A pattern was set over the next week. Harry spent his mornings planning out his homework essays – although he’d still not actually written any of them yet – and his afternoons were split between wandering around the dismal estate and playing wizard chess against himself.

Not that the extra practice made him a better player.

His evenings were usually spent curled up in his armchair reading, before he was dismissed upstairs at nine-thirty on the dot by Snape. If the rest of the summer was like this, Harry even thought he might end up enjoying it.

The one worry that kept nagging at him was the lack of response from his friends. Hermione hadn’t even sent Hedwig back to him, and he missed his owl terribly.

“Do post owls ever get lost?” he asked Snape one night at the end of the week.

Snape, who had been making notes on a sheaf of parchment balanced on the arm of his chair, paused and looked up at Harry. “Don’t be ridiculous, Potter,” he said, in what was a very mild tone of voice for the professor. “Post owls are magical birds; they wouldn’t be delivering post otherwise.” And he turned back to whatever he was working on.

“It’s just . . .” Harry twisted his fingers together, anxiously. “Hedwig hasn’t come back yet.” Snape laid his quill down with an almost inaudible sigh, and sat back in his chair to gaze steadily at Harry.

“Perhaps she is living her own life, Potter,” he said, eventually. “She didn’t spend every minute of every day with you at Hogwarts, did she?”

“No,” Harry said, doubtfully. “But shouldn’t I have seen her?”

“Why would you?” Snape asked, frowning at him.

“Because I thought Hermione would have written back to me,” said Harry, softly.

Snape snorted and returned to his work. “Knowing Miss Granger, she is no doubt busy composing an epic to you,” he remarked.

“Er,” was the only response Harry could make, but he couldn’t object too much – after all, he’d had much the same thought. Still . . . “Is there a way of finding another post owl, sir?” he asked. “If I write again?”

Snape looked up with an exasperated sigh. “There is a post-owl office in Berwick, Potter,” he said, and his tone was quickly edging out of mild. “Didn’t you see it when we were in Magic Street?”

“Um, no, sir,” Harry admitted, feeling heat brush along his cheeks.

“If you ensure your letters are done, then tomorrow I will ensure to point it out to you.”

“So we’re going back to Berwick tomorrow?” Harry asked, thrilled, and then shrank back into his chair at the dark glower Snape gave him.

“Yes, Potter, we are heading to Berwick tomorrow. There is a collector’s fair being held that I want to attend, and I still do not trust that the house would be standing if I left you here alone. Be ready to leave at six.”

Harry stifled a groan. He hated getting up early now he wasn’t being forced to. And – no doubt – they’d be apparating again. Yuck!

“Off you go to bed, Potter,” said Snape, idly, his attention already back on his parchment. “Get a good night’s sleep, and all that nonsense.”

“Yessir,” Harry mumbled, and skulked his way upstairs.

Unfortunately, any benefit the early night might have given Potter was wiped out when his nightmares returned, just an hour before dawn.

Severus was jerked out of a deep sleep by the screams, and found himself standing beside his bed, wildly waving his wand around the room as his brain tried to catch up.

Another scream jolted him further, and he stumbled his way across to Potter’s room.

“No, NO, HERMIONE!! Hermione! Don’t drink it, it’s poison! No, please, you can’t leave, don’t you see? You’ll burn, Hermione! HERMIONE!!!”

“Potter!” Severus roared, trying to distract the boy’s attention. Surprisingly, that actually seemed to work. Or, at least, it caused the boy to reduce himself to whimpers, although his head still tossed frantically. Sighing, Severus cast a frigid aguamenti, and Potter jerked awake, coughing and spluttering.

“Wha—?” he managed to get out, then his head jerked up towards Severus. “S-sir?” he gasped, his teeth beginning to chatter. “I-is it s-s-six o’c-c-lock already?”

“Not quite,” Severus informed him. “You were having a nightmare.”

“A-another one?” Potter shivered, hard, and wrapped his arms around his torso. At that point, he finally seemed to realise that he was soaking wet, and he looked down at himself, confused. “W-why am I w-wet?” he stuttered.

“I had to cast aguamenti on you to wake you,” said Severus, and refused to feel guilty. Perhaps he could have used warmer water, but the shock of the cold had gotten Potter out of his nightmare quickly enough. “Here.” He conjured a thick towel and dropped it over Potter’s head. “Dry yourself off and get dressed. I’ll make breakfast.”

Potter muttered something agreeable sounding as he pawed the towel off his head, and Severus turned to retreat to his own room to get dressed. Ten minutes later, as he entered the kitchen, he’d decided hot porridge would help to warm Potter up further. He made it much thicker than he ever had it – he could barely stand the stuff as it was, but it was cheap, and filling – and had just dished it out when the boy appeared in the doorway, hugging a sopping bundle of clothes to his chest.

It suddenly struck Severus just how few clothes the brat actually had. And those he did have were usually much too large for him, like his pyjamas. Sighing to himself, Severus revised his timetable for the day. Albus would kill him if he kept letting Potter go around dressed like a modern-day Oliver Twist.

“Don’t bother trying to dry those; just leave them outside the back door,” he told Potter, sneering at the heap of garments. “I’ll deal with them later.” He could always use a few more rags for cleaning in his lab.

“Uh, yes, sir,” said Potter, hesitantly. He obediently dropped the bundle outside and then paused to scan the surrounding trees and sky before coming back to collect his bowl of porridge, his shoulders slumped. Obviously his owl had still not returned. “Sir?” Potter ventured, halfway through his breakfast. “Will we be apparating to Berwick again?”

“Yes,” said Severus, shortly.

“Oh.” Potter’s face fell, and he ate his next few bites more slowly. Severus cocked an eyebrow at him, as some thought was obviously churning inside his brain. “Why can’t we use the Knight Bus again?” he finally asked.

“Because most wizardkind finds it easier to apparate under their own power,” Severus replied, putting his bowl into the sink. “Most only use the Knight Bus when they have no Floo powder, or are incapable of apparating, either because they aren’t old enough, or because they don’t want to risk splinching themselves if they try.”

“Er, what’s splinching?” Potter asked, wrinkling his nose. “And, um, what’s Floo powder?”

Severus paused to study the boy. “For Merlin’s sake, has nobody mentioned any form of wizarding transport to you?!” he demanded.

“It never really came up . . .” Potter protested, weakly.

“Hmm.” Perhaps I should have a word with Albus about what kind of things are being taught to muggleborns . . . or the muggle-raised, Severus mused. “If you are splinched whilst apparating, it means that part of your body was left behind.” Potter’s expression suddenly became horrified. “It’s only a real concern when you first learn to apparate, or if you try it when not fully compos mentis,” Severus assured him. “Floo travel is travel by fireplace. You need special powder, and the fireplace has to be hooked up to the Floo network.”

Potter had by now gone completely ashen, and he dropped his bowl rather hastily into the sink. Severus didn’t need his legilimency to read Potter’s thought – why are all the wizarding transports so DANGEROUS?! – as it was stamped clearly all over his face.

“Really, Potter, they are no more dangerous than muggle forms of transport,” he huffed, folding his arms. “Now, if you’re ready, then perhaps we can leave?”

Outside the house, Harry tried to brace himself. I swear, as soon as I can, I’m inventing a method of transport that doesn’t involve the risk of dying, he thought. Perhaps Snape had a point about it not being any different than muggle transport, but at least in a car there were safety features.

“Potter!” The whip-crack of Snape’s voice made Harry jump, and he suddenly realised there was a vial being held in front of his nose. The stomach soother, he saw.

“Sorry, sir,” he apologised, and took the vial, taking a deep breath and downing the potion in one go. It tasted a lot better than most potions did, but it still wasn’t pleasant.

Snape took the empty vial back and it disappeared into one of his numerous hidden pockets. “Ready?” he asked, reaching out to grip Harry’s shoulder.

Harry didn’t even have time to decide whether to nod or shake his head before he felt the unfortunately familiar sensation of being sucked through a straw.

If the farmer’s market had been busy, this place was chaos.

Harry blinked at the crowd. Except for this little spot they’d landed in, people stood in every available centimetre. Snape tugged on Harry’s shoulder, and within seconds they were deeply immersed in the crowd. Harry kept extremely close to Snape this time. He couldn’t see over the crowd – or even through it – and he didn’t want to risk losing Snape.

“Here,” Snape’s voice said above his head, and Harry suddenly felt a string of warmth tie itself around his wrist. When he looked, however, he couldn’t see anything. “A tether spell,” Snape explained, gruffly. “This way you won’t get too far away from me. I’m not going to spend hours looking for you in this crowd if you wander off.”

“Yes, sir,” said Harry, pathetically grateful and relieved. He looked around as best he could, but still couldn’t see much other than people. “Where exactly are we?”

“Magic Street’s community hall,” Snape replied, his tone turning distant and vague as he studied the room over the crowd’s heads. “Wizarding space, naturally. This fair is only held once every ten years, and wizards come from all over the world for it. Even squibs have been known to attend.”

“Squibs?” Harry queried, mouthing wizarding space to himself. He didn’t know precisely, but looking around at the huge crowd, he figured it was pretty self-explanatory. There was no way the building was actually the size it needed to be to hold this many people. He was fairly certain that muggles would notice a building that stretched for miles.

“Squibs are those born to magical parents but have no magic,” said Snape. “The reverse of muggleborns.”

“Can you tell if someone’s a squib?” Harry wondered.

“No more than you can tell someone’s muggleborn,” Snape said, dismissively. “They usually end up in the muggle world.”

“Oh,” said Harry, and then suddenly had a jolt of understanding. “That lady at the farmer’s market? The one at the fruit stall?”

“Yes, she’s a squib,” Snape agreed. “Now, come along, Potter.” And he was off.

Somehow, a clear path instantly opened up for him.

Taking advantage of this, Harry scurried after him. From what little he could see, the stalls were filled with various items. It didn’t actually look any different from a muggle fair or car boot, except that some items were clearly moving and magical. One stall had little figures on brooms, which Harry paused to look at until the tether pulled hard on his wrist. Another stall had plates, most of which featured kittens in various poses. Harry didn’t exactly hate cats, but so many together was just . . . overwhelming, and he hurried past that stall.

He found out that Snape had stopped by bumping into the man. Snape had a fierce look on his face as he intently examining the little figurines this particular stall was offering. Looking himself, Harry gasped.

Horses. Hundreds of horses. Or, really, Pegasus. And unicorns, and those strange black horses – both with wings and without – and a few of the odd horse-eagles and the horse-fish ones.

“Wha – what are these, sir?” Harry asked, leaning past his professor to study a little brown foal Pegasus.

“Ever heard of Breyer horses, Potter?” Snape asked, as he reached out to rest a finger gently on the head of a horse-eagle foal. Harry shook his head. “An American company started making them in the ‘50s. They were originally done as figures on a clock, made for one specific company, but the public adored the horses so much that they wanted only those, and not the clock. A muggleborn’s mother collected them, and when that muggleborn started Hogwarts and learnt about magical equines, she designed her own version of the Breyers.”

“Why don’t they move?” asked Harry. “Like other figurines do?”

“Some of them do,” said Snape. “But only the rarest. Those kind don’t appear on the market; you have to know someone who has one and is looking to sell it.”

“What are those, sir?” Harry indicated the foal that Snape was still touching. “And those?” He gestured at a horse-fish.

“Ah, of course, you’ve not taken Care of Magical Creatures yet,” Snape murmured. “This one, Potter, is a Hippogriff. They are very proud creatures. You have to approach one in the right way, otherwise you risk getting clawed to pieces – or torn apart by their beak.”

Harry looked askance at the figurine. No wonder most of Snape’s were in regal poses, he thought.

“This one,” Snape continued, moving his finger to a horse-fish, “is a Hippocampus. They’re bred and used by the merfolk, although you do occasionally get wild ones in the oceans.”

So it really is a seahorse, Harry thought, and giggled to himself. Luckily, the buzz of the crowd hid the sound from Snape.

The professor appeared to be calculating something, his eyes feverishly darting over all the figurines. Finally, he seemed to come to some sort of agreement with himself, and with a brisk nod, he focused on the stallholder, who had been watching them closely out of the corner of his eye, while attempting nonchalance.

“I’ll take the lot,” Snape said.

Back at home an hour later – after a quick stop at the post-owl office and a longer stop at a clothes shop – Potter still looked shell-shocked. Severus wasn’t quite sure why Potter was so surprised, but he decided to wait until the boy had snapped out of it before unpacking all the figurines. He’d just paid a pretty Galleon for them; he didn’t want to risk Potter dropping one.

“Here,” Severus said, thrusting the clothing package at Potter. “Take these upstairs to your room.”

Potter wordlessly took the package and disappeared upstairs. He seemed to take a very long time to come back down again. By the time he did, Severus had removed all of his parcels from his pockets, re-sized them, and warded them in a corner of the living room.

“I shall be in my lab, Potter,” he said. He cast a quick tempus. “It’s still your homework time.”

“Yessir,” Potter mumbled, and Severus frowned at him before sweeping outside to his lab.

He’d just barely started the fire going under a cauldron when his fireplace flared with green flames.

“Severus?” Albus’ voice floated through.

“I’m here, Albus,” he replied, and doused the flames again.

Albus’ head popped into the fireplace. “I was wondering when you’d send the potion that I asked for,” the headmaster said.

Severus frowned at him. “What potion? You’ve not asked me for any potion.”

“I sent an owl two days ago.” Albus frowned back at him. “You haven’t received it?”

“We’ve not had any owls,” Severus informed him.

Albus frowned harder, then seemed to shrug and sighed. “Well, it was a young bird,” he admitted. “Maybe it just got lost. I’ll send the request again.”

“Why don’t you just tell—” Severus started, but Albus was already disappearing out of the flames. “—me while you’re here now,” Severus finished on a sigh.

He hated it when Albus did that.