Potter was sprawled at his feet. It hadn’t been a very dignified or graceful landing, but considering it was only the second time the boy had ever travelled via portkey – and the first time that wasn’t an emergency – then Severus decided against berating the boy for it.

Looking around, he verified that they were actually where they were supposed to be. He wouldn’t put it past his friend to move the portkey landing area without telling anyone, and force anyone who wanted to see him to walk fifty miles to get there.

But no, it appeared they were right where the article had specified – right outside of Bertie Evergreen’s twenty foot tall walls.

Severus had first met Bertie during the summer after his disastrous fifth year. Hoping to run into Lily, Severus had attended every fair where he thought they might be selling the magical equine figurines that Lily adored. Whether she never turned up at all, or he just never saw her in the crowds, he never knew, but he saw no sign of her at any of the fairs that summer.

He had, however, run into Bertie one day. Unsurprisingly, Bertie had been astonished that a young lad of Severus’ age was apparently interested in what – admittedly – was, at the time, a rather girlish craze. He had been less astonished to discover that Severus was only there because of a girl.

They had fallen to chatting that day, and had carried on a desultory correspondence afterwards. Bertie, it turned out, had a huge collection of the figurines himself, and had an unprecedented number of the enchanted ones. He was very jealous of his collection. No security measure was too great, and even the back-ups for his back-ups had back-ups.

But now Bertie was actually selling one of his enchanted figurines. Severus was quite surprised the security wasn’t immediately lethal.

“All right, Potter?” he asked, as the boy staggered to his feet.

“Uh, yes, sir,” Potter answered, absently, looking around. “Sir, where are we?” he asked.

“At the home of Bertie Evergreen,” Severus said. “Keep with me, Potter. Merlin knows what his security will do to you if you find yourself alone somewhere.”

Potter let out a little squeak of alarm, but obligingly trotted after Severus as he approached the gates.

Opening up Bertie’s letter, Severus pressed it flat against the gates. They hummed as they read the magical signature embedded in the parchment. There was a long pause, and then a click sounded. “Severus Snape,” a voice said from mid-air. “What was the first thing I ever said to you?”

“My dear girl, how long have you been cursed?” Severus said, dryly, then whipped his head around to glare at Potter as a choked sound came from just behind him.

“Severus!” the voice declared, more warmly this time. “Well, it’s about time, my boy. I was beginning to think you weren’t interested! And . . . who’s that with you?”

“We’ve been having a little trouble with the owls, lately,” Severus said. “Perhaps we could come inside before effecting introductions, Bertie?” he added, pointedly.

“Oh, yes, yes, of course!” the voice enthused. “I’m in the Egyptian parlour. You know where to come.” There was another small click, and the gates began to swing open.

“Better keep your mouth closed, Potter,” Severus warned as he stepped through the gates.

“Wh—” was as far as the brat got, because as soon as they were clear of the gates, they were both drenched by a torrential waterfall that seemingly appeared from nowhere. Severus stood patiently, well used to this, while Potter gurgled and spluttered.

Once the water disappeared again, a brisk warm wind blew over them, drying them almost instantly. Once that had stopped, Severus knew they were free to continue on. “That was the Thief’s Downfall,” he informed Potter, knowing quite well the brat was opening his mouth to ask again. “It’s mainly used in Gringotts Bank; one of their many levels of protection. It washes away any disguise – including Polyjuice – and nullifies any enchantment. Bertie brokered a deal with the goblins and acquired one for himself.”

Glancing sideways at Potter, Severus could almost see the many questions pushing their way through the boy’s mind. The one that managed to squirm its way out was “Polyjuice, sir?”

“A NEWT level potion, although occasionally questions on it crop up on the OWLs, too. It changes you into someone else for an hour.” Technically, the potion itself wasn’t that hard to brew, it was just a lengthy process, but the very idea of the havoc younger students could create transforming into each other gave Severus chills.

Twenty minutes later, they finally reached the end of the drive. Potter was panting slightly. “Why doesn’t he have golf carts or something?” the boy gasped out.

Severus raised his eyebrows. “Because if a person’s serious about wanting to see Bertie, then a brisk walk like that shouldn’t matter,” he sneered.

Potter muttered something under his breath that Severus didn’t quite catch, and hastily leant against the wall as Severus knocked on the door. It was opened by a house-elf, which Potter gaped at. Ah, he wouldn’t have seen the school ones, Severus realised.

“I know where we’re going, no need to show me,” he informed the elf, and gestured for Potter to enter the house in front of him.

“Yes, sir, Professor Snape, sir,” the elf squeaked, and clicked its fingers to close the door. “Essy will be bringing tea, Professor Snape, sir.”

With a brisk nod, Severus pushed the boy in the right direction, as he seemed too busy twisting his neck to look at everything to do anything else. Admittedly, Severus couldn’t blame him. He’d had a similar reaction the first time Bertie had invited him here – and he’d been twenty five at the time.

Each room was set in a different time period. They passed rooms that were decorated in Victorian style, caveman style, in the American Civil War, in World War I era, in the 1960s, in Roman style . . . Bertie was an enthusiastic history buff. He’d researched his eras well, and every room was opulent, but homely.

They reached a door that was decorated in gold tones, and had a small plaque with hieroglyphics stencilled on it. Severus knocked firmly on it.