Harry squeaked in shock at the unexpected voice, and dropped the tin of rice pudding he’d been holding. It bounced off the counter top with a metallic crash, and landed on the floor with a duller clang. It was easy to see why, as the tin split under the pressure, and the contents pooled on the kitchen floor under it.

Harry cringed, his whole body stiffening. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry,” he babbled, looking frantically around for a rag of some kind so he could clean it up. “I’ll clean it, I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry, I just—”

“Potter.” The low growl cut him off. To Harry’s surprise, Snape waved his wand, and the mess vanished. “Now then, Potter, perhaps you’d be so kind as to tell me why you were rummaging through my cupboards? Did I not already say that I would be making dinner?”

“Um, yes, sir,” Harry whispered. He cleared his throat and tried to raise his voice to something approaching his normal level, but didn’t manage it. “You just . . . didn’t say when—”

“So you were unable to wait a mere few hours until I was finished in my lab?” Snape asked, scornfully, folding his arms across his chest and looking down his nose at Harry. Harry flushed, and lowered his head as well as his gaze.

“I – I’m sorry, sir,” he stammered out.

“Go and do something quiet until I call you,” said Snape, coldly.

Harry made his way as fast as he was able upstairs. Once there, he sat down on the bed again, reflecting mournfully that obviously this summer was going to be no different than his previous ones, except that there was no Dudley to knock him around and make things worse for him. Not that I need Dudley, Harry thought, since I seem to be able to do that just fine all by myself.

Looking around for something to keep himself occupied until Snape had made dinner – I wonder how well he can cook? – Harry finally decided on a closer look at the figurines covering the bookcase.

Kneeling up on the end of the bed, Harry peered closely at them. Most of the Pegasus ones were large and thick-set, almost like Shire horses, except with less fluff around their feet. The largest were a pale creamy colour, with manes and tails that were almost white. The others were either brown or grey.

Aside from the unicorns, the other predominant figurines were of skinny black horses – although skinny was being kind, since they were all but skeletal. Their eyes, a glowing white, seemed unusually prominent, and their heads looked more like a dragon’s head than a horse’s.

Here and there, Harry spotted figurines that had the hind-end of a horse, but the head, front legs and wings were those of an eagle. All of that particular kind had a very regal air about them, although one of them was posed with one of its front legs stretched out and the other curled under itself in a bow. Puzzled, Harry tipped his head on one side, wondering just what kind of creature that was. It wasn’t a griffin – those were eagle and lion, he knew – but he couldn’t even begin to guess what it was.

The other figure had the front end of a horse, but the tail of a fish. It was a long, muscular tail that reminded Harry of pictures of mermaids. Maybe it’s the magical version of a seahorse, Harry thought, smiling to himself.

His favourite by far, though, were the little Pegasus foals. Shorter and stockier than the adult Pegasus, they were posed in all sorts of play; rearing, galloping, jumping. Their wings were all over the place, some looking as though they were moulting, and their short, stubby manes stuck upright like brush bristles.

Harry’s inspection was interrupted by the curt, “Potter!” that came floating up the stairs. Harry jumped, and then hissed as a twinge of pain shot down his hip.

Making his way to the staircase, he’d just stepped down onto the first step when he remembered his letters to his friends. Groaning at himself, Harry swiftly made his way back to the room to collect them, before descending the stairs again.

Once in the living room, he turned immediately towards the armchair where Hedwig had been perched, only to halt in surprise. Hedwig was now perched on top of one of the bookcases, her feathers ruffled in indignation. This might have had something to do with the fact that there were now two armchairs, both equally as worn, and frankly looking as though someone had just mirrored the original one – which, when Harry thought about it, was probably exactly what Snape had done.

“Here, Potter,” said Snape, from behind him. Harry whirled around, and found a plate of food being shoved at his chest. He automatically gripped it tightly, his letters scrunching up underneath the plate. “Sit there,” Snape continued, nodding towards the second armchair, as he moved towards the first one.

Cautiously, Harry lowered himself into the chair, half expecting it to suddenly disappear from underneath him. The armchair didn’t look too sturdy to begin with, and he had no idea how strong Snape’s spell was.

The chair did hold, although the seat sagged more than Harry was expecting, and he ended up with his knees halfway to his chest, barely managed to avoid upsetting the plate he still held. Cautiously, he flicked a glance at Snape, fully expecting to see the man smirking at him.

Snape, however, seemed to be concentrating on his own meal, so Harry turned his attention to his. It looked to be some kind of pie, with mashed potatoes to the side, and turned out to be steak and kidney. The meat was a bit stringy, but for all that, it wasn’t half bad.

Once he’d finished, Harry struggled out of the chair, intending to go and put his plate in the sink. It was only then that he remembered his letters had still been in his hand. The heat had soaked through the plate just enough to plaster the top-most letter to the plate. He didn’t quite manage to peel it off intact, but it was only a corner of the parchment, and nothing had been written on that anyway, so Harry didn’t see the necessity of writing the letter out again.

And it was Ron’s letter, he discovered when he put the letters on the arm of the chair. Ron wasn’t likely to pick a fight with him over the state of the parchment.

Hesitantly, Harry glanced sideways at Snape, wondering if he should offer to take his plate into the kitchen, too, or whether Snape would just expect him to know. It appeared, however, that the food had – at least marginally – improved Snape’s mood, as he silently held his plate out towards Harry. Thankfully, Harry scurried into the kitchen with them. It’s a good thing Snape appears to prefer plain food, he thought, as he quickly rinsed the plates. Especially since that’s all I can make!

Severus leant back in his chair, his fingers laced together over his abdomen, as Potter came back into the living room, scooped up his letters again, and beckoned his owl over to him.

“Ron first,” the boy said to her, holding up the parchment that had been damaged, “and then Hermione. You can wait with her for a response.”

The Snowy ruffled its feathers dubiously as it eyed the first letter, but then seemed to give an avian shrug, and accepted both of them. Severus barely managed to raise his wand and open the kitchen window in time to prevent the daft bird from crashing into – or through – it. He shook his head to himself. That would have to be seen to, if Potter was going to have his owl in the house.

Severus suddenly realised that the boy was still standing beside his chair, shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot. Of course, it was still early evening – there were several hours to go before the boy could reasonably be expected to go to bed.

Knowing that he couldn’t really banish the brat to his room, and that it was still far too soon for them to be really comfortable in each other’s presence to stay in the living room together, Severus stifled a sigh and gracefully rose to his feet.

“I shall be in my lab,” he informed Potter, stiffly. “Rule number seven, your bedtime is nine-thirty. If I catch you down here for any reason other than visiting the outhouse after that time, there will be consequences.”

“Yessir,” the boy mumbled, ducking his head.

Severus frowned – he hated it when the brats didn’t even have the courtesy to look him at least vaguely in the eye – and swept himself outside to his potions lab. Once he was in it, however, he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself. His regular supply of potions that he kept for himself was fully stocked up, and he’d done most of the brewing for Poppy just before the term ended. Anything interesting that he might start brewing would take more hours than he cared for right now – technically, Potter was under his care now, and even he didn’t think it would be a good idea to leave the boy alone in the house for hours on end whilst he was brewing in the lab.

Sighing to himself, Severus headed for the desk tucked neatly away in a corner and the spare parchment resting neatly on it. Albus had asked him to come up with a potion to detect possession – presumably against another attempt by the Dark Lord to possess someone like Quirrell. At the very least, he could start making notes about what ingredients he could possibly use and their interactions.

Harry had become so engrossed in the book about a detective living in Baker Street that he’d found on a lower shelf that when he thought to look at his watch, it was only five minutes until his ‘curfew’. Shaking his head at himself, Harry made a careful note of what page he’d gotten to, and replaced the book, before darting outside to pay a visit to the outhouse.

He’d glanced around while outside, but had seen no sign of Hedwg. He supposed he couldn’t really expect her back until the next morning – or even later, if Hermione decided to write an essay-length letter in response to him.

Once inside, he made his way upstairs and curled up under the duvet, not having to wait for long before he drifted off peacefully to sleep.

Unfortunately, now that his immediate future was, at least partially, settled, he should have expected the nightmare that sucked him in.

The large white chess queen turned her blank stone face toward her opponent.

“Yes …” said Ron softly, “it’s the only way … I’ve got to be taken.”

“NO!” Harry and Hermione shouted.

“That’s chess!” snapped Ron. “You’ve got to make some sacri­fices! I make my move and she’ll take me — that leaves you free to checkmate the king, Harry!”

“But —”

“Do you want to stop Snape or not?”

“Ron —”     

“Look, if you don’t hurry up, he’ll already have the Stone!”

There was no alternative.

“Ready?” Ron called, his face pale but determined. “Here I go — now, don’t hang around once you’ve won.”

He stepped forward, and the white queen pounced. She struck Ron hard across the head with her stone arm, and he crashed to the floor, his head hitting with a sickening cracking noise. Hermione screamed, and screamed, and screamed, and Harry felt a shard of something cold pierce his heart. Ron’s face was covered in blood, almost as red as his hair, and his eyes were closed, and as the chess piece dragged him off the board, his head flopped about in a manner that didn’t bode well for his state of health.

The white king’s crown was thrown at Harry’s feet, and the chess pieces remaining on the board moved aside. With a last desperate look at Ron, Harry and Hermione were about to continue on, when Ron’s eyes flew open, and the cold deadness of them met Harry’s gaze.

“It’s all your fault,” Ron gurgled, blood gushing from his mouth with every word, so that he sounded as if he was underwater. “I wouldn’t have been here if it hadn’t been for you.”

“No, no!” Harry gasped, taking a step back and shaking his head wildly.

And suddenly, he was in the chamber with the potions vials all sitting in a row.

“You drink first,” Harry was saying. “You are sure which is which, aren’t you?”

“Positive,” said Hermione. She took a long drink from the round bottle at the end, and shuddered.

“It’s not poison?” said Harry anxiously.

“No — but it’s like ice.”

“Quick, go, before it wears off.”

“Good luck — take care —”

“GO!”

Hermione turned and walked straight into the purple fire, but instead of passing through it, unharmed, she was suddenly screaming, and the flames were pouring over her, dancing over her head, weaving through her hair, and darting down her throat when she opened her mouth to scream again. She managed to turn, and held out a hand beseechingly to Harry.

“Harry! Please – help me!” she called, even as her features began to melt and run together like wax. “Please – this is your fault, Harry – I wouldn’t have been here if not for you!”

His mouth opening and closing in horror, Harry took a step back, and was suddenly in the chamber facing Quirrell and the Mirror of Erised.

“Let me speak to him … face-to-face. …”

“Master, you are not strong enough!”

“I have strength enough … for this. …”

And Quirrell was turning, unwrapping the smelly turban that had been the butt of jokes all year, and there was a face sticking out of the back of his head, with gleaming, glaring red eyes, and narrow, snake-like features.

“Harry Potter …” it whispered. “Better save your own life and join me … or you’ll meet the same end as your parents. … They died begging me for mercy. …”

And then Quirrell was in front of him, staring down at his burnt palms, and howling in agony, shrieks that rose and mingled with the hissing sound of Voldemort yelling “Seize him! SEIZE HIM! KILL HIM!” and Quirrell was pinning him, and still shrieking as his hands disappeared in two bursts of flames, and Harry touched his palms to the man’s face, and the professor howled and screamed as his face caught fire, and burned, and burned, and melted and burned, and the fire spread – everywhere – and it caught Harry, too, and roared through him and over him and around him, until all he could see was red and orange and yellow and he was burning, he was burning, he had killed, and he was burning—

At just after half-past nine, Severus finally tucked away his sheaf of notes and returned to the house, wanting to see if Potter had actually done as told, for once. And surprisingly, it appeared he had. Or at least, there was no sign of him still downstairs anywhere.

Cautiously content, Severus made himself a cup of strong tea, and settled in his armchair with a new potions magazine that had actually been delivered a month ago.

Not ten minutes later, a hair-raising shriek came from upstairs. Severus had just taken a mouthful of tea, and he not only spat this all over himself, but jumped so much that he completely upended the rest of the tea cup over himself, too. Ignoring the potions magazine that was now lying on the floor with several pages bent, and coughing to clear the dregs of the tea from his lungs, Severus rushed for the hidden staircase.

He’d fully expected something to be attacking Potter, so when he got into the room and saw only Potter in it, he stumbled to a halt, his raised wand drooping back towards the floor.

No physical attack, he thought, casting a quick spell around the room that would alert him to any hidden presences. A mental one? He stepped closer to the bed to study Potter. The boy was arched upwards so sharply that Severus was a bit surprised he hadn’t broken his neck or his back already. He was balanced on his shoulders, and his arms were waving madly in front of his face, almost as though he were simultaneously trying to ward someone off and bat something off his own face. His mouth was open to gasp for breath, and he was screaming in wild bursts of sound. Whatever he could see behind his closed eyelids – whether real or not – was obviously terrifying the boy.

“Potter!” Severus barked, but the brat was locked in his own horrors and didn’t answer. A quick aguamenti produced no effect, either; nor did a longer one.

Finally, in complete exasperation, Severus reached down and grasped Potter’s shoulders, tightly. He gave the boy one good, brisk shake, and then – when that didn’t work either – he freed a hand and slapped the boy on the cheek.

The screaming abruptly stopped, and Potter’s eyelids fluttered, showing the whites of his eyes, before he collapsed into unconsciousness.