As the night drew in, Harry Potter found himself fervently wishing that Mrs. Weasley, his friend Ron’s mum, had not been so easily persuaded to leave.

When he had seen no sign of any of the Dursleys beyond the gateway to platform nine and three-quarters, Harry had dragged his trunk and Hedwig’s cage behind him to the train station entrance, figuring that was the easiest place to spot his relatives, and for them to see him. After circling the car park three times, he had tried telling himself that they just hadn’t arrived yet, and had settled down on his trunk to wait.  

But now – six hours later – Harry was reluctantly admitting to himself that the Dursleys weren’t coming. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. He had no Muggle money, so he couldn’t find a payphone to call them, nor could he afford a bus or a taxi. He had no way of contacting anyone in the Wizarding world, not that he knew anyone to contact for help. He briefly debated sending Hedwig with a letter to Ron, or even back to Hogwarts, but decided releasing his owl would look odd to the Muggles.

Of course, he was getting strange looks from the Muggles passing by anyway. He was a boy, on his own, and had been sitting there for several hours now. Reminded of this, Harry shifted uncomfortably. He was stiff, and his stomach had begun growling a long time before.

“You alright there, son?” a brisk voice suddenly asked from behind him.

Harry whirled around in surprise, and almost fell off his trunk. He looked up at the man, who was obviously a Muggle, as he was wearing the fluorescent jacket all the train staff wore.

“Uh, yessir,” Harry stuttered. “I’m just waiting for my relatives. My train arrived a lot earlier than they were expecting,” he added, hurriedly, as the official’s brows began to draw downwards. 

“Well, perhaps we should just—” the man started, but what they should just, Harry never found out, as at that moment the man suddenly stiffened, his mouth snapping closed and his eyes staring straight ahead. Puzzled, Harry glanced around.  

“Ah, there you are,” purred a voice from his left. Harry froze himself, then slowly slid his eyes that way. He’d hoped he wouldn’t have to hear that voice ever again until September, or beyond if he was really lucky. “Thank you; I’ll take my nephew from here.”

“Of course, sir,” the train official said in a very flat monotone, then he jerked around and almost marched back inside the train station.  

Harry glanced up to meet the dark, jeering eyes of Professor Snape, who was standing with his arms folded across his chest, one hand idly tapping his wand against the opposite bicep.

“Well, Potter,” Snape said, one corner of his lip curling up into a sneer. “What have you gotten yourself into this time?” 

Severus Snape was not sure he liked the way his summer holiday appeared to be starting out.

He had Apparated to London as soon as the Hogwarts Express had left Hogsmeade, to take advantage of the last quiet day Diagon Alley was likely to see for the next two months. He had stocked up on several ingredients that he was planning to use in experiments, but some of them reacted badly to magical forms of transport, so he had arranged to meet the Hogwarts Express for its return trip to Scotland, with a stop for him along the way. 

He had not, however, expected to come across one of his students, hanging around outside King’s Cross station like one of the multitude of homeless beggars already scattered around. Potter even looked the part, with his large rag of a T-shirt hanging off one shoulder underneath his cloak, and his faded trousers worn almost through at the knees.  

Severus had spotted the boy some minutes before the official had approached him, and had carefully studied the woebegone look the still-scrawny boy had sported. He would have expected panic, or anger, that his relatives had obviously been delayed. James Potter, he was sure, would have thrown a tantrum hours ago, or wrapped every single nearby stranger around his little finger and gained anything he so desired. 

Harry Potter had the resigned look of someone used to being shunted aside and left behind. He had been sitting still and silent for a very long time by the look of him, his eyes fruitlessly scanning the car park every so often before dropping again to rest on the toe of his trainers, which looked about ready to fall apart. 

“Well?” Severus repeated. The hauntingly familiar green eyes shot up to meet his again. “What are you still doing here, Potter?” he clarified. “The train arrived hours ago. Where are your relatives?”  

“I . . .” Potter’s voice trailed off before he’d even started, and his eyes dropped again to his feet. “I don’t know, sir,” he finally whispered. His hands were twisting the hem of his T-shirt, the only outward sign of panic.  

“Have you not called them?” Severus queried, feeling his annoyance rising again. No doubt the blasted boy was enjoying worrying them – or was playing some kind of game for his own reasons.  

“I don’t have any—” Potter hesitated as he glanced quickly around them. “Muggle money, sir,” he finished, softly. “Only, uh . . .” He darted a hand into a pocket and allowed Severus to see the brief glint of a gold Galleon.  

“Then why, pray tell, did you not summon the Knight Bus?” asked Severus, through gritted teeth.

“The what?” 

Severus studied the boy before answering. “The Knight Bus,” he repeated, slowly this time. “You have not heard of it before?” Potter shook his head. “It is simple enough; you just hold out your wand to summon it.” Potter looked around, and Severus suddenly realised he had a problem.

The Knight Bus could not be summoned from where they were – there were too many Muggles around. But equally, Potter could not go traipsing around London on his own until he found a relatively secluded spot. Albus would kill him if his precious Boy Who Lived got himself mugged and murdered with Severus so close.  

Severus himself dared not leave King’s Cross now. The Express was due to leave very soon; in fact, if he delayed much longer, he’d miss it completely and be stranded himself, unless he wanted to waste the ingredients he’d paid so much for.

He sighed. Really, there was only one choice and he knew it.  

“Come along, Potter,” he said, dropping his arms to his sides and reaching for the cage holding the boy’s owl. “You will have to ride the Express with me, and then summon the Knight Bus once we’ve arrived.”

The boy scrambled off his trunk, and then hesitated before grasping the handle. “The Express?” he asked. “With you, sir? But . . .” His voice trailed away, but the uncertain look in his eyes remained.  

“The Hogwarts Express, Potter,” he snapped, impatiently. He gestured with his wand, casting a Featherlight Charm on the boy’s trunk. “Hurry up now; it will be leaving shortly, and we will be on it.”  

“Yes, sir,” said Potter, doubtfully, and pulled at his trunk. He obviously hadn’t realised just what Severus had done to it, as it slammed into his knees so hard and so quick that the boy was almost bowled over by it. “Oof!” he gasped, and hopped a couple of steps away.

Severus had to bite his lip hard to stop himself from laughing at the boy’s bemused expression. 

Harry managed to load his trunk onto the Hogwarts Express a lot more easily than he’d unloaded it several hours earlier. The feel of the train was different, though. With no students running or shouting, it felt dark, empty . . . and depressing. It was a little spooky, and Harry couldn’t help feeling relieved that Professor Snape was with him. Nothing could be scarier than his Potions professor.

Hedwig hooted unhappily from her cage, and Professor Snape turned to look at her.  

“Let your owl out, Potter,” he said. “She can make her own way there.”  

Hesitantly, Harry reached for the cage door. “Will she know where to go?” he asked. 

“We will be disembarking at Berwick,” Snape said to Hedwig, who blinked her large eyes at him, and then hooted. She ruffled her feathers as Harry opened the door, then seemed to bounce once, twice, before launching herself in a rush. With a neat twist and a barrel-roll, she squeezed herself through an open window and disappeared into the night sky.  

“Come,” Snape tossed over his shoulder at Harry, and led the way to a compartment halfway down the carriage. “Leave your trunk and the cage there,” he ordered, pointing to a little alcove they’d just passed. Harry blinked at it. He hadn’t seen that before, and he wondered if it was specific to this particular carriage, or if he’d just overlooked it.

Once in the carriage, Snape settled himself in the far corner beside the window, and laid several parcels on the empty seats beside him. He gestured towards the other side of the carriage. “Make yourself comfortable, Potter,” he instructed. “It is a long way to Berwick.”  

Harry struggled to undo the clasp on his cloak as he headed for the other seat. He was just about to sit down when the train suddenly whistled loudly, and started with a jerk that knocked Harry onto the seat in a graceless sprawl. His face flushing enough to light a candle on, he hastily righted himself and peeked to see just how badly Snape was laughing at him. 

Surprisingly, though, Snape appeared to be concentrating fiercely on the view outside the window, although his lips did appear suspiciously pressed together.  

With nothing else to do, Harry turned his attention to the passing countryside, but after what felt like hours – but in reality, when he checked the old scruffed-up wrist watch of Dudley’s, turned out to be only fifteen minutes – he became bored, and turned his head to study the inside of the compartment instead.  

Unfortunately, there really was almost nothing in the compartment that was interesting. After another ten minutes, Harry was on the verge of asking Professor Snape if he could go and fetch his summer homework.

Letting out his second sigh in as many minutes, Harry was startled by an exasperated sigh coming from the opposite corner. He looked over in time to see the professor rummaging briefly through his pocket, before, with a whispered word, a book was being held out to him.  

“The second year Potions book,” Professor Snape informed him.  

Biting back another sigh – because he really didn’t want to read future school books, yet if he refused, the professor might make him do something worse – Harry glumly accepted the book with a muttered thank you, opened to the first page, and then let his attention drift off. 

They’d just passed Manchester when Severus realised that Potter had fallen asleep, slumped in the corner, his head pressed against the window, and the Potions book open on his chest. Considering the boy’s head banged against the window every time the train jolted, Severus was rather surprised he’d actually managed to doze off in that position, but he supposed it had been rather a long day, and Potter wasn’t even twelve yet.

Mind you, Severus thought with a frown, studying the sleeping youngster, he doesn’t even look as if he’s ten. Asleep like that, Potter looked pale, vulnerable . . . and very young.  

And what had happened to his relatives that had stopped them from meeting Potter at the station? An accident of some sort? It would have had to have been exceedingly recent, otherwise surely Potter would have been informed. Perhaps a message to Albus was in order, just to ensure that nothing was amiss . . . 

Severus rose and stepped out of the compartment to conjure his Patronus, so that the silvery gleam of it wouldn’t disturb Potter. He had expected Albus to be quick, since the safety of the Boy-Who-Lived was paramount, but even so, he was surprised that Albus’ reply – spontaneously appearing in mid-air in front of him – arrived not ten minutes later. 

Arabella reports no accidents, the scroll said. Dursleys are all well and thriving.  

Hmm. Severus re-rolled the scroll and tucked it away in an inner pocket of his robe. If the Dursleys hadn’t met with an accident that prevented them from collecting their beloved nephew, then maybe they’d just gotten the date wrong. He smirked, thinking of how panicked they’d be once they realised they’d left their precious darling all alone at the busy train station for hours. 

It was barely two hours until dawn when the train finally began slowing down, heralding their stop, just outside of Berwick. Severus held a brief internal debate – carry or cast mobilicorpus on Potter, or wake him? – and finally reached down to shake the boy’s shoulder.  

“’m awake, Uncle Vernon,” the boy muttered, sitting upright, even though his eyes were still closed.

Severus raised an eyebrow, which was wasted on Potter. “Somehow, I think not, Potter,” he drawled. Potter’s eyes snapped open, and he blinked rapidly, frowning faintly in confusion as he looked around, before his gaze came to rest on Severus, and then a fiery blush worked its way up the boy’s cheeks. 

“Professor Snape,” he said, faintly. 

“Come,” Severus barked at him, already turning and striding for the door. “We’ve reached Berwick.”  

The train suddenly slid to a halt with a screech of brakes, and there was a thud and a pained groan from behind Severus. Apparently Potter hadn’t managed to brace himself in time.  

“Hurry, Potter!” snapped Severus. “The train won’t stop here for long. Unless you want to travel all the way back to London?” 

“Uh, no, sir,” Potter replied, hastily. 

Severus quickly shrank Potter’s trunk and owl cage, and hustled them both off the train. Not a moment too soon, as their feet had barely touched the ground before the Express gave an ear-splitting whistle, and sluggishly began to move off again.  

“Come along, Potter,” Severus said, beckoning to the boy. “We will have to walk for a while.” He hoped the boy wouldn’t complain too much over the enforced hike they were about to embark upon.  

Abruptly, he remembered that he’d sent Potter’s owl to meet them here. If it had managed to arrive already, and they managed to find it, then he could send it on ahead with the precious ingredients, and then he could apparate himself. And Potter, too, he supposed. A sideways glance showed him that the boy appeared unable to stop yawning.

Checking the sky, Severus wasn’t surprised. It was still horrendously early in the morning. No doubt having the boy stay with him for the rest of the night, and then escorting him on the Knight Bus at a decent hour, was the proper thing to do. It was the thing that Albus would want him to do, at any rate. 

“Potter, is your owl anywhere nearby?” he asked. He hadn’t been particularly sharp that time, but Potter still jumped anyway. Flushing, the boy hastily averted his gaze to their surroundings.  

“No, sir, I don’t see her,” he finally responded. He sounded rather as though he was expecting Severus to take points for it.

Ignoring the boy’s tone, Severus quickly incanted a charm that would call the owl to them if she was within 20 miles of them. A white speck appeared in the sky barely two minutes later. She must have been almost to them already, Severus mused. 

The snowy owl landed on Potter’s shoulder, causing him to jerk sideways with a yelp and almost throwing the owl into the air again. Severus stifled a laugh as the owl ruffled her feathers indignantly, gave what sounded like a reproachful hoot, nibbled on the boy’ ear – not so gently by the wince he gave – and then began to preen his hair. Well, it does look like a bird’s nest, Severus thought, biting hard on the inside of his cheek.  

“If your owl would be so kind as to deliver these parcels, then we can be that much quicker on our way,” he drawled. The owl looked up at him, blinking her big, golden eyes, and then tilted her head sideways as though to get a better look at him.

“Uh, Hedwig?” Potter asked, reaching up to stroke the bird’s chest feathers. 

The owl appeared to be contemplating for a moment, but then gave an agreeable hoot, and sprang off the boy’s shoulder to hover in front of Severus. He stuck the parcels together, and held them up so that the bird could grasp the string at the top in her talons. “Spinner’s End,” he informed her.  

With another hoot, and a flap of her wings, the owl was airborne again and disappearing off into the distance.  

“Come, Potter,” Severus said, beckoning the boy closer to him. “Now we can apparate.” 

“Uh, what’s—” the boy started, just as Severus told a tight hold of his shoulders, and vanished. 

The instant that they touched firm land again and Snape let him go, Harry collapsed to the ground, wracked by dry heaves. He’d had nothing to eat since breakfast the day before, and wasn’t sure whether he was thankful there wasn’t anything to throw up or not. Whatever that had just been – had Snape called it apparate? – he did NOT like it!  

When he finally managed to pull himself together, he looked up to see a hand holding out a small vial in front of his nose, filled with a pale-blue coloured potion. 

“Stomach soother,” Snape informed him, as Harry shakily reached up for the vial. 

“Thank you, sir,” he croaked, and hastily downed the potion, shuddering as the coldness of it dropped into his stomach and spread. “What was that? What we just did?”  

“It’s called apparition, Mr Potter,” the professor said, taking the empty vial back and storing it in one of his robe pockets. “You have to be of age – seventeen – before you are allowed to apparate on your own. Until then, someone has to side-along with you.”

Personally, Harry thought he’d be just as glad to never experience that again, whether with someone or by himself. He clambered to his feet, only staggering slightly, and only then thought to look around at his surroundings. 

They were standing on the top of a medium-sized hill, a beaten track meandering away ahead of them. Sparse trees were dotted about, but appeared to grow into a forest quite a distance behind them. The track led down into a town, but even from up here, Harry could tell that it wasn’t a good place to live in. An old mill perched on another hill at right angles to them. With no sign of any smoke, or any noise, Harry could only presume that the mill had been shut down and abandoned. 

“Um, sir?” he queried as the professor started to stride away down the track. “Where are we?”  

He thought he heard the man make a grumbling noise, but surprisingly, Snape actually answered his question. “Spinner’s End,” he said, in an exceedingly sour tone. Obviously, he considered it just as bad a place to live in as it looked to Harry. “About thirty-five miles south of Berwick.”

The answer didn’t completely clear up Harry’s confusion – aside from the fact that Berwick was apparently closer to Hogwarts than London, he had no true idea of where it was – but he figured it was the best he was going to get out of the potions master, especially at this hour of the morning. He didn’t know exactly what time it was, but the sky to his left was beginning to sprout a tinge of orangey-pink.  

He also decided that his next question – and where are we going? – was too obvious to be answered, at least in a civil manner. No doubt they were headed towards either a hotel or bed and breakfast of some sort . . . or Snape’s own house. When he further considered it, stumbling along the track behind Snape, that actually made more sense. He couldn’t imagine that any hotel in this town prospered. 

This proved to be true, as twenty minutes later, Snape halted in front of a run-down house on the edge of town. Most of the terraced houses appeared to be boarded up, and the few that weren’t spoke of the inhabitants living on the very edge of their means. There were no yards or gardens at the front, and the street didn’t appear to have been swept for months. Overflowing bins sat forlornly by the kerb, surrounded by bin bags that had been torn open by some animal hunting for food. 

Harry shuddered. He couldn’t imagine willingly living in a place like this. 

“Potter!” Snape barked from where he was standing in front of the front door. 

Harry jumped, and scurried to join his professor. “Sorry, sir,” he muttered. 

Snape ignored him, and briskly tapped his wand in a circular pattern on the door, murmuring under his breath. Then he pushed the door open and hustled Harry inside. “Wait here,” he ordered, and disappeared further into the house.  

Harry found himself standing in a long and narrow front room. Although the curtains were drawn closed over the front window, they were thin enough that they really didn’t make much difference. The weakly emerging sunlight cast the room into dull shadows. Squinting, Harry could just make out the shape of an old, sagging armchair, and the bookcases that lined the walls and were filled to overflowing. Through a doorway at the other end of the room, he could just about make out what looked like an old-fashioned refrigerator. The kitchen, Harry realised.

Before he could take a longer look at anything, Snape returned from the kitchen, carrying, of all things, a knife and fork. Puzzled, Harry watched as the man strode towards a bookcase, and reached over a particularly thick tome in a lurid purple cover. He did something that Harry couldn’t see, and then the bookcase swung inwards, revealing a steep, narrow, rickety-looking staircase. Harry’s mouth fell open. 

“Come along, Potter,” Snape’s voice floated back down the stairs. “I’m sure you’d appreciate getting to bed as soon as I would.” 

Letting out a small squeak – which he swore he’d never admit to – Harry hastily stumbled up the wooden staircase. There were two rooms at the top, one with the door firmly closed, and so Harry hesitantly approached the door that was ajar. Snape was bending over the small, single bed, apparently in the process of transfiguring the knife and fork into a duvet and pillow.  

“The other room is mine,” he said, once he’d straightened up again. “You will not enter that room unless it is a dire emergency. By which I mean, you will expire in less than thirty seconds.”

“Um, yes, sir,” Harry agreed. With that, Snape swept out of the room.  

Sinking down onto the bed, Harry felt it jostle. The mattress was as hard as stone, but the springs were so loose they were almost on the floor. After debating the matter for all of ten seconds, Harry decided it was much better than his cupboard had been, and it was probably more than his life was worth to go and fetch Snape to fix it.

He toed his shoes off, and then curled up under the duvet. His last thought, as he yawned and immediately drifted off to sleep, was that he hoped Snape woke up before him, as he had no idea how on earth he’d get that bookcase door open again . . . and he’d seen no sign of a bathroom.

When Harry woke, it was because of clattering drifting up from beneath the room he was in. Blinking blearily, Harry wondered for a moment where he was, and then, as his gaze fell upon a pile of dusty old textbooks, he remembered yesterday.

Reaching for his glasses and sitting up, Harry contemplated the situation for a moment. The Dursleys hadn’t come to the train station yesterday. Did that mean they’d gone on holiday somewhere, or had they just not wanted to fetch him? Was he likely to return to an empty house, or was he likely to be denied access at all?

I suppose once I know how the Knight Bus works, I could always use it to get to Ron’s house . . . wherever that might be, he thought. If worst came to worst, he could always see if his old babysitter Mrs Figg would allow him to stay for a day or two.

Shaking the thought away, Harry took the opportunity to study the bedroom he’d been given. It had obviously been Snape’s room when he was younger. The bed was a small single, and a desk, a chest of drawers and a bookcase took up most of the remaining space. The desk was covered in old textbooks and yellowed parchment, and the chest of drawers appeared to be coated in dust, but Harry’s attention was drawn to the bookcase. Instead of holding books, as he’d half expected, it was instead filled with models of horses. Or, he amended, as he knelt up on the bed for a closer look, horse-LIKE figures, at least.

Most of the figures he could see were obviously Pegasus, although he could see a few unicorns and a couple of skinny black horses in the lot, and even a half-horse, half-eagle and a half-horse, half-fish one, too. They were all sizes, colours and poses, and a few were family poses, with little winged foals tucked away behind their mothers.

His Aunt Petunia collected Hummel figurines, so Harry knew better than to even breathe too hard on the collection, but he was fascinated by them, and spent longer than he perhaps should have examining them intently.

“POTTER!” Snape’s voice roared up from below, and Harry startled so much he almost fell off the bed. “If you would kindly stop dawdling, then we can eat and be on our way!”

Our way? Harry mouthed to himself as he hastily stood up and picked up his shoes. Was Snape going out again, too?

Luckily, when he made his way downstairs, the concealed door was standing open. He could see now that the front room looked very dull and dingy, but only because everything was aged and worn. From the sound of it, Snape was in the kitchen, so Harry drifted that way. A stack of toast and two bowls of porridge were on one counter. Snape was at the far end of the room, by the back door, dealing with . . .

“Hedwig!” Harry exclaimed, delighted, as he spotted the snowy plumage over Snape’s shoulder. The owl hooted back, but remained still as Snape removed the pile of parcels from her grip. Turning to place the items on the counter, Snape spotted Harry, and gestured at the bowls.

“Eat up, Potter,” he ordered, gruffly. “The sooner we can get going, the sooner you’ll be back with your family.”

Trying not to let on just how much his heart sank with those words, Harry obediently reached for one of the bowls and the spoon beside it, leaning back against the counter to eat. The porridge was rather thin and watery, but it was probably better than anything he’d be getting for the rest of the summer, so Harry didn’t complain. When he was finished, he turned to the sink to wash the bowl.

“Just leave it in the sink, Potter,” instructed Snape.

Biting his lip, Harry slowly lowered the bowl into the sink and hesitantly stepped back. It had been well drummed into him over the years that anything he used must be washed immediately afterwards, no doubt to cleanse it of his freakishness. On the other hand, Snape had told him to leave it . . .

“Potter!” the professor barked from the other room. Harry jumped and all but ran to the man, who was standing beside the open front door. “Let us be off,” Snape continued, and waved Harry outside.

Blinking in the bright sun, Harry waited on the pavement as Snape shut the door behind them, then turned to tap his wand against it. Looking around as he stepped towards Harry, Snape then raised his wand.

BANG!

With a squeal of brakes, a large, purple bus suddenly appeared at the end of the road, swerving its way towards them. It didn’t seem to care where the road was – Harry could see it climbing the pavement. Incredibly, bins, cars and even houses were jumping backwards out of its way. Harry gaped at it as the purple monstrosity screeched to a halt in front of them, the bus tipping forward so far that for a second he worried it was going to flip over.

“Welcome to the Knight Bus,” a pimply-faced teenager said, standing on the steps at the back of the bus, “emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. My name is Stan Shunpike, and I’ll be your conductor this morning.”

“You’re always the conductor,” Snape growled, and shoved Harry up the steps and past the youth.

Once on the bus, Harry couldn’t prevent his mouth from falling open yet again. Instead of the usual seats found on buses, this one had armchairs scattered around. And judging by the way some of them were lying on their side or their back, they weren’t fixed to the floor, either. There was a faint tinkling sound coming from above Harry, and he tilted his head back. Through the stairway, he could see the bus stretched three-stories high, and chandeliers swung from the ceiling.

“Privet Drive, Little Whinging,” Snape was saying, handing over coins to Stan Shunpike. “Boy!” He gestured to two chairs in the middle of the bus. Hesitantly, Harry took one of them, and then flinched as Snape suddenly brandished his wand at him.

“What—?” he started.

“Sticking Charm,” Snape replied, briefly, sitting in the other chair opposite Harry and waving his wand at himself.

Any other explanation was suddenly rendered unnecessary, as with an almighty BANG!, the bus was suddenly on the move again, this time moving swiftly – although still with no care for actually following the road – through the countryside. The other armchairs around Harry and Snape were all flung backwards, and then forwards, and then side to side, until some of them tipped over, and the rest appeared to shiver almost drunkenly but resignedly.

“Where are we?” Harry gasped, as a hedge just in front of them appeared to scream as it leapt backwards out of the bus’ way.

“Wales,” Stan Shunpike interrupted before Snape could even think about answering. He was leaning casually against the rear of the driver’s area and holding a newspaper. “We’re just gonna let Madam Marsh off first—” There was a retching sound, and then a horrible splattering noise that Harry really wished he hadn’t heard. “—She ain’t feeling too good today,” Stan finished, opening up his paper with a sharp snap. He disappeared behind it.

“I have no idea why Madam Marsh continues to utilise this monstrosity of a bus, when she knows it never agrees with her,” Snape muttered, folding his arms and glaring upwards at the second, or maybe the third, floor of the bus. “Or why she doesn’t think to take a potion beforehand, considering there is an entire range of potions to combat or dispel motion sickness.”

“Perhaps she thinks it’ll be different this time?” Harry suggested.

Snape turned a gimlet eye on him, and Harry shrank back in his armchair. “Madam Marsh has been taking the Knight Bus twice a day, every day, for sixteen years,” Snape pronounced, after he was satisfied that Harry was subdued. “And the same thing happens on every journey. She knows it won’t be different.” He sniffed as the bus came to a lurching halt in the middle of nowhere. “I personally think she does it for the sympathy.”

A green-faced witch who was just staggering down the spiral staircase from the upper floors glared at Snape as she passed him, but Harry had to admit, compared to Snape’s own glares, it was a very weak effort, even taking into consideration that she was ill.

“Next stop, Little Whinging,” said Stan as the witch tottered her way down the steps and off the bus. He had apparently been watching Harry and Snape over the top of his newspaper, because now he lowered it abruptly as the bus took off again with a violent lurch, his gaze fixed firmly on Harry’s face – or rather, his forehead. “Who did you say you were, again?”

“We didn’t,” Snape said, sharply. “You have no need of our names to transport us to our destination.”

Stan’s eyebrows drew together, but he didn’t look in the least bit abashed as he slowly raised his paper again. It was fairly obvious, even to Harry, that he wasn’t reading it.

By the time the bus arrived at their stop, ten minutes later, Severus was muttering imprecations under his breath, and the conductor, thoroughly unnerved by this, had removed himself to the other end of the bus.

“Come along,” Severus told Potter, as he cancelled the Sticking Charm, unwilling to even use the boy’s first name where the conductor might hear him. The adolescent’s ears were all but out on stalks, obviously trying to glean every bit of information about his possible celebrity passenger that he could use as gossip.

Once their feet touched the pavement outside, however, instead of instantly disappearing, the Knight Bus remained where it was. Growling, Severus looked over his shoulder. Stan Shunpike and the driver were peering at the two of them through the windows. Thoroughly annoyed, Severus aimed his wand at the bus and fired off a spell. Giving out a yelp like a kicked dog, the bus jerked into motion and vanished at top speed.

Shaking his head, Severus returned his wand to its holster and turned back to Potter. “Well, which way, Potter?” he asked, examining the neighbourhood. It all looked identical, he realised, with a slight shudder. Now he understood the term “cookie-cutter neighbourhood”.

Potter glanced around, as though getting his bearings, and then pointed to a road heading to the left of them. “Number 4 is that way,” he stated.

Raising an eyebrow – why had Potter stated it that way, rather than just saying ‘home’? – Severus gestured for the boy to precede him along the road.

Strangely, Potter seemed to be . . . dawdling. Severus almost had to pause between each step to ensure he remained beside the boy. And the boy’s small size couldn’t account for that, since he’d managed to keep up with Severus’ stride fairly well yesterday at King’s Cross.

Even more peculiarly, when they did occasionally see someone, that person would almost always, without fail, turn their nose up at Potter and cross the road.

Perhaps the boy terrorises the neighbourhood, Severus mused. Except the passersby didn’t look terrified of Potter; they looked disdainful.

He was broken out of his thoughts by Potter’s abrupt stop. The boy was gaping at a house in front of them. Puzzled, Severus turned his own gaze on it. It looked like all the others around it, except there was no vehicle in the drive, and the place had an air of neglect about it. It also had a sign stuck in the middle of the front garden.

“Potter?” Severus verbally prodded the boy. Potter shook his head wildly, but remained silent. Severus took another look at the sign. ‘For Sale’, it read. Perhaps a friend of Potter’s used to live there, one that he hadn’t realised was moving? Turning his gaze over the house again, Severus’ attention was suddenly caught by the number next to the front door.

A large, black, number four.

A dull buzzing noise filled Harry’s head. His aunt’s house was empty, and there was a for sale sign in the middle of the lawn. Was this why nobody had come to fetch him from King’s Cross? Because the Dursleys had moved? Why hadn’t they told him?

Because they didn’t want to risk having to take me with them, a little voice inside answered.

Stunned, Harry barely heard his professor calling his name again but he certainly felt the sudden claw-like grip that pierced his shoulder as one of the neighbours eagerly poked her head out of her living room window.

“Hello!” she called, cheerily, beaming at them. “Were you looking for someone?”

“We came to see the Dursleys,” Snape replied.

“Oh, my, I’m afraid you’re much too late for that!” the neighbour informed them. “They moved away back in, goodness, back in December. He got a promotion, you know,” she added.

Harry felt Snape stiffen with shock. December. That explained the fifty pence they’d sent him for Christmas. He’d thought it seemed generous of them. Vaguely, he heard Snape saying something to the neighbour, and then suddenly, he was being frog-marched back the way they’d just come.

He only registered they’d stopped moving when he heard Snape utter, “Potter!” in very exasperated tones, as though he’d had to call more than once. He blinked several times, and looked up at Snape.

“Hold tight to my arm, Potter,” Snape said. “We’re going to apparate.”

Again? Harry fought down the urge to argue that he’d really rather not – he didn’t think Snape would appreciate that – and took hold of the arm that Snape was extending to him. One compressed, stretching, whirling eternity later, and Harry found himself on his knees in front of Snape’s house again. He remained there, panting, until he was sure he wasn’t going to throw up again.

“Come along, Potter,” said Snape, in what almost passed for a gentle way. “I have to contact the Headmaster.” Shakily, and still numb from the shock of his discovery, Harry gained his feet and followed Snape inside the house. “Wait down here,” Snape instructed. The man headed for the hidden staircase, paused for a second, and then turned back. “I’m afraid the house has no bathroom, Potter,” he stated, “only an outhouse.”

“An outhouse,” Harry repeated.

“At the end of the backyard,” the professor said, and then turned back to open the concealing bookcase. “I shall be back shortly; do not touch anything on that bookcase over there.” And he gestured to his right before disappearing up the rickety wooden stairs.

Harry turned his gaze onto the bookcase in question, which gleamed a dull red, although he couldn’t tell if that was because it was some kind of wood he’d never heard of before, or if it was covered in protective spells. Deciding instead that he’d better find the ‘outhouse’, he moved through into the kitchen and towards the back door.

‘Yard’ had been an accurate term, he discovered as he stepped outside. Presumably at one point the long, narrow area had been a garden – as evidenced by the fact that the neighbouring houses both had long stretches of grass – but the sod had been torn up and replaced with concrete. However, there were raised brick beds alternating sides down the yard. Various herbs were growing in them. No doubt this was where Professor Snape gained half of his potion ingredients. Down at the very end of the yard was a rickety, old, double shed. One side had a large, gleaming padlock holding it shut, which Harry thought was a bit pointless, considering the rest of the building looked as if one strong sigh would blow it over.

The open side turned out to be the outhouse Snape had told him of. It wasn’t quite a hole in a plank of wood, but it looked fairly close. Most of the surrounding houses had extensions built onto the back of them, and Harry wondered why Snape hadn’t done the same. Of course, he’s not here for most of the year, so maybe there’s no point if it’d only get used in the summer, he thought, willing himself to ignore the state of the outhouse as he used it.

Once done, he trudged his way back to the house, wondering where he would be spending his summer. He couldn’t see his relatives being happy to take him back, even if Professor Dumbledore did manage to track them down.

Harry wandered into the living room to discover Snape standing by the front window, his arms tightly folded, and a ferocious scowl on his face, worse than any Harry had yet seen. To Harry’s surprise, the Headmaster was standing in the middle of the room, smiling genially at him.

Ten minutes, Harry thought, numbly, later that afternoon. Ten minutes had been all it had taken for the Headmaster to ‘decide’ what was to be done with him; Snape had obviously already been made aware of his part.

Harry was sitting on the single bed in the room he’d been given the night before. His room now, for the next few weeks, at least. He’d begged, pleaded, to be allowed to stay with Ron and his family, only for the Headmaster to inform him that the Weasleys’ had enough on their plate with their own children, and besides, it would really be best if Harry remained safely out of the Wizarding world for the summer.

Neville, Harry had tried. Neville didn’t have any other siblings for his grandmother and uncle to look after! Ah, Dumbledore had said, but that was the very problem – both Mrs Longbottom and Neville’s uncle were rather elderly, and he suspected that looking after two energetic boys might prove too much for them.

Stricken, Harry had gaped at Dumbledore for a moment – had the Headmaster just implied that allowing him to stay with Neville for a few weeks would kill the rest of Neville’s family?! – before remembering Hermione.

Alas, the Headmaster had said, still twinkling, they would have no protection. There had been blood wards at the Dursleys’, based on the love Harry’s mother had had for him, and now that he didn’t have those to protect him from any stray Death Eaters, then a guardian who could protect him was really for the best, wouldn’t Severus agree?

Snape apparently did not agree, judging by the low, wordless growl he gave at that point. But Dumbledore had just beamed merrily at the both of them, said he’d see them both in September, and then disappeared with a crack!

Snape had stared at the place where Dumbledore had been for a second with an expression that mingled rage with betrayal, and then his eyes shot to Harry, and his face went back to the scowl he’d been wearing before, and then, with a movement that looked like he was trying to snap teaching robes he wasn’t wearing, Snape was striding for the kitchen and the back door, tossing a “Don’t touch anything, Mr Potter!” over his shoulder as he went. The back door was slammed shut so hard, Harry was surprised it didn’t just fall straight off its hinges.

Harry stood for a moment in the living room, staring blankly at the front window. Loud crashes coming from the end of the yard snapped him out of it. He peered cautiously out of the kitchen window, craning his neck to examine the yard, but either Snape was in a blind spot, or he was ensconced in the other side of the shed.

Wondering miserably if this summer was going to end up being worse than living with the Dursleys’, Harry trudged his way upstairs, Snape’s admonition still ringing in his ears. With the Dursleys’, that particular instruction had always meant Go somewhere that’s out of our sight and pretend you don’t exist. At least, that’s what it had meant when there was somebody else around to hear them.

So here he was, sitting on the bed, his hands lying limply in his lap, wondering just how many chores he’d be given this summer.

Severus cast a reparo, and then proceeded to shatter everything in his makeshift lab for the third time. Not that it really mattered, he supposed, since it didn’t appear he was going to have any time to brew for the next few weeks, since Albus had seen fit to stick him with babysitting duties. And Potter, of all people!

Oh, but of course looking after the Gryffindor Golden Boy was much more important than any little experiment he might have wanted to do. What did it matter that it had been five years since Severus had really stretched his potion skills and created anything new? Never mind that Severus had been looking forward to getting away from the moody little horrors that were laughingly called students.

Another three vials exploded all at once.

And what was Severus supposed to do with the Boy Wonder, he wondered? Well, he knew one thing he wouldn’t be doing – he would not be doing the brat’s homework for him! Actually, he knew two things he wouldn’t be doing, because he wouldn’t be running around after Potter, either. The boy was old enough; surely he could manage to entertain himself.

Finally, after a fifth round of destruction, Severus stopped raging and leant against his lab wall. Hopefully now that he’d gotten his own tantrum out of the way, he’d be better able to cope with Potter’s, since he doubted the boy would be any more thrilled than he himself was.

When he entered the kitchen, however, the house was silent. Despite himself, Severus felt a cold finger of panic go down his spine. Had the brat run off? Albus would kill him if he’d gone and lost the Saviour.

Then a hoot came from the other room, and Severus discovered Potter’s snowy owl perched on the back of the armchair. His shoulders sagged in relief. The boy wouldn’t have left his owl here if he’d left. Which meant he was still here somewhere.

If he’s sulking, at least he’s doing it quietly, Severus thought. He thought about going upstairs to make sure the boy hadn’t done anything to his old room, but then considered the books that were around him. Quite a few of them were anything but suitable for a boy of Potter’s age – or, indeed, for anyone who didn’t want to become ensnared by the Dark Arts. They’d have to be warded, or moved, before Potter tried to read one of them and ended up losing a limb. Some of these books weren’t friendly to people who shouldn’t be touching them.

It took him another half an hour to ensure the dangerous books were safe, and almost cost him a finger. Shaking his hand and glaring at the book that had tried to bite him, Severus finally crossed to open the hidden door, reflecting that he’d have to show Potter how that worked, and that Potter had really been too quiet for too long.

“Potter!” he called up the stairs. There was a muffled thump from upstairs, and then the boy was hurrying down the stairs fast enough to break his neck, or put a foot through a stair and then break his neck. Severus folded his arms and scowled.

“Sir?” queried Potter, coming to an abrupt halt in the doorway.

“Since it appears that we have no choice about the company we keep over the next few weeks, here are the basic ground rules,” Severus began. He unfolded his arms, and raised a finger. “One, you shall spend the morning hours doing your summer homework. Once that is completed, to my satisfaction, then you shall spend your mornings reviewing the material you should have learnt during the previous year, and, once the book list arrives and you have gained your new books, reading the first two chapters in all of said books, to prepare you for next year. Is that clear so far, Potter?”

“Yessir,” the boy whispered, his gaze falling to his feet.

Severus raised another finger. “Two, you shall spend your afternoons doing something quiet,” he stressed, firmly. “You shall not go wandering, or flying, off unless I give you permission. Understood?”

“Yessir,” Potter repeated. He was biting his lower lip now.

“Three.” Severus raised a third finger. “You will keep the room you’re sleeping in tidy and presentable. You will not disturb any book or object in that room in any way whatsoever.”

“No, sir,” Potter agreed, listlessly.

“Four, you will be in charge of cleaning the kitchen and the living room. Five, you will be in charge of getting breakfast and lunch, especially if I happen to be in my lab. I will deal with dinner.”

“Yessir,” the boy said again.

Severus changed hands to continue counting off his points. “Six, you will, under no circumstances, EVER enter my lab. That side of the shed is completely off-limits to you, boy, under pain of death, and I do not mean . . . Fluffy,” he drawled, disdainfully.

“Yessir,” mouthed Potter, almost soundlessly.

“If there are any other rules that crop up, we will address them at that time,” Severus finished, and just barely caught the little flinch that Potter gave at those words. No doubt horrified at the idea of more rules for him to follow, Severus thought with an inward snort. “I will be in my lab; since it is—” he flicked a quick glance at the old clock that sat in one of the bookcases. “—now afternoon, you will find something quiet to do.”

“Yes, sir,” Potter said, dolefully, and turned to make his way upstairs again.

Deciding he had no time to be coddling spoilt, sulky brats, Severus turned as well, and retreated to the sanctuary of his lab. He still had some repairing to do.

Resignedly, Harry sat down on the bed again. Something “quiet”, he mused. Schoolwork was for mornings, he wasn’t allowed to touch anything that wasn’t his except the bed in this room, cleaning the kitchen didn’t really count as quiet, and neither did wizarding chess or gobstones – one of which ended up with pieces destroyed, and the other with a foul, slimy substance spat everywhere. He hadn’t noticed any reading books on the shelves downstairs, so Harry supposed that left him with the choice of writing to his friends, or sitting there twiddling his thumbs for hours.

Letters it is, then, Harry thought, letting out a heavy sigh. Gathering spare parchment, ink and a quill from his trunk, he settled back on the bed, his History of Magic textbook used as a writing desk.

Dear Ron was as far as he got before he had to pause. Was he even allowed to tell his friends where he was spending the summer now? Harry frowned as he considered this. He’d given his friends his aunt’s address – would any owls they sent come and find him here, or would they return the mail undelivered? Or would they just not leave in the first place?

After deciding that he’d have to wait until he returned to Hogwarts to research that, Harry suddenly smacked himself on the forehead. I can just ask Hermione! he thought, jubilantly. Then his smile faded as he realised that the same problem could occur with Hermione as with Ron.

Tapping the end of his quill thoughtfully against the parchment, Harry eventually decided to go ahead and write the letters without mentioning exactly where he was. Then he’d see if he could catch Professor Snape in a generous mood and ask. He could always add in the proper address at the end.

Dear Ron,

I bet you weren’t expecting to hear from me this quick, but I have some news. I know I gave you my aunt’s address to send letters to, but I’m not spending the summer there after all. Turns out my relatives moved in December.

Professor Dumbledore has arranged for me to stay somewhere else, but I’m not sure if I’m allowed to tell you exactly where, so let’s just say I’m in a town south of Berwick. (Yeah, I have no idea where that is, either, Ron, but apparently it’s closer to Hogwarts than London, so it must be near Scotland.)

I hope this will be better than staying with my relatives was, but (an inkblot dotted the page as Harry tried to figure out whether he should mention Snape at all – Ron might blow a gasket) the person looking after me isn’t exactly fond of children – of any age – so we’ll see.

Let me know how your summer goes.

Harry

Laying the parchment aside to let the ink dry, Harry considered his letter to Hermione. He was fairly sure that although Ron wouldn’t realise he’d essentially been abandoned by his family, Hermione would. She would also no doubt be able to tell him exactly where Berwick was, to the nearest mile, as well as the history of Berwick and the surrounding area, in excruciating detail.

Dear Hermione, he wrote, finally.

I have a question for you. If someone has an address for someone else, but that someone else isn’t staying there anymore but hasn’t told the first person, if that first person sends an owl, what will the owl do with the letter?

If you’re able to find that out over the summer and let me know, that’d be great. Except – I’m not spending the summer with the Dursleys after all. It seems they moved in December. (Harry decided he really wasn’t going to say anything else about that, because as much as he hadn’t liked the Dursleys, and as much as they apparently had liked him even less, the thought that they could just up and leave without him still hurt.) Instead, Professor Dumbledore has arranged for me to stay with Pro somewhere else. It’s a town south of Berwick (I’m sure you know where that is, right?).

I really hope that the Headmaster can sort something else out. Apparently your family isn’t protected enough, and Ron’s family is big enough, and Neville’s family is too old.

But still, I suppose anything’s better than the Dursleys, right?

Anyway, this place doesn’t have a phone, so I’m afraid you’re stuck with writing letters. I’ve told Hedwig to wait for a response from you, so you can send any reply back with her.

Harry  

Setting aside that letter too, Harry checked his watch. It had been a birthday present for Dudley, when he’d turned ten – for entering double digits, Uncle Vernon had said, proudly. Aunt Petunia had just sobbed something about ‘her baby growing up so fast’ – but it was large, and old-fashioned looking, and so it had ended up thrown away in the bin less than a week later.

Harry had fished it out early in the morning, before any of his relatives had stirred. The watch ran perfectly, and if any of the Dursleys had ever seen it on him, they’d never said anything – no doubt because with a watch of his own, Harry could be held more accountable for doing his chores in a timely manner.

Surprisingly, it had taken Harry longer to write the letters to his friends than he’d thought. Approaching early evening, Harry wondered just what sort of time Snape counted as “dinner time”, since he’d heard no sound to indicate that the professor had come out of his lab.

Remembering Snape’s admonishment about keeping the room tidy and presentable, Harry made sure to put the ink, quill and remaining parchment back in his trunk before making his way downstairs. Unsurprisingly, the hidden doorway had closed itself again hours before, and Harry had to grope in semi-darkness for what seemed like a long time before he finally discovered the catch just above his head on the right wall.

As a result of having to stretch for it, he was off balance when the door started to swing inwards. Attempting to jump backwards out of the way, Harry stumbled on the bottom stair, and landed awkwardly, half sitting and half lying, on the staircase. He gave a yelp as a sharp pain shot across his back, and then immediately winced in chagrin. He knew better than to make any noise when he was hurt.

Clambering to his feet, Harry limped out into the living room. There was still no sign of Snape. Hedwig, however, was perched on the back of the armchair, her beak buried deeply under her wing. Harry crossed over to her and gently stroked her back. She gave a soft murrrrring noise, but didn’t wake.

After another ten minutes, Harry’s stomach gave a soft growl, and he flushed in embarrassment, even though there was no-one apart from Hedwig to hear. He’d gotten used to regular meals while at Hogwarts, and his body wasn’t keen to go back to the semi-starvation of the Dursleys’ quite so soon.

Perhaps Professor Snape’s forgotten he’s supposed to be making dinner, Harry thought. And then, glumly, or perhaps he’s just forgotten me!

Making his way into the kitchen, still limping slightly, Harry began rummaging through the cupboards and the refrigerator, trying to decide what would be simple, quick and easy to make. He was so involved in this, he failed to hear the sounds of someone approaching the house, or the back door opening.

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.

When Harry woke up, he remembered nothing about his nightmare the previous night. He casually sat up to get his glasses, slipped them on, blinked a time or two . . . and then gave a yelp and flinched backward so hard that he collided with the wall beside the bed.

Professor Snape remained calmly sitting in a chair between the desk and the bed, staring intently at Harry as though he was a particularly interesting potions ingredient.

“Pro-professor?” Harry stammered, resisting the urge to rub the back of his head. Had he overslept? I can’t have; otherwise Snape would be yelling and breathing fire at me, rather than just sitting there, he tried to convince himself.

Snape folded his arms and leant back, still studying Harry. Ashamed of the drooping, far-too-large-because-they-had-been-Dudley’s pyjamas, Harry shifted and pulled the duvet up closer to his chest. “Tell me, Mr Potter,” the professor started, “do you often have nightmares?”

Stunned, Harry could only blink at the man in confusion. A slight narrowing of the dark eyes made him aware that Snape was actually waiting for a response. “Uh, no, sir,” he managed to get out.

“Hmm. Then you have no recollection of the one you suffered last night?” Snape raised his eyebrows at Harry.

I had a nightmare? Baffled, Harry shook his head. He hoped he hadn’t screamed too loudly and woken the professor.

“Mmm.” Snape tapped the fingers of one hand briefly on his other arm. “Then perhaps you would be so kind as to inform me of the exact circumstances that happened when you and your little cohorts went after the Stone.”

“Um, I thought everyone knew,” said Harry, blankly. “Professor Dumbledore said it was a complete secret, so the whole school knew.”

“The entire school knew the rumours about what happened,” Snape said, sniffing disdainfully. “I would like your account of the events.”

“Yessir. First was Fluffy. Hagrid gave me a flute he’d made for Christmas—”

It took much less time than Severus thought it should for Potter to tell the tale. It took so little time, in fact, that Severus was sure Potter had left a good three-quarters – the most disturbing parts – of the tale out of his recitation. In essence, all he said was, “We lulled Fluffy to sleep, I caught a key, we won a chess match, logically found the right potion, and then I fought Voldemort and won and he left.”

Which might have told Severus the very basics of what happened, but not nearly enough of what he now suspected had featured very prominently in the boy’s nightmare.

It also left out quite how his friend, Mr Weasley, had ended up unconscious in the Hospital Wing, and how Potter himself had ended up in what, according to Poppy, had been a magic-exhausted coma for three days.

Severus regarded Potter steadily. The boy seemed to believe that Severus would be satisfied with his paltry tale, but Severus was quite content to wait until he realised his error. Although given the way the brat was fidgeting under his scrutiny, it might take a very long time.

“Umm . . .” Potter said, finally. He was twisting his fingers in the corner of the duvet, and flicking occasional glances up through his eyelashes at Severus.

Severus unfolded his arms and leaned forwards to emphasise his point. “Now if you’d care to tell me the full explanation this time,” he said, and raised an eyebrow expectantly.

Another long silence. Potter was obviously aware that he should really have been punished more severely than he had been for his actions, and he was apparently expecting that Severus wanted the details to determine what that punishment should be – and who it should extend to.

“Let me make it easier for you,” Severus said, a snarl tainting the edge of his voice. “Start with how exactly Mr Weasley gained his concussion.”

“It was the chess set,” Potter said with a sigh, finally, after a moment of twisting his hands together. “We had to take the place of some of the pieces, see? Ron was a knight . . .” His voice trailed off for a moment, and the boy smiled faintly, obviously remembering. “He was brilliant!” he continued, his voice stronger. “Ron’s brilliant at chess; he always beats me. But then . . . the only way we could checkmate the other king was if Ron sacrificed his knight.”

Severus sat back again. He’d seen the giant chess set that Minerva had transfigured out of large oak trees, and he knew just what happened to the sacrificed pieces in wizard’s chess. It wasn’t hard to guess just how Mr Weasley’s sacrifice had taken place. The boy had been lucky to escape with just a concussion.

And that is no doubt a large part of Potter’s nightmare, Severus thought. The fact that his friend could have suffered worse than that.

He opened his mouth to continue his questioning, but was interrupted by a loud gurgle from Potter’s stomach. The boy flushed a bright red, and scrunched himself down as though that would help. With a sigh, Severus realised that he’d have to wait until another time to discover what else he wanted to know.

“We will discuss the rest of this another time,” he informed Potter, getting to his feet and moving the chair back to where it had been, pushed in against the desk. “You may get your own breakfast, Potter; I have already had mine. I shall be in my lab until lunchtime, which is your responsibility, remember. Until then, you may start on your summer homework.”

“Yessir,” Potter whispered, as Severus turned and stalked out of the room and down the stairs.

Once inside his lab, Severus cast several locking charms on the door – couldn’t be too careful with a Potter around – and advanced towards the small fireplace that was set into one wall. It was only large enough for someone’s head to fit in, as Severus had no wish to be blown to kingdom come because some idiot who insisted on coming through hadn’t brushed off all the soot properly.

“Headmaster’s office, Hogwarts,” he called, throwing in a pinch of Floo powder.

“Severus?” Albus’ head appeared in the shimmering green flames, peering at Severus curiously. “Nothing else has happened, has it?”

“No,” Severus admitted, through gritted teeth. “Albus, must the brat stay here? Surely there are other people who could look after him?”

“My dear boy, are you actually admitting that you are not up to the job of protecting one eleven year old boy?” Albus asked, the twinkle in his eyes increasing.

Severus scowled and folded his arms across his chest, glaring down into the fireplace at Albus. “Of course I’m able to,” he growled. “I just don’t want to!”

“Alas, we must all put up with things that annoy us on occasion,” said Albus, serenely. “That’s life, my boy!”

Resisting the incredibly strong urge to kick Albus’ head – which would only injure his own foot – Severus scowled even harder. “Spare me the platitudes,” he sneered. He paused for a second, wondering about something that he hadn’t had the chance to ask Albus before, mainly because Albus hadn’t given him a chance before steamrollering over him with plans to foist Potter off on him. “Why did the removal of Potter’s relatives come as such a surprise to you?” he asked, finally. “Your note to me said Arabella—”

“Ah.” For the first time in what had to be several years, Albus actually looked abashed. “It’s true that Arabella reported no accident involving the Dursleys; I’m afraid the rest was my conjecture alone. I had not asked further than whether they had been injured.”

Severus raised an eyebrow at the headmaster. Usually it was other people twisting his words to suit themselves; this made a change.

“Still, I’m not certain that here is best for Potter,” Severus said. “He had a nightmare last night, Albus. Was he seen before he left the Hospital Wing?”

“Of course he was,” Albus protested. “You really think Poppy would have let him go otherwise?” Just as Severus opened his mouth to explain that he’d meant had Potter seen someone about the emotional trauma he’d obviously gone through, a contemplative look flitted across Albus’ face. “You say he had a nightmare; he was seeing Voldemort?”

Severus felt his mind go very still. There was something . . . not quite right with the way Albus had phrased that. Almost as though Albus had expected dreams of some sort. Dreams specifically involving the Dark Lord.

“Inasmuch as he saw the Dark Lord inhabiting Quirrell, yes,” he replied, slowly. “You were expecting something else?”

“Mmm, no matter if it was just a regular dream,” said Albus. Severus had the impression that if he could see Albus’ hands, one of them would have been waving in dismissal.

“Should I be expecting something else, Albus?” he said, his voice low as though there was a chance of anyone overhearing.

“No, no,” Albus replied, cheerfully. “I’m sure it would have happened by now if it was going to.” His face suddenly half-turned and disappeared as he looked over his shoulder at something behind him in his office. “I’m afraid I must go, Severus,” he said, turning back. “There was nothing else?”

Severus barely managed to shake his head once before the headmaster disappeared from the fire, and the green flames fizzled back down to nothing and vanished, leaving the fireplace as cold as Severus felt.

The headmaster was hiding something from him – something important, and possibly vital if he was to safeguard the brat over the summer.

Severus hated risking his life without all available knowledge.

Harry entered the kitchen warily, but there was no sign of Snape. There was also no sign of Hedwig. Harry was fairly disappointed by that – he’d hoped that his friends would have written back as soon as they heard about his change of circumstances. Okay, Hermione might be writing a whole book to me, but Ron’s family have their own owl, Harry thought. Of course, considering how much Ron didn’t like writing anything, then perhaps he shouldn’t expect a swift response from that quarter.

Rummaging through the cupboards, Harry idly narrowed down his choices for lunch whilst hunting for breakfast. As he ate his way through a bowl of porridge – much thicker than Snape had made it yesterday – and two slices of toast, he scribbled a quick list of groceries he thought would be good on a scrap of parchment. He didn’t think Snape would appreciate the list, and he wasn’t quite brave enough – or stupid enough – to hand it to the man, but at least he had it ready if he did get the chance.

Once the kitchen was back looking as though nobody had touched anything, Harry scurried upstairs to get his homework, deciding to spread it out downstairs. If it has to be done to Snape’s satisfaction, then Potions had better be first! he thought, wincing at the very thought of how long it could take to do the work to Snape’s ‘satisfaction’. Snape was no doubt a teacher who would measure how long the writing was, not the parchment.

Lying on his stomach on the floor, Harry was about to dip his quill into the inkpot so he could write the essay’s title when a thought struck him. Snape’s satisfaction would also no doubt include the physical state of his essay, which meant no crossing words out, or squeezing them in here, there and everywhere as he thought of something to include three paragraphs after he should have.

Frowning to himself, Harry slowly lowered the quill to the floor and stared down at his pile of parchment. It wasn’t a big pile, and it didn’t sound as though Snape was planning on going to Diagon Alley any time soon, so it would be difficult for him to get more if he messed this up.

What I need, Harry slowly realised, is a Muggle notepad. He pushed himself up onto his knees, and then sat down on the floor, crossing his legs, to think this through. He didn’t have any Muggle paper himself. He couldn’t transfigure anything into some, because he didn’t know how. Snape was locked away in his lab for the next several hours, and he would not appreciate Harry interrupting him for that. Equally, he would expect to see something when he came out at lunch time. Lack of paper would not prevent an explosion over Harry’s ‘laziness’. He could always ask Hermione to send him some, but Hedwig still hadn’t returned, and he had no other way of contacting his friend.

He briefly thought of asking the neighbours, but discarded that because one, Snape would kill him if he was gone when Snape emerged from his lab – and with his luck, he definitely would be – and two, the neighbours would question why he couldn’t just go out and buy his own paper.

Sighing, Harry looked at his books, mentally going over the list of what assignments he had. Most of them required an essay, even History of Magic. The only subject that didn’t – mainly because the professor had been, uh, indisposed – was Defence Against the Dark Arts.

Ruefully reflecting that it really wasn’t as though Professor Quirrell had taught them much of anything anyway, Harry picked up his Defence textbook, and began to read from the beginning.

Harry was so engrossed in the textbook – much more interesting than Quirrell had ever made anything sound – that when Snape cleared his throat in a tone that meant he’d been doing so for some time, Harry jumped at least a foot off the floor.

“Sir, I—” Horrified, Harry realised that if Snape was out of his lab, it must be lunch time. Frantically trying to decide what he could make quickly, he scrambled to his feet, ignoring the dropped book. “I’m so sorry – I was just – I didn’t mean – I’ll just –” he stuttered, inching his way around to try and get past Snape into the kitchen.

Snape caught him by the arm. “Potter, stop babbling,” he snapped, impatiently. “It had occurred to me that I need to go shopping for groceries,” he continued, letting go of Harry. “I doubt you can be trusted to remain here alone without getting into mischief whilst I am gone, therefore you will be coming with me.”

“Um, okay,” Harry agreed, slowly. He cast a quick glance around for the scrap parchment he’d written his list on before. Snape still wouldn’t appreciate it, but just in case . . . “Er, where exactly will we be going, sir?” he suddenly thought to ask. Perhaps it was somewhere that he could get the notepads he’d so sorely need.

“A farmer’s market in Berwick,” Snape replied, and gestured for Harry to step closer to him. “Since I know where I’m going, we can apparate there.”

Gulping – he wished he hadn’t made that porridge quite so thick this morning – Harry moved closer to Snape, and resisted the urge to wince as Snape took a tight grip on his shoulder. In the next second, they were gone.

Severus apparated them to a narrow alley just around the corner from the market itself. The place was still fairly busy, but not as crowded as it would have been first thing in the morning, when people arrived early to get the best and freshest things.

As soon as they arrived, Potter’s knees tried to give way. Only Severus’ grip on his shoulder ensured that he didn’t crash to the ground, as he gagged a few times. Severus used his other hand to rummage in his pocket and produced a vial of stomach soother. “Here, Potter,” he offered.

The boy gagged once more, then drew in a long breath and gingerly shook his head. “I think I’m okay now, sir,” he managed.

“Take it anyway,” Severus ordered, eyeing the boy and how pale he’d gone. “It will help when we return home.”

“Yessir,” Potter muttered, and took the vial from Severus.

“Now then,” started Severus, as Potter gulped down the potion, “you are not to go wandering off, Potter. Stay close to me at all times. I know exactly what I want, and where to get it, and I will not keep stopping while you examine some sugar-drenched or shiny thing.”

“No, sir,” agreed Potter, and handed the vial back to Severus. He paused, and bit his lip nervously. “Um, sir?” he asked. “Could we get some, uh, notepads, please?”

Severus felt his eyebrows rise. “Notepads? You mean . . .” he lowered his voice, despite there being nobody else in the alley with them, “Muggle paper?” Potter nodded, briefly. “Is your stack of parchment not good enough?”

“It’s just . . . I want to make notes first, so I know what needs to go in my essays, but I don’t have enough parchment for that and the essays, too.” The boy flushed, and looked down at his feet.

Severus was stunned. The brat actually planned on doing his homework well?! He’d fully expected that Potter would end up doing the same essay several times over until Severus was satisfied that he had actually done his best, and now Potter was telling him that he wanted to write draft essays first? Severus shook his head, briefly but hard, wondering if his latest potion had exploded, and he was actually lying unconscious and hallucinating on the floor of his potions lab.

“As it’s for a good cause, we’ll see what we can find,” he said, eventually, weakly. Then he mentally smacked himself and straightened his spine. “Come along, Potter,” he added, and without checking behind him to see if the boy was following him – he knew Potter would – Severus strode out of the alley and around the corner to the marketplace.

The farmer’s market was . . . dazzling.

That probably wasn’t the correct word to use, but it came the closest to what Harry meant. There were people crowding everywhere he looked, seemingly all talking at the tops of their voices and gesturing wildly. The stalls were little islands in the middle of the flood of people. Fruits over there, vegetables this way, a stall filled with jam jars – surely there couldn’t be that many types of jam! – over here, a meat stall just to his left, another one somewhere else, judging by the yelling someone was doing about various cuts of meat on offer, freshly baked bread – ooh, cake! – just ahead of them.

In trying to keep up with Snape, look everywhere at once, avoid all the people standing around, and ensure that he wasn’t so close to Snape that he bumped into the man when he suddenly stopped, it was a wonder that Harry managed to remain standing on his feet.

“Potter!” he heard Snape bark, and discovered that Snape had actually stopped at a stall, and he’d continued on past the professor.

“Sorry, sir,” he said, breathlessly, arriving back at Snape’s side.

“Hmm, too polite to be your son,” said the elderly woman behind the stall, peering intently at Harry. He shrank back slightly, uncomfortable with the scrutiny.

“Heaven forbid,” Snape said, shuddering. He was examining the stall’s offering . . . which turned out to be cheese, when Harry turned his attention to it. “He’s one of my students.”

“Ah.” The old lady raised her eyebrows, but if she was curious about why a teacher would have a student with him now, or why he’d brought his student to this market, she didn’t ask. Instead, she gave a quick glance at the block of cheese that Snape was looking at. “100 grams, seven pounds,” she said.

Snape instantly straightened up, his face taking on a vaguely offended look. “Pardon me, ma’am,” he sneered. “I didn’t realise that you were not the proprietor of this stall. Where may I find them?”

The old lady threw her head back and cackled as Harry stared at them both in confusion. “It’s good cheese, well worth it,” she said, finally.

“It is not worth highway robbery,” Snape disagreed. He folded his arms and stared intently at the woman. “One pound.”

“Day release from Bedlam, is it?” the old lady asked, tilting her head to one side. Snape snorted, a sound that Harry thought was almost a huff of laughter, one that he couldn’t help. “Six pounds.”

Harry’s gaze moved back and forth as Snape and the old lady continued to barter. He was quite surprised that Snape would do something like that – he would have thought that just declaring what he’d pay, and then standing straight and immovable, would have been more the professor’s style.

“Done!” the elderly woman said, finally, cackling again.

“Done,” Snape agreed, nodding and handing over the amount they’d finally agreed on. The stall proprietor leaned over and picked up the cheese Snape had been haggling over, smoothly cutting a large chunk from it and wrapping it in a paper that gleamed like wax. She handed the package to Snape with a smile, and he inclined his head as he took it. “Come along, Potter,” he said, and was striding off before Harry even had a chance to realise that he was going.

He caught up with the professor at the jam stall – which turned out to be selling marmalade and honey, too – and then trailed after him as he visited the bread stall, the meat van, and finally the fruit and vegetable stalls.

“—rition point,” Harry suddenly heard Snape say, and he blinked. Had Snape just said apparition point? To a Muggle?

“Ten pounds for the fruit, and two sickles for the other,” the stall holder said, and Harry realised with a shock that she had to be a witch.

Snape handed over the relevant money, took the bag with the fruit in it, and then turned to lay a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Come along, Harry,” he said, and began edging them around the corner of the stall. “I’m afraid we have to apparate again.”

“Hang on a minute! Is that really Harry—?” the lady behind the stall began, but with a grimace of disgust, Snape had already gripped Harry’s shoulder tightly, and then they were spinning and stretching before being spat out somewhere else.

With the part of his mind that wasn’t trying to convince his body that his stomach was perfectly fine just where it was, Harry was grateful that Snape had removed them before the witch started gushing over The Boy Who Lived. Finally controlling the dry-heaves, Harry looked up.

They were in yet another alley, although this one was at least cleaner than the previous one had been. There was something spray-painted on the wall at the end of the alley. It looked like a very slender firework, just about to explode, but when Snape approached the wall, Harry realised it was a wand giving out sparks. Surprised, he watched Snape tap the sparks with his own wand, and the wall melted away into a door.

“Come on, Potter,” Snape sighed, turning back to see where he’d got to. “This is the entrance to the magical section of town.”

“Yessir,” Harry agreed, and stumbled after the professor.

Severus watched from the corner of his eye as Potter entered the magical district. The boy’s eyes were darting everywhere, trying to take in everything. Not that anything here is as flashy as Diagon Alley, Severus sneered to himself. Diagon Alley, and even Hogsmeade to a degree, was geared towards the buyers, the tourists. Aside from those two places, most other magical sections of cities or towns were just like the regular Muggle sections, filled mostly with small shops and a few flats or even townhouses dotted here and there. Most witches and wizards didn’t bother finding out where a place’s magical sector was unless they actually lived in that place, or somewhere nearby.

“What is this place, sir?” Potter asked, eventually, trailing behind Severus as he made his way to a herb shop. “It’s name, I mean.”

“It does not have an official name,” Severus informed him, pausing to study a set of glassware in a shop window. “Only Diagon and Knockturn Alley and Hogsmeade are considered important enough to name them. Every other town or city or village that has its own magical sector just calls the area ‘Magic Street’ if they call it anything.”

Potter was silent for a moment, and Severus could see him reflected in the glass of the window, chewing thoughtfully on his bottom lip. “Hogsmeade, sir?” he finally asked.

Ah, of course the boy wouldn’t know about Hogsmeade yet, Severus realised. First-years were usually too busy dealing with new classes and finding their way around the castle to bother listening to any tales the upper years might spread. “It is a wizarding village,” he explained, turning away from the shop window. One of the glass jars had bubbles in it – it might look pretty, but the first touch of a hot potion, or indeed, a hot anything, would cause it to shatter in a very explosive matter. “Hogwarts is on its outskirts. Some few people do live there, but it is mostly shops. We do have Hogsmeade weekends, but only third-years and up are allowed to visit, provided their guardians have signed their permission slips, of course.”

Hmm, he hadn’t thought of that. If Albus didn’t come up with someone to be the brat’s legal guardian, officially, then when the time came, Potter would not be allowed to leave the castle.

Then again, considering the escapades Potter had gotten up to this past year, no doubt he’d manage to find a way around that.

Potter was silent the rest of the way to the shop Severus wanted to visit, although he couldn’t tell if that was because the boy was thinking about Hogsmeade or just too busy taking in the sights of Berwick’s Magic Street. Once they reached the shop, he held a swift debate with himself about the advisability of leaving Potter outside to wait for him.

No, he eventually decided. Just because there’s nobody here now, doesn’t mean someone couldn’t apparate in and take him. And Albus would kill him if he let the Boy-Who-Lived get kidnapped, in broad daylight, in a quiet place like Berwick.

“Come along, Potter,” he sighed, resignedly. “Don’t touch anything!”

The inside of the shop was cool and quiet. A soft breeze that didn’t seem to come from any particular point carried traces of rosemary and lavender. Although the shop itself was quite large, it was crammed with shelves that overflowed with greenery. Severus had visited this place too many times to count, and so it wasn’t long before he was striding through the shop towards the counter at the back, somehow managing to avoid even brushing any of the other herbs and grasses.

Potter, it seemed, had had the good sense to remain by the door. He was staring out of the shop window at something across the road when Severus joined him. In fact, he was so intent on whatever he was watching that he jumped when Severus brushed past him when reaching for the door.

“Um, sir?” the boy started as they turned to head back in the direction of Magic Street’s entrance. “Could we just—?”

“Just what?” Severus asked, with an exasperated sigh, but when there was no response, he turned and discovered that Potter hadn’t even waited for permission, and had his nose pressed against the window of the shop opposite the herb shop. “Potter, what are you doing?” Severus growled, stalking back towards his wayward charge.

“Look, sir!” Potter tapped a finger on the glass. “It looks like the ones—”

Severus didn’t even hear the rest of the sentence, for he had taken one look at the black, winged, skeletal horse figurine, and strode into the shop.

“—that you . . . have . . . Sir?” Harry blinked, then blinked again and peered harder through the glass he was pressed against. He shot a quick glance to the side, and then focused on the interior of the shop again. He hadn’t even heard Snape move. He’d also never seen the professor move that fast unless it was to stop a cauldron from exploding, or to give a Gryffindor detention.

Realising that one of the shop people was making their way towards the window display, Harry pulled his head back, hoping he hadn’t left any smudges on the glass. The old man who was reaching in for the black horse figurine spotted Harry, and scowled alarmingly at him. When Harry didn’t move, the thick, white bushy brows lowered even further, almost obscuring the man’s eyes, and he made a small, curt gesture with the hand that wasn’t touching the horse.

A jolt of tingling sensation sparked over Harry’s hands where he’d still had his fingertips pressed to the glass for balance, and he let out a yelp and jumped backwards, shaking his hands.

Voices suddenly sounded from inside the shop. Loud voices. Harry had been checking his fingers for burns, but now he looked up. Snape was standing beside the old man, arguing vehemently, although he was standing stiffly, his arms folded across his chest. The old man had let the figurine go, and was waving his hands wildly as he shouted back at Snape.

Snape shook his head, then unfolded his arms to point a long finger at Harry through the window, before turning that finger to poke the old man in the shoulder, several times. The old man turned his head to look at Harry, and his mouth fell open in what looked like horrified realisation.

Snape told him I’m the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry realised, his shoulders slumping. Merlin, he hated that stupid title!

Apparently, though, it was of great use to Snape – how ironic, when he was going on about my fame not helping me, now he’s using it to help him – because the old man was reaching for the horse figurine again, all the fight seemingly gone out of him.

Ten minutes later, Snape was striding back out of the shop, looking exceedingly smug, even for him. “Come along, Potter. Don’t dawdle,” he drawled as he passed Harry and headed back towards the entrance wall they’d come in through.

Groaning, Harry scurried to catch up. If they were done here, that meant apparating home – no, not home – again. He really wished there was a better way to travel. Seriously, they were wizards. Couldn’t they come up with a way to travel that wasn’t nausea inducing?

It was with some surprise, therefore, that Harry realised that Snape wasn’t stopping on the other side of the gateway to Magic Street. Instead, the professor was moving towards the alley entrance.

“Um, sir?” Harry asked, tentatively, not at all sure that Snape would appreciate his questioning him. “Where are we going?”

“You wanted notepads, did you not?” Snape paused, and turned his head to examine Harry from the corner of his eye. “Have you changed your mind?” The corner of his mouth curled up in a sneer.

“Er, no, sir,” stammered Harry. He’d thought Snape had changed his mind about allowing it. But when he followed Snape out of the alley – after Snape had checked to make sure that no Muggles saw them, since how would they explain coming out of an alley nobody had seen them enter? – he discovered they were headed for a large shop that was on a main road. WH Smiths? he thought to himself. We’re going to WH Smiths?

On second thought, that actually made sense. Snape had been familiar with the . . . the Muggleness of the farmer’s market, so he obviously knew some things; but Harry had been expecting the professor to patronise the smaller shops.

Do smaller shops even have stationary stuff? Harry wondered, as he followed Snape into the store.

It probably would have taken Harry an hour of wandering around to find what he was after, but either Snape had been in here before, or he was just that observant, as after a second’s pause, he was heading straight for the aisle with the notepads. Picking up a handful, he then strode back past Harry towards the tills at the front.

“Sir, really, I don’t think I need that many,” Harry hissed at him, fruitlessly trying to get close enough to tug some of the notepads from Snape’s hands.

“Nonsense, Potter,” Snape said, placing the notepads down in front of the cashier. “Anything you don’t use this summer can be used once you’re back at school. Since you will be continuing to draft out your essays there, won’t you.” And he raised an eyebrow at Harry.

Harry’s mouth fell open. What! There is no way I’ll be doing an essay more than once when I’m back at Hogwarts without Snape breathing down my neck. That’s Hermione’s job!

Before Harry could stutter out anything – and ignoring the cashier who was trying, mostly successfully, to stifle her giggles – Snape had scooped up the bag and was off again out of the store, leaving Harry to shake his head and then run to catch up.

When they reached Spinner’s End, Snape didn’t even wait to eat anything before placing most of the parcels on the kitchen counter and disappearing into his lab. It wasn’t until the back door slammed shut behind him that Harry realised he’d once again forgotten to ask if he could tell his friends where he was spending the summer.

Not that his friends seemed to care, since there was still no sign of Hedwig. Harry frowned at this. Ron he could maybe understand – Ron probably wasn’t the most enthusiastic of letter writers even in the best of times – but he would have thought Hermione would have returned his owl by now. She was usually so eager to tell him useless facts about everything; he would have thought she’d have jumped at the chance to lecture him about Berwick.

Though on second thought, maybe that was Hermione’s problem. She probably wanted to tell him every little detail, and kept getting sidetracked.

After throwing together a quick cheese sandwich and salad for himself and storing the rest of the groceries, Harry settled himself in the living room again. It was still several hours until dinnertime, so this probably qualified as his “quiet time”. Rummaging for the book he’d started the previous night, he found his place and began reading again.

Unfortunately, less than an hour later, he was bored out of his mind. The book itself wasn’t boring – although some of the detective’s monologues were a bit hard to understand – but Harry was used to working during his summers, and this enforced idleness was making him itchy and restless.

Who’d have thought I’d actually miss the Dursleys, Harry thought. He set the book aside and considered his options. He doubted Snape would argue against him doing homework, but Snape had set a specific time for it, and he might very well object to Harry not keeping to his timetable. Playing gobstones was still out – it was still a very messy game; better played outside. Chess . . . Harry waffled for a moment. Wizarding chess was probably not a good idea when Snape could come back inside from his lab at any moment. Normal chess might do – but Harry didn’t have a normal chess set, and he didn’t know how to get his pieces to stay still and silent, and he didn’t think Snape had a set, and even if the professor did, it was more than Harry’s life was worth to touch it without asking . . .

If he could even find it in the first place.

Attempting to immerse himself in his book again failed abysmally – he didn’t even get through one paragraph before he was slamming it shut again with a frustrated growl. Jumping to his feet, Harry circled the armchair a couple of times, before deciding to check out the non-warded bookcase again. The only thing of interest he’d found before had been the detective books, but maybe this time would be different.

Most of the books appeared to be highly technical Potions books, which Harry doubted he’d ever understand, so he just ignored those. There were a few books that looked like they could be Defence Against the Dark Arts books, but when he tried to pull one down to look at it further, the spine grew teeth and tried to bite him.

Scowling at the book, Harry reached for the catch to the hidden staircase, and angrily stomped up the stairs, ignoring the faint twinge of pain that generated in his hip. Once in his room, he took a quick look through the desk drawers. Aside from a few scraps of yellow parchment in one, they were all empty.

Sighing in resignation, Harry flopped onto the bed on his back. After an entire two minutes of studying the cracks in the ceiling, Harry sighed again, and rolled over onto his stomach, folding his arms beneath his head and resting his chin on them. His gaze fell on the equine figurines and, for lack of anything better to do, he began staring at them intently.

He soon realised that there was no space for the figurine Snape had bought that day, as although none of the ones on the shelf were actually touching, there were so many that every available centimetre was covered. So . . . either Snape had a figurine he couldn’t put anywhere – or he had another lot somewhere else where he could put it.

Even as his brain perked up at the mystery, Harry’s spirits fell again. He’d already seen there weren’t any figurines downstairs, and he sincerely doubted Snape would permit any of them in his lab. The only place left was in Snape’s bedroom, and there was no way he was getting in there for any reason short of he’d just been horribly murdered.

Unfortunately, the urge to know was now overwhelming him, and Harry had to bite his hand to distract himself from getting up and crossing the hallway to enter that forbidden room. It was only the second day of the summer – he didn’t want to be eviscerated this quickly.

Forcibly, he turned his attention back to the figurines in front of him, and scowled intently at a little brown foal, who looked to be in the process of trying out its wings for the first time. One wing was outstretched, and the other was positioned as if fluttering at the foal’s side. Its expression was wide-eyed and almost comically surprised as its head turned back to look at what its wings were doing. Smiling, Harry let his imagination drift, imagining the foal really trying and finally succeeding in getting its wings to cooperate enough to fly.

Before he even realised it, Harry was asleep.

Much as it had been two days ago, the house was quiet when Severus finally emerged from his lab. After that experience, however, even without the boy’s owl here, he presumed Potter was spending his quiet time upstairs. With a small grunt of satisfaction – he would not have been surprised to find his living room wrecked – Severus pulled open the freezer door. Examining the menu choices, he decided on toad-in-the-hole, and took two boxes of it from the stack.

He was just turning the old-fashioned oven on when he heard the shouts coming from upstairs. Not again! he thought, although they weren’t screams this time. Making sure to turn the oven off again, Severus dashed for the hidden staircase and upstairs.

Potter was lying on his back on the bed, fully dressed. His face was screwed up, and his hands were once again waving in front of his face, trying to ward something off.

“No, no,” the boy moaned, his head twisting from side to side. “You’re lying. LIAR!” His body bucked upwards, and his legs scissored, as the boy tried to escape from whatever was chasing him through his nightmare.

“Potter!” Severus barked, but the boy was too deeply under and only tossed his head again. “Potter, wake up!”

His only answer this time was a scream, and despite himself, Severus jumped. Scowling at himself, Severus reached down to grip the boy’s shoulder, firmly shaking it. “Potter, wake up!” he demanded.

“No, no, burning, I’m sorry, don’t burn, I didn’t mean to!” Potter’s voice rose in a sobbing shriek, pain and horror intermingled.

Just what happened when he went after the Stone? Severus wondered, as he pulled out his wand to cast an aguamenti over Potter. He knew Quirrell had not made it out of the encounter in one piece, but Albus had given him the impression that the ex-professor’s wounds had been caused by the Dark Lord fleeing his body. From the sounds of Potter’s nightmare, Quirrell’s injuries had been caused by him.

The shock of cold water finally did the trick, and Potter bolted upright, choking and sobbing, his eyes wheeling frantically as his disorientated mind tried to catch up to his reality.

“Steady, Potter,” Severus said, firmly, and placed a hand back on the brat’s shoulder.

Potter startled and flinched away, with a yelp of alarm. Then his breath caught in his throat, and he blinked rapidly several times.

“Pro-professor?” he stammered, looking around the darkening room. “Wha-what happened?”

“You were having a nightmare,” said Severus. He hesitated, but decided he had to go on. “Do you remember what it was about?”

“Er, no, I—” Potter paused, and lifted a hand to rub at his forehead, over his scar.

“I suspect it was about your efforts to protect the Stone,” Severus said when it became clear that Potter wasn’t going to finish his sentence. “At some point very soon, you will finish telling me everything, Potter; is that understood?”

“Uh, yessir,” mumbled Potter.

“Mmm,” hummed Severus, not quite believing Potter, but knowing it would happen anyway. He would insist upon it – for the sake of his own sleep, if not Potter’s. “Come along, Potter,” he carried on, tucking his wand back into its holster and turning to leave the room. “Dinner time.” Since it would probably be best to distract the boy now, he thought, just this once, he’d use magic to help make dinner.

Harry stumbled down the stairs after Snape, his head still feeling as though it was stuffed with wet cotton.

“Sit, Potter,” Snape instructed, indicating the armchair, but Harry ignored that, following the man through to the kitchen with a mumble that included the word ‘outhouse’ somewhere in it.

The breeze seemed to blow some of the cobwebs away, and Harry was at least half awake by the time he returned to the house. Snape was sitting in his chair, and a plate was balancing on the arm of the other. Harry settled himself and began to eat, ignoring the intensely considering stare Snape was giving him.

They finished at roughly the same time, but before Harry could jump up and take his plate to the kitchen – thereby escaping Snape’s attention – the professor waved his hand, and the two plates sailed merrily into the kitchen and into the sink. Harry gaped at them.

“Now then,” Snape started, leaning back in his chair and tapping his fingers on the arms. “Perhaps you’d be so good as to explain why you were . . . napping during the day.”

Harry flushed. That made it sound as if he were three years old. “I didn’t mean to,” he muttered, ducking his head to avoid Snape’s gaze. “I was just so bored—”

“Bored?” Snape’s voice was sharp. “You are eleven; surely you are capable of entertaining yourself, Potter!”

“It’s just—” Harry winced. “At the Dursleys’ . . . I’m usually doing chores all day. I’m used to being more active.”

“Ah.” Snape folded his arms and tapped one finger against his mouth. “So you require more physical stimulation.” Harry winced again. No doubt Snape would think scrubbing cauldrons for him would be just the physical stimulation Harry needed. “Very well,” Snape finally continued. “There is a little . . . I hesitate to call it a ‘park’, but that is what it is supposed to be. It is down at the other end of the road. I suppose, on days when the weather permits, you may go there during your afternoons, if you wish. Although,” and Snape scowled at him now, but more in emphasis rather than because of something Harry had actually done, “you will of course take protections with you whenever you leave the house.”

“Yes, sir!” Harry agreed, enthusiastically. It wouldn’t be flying, but it would at least be something different to do.

“Now.” Snape looked sternly at him. “About that nightmare of yours . . .”

Severus watched as the boy’s face fell, and he shrank in on himself. “I believe you had just reached the point in your tale where you defeated Professor McGonagall’s chess set,” he prompted.

Potter nibbled on his lower lip, seemingly debating with himself. Just as Severus was going to speak again, the boy sighed. “The potions,” he said, quietly. “Your trap, sir.” The last words had a faint question to them, and Severus nodded, even though the boy had his gaze firmly fixed on his hands now. “Hermione figured it out,” Potter continued.

Severus snorted before he could stop himself. “Miss Granger. Of course,” he murmured. No doubt if left to his own devices, Potter would still have been there trying to solve the puzzle.

Potter frowned briefly, but didn’t bother arguing. “She realised which one helped you go forward, and which one you needed to get back. There was only enough for one person, though, so I told her to go back and get help for Ron.”

“While you charged ahead with no plans on how to defeat an adult who knew more magic than you and who had proven they were not adverse to seeing people get hurt.” Severus tutted and shook his head, then shook his head again at Potter’s look of bewilderment. “The troll, Potter. Quirrell let the troll into the castle as a distraction, but he certainly didn’t set up any measures to prevent it from injuring anyone, did he?”

“Er,” said Potter, and Severus rolled his eyes.

“So you found the right potions to go forwards and back,” he prompted. He didn’t correct Potter’s assumption that there had been only enough of the relevant potions for one person – the bottle had been a refilling one.

“Well, Hermione said we had,” the boy said. He nibbled his lip again. “Good thing she’s so smart. I probably would have ended up picking the poison.”

Severus coughed to stifle a chuckle. The ‘poison’ had actually been a very powerful soporific. Anyone picking one of those three bottles would have instantly dropped into a deep sleep that would have lasted until someone came along to give them the antidote. Although, he supposed, to an outsider it might have looked like an instantly fatal poison.

“I made sure Hermione was able to get back, then I went forwards,” Potter was saying.

Severus was just opening his mouth to respond to that – something about how gallant Potter had been to let Miss Granger go first in proving that she’d not picked something harmful – when a silvery shape suddenly swooped in through the front wall.

It opened its mouth, and a very pompous voice emerged. “Please await the imminent arrival of the Minister of Magic.”

Harry gaped at the silver thing as it finished speaking and faded away. “Wha—?” he tried, but Snape was already swearing and springing up from his chair. A quick wand wave later, and yet another silver thing was standing in front of Snape. It looked . . . like a deer, Harry realised.

“Albus, Fudge is on his way here. I may need your assistance,” Snape was saying, and then the insubstantial silver doe was turning and bounding away – through the wall, just as the other one had entered by.

“Sir, what was that?” Harry asked, but there came a crack from outside, and Snape whirled to face the front door, his body tense and wand pointed threateningly, just as someone knocked on the door.

“Snape, I know you’re in there,” a smarmy voice called. The very same voice the first silver thing had spoken in. “If you don’t open the door, I will stand back and let the Aurors deal with you.”

Growling under his breath, Snape flicked his wand. Harry heard the front door click open, but Snape made no move towards the door. Instead, he moved so that he was standing between it and Harry.

Given Snape’s reaction, Harry wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but the man who entered wasn’t it. He was just on the short side of average, with a receding hairline. His remaining hair was short and fine but already mostly grey. He also had the spreading figure of a man who spent most of his time sitting down, and who enjoyed big lunches and even larger dinners. His cheeks were flushed red, and he wore a peculiar expression, somewhere between anxious and furious.

But it was his clothes that made Harry stare at him the most. The man appeared to have made an effort to dress like a Muggle – suit, tie, hat – but he’d gotten it completely wrong. The hat was a lurid yellow bowler, the tie was a glaringly pink-with-red-polka-dots bowtie, and the suit . . . was a ladies’ suit, complete with skirt.

Harry choked, and had to turn away, biting savagely on his hand to stop himself from bursting out into hysterical laughter.

“What do you want, Fudge?” Snape snarled, after one blink at the man’s attire.

“As Minister, it is my duty to be aware of the safety of the Boy-Who-Lived at all times,” the man replied, clasping his hands behind his back and raising himself up slightly on the balls of his feet. His voice positively dripped with oil. “That includes knowing when he has been taken from the sanctuary of his relatives.”

“Really?” Snape folded his arms, and although Harry couldn’t see his face, he had no doubt that the professor was raising an eyebrow at the strange man. “‘Taken from’ implies that he left his relatives unwillingly, and ‘sanctuary’ implies that it was a safe place. However, neither of those implications is true; which doesn’t say much for your duty to be aware, does it . . . Minister.”

“Now look here, Snape,” the man began to bluster, but he was interrupted by another crack – this time coming from the kitchen behind them. Everybody swung their heads around in time to see a beaming Dumbledore amble out.

“My dear Cornelius,” he greeted, cheerfully. “Fancy meeting you here!”

“D-dumbledore?” the man spluttered, and Harry rather thought he looked as though he wanted to turn tail and flee. “Wh-what are you doing here?”

“Why, visiting one of my professors, of course,” Dumbledore replied, as if surprised the man had to ask. He smiled benevolently at the man, whose face was starting to turn a rather vivid scarlet.

“Now see here, Dumbledore,” the man said, sternly, drawing himself up as straight as he could. “It isn’t right – the Saviour living here, with—”

“A trusted professor?” Dumbledore interrupted, crossing the room and laying a hand on the man’s arm. The man winced, although the headmaster’s grip didn’t look that tight. “Really, Cornelius, if Harry is safe enough with my professor during the school year – and he obviously isn’t injured, is he – then why on earth wouldn’t he be just as safe during the summer? But if you really want to discuss this further, then perhaps we should step outside . . . ?” And before he knew it, the stranger was being all but frog-marched out of the house.

Snape made a sound of disgust, and holstered his wand again. Crossing the room, he gripped the front door and slammed it shut in a display of temper.

“Um, sir?” Harry asked, tentatively. Snape was obviously furious, and Harry didn’t want to unleash that rage upon himself. “Who was that?”

“That,” Snape said through gritted teeth, “was Cornelius Fudge, our illustrious Minister of Magic. Goodness knows why on earth people voted him into office,” he added, more to himself than to Harry.

“Uh, what did he want? And what was that silver thing that came first?”

Snape spun around and folded his arms tightly. “Apparently his spies told him you were no longer with your relatives, and he came hoping to get you under his control. After all, with the prestige of the Boy-Who-Lived as his ward, he’d never be prised from his extravagant position.”

Harry shuddered. The prospect sounded just as appealing as living with the Dursleys.

“As to ‘that silver thing’,” Snape continued, “it’s called a patronus. Its primary function is to guard against Dark creatures such as dementors or lethifolds, but it can also serve as a messenger.”

“Is it hard to learn?” Harry asked, his interest piqued.

“Yes,” said Snape, brusquely, and refused to say anything more about it.

Not long after Fudge’s visit, Severus hustled Potter off to bed, although he did graciously allow the boy to take the book he’d been reading earlier with him. Although he kept half an ear out, it appeared that Potter’s subconscious had decreed one nightmare per twenty-four hours was all he could handle.

The following morning, Severus spent several informative hours brewing an experimental potion – one to allow flowers and other plants to grow out of concrete. The potion still didn’t work when he finally took a break for lunch, but he’d at least learnt that green hawthorn sprigs did not mix well with dandelion fluff, armadillo bile, tubeworms, or lovage. The scorched back wall with the dent in the middle proved that pomegranate really should not be brought anywhere near crocodile parts.

When he returned to the house, he was gratified to see that his estimation of the amount of Muggle paper to buy for Potter had been correct. Potter was three-quarters of the way through his first one already.

After lunch – which was sandwiches and salad – Severus transfigured a small thimble into an amulet, which he painlessly inserted just under the skin above Potter’s collarbone.

“There,” he said, with satisfaction, stepping away from the boy as he lifted a hand to prod at the spot. “If – no, when you get into trouble, Potter,” his hard stare met the brat’s mutinous glare, “then just push on that spot twice, and the emergency portkey will activate, bringing you back here.”

“What’s a portkey?” Potter asked, curiously. He suddenly looked wary. “Is it anything like apparating?”

Severus actually found himself uncertain and hesitating. He’d never had to explain the mechanics of wizarding travel before. “It is . . . not dissimilar to apparating,” he finally conceded, “although it uses the magic of the charm, rather than the magic of the person using it.”

“Guess I’ll try to avoid having to use it, then,” Potter said. He lifted his hand again and gingerly felt around the area. “What happens if my hands get tied up?” he suddenly asked.

“Are you expecting your hands to be tied up?” asked Severus, raising a dubious eyebrow at him.

“Fine; what if I break my wrist, then?” Potter said with a sigh and a jerky movement of his eyes that made Severus suspect he’d come very close to rolling them.

“Then you may use your chin, or your cheek,” Severus informed him. He cast a quick tempus. “I presume you will be wanting to spend this afternoon out at the . . . park?” He couldn’t prevent the sneer that curled the word ‘park’. The little area where he’d first met Lily had been rundown even back then, and with anyone with money moving away from Spinner’s End as soon as they possibly could, then the area had not become any more presentable over the years.

“Yes, please, sir!” the boy said enthusiastically. He was all but bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Very well.” Severus crossed to the front door and opened it, then stood back to let Potter pass by him. “You’ll find it that way,” he said, pointing to the right. “Be back by seven, Potter.”

“Seven. Yessir,” Potter agreed, eager to be off.

“Seven exactly, Potter!” Severus warned, folding his arms. “I shall be here waiting, since you won’t be able to get back in through the ward otherwise. If you are more than ten minutes late, I shall leave you to sleep outside.”

“Yessir, seven on the dot,” said Potter. He was darting looks down the street.

Severus sighed. “Off you go, then,” he said, and the boy disappeared so fast he all but left a cloud of dust behind him. Stepping back inside the house, Severus shut the door, and then cast his patronus. “The boy has gone out, Albus,” he dictated to it. “We have a while before he comes back, so it will be safe to talk.” He gestured with his wand, and his doe blinked limpid eyes at him, then turned and bounded off through the wall.

Much quicker than Severus had expected, a soft crack heralded Albus’ arrival. Severus folded his arms and glared at his employer. “You were hiding out behind my lab, weren’t you?” he accused.

“Ah, no, but I may have been travelling through Berwick when your patronus found me,” Albus admitted, cheerfully. He seated himself in the spare armchair, and raised his wand. “Tea?”

“Oh, go ahead,” Severus grumbled, and sat in his own chair before accepting the large china cup filled with tea that Albus had conjured. He sipped at the tea, and made a face, before putting the cup aside on the arm of the chair. Albus always made his tea far too sweet. It was a wonder the man hadn’t lost all his teeth decades ago. “How did Fudge find out Potter was here so fast?” he asked, bluntly, seeing no reason not to head straight to the point.

“Apparently one of his spies noticed the paperwork generated when the wards at Privet Drive finally fell,” Albus explained, sipping his own tea and closing his eyes to savour it.

“But—” Severus paused for a moment. “Didn’t the wards fall back in December? When the family moved away without Potter?”

Albus sighed mournfully, and lowered his cup to rest it on his knee. “Apparently blood wards work a little differently than I had expected,” he said. “Providing the blood conduit – in this case, Petunia – is willing, the wards can protect anywhere the protectee considers home without necessarily living there themselves. Harry may not have thought it a good home, but as far as he knew, it was still where he lived and would return to. The wards did not fall until he saw the empty house and realised what had happened.”

Severus raised an eyebrow. That seemed very careless of Albus, to not check on how the wards worked before risking the life of the Saviour of the Wizarding World to them . . . No; on second thought, Severus thought to himself, that’s EXACTLY like Albus.

“So what do you think the chances are that Fudge hasn’t trumpeted this news far and wide all through the Ministry?” he asked.

“Oh, I don’t think it’s gone quite that far yet,” Albus replied, smiling at him. He sipped from his cup again, then put it aside to hover on the air beside him. “I believe that so far Cornelius has only spoken on the matter to Lucius Malfoy.”

“To Luci—” Severus actually spluttered. “You think it’s a good thing that Fudge has specifically told Lucius Malfoy that the Boy-Who-Lived is unprotected?!”

Albus raised his eyebrows and peered at Severus. “He has you, doesn’t he?” he pointed out.

Severus growled at the old wizard. “You know what I mean,” he grumbled.

“Technically,” Albus pointed out, “Harry won’t be unprotected, as long as Petunia is alive, and as long as he is somewhere that he calls home.”

“And you think that will be here?!” Severus shot to his feet and began pacing – not that he could pace very far, considering the limits of his living room. “Oh, no, Albus! If I’d wanted to become a parent, I would have found someone to settle down with!”

“And how long would they have put up with being compared with Lily?” Albus retorted.

Severus froze, then whipped around to glare at the headmaster. “You dare . . . you dare to mention that!” he spat.

“Oh, come now, Severus,” Albus tutted, shaking his head. “If you were going to find a nice young witch to settle down with, you would have done so by now.” He lowered his voice, sympathetically. “Lily has, after all, been gone for ten years now.”

“I – I –” Severus couldn’t find the words to finish that sentence. Or even his voice.

Albus banished his teacup and slowly got to his feet. He approached Severus and rested a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “I’m sorry to be so blunt, my dear boy,” he offered. “But we must think of Harry now. Lily’s boy,” he added, as if he thought Severus had missed that salient point. “At this moment, you are the most capable guardian Harry could ask for. Perhaps, once he returns to Hogwarts in September, things may change. But I’m afraid he must at least spend the summer here.”

Still motionless, Severus just watched as Albus headed for his front door. “And who knows,” Albus continued, turning to look back at Severus again. “You may come to like having the boy here, too.”

Snape hadn’t been kidding. There was an area that looked like it had once been a park of some sort – or had at least had actual grass – but now it was almost scrub land, with a rusted swing set sitting forlornly in one corner and an old roundabout that tilted alarmingly to one side and squealed like fingernails down a blackboard when Harry tried to push it around.

For all that, though, Harry was just pleased to be out of the house and moving. He spent several minutes just jogging around the area, before sagging against what could laughably be called a tree.

Just over to his left he could see the jagged remains of what had once been an iron fence, blocking off access to a stream. Although most of the iron stakes were now in pieces scattered around, given that the abandoned factory was just up the hillside from the stream and the faint whiff Harry kept getting when the breeze was blowing his way, he thought he’d better give that area a miss.

In front of him to his right he could see the ends of several rows of houses. Quite a few of the houses had their front windows and doors boarded up, and graffiti was scrawled across every available bit of plywood, as well as some of the end houses’ brick walls. An old woman – or at least, Harry thought it was a woman – was slowly shuffling her way up one of the streets, pushing a shopping trolley in front of her. The cart was full, but it just looked like rubbish to Harry. He was half wondering if she was homeless, when she suddenly stopped and let herself into a house halfway up the street, tugging the trolley backwards over the step. The door slammed shut with a bang that seemed to echo around the now-empty street.

Harry shivered, even though he wasn’t cold. This seemed to be a terrible place to live in. Of course, he couldn’t tell what the inside of the rare, occupied houses were like, but suddenly Snape’s house seemed quite posh. Maybe that’s why Snape was more angry than usual at the end of term, Harry thought. He would be as well if this was what he had to look forward to return to.

His introspection was interrupted by loud shouts and laughter coming from somewhere nearby. Instinctively disliking the sounds, Harry slid around behind the dubious shelter of the tree and crouched down, balancing on the balls of his feet, ready to run if he had to. Dudley’s gang had trained him well.

But instead of coming closer, the sounds faded into the distance, and eventually, Harry stood upright again. He began wandering towards the houses, aiming more towards the edge of the estate, rather than heading straight down the road towards Snape’s house. If he was going to be here for the entire summer, it’d probably be in his best interests to know the layout of the surrounding area.

Just in case.

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.

Harry placed his parcel on the bed and stepped back, staring at it as though he expected it to disappear in a puff of smoke. Along with all those figurines, Snape had ended up buying what felt like half the clothes shop for him. It seemed ridiculous that Snape had actually spent that much gold on him. He didn’t think Snape was well off – because he certainly couldn’t see Snape living here out of sentiment – and yet those clothes hadn’t been cheap.

It wasn’t even as though Harry had asked for them. He was used to wearing Dudley’s old hand-me-downs, and the thought of buying new clothes that actually fit him had never occurred to him before. He was still surprised it had occurred to Snape. He’d tried his best to refuse, or at the least choose one inexpensive thing, but the professor had steamrollered right over his objections, plucking things from the racks left and right. Harry had just stood there gaping at him by the end of it, although when Snape had headed for the underwear section, he had blushed a bright, painful red and hastily moved to choose his own. Snape had smirked all the way to the tills after that.

Still in a daze, Harry made his way downstairs just in time for Snape to remind him he was supposed to be doing homework before he disappeared outside to his lab. He sat down, but it took a few minutes before he even thought of reaching for his textbooks. The sheer novelty of anyone actually wanting to buy things for him . . .

Was this what it felt like to have parents?

Harry wished he could ask his friends, but the very question would probably tell Hermione a whole lot more than he wanted it to, and he wasn’t entirely certain Ron would see the situation the same way. After all, with five older brothers, Ron was probably just as used to old, second-hand, hand-me-downs as Harry, except he did have two parents who loved him. No doubt it made a world of difference.

Frowning thoughtfully, Harry resolved to take very good care of his new things. If he was extremely careful – and didn’t grow too much – they could last for a good while, and Snape wouldn’t have to buy him anything else.

He should also make sure that he didn’t do anything to make Snape mad at him anytime soon. Which meant being really quiet, doing what he was told when he was told, and not waking Snape up all the time with his stupid nightmares that he could never properly remember anyway.

Harry nodded firmly to himself, and reached for his History of Magic textbook. He had an essay on the ninth goblin rebellion of 1853 to write.

Two days later, Severus was starting to wonder if he’d somehow managed to break Potter. Granted, the boy hadn’t been running around yelling and screaming, but now he seemed to be trying to blend into the background. He kept all his things neatly together in one place, and every time Severus was in the room with him, he kept shooting sideways glances at Severus as though checking where Severus was.

And he also hadn’t woken Severus with another nightmare the past two nights.

That, more than anything, worr— no, concerned Severus. He scowled to himself. He was in no way worried about the mental health of the Boy-Who-Lived. He was just . . . mildly concerned that Potter’s subconscious had apparently gotten over the events with Quirrell so quickly.

Or, of course, Potter was still having the nightmares and just hiding them from Severus, which was another problem entirely.

The previous evening, Severus had set about finally unpacking all the figurines he’d bought at the collector’s fair. Potter had been curled up at the side of his armchair – not even on the chair, but on the floor beside it, as though trying to hide – and although Severus had caught him flicking continual glances at him from under his eyelashes, the boy had made no move to come and help, as Severus had expected, nor had he asked any questions, which Severus had been sure he would, given his interest at the fair.

If he really had broken Potter, Albus was going to kill him.

Pacing in his lab, Severus was attempting to come up with some kind of action that would resolve whatever stray thought had wormed its way into Potter’s brain this time. Unfortunately, he had much more experience in making his students fear him than he did in comforting them.

Much as he really didn’t want to, it looked as though he had no choice but to call in the cavalry.

“Headmaster’s office, Hogwarts,” he called, resignedly, throwing a pinch of Floo powder into the fire.

When Albus’ head appeared in the flames, Severus was surprised to see that the elderly wizard actually looked tired and frustrated. He opened his mouth.

“Severus!” Albus barked, and Severus closed his mouth again. “Would you kindly remove whatever wards you’ve added that are keeping the owls away!” Albus continued, although it clearly wasn’t a request. “I’ve sent four more to you, and none have come back, nor have you sent the potion I’ve repeatedly asked for, which happens to be time-sensitive!”

“Wh – Albus, wait!” Severus interrupted, waving a hand and using the other to pinch the bridge of his nose. “What are you talking about? What wards? I’ve added nothing.”

“You—” Albus actually looked startled at that. “What do you mean, you’ve added nothing? You must have done!”

“Why would I?” Severus asked, peering at the headmaster. “You said the blood wards would keep Potter safe.”

Albus’ eyebrows rose. “You mean Harry considers that his home now?” he asked, curiously. “I’d just assumed that you were taking precautions.”

“Er—” Severus halted, wrong-footed. “Don’t be daft, Albus; of course Potter wouldn’t consider this his home,” he blustered. Blast it, now he would have to look at putting more protections in place.

“Of course not,” Albus murmured, but he didn’t look convinced. Something behind him distracted the headmaster. “I’m afraid I have to go. If that was all?”

“No, it wasn’t! It—” Severus started, frantically, but it was too late. He was speaking to an empty fireplace. “DAMN IT, ALBUS!” he bellowed, frustrated.

Now how was he supposed to fix Potter?

Harry was doing something wrong. He wasn’t quite sure what, but he knew he was. He’d tried to be good, and to keep out of Snape’s way. After all those years with the Dursleys, he’d thought he’d perfected the art of blending into the background and becoming invisible.

Apparently he’d lost the knack of it.

Snape was now watching him. Constantly. And vaguely suspiciously, as if he thought Harry was up to something. But he hadn’t said anything yet, and Harry’s nerves were winding tighter and tighter, waiting for the inevitable fallout.

It wasn’t helped by the fact that none of his friends had written back to him yet, either. Snape had made a quick trip to Berwick’s Magic Street that morning, and Harry had taken the opportunity to send another letter to Ron and Hermione, plus one to Neville, too. He’d finally remembered to ask whether he was allowed to tell them where he was – just in case that was the problem with writing back to him – and although rather scathing in his response, Snape had agreed. Now it was just a case of waiting to see if proper owl directions made any difference.

So now Harry found himself sitting in his armchair, arms wrapped around his drawn-up knees, and staring at the boxes of figurines that were still stacked against one wall. He’d watched Snape unpack several boxes the previous evening, but although he’d been dying to ask more questions about them, he’d been busy trying to become part of the furniture, and hadn’t dared to so blatantly remind Snape of his presence.

He was severely tempted to start unpacking the rest, but he wasn’t sure where they were supposed to be going – he had no idea what Snape had done with the ones from yesterday – and he rather thought Snape wouldn’t want him touching the figurines in case he damaged any of them.

Slowly, he uncoiled himself and slid off the armchair, before beginning to carefully inch his way across the carpet towards the stacked boxes. Maybe just opening one box for a little look wouldn’t hurt . . .

He became so involved in looking that he never noticed the sound of the back door opening and closing again.

“Ah, good, you’ve started,” Snape’s voice stated from the doorway behind him, causing Harry to jump so hard he bit his tongue. “Here.” A rag appeared from over his shoulder, and Harry hesitantly took it, unsure what it was for. “Just take out each figurine and run the cloth over it,” Snape instructed, and picked up one of the other boxes, placing it beside his own armchair.

Harry just stared at his professor, a bit taken aback by the man’s calm behaviour. Where was the yelling? The demand that he get away from Snape’s precious things before he dirtied them or broke them? The tirade that those things were much better than Harry, and he shouldn’t even think of breathing on them?

“What are you staring at, Potter?” Snape’s voice made Harry jump again, but it still wasn’t the shouting that Harry was expecting. “Or have you changed your mind?”

“Ch-changed my mind?” Harry repeated, stumbling over the words slightly.

“If you don’t want to help with these, I’m sure there are other things you can occupy your time with,” Snape clarified, not looking up from the thin black horse he was currently holding.

“Um,” was all that Harry got out. He looked at the box he’d opened, before his gaze darted back to Snape, and then he slowly reached for one of the figurines. When Snape still made no protest, he gingerly pulled the horse out of the box and gently ran the cloth over it, before setting it aside.

There was silence for a few moments, and gradually, as Harry became more convinced that Snape wasn’t suddenly going to leap up and verbally – or physically – attack him, he began to relax.

He started to study the figurines more closely. The unicorns and the skeletal horses were always in the same colour – silver and black respectively – but the Hippogriffs and the Hippocampus came in a wide range of colours. Strangely, though, the Pegasus ones only seemed to be in three colours, and the same body type was always in the same colour. Harry held a shire-type one in one hand, and a brown one in the other, and peered at them both, trying to work out why the stocky ones were always a pale pink, and why the brown ones were always tall but slender.

“Granians,” Snape said, just as Harry had put down the brown Pegasus to pick up one that was short, slender, compact and grey.

“Sir?” Harry squeaked, relieved that he hadn’t actually been holding the grey one yet, otherwise he surely would have dropped it. Had Snape just sworn at him?

“The grey Pegasus,” Snape said. He held up a grey figurine of his own. “They are Granians. Built and bred for speed.” Setting that one aside, the professor rummaged through the box by his feet and drew out a brown one. “The palominos are Abraxans, and the chestnuts—” Snape’s voice trailed off as he noticed the confusion that was obviously blooming all over Harry’s face. Sighing heavily in exasperation, he rolled his eyes. “The heavy-set Pegasus, Potter. Its coat colour is called palomino. Its breed is an Abraxan. They’re bred in France by the Headmistress of Beauxbatons, their version of Hogwarts, usually to pull the carriages.”

The shire-types are French? Somehow, Harry thought they looked more English, although he supposed other countries were allowed their heavy horses, too.

“The chestnuts,” Snape carried on, but then interrupted himself with another sigh. “The brown ones,” he said, instead, with a huff of air through his nose, “are called Aethonans. They are bred here in Britain. I believe there is a large stud farm of them somewhere in Cambridgeshire, with a smaller one just outside of Belfast, in Northern Ireland.”

“And what are these, sir?” asked Harry, pointing the shire-type – no, the Abraxan – he was holding at a skeletal black one.

“Those are Thestrals,” Snape informed him. “They pull the Hogwarts’ carriages, and the herds live in the Forbidden Forest. Hagrid is in charge of them. Thestrals are mostly invisible, unless you have seen death, so most people consider them to be evil, or monstrous.”

“That seems a bit unfair,” Harry muttered.

He hadn’t really meant it for any ears but his own, so he startled when Snape gave a snort of derision. “Most people are unfair, Potter,” he said, briskly. “Life can be unfair.”

Not wanting to get into a debate on that – since, yeah, he was fairly sure that being fêted as the Boy-Who-Lived when his parents died to save him was unfair – Harry leaned forward and picked up another skinny black horse, this one with wings. “Sir?” he queried, holding it up so that Snape could see it.

“Yes, Potter, that is a Thestral,” Snape said, turning his attention back to the figurine he was holding. “There was an error in the production line, and quite a lot of Thestrals without wings were made.”

Silence fell again. Snape finished his box, but instead of getting another one, he sat back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, one hand raised to tap his index finger against his mouth, watching Harry. Harry could feel himself tensing up again.

“It was because of your mother that I began collecting them,” Snape said, finally, in a fairly quiet, neutral tone of voice.

Harry almost dropped the horse he was holding, but thankfully he managed to catch it in time. “My moth—” His voice broke, and he had to clear his throat before he could start again. “You knew my mother, sir?”

“We were . . .” Snape paused, as though trying to find words, “. . . friends, when we were children. She grew up in the nicer part of Spinner’s End. When it had a nicer part,” he added in an undertone. Then he shook his head as though to focus, and concentrated on Harry again. “My mother had a few figures, ones that she’d found at various markets. Lily was fascinated by them once she saw them, as her own mother – your grandmother, Potter – had some Breyers of her own. Up until we were fifteen, your mother insisted on dragging me off to various fairs and markets, on the off-chance she might find some.”

Harry was fascinated by the tale, although the image of Snape being forced to go traipsing sulkily around markets and car boot sales made him want to giggle. All of the previous year, everyone had told him just how much like his father he was and all the things his father had done, but nobody ever much mentioned his mother.

“How many did she have, sir?” he asked, trying to imagine his mother as a young girl, oohing and aahing over various horse models.

“The last I knew, she had almost thirty,” said Snape. “I presume she had more than that by the time she – by the time she died.” He cleared his throat, roughly.

Harry pretended not to notice the way his professor’s voice had broken. It seemed the man had cared deeply about his mother, even if – by his own admission – they hadn’t been close for what sounded like several years. Instead, Harry frowned, curious. “What happened to them all, sir?” he asked. “To all of my parents’ things?”

“Most of your parents’ belongings were destroyed when – ah, when the house was destroyed.” Snape cleared his throat again, and then frowned himself. “Some of the Potter heirlooms may have been placed in a Gringotts’ vault for safekeeping, in which case anything is likely still there. As for anything else . . . it’s possible some of it may have gone to your aunt.”

“I doubt it lasted long then,” Harry murmured, sadly. Aunt Petunia hadn’t even liked him – he really didn’t think she’d have appreciated any of her sister’s belongings, whether they were obviously magical or not.

Snape drummed the fingers of one hand against his arm. “I suppose,” he said, in a very long-suffering tone, “that if you really so wish, I can check with the headmaster as to any . . . items that may remain.”

“Really?” Harry instantly perked up. “Oh, yes, please, sir!”

“Very well.” Snape gave a jerky nod, then cast a quick tempus. “I have a potion that needs checking. You should probably clean up before dinner, Potter.” Getting to his feet, Snape waved his wand at the figurines that littered the floor, and they all vanished. Harry blinked at the spaces where they’d been. Wow, I can’t wait until I can do that! he thought.

Following Snape out into the back yard, Harry paused to look up at the surrounding sky whilst the professor disappeared into his lab. Despite thoroughly searching, there was still no sign of Hedwig, or indeed, any owl at all. Harry’s shoulders slumped in disappointment. He hoped the snowy hadn’t gotten lost, or injured, or just plain flown away. It was better than thinking that Hermione was keeping his owl from him on purpose. He also wondered why his friends hadn’t written back to him yet. Didn’t they want to be his friends anymore?

Missing his pet, Harry ducked into the outhouse. He had just finished when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Surprised, Harry turned his head. Up in the corner of the roof was a large spider web. Its occupant had apparently come down to take a look at the intruder of its domain.

“Hello, there!” said Harry, softly. He smiled at the spider. He’d never been scared of the arachnids, as his cupboard had been full of them when he was little. Instead, they’d become his friends and playmates – at least until Dudley had reached in one day, trying to pull him out, and a baby one had run across Dudley’s pudgy hand.

Dudley had reacted as though someone had tried to chop his hand off, running screaming into the kitchen, bawling his eyes out. Aunt Petunia had come to see what all the fuss was about, and had then added to the noise by succumbing to hysterics of her own.

When Uncle Vernon had arrived home that night, he’d had a simple solution to the problem. He’d simply had them unwind the garden hose to its full length, and had then blasted the inside of the cupboard – and Harry – with water for half an hour. Despite it being the height of summer, the water had been freezing, and Harry had spent the next fortnight battling to do his chores through the foggy haze of pneumonia.

Reaching up, Harry now allowed this spider to advance onto his hand. He smiled as the drag of its legs across his palm tickled. Shouldering his way outside, Harry almost bumped into Snape, who was exiting his lab with a cauldron floating along behind him.

“What are you doing, Potter?” asked Snape, suspiciously, eyeing Harry’s cupped together hands.

“Look what I found, sir!” Harry replied, enthusiastically, and lifted his upper hand to show the professor.

Snape peered closely at the spider on Harry’s hand. “An Araneus diadematus!” he exclaimed. “Marvellous!” And before Harry could even think of stopping him, Snape had whisked the spider off his palm and dropped it into the boiling cauldron behind him. “Just what I was missing,” he said, happily, and strode off towards the house, the cauldron bobbing merrily along in his wake.

Severus was in a roaring temper. His potions were waiting for ingredients he’d ordered from the Apothecary in Diagon Alley, and yet here he was, three days later, still waiting for his order to arrive. And in the meantime, his potions were being ruined. He’d managed to salvage some of them, once it had become clear that the order wouldn’t be arriving straight away, by putting them under stasis charms, but several of them wouldn’t react well to that, so he was reduced to constantly checking the temperature of the flames under the cauldrons. Two of them had already over-boiled, and one had somehow managed to cool down so much that it had practically frozen.

“How long does it take for you to put together an owl-order?” he barked at a hapless assistant through his Floo. “I have been waiting three days for this order, and several potions are ruined! If my orders are going to be a problem, then I can always find another apothecary,” he threatened.

“But sir, we did send your order,” the assistant protested, almost in tears. “We’ve tried sending it half a dozen times, but the owls keep coming back. You have to remove whatever ward you’ve got up before they can get through.”

“Merlin’s beard,” Severus growled. He folded his arms and glared at the young witch. “I do. Not. Have any wards up to prevent owls!” he said. “And even if I did, do you really think I am so abysmally stupid as to leave them up when I am expecting an owl?”

“N-no, sir, of course not,” the assistant stammered, the colour draining from her face.

“Then you obviously have defective owls,” Severus growled. “Kindly find one that isn’t, and deliver my order immediately!” And he cut the connection so fiercely that he swore he heard the assistant squeak as she was forced out of the fireplace.

Scowling, Severus did one more check of all the cauldrons, then stalked back up the yard to the house.

Potter was curled up in his armchair, resting one of his Muggle notepads on his drawn-up knees, his Transfiguration textbook balanced on the arm beside him. He glanced up as Severus slammed the back door shut behind himself. At least this time, the brat’s look wasn’t wary, with a slight edge of betrayal. Severus had no idea what the boy thought he’d done this time, but at least Potter had enough sense to keep it to himself.

“Still no sign of your owl, Potter?” he asked, pausing in the doorway.

“No, sir,” Potter replied, slowly shaking his head. “No sign of any owls at all.”

“Hmm.” Severus frowned again. This was getting beyond a joke now.

As if to emphasise this thought, a large silvery shape suddenly darted through the front wall, coming to a prancing halt in between Severus and Potter. Both wizards gaped at it.

“Severus, really, now, this cannot continue!” Albus’ voice came out of the thing. Strangely, it seemed to have an echo about it. “I must have that potion, and am running out of time! Kindly send it at once! Or tell me when it’s ready, and I’ll come and fetch it.”

Severus glared at the patronus – which looked like a llama – in front of him. “Albus, for the last time, I have received NO OWLS! I – I – wha –?” he stuttered to a halt, as not only did the silvery llama head in front of him glare at him, but a second head swivelled around from behind the first to face him, too, its ears pinned back and a very unfriendly expression on its face.

“Sir, what is that?!” Potter exclaimed.

“I . . . I . . . I have no idea,” Severus finally admitted. He blinked a few times, but the strange creature didn’t change in any way. He took a hasty step back as the second head wrinkled its upper lip at him, exposing large, off-white teeth, and made a low grunting noise in its throat.

The first head suddenly whipped backwards and sideways, head-butting the second head. The second head gave a low grumbling sound, but straightened out its lip so that its teeth were hidden again. It also suddenly snapped around again to face behind it, causing Potter – who’d slid off the chair to examine the creature more closely – to jerk backwards with a yelp and almost fall over the armchair.

“Ah, Albus, I haven’t added any new wards. You are welcome to come and see for yourself. And perhaps you could give me the details about the potion you want at the same time,” Severus said to the thing, hesitantly. He gave a short nod, indicating that he had no more message to give, and the . . . whatever it was gave a rolling snort, did a strange sort of bow with its knees and head, and then galloped backwards away from him and out through the front wall again.

Severus ran a hand over his face and blew out his breath in one short expulsion. He had no idea what on earth that creature had been, nor how Albus had come to change his patronus, since the last time he’d seen it, it had been a brilliant phoenix.

When he looked up again, Potter was still gripping tightly to the back and arm of the chair. Severus had just opened his mouth to say something – although he had no idea what. Was he supposed to comfort the boy somehow? – when there was a muted crack from the back yard, and with barely a tap at the back door, Albus was striding into the house as though he owned it.

“You did say I could come and see for myself,” the headmaster said as Severus swung around to face him. Severus scowled at him.

“I’m quite sure I didn’t mean this instant,” he grumbled, but Albus blithely ignored him and swept past him into the living room.

“Hello, Harry!” the headmaster said, cheerfully. “And how is your summer going?”

“Um, hello, sir,” was all Potter managed, blinking at the headmaster.

“Good, good,” Albus enthused, ignoring the fact that Potter hadn’t actually answered him. He withdrew his wand from the sleeve of his robe and brandished it in the air like a sword. “Now just hold still for a moment, my boys; this won’t take long!”

Instantly, Severus felt the build-up of magic filling his small living room. He worked his jaw, trying to make his ears pop against pressure that wasn’t actually there, and saw Potter shaking his head. The magic built even further, and the inside of the front door and the hidden door that covered the staircase began to glow a gentle golden colour, as did the two armchairs. Uttering a startled squeak, Potter let go of the chair as though the glow had burnt his hands.

Frowning at his wand, Albus shook it slightly, and then pointedly stabbed it higher in the air. The magic built up again, the non-existent pressure humming faintly against Severus’ skin. Potter winced, and began rubbing his hands up and down his arms. His hair was giving out deep green sparks now, and if it hadn’t been so terminally messy already, Severus would have said it was standing on end. His own hair was beginning to float at the ends, and purple sparks flashed over his robes as he folded his arms.

Albus was covered in flashing red sparks, but even so, he still looked unhappy. With a short huff of air through his nose, he brandished the wand even higher, looking grimly determined.

The air began to whine under the influence of the magic filling the room. Severus could see Potter gaping at Albus and himself – no doubt the boy had spotted the faint golden glow of their magical cores, although he obviously hadn’t seen his own yet.

“If you are quite satisfied, Albus?” he said, and his voice sounded overly loud, as though he was shouting to be heard over nothing. “Any more and my existing spells will be overloaded.”

With an exasperated snort, the headmaster brought his wand down to his side, giving it a shake as though to turn it off. The feeling of pressure in the air abruptly died away, and Potter staggered, reaching out to grip the armchair again.

“I don’t understand,” Albus complained, glaring at his wand and then at the walls as though they’d personally betrayed him. “You must have done something! It just isn’t possible that so many owls would get lost on their way here.”

“You just saw it for yourself,” Severus pointed out, reaching up to smooth down the flyaway ends of his hair. “I have no extra wards on this house. I have no idea why the owls aren’t getting through.”

Grumbling – almost – inaudibly, Albus sat down in Severus’ armchair. Severus sighed as he noticed Potter’s wide-eyed look at the headmaster. Apparently the elderly wizard’s words were clearly audible to him.

“When did your patronus change, Albus?” he asked, abruptly.

“Oh, I was paying a call on an old friend, whose great-granddaughter happens to be a squib. My friend’s grandson-in-law is a Muggle, although it is of course impossible to prove one way or the other whether that had any effect on poor Lucille not having any magic,” Albus confided. He’d perked himself up enough that he waved his wand to conjure tea for himself and Severus, and what looked like pumpkin juice for Potter.

Potter gingerly took the glass from the air, and tentatively sipped. He immediately pulled a face and spat the mouthful back into the glass. Apparently it wasn’t pumpkin juice, after all.

“Anyway,” Albus continued, seemingly oblivious to Potter’s bad manners, “little Lucille was watching the most fascinating thing on . . . oh, what was it called now?” Albus furrowed his brows. “Ah – telekvisheon!” he exclaimed, triumphantly. Severus rolled his eyes, and Potter turned his head away, biting his hand as he did so.

“Television, Albus,” corrected Severus, shaking his head.

“Yes, that,” agreed the headmaster. “Anyhoo, it was showing a man who was able to talk to animals – oh, he had the most wonderful adventures because of it!” The twinkle reappeared in Albus’ eyes and swiftly grew to blinding proportions. “Someone sent him a very rare creature as a gift, called a pushmipullyou. I couldn’t help but think how marvellous it would be to have a conversation with an animal like that, and the next time I cast my patronus, out one popped!”

Potter was going to bite his hand off and choke himself to death if he bit it any harder, Severus thought, eyeing the boy, whose shoulders were noticeably quivering now, and small muffled sounds drifted over to him.

“Potter, isn’t it time you went for your daily constitutional,” Severus said, pointedly, and the brat nodded and instantly darted towards the front door. He gave a vague wave of the hand that wasn’t between his teeth as he hurried outside.

Severus shook his head as the door slammed shut behind the boy, and went to sit on the empty armchair. “Perhaps we should discuss how to find out what is happening to all the owls,” he began.

Once he was several doors away, Harry finally felt safe enough to let out the giggles he’d been trying to hold in. He had no idea what on earth the headmaster had seen, but since he’d seen it on TV, it obviously hadn’t been a documentary of any sort.

Leaning against a nearby wall, Harry gasped for breath, before looking around, trying to decide where to go. There really was nothing to do in the ‘park’ – he’d seen it all in the first ten seconds – and he didn’t want to go just for the sake of going.

The sound of loud shrieks of raucous laughter coming from somewhere nearby made him decide that, at the very least, he wasn’t going that way. Pushing away from the brick, Harry wandered down the street and ducked into a road that branched off on the right. It seemed to be even more deserted than Snape’s own street was – three out of every four houses was boarded up. It also dead-ended in a brick wall that towered over Harry’s head, so he sighed and turned to go back the way he’d come.

Unfortunately, it appeared the owners of the raucous laughter had found him.

A group of three girls and four boys were standing at the entrance of the road, not obviously blocking his way, but making it clear that he’d have to run their gauntlet to get past them. Since they all appeared to be in their late teens, Harry didn’t hold out much hope for that.

Feeling a terrible sense of déjà vu, Harry tried to quickly size up his options. He couldn’t go forwards – not if he wanted to come out of this encounter unscathed. He couldn’t go sideways – even if he miraculously found an un-boarded house with someone home, the chances of them opening the door, or even being willing to, before he got caught by the gang were not good. He couldn’t go backwards – that wall was still much too high for him to be able to scale it.

Miserably, Harry wished for his broom, or even his invisibility cloak. He couldn’t see any way he was getting out of this. At least Dudley and his gang had only used their fists and feet. Two of the boys in front of him were carrying long metal pipes, and one of the girls appeared to be wearing steel-toed boots. Harry gulped.

“Well, well,” sneered one of the boys. “What do we have here.”

“Looks like the little baby is well and truly lost,” giggled one of the girls. Even from where he stood, Harry could see that her eyes were wild and strangely unfocused. She was swinging a tied-up black bin bag by its knot, and something inside it appeared to be moving, although Harry couldn’t tell if there was actually something moving, or whether it was just the movement of the bag shifting whatever was inside.

And then his question was answered by the loud screech of a panicked bird coming from the bag. Harry’s blood ran cold. That was what the laughter had been for.

“You’re new,” one of the other girls stated, tilting her head to look at him.

“I – I just . . . came to live with Pro—, uh, Mr Snape,” Harry stuttered, taking a couple of quick steps back as the gang spread out in front of him. The girl who was high casually dropped the bin bag, uncaring of where or how it landed. The gang all ignored the loud squawk that came from the bag.

“Snape? That weird nutter?” One of the boys threw his head back and cackled. “He’s your dad?! Guess he’s too weird to want you before now, huh.”

Harry barely stopped himself from grimacing. Snape’d have a fit if he ever heard anyone suggesting that he was Harry’s dad. One of the boys with a lead pipe began tapping it against his leg. The other boy with a pipe had it resting casually on his shoulder. With one standing on either end of the line, Harry resigned himself to getting hit by one of them.

“I think the little babba deserves to be given a warm welcome,” giggled the junkie girl. Her eyes wheeled as she grinned at Harry. It was not a reassuring smile.

“Our turf,” grunted the girl wearing steel-toed boots. She took a step towards Harry. “Got to pay the toll to be on our turf.”

It didn’t take someone of Hermione’s brains to work out just how the ‘toll’ would be paid. Beginning to tremble, Harry’s thoughts raced, calculating his odds. If that girl stayed put, and that boy moved two steps that way, he just might be able to dart past them with maybe just a tap on the shoulder . . .

His heart rate increased as Harry shifted all his weight to one foot, preparing to run. Unfortunately, the gang did not cooperate with his plans, and that girl moved towards him, and that boy moved three steps the other way, leaving the only space in between the junkie girl and the one with the steel-toed boots.

“Get the squirt!” one of the boys bellowed, and the entire gang was suddenly advancing on Harry.

The next few moments passed in a blur for Harry. He ducked and twisted and dodged. Trying to avoid a girl’s grasping hands and one boy’s lead pipe, Harry almost fell over the bin bag. He felt the rush as the pipe just brushed over his shoulder, and suddenly remembered the emergency portkey that Snape had given him.

There was a brief pushing sensation, almost as though the portkey was trying to pull Harry through treacle, and then he was landing in a heap in Snape’s living room, a ragged part of the bin bag still clutched in his hand.

“Potter!” “Harry!” two shocked exclamations greeted him. Slowly, Harry lifted his head from the floor to gaze up at his professors.

“Harry, what happened?” the headmaster asked, hurriedly crouching down next to Harry.

“Let me guess – a gang of seven, three girls and four boys?” Snape asked. He didn’t even wait to see Harry nod, but turned towards the kitchen and waved his wand. “The Stribbins gang,” he finished over his shoulder. “They are the local menace. It appears Potter ran afoul of them.”

“How badly are you hurt, my boy?” Dumbledore asked, putting a hand on Harry’s shoulder to steady him as he shakily pushed himself upright into a vaguely sitting position.

“Not too bad,” Harry murmured. “Fists, mostly. The lead pipes missed me.” He raised a hand to gingerly feel his face, and stopped as the remains of the bin bag met his skin. “Um, there was a bag,” he said, holding his hand up so the headmaster and Snape could see it. “The gang had a bird in it. I tried to bring it with me . . .”

“Apparently whatever is affecting the owls is still active,” Dumbledore said, glancing at Snape, who had turned back to face them, several vials in his hands. “It shouldn’t be far; I will see if I can retrieve it.”

Snape crouched down to take his place as Dumbledore stood up and made for the front door. Snape studied Harry’s face intently, before abruptly thrusting a vial at Harry. “Here,” he said, roughly. “This will seal up the cuts.”

Harry took the vial, eyed the horrid yellow-grey colour, then closed his eyes before downing the potion. “Oh, blech!” he gasped, feeling his taste buds trying to curl up and die.

“And this one for any bruises,” said Snape, sounding amused. Harry didn’t even open his eyes, just held out his hand blindly. This potion tasted of strawberries – much to Harry’s relief – but when he opened his eyes, the remnants in the vial were orange. Harry decided he didn’t want to know how that worked.

“Severus.” Dumbledore’s voice came from the doorway. At first, Harry thought he was holding the crumpled bin bag, but then he realised that it was actually a bird the headmaster was cradling. Its black feathers were severely ruffled, and several looked broken. “Severus, I cannot bring the bird inside,” Dumbledore said.

“What?” Snape straightened to his full height and frowned. “Why not?”

“Whatever barrier is stopping owls is a physical barrier against all birds.” Dumbledore tried moving his hands forward, but couldn’t seem to get them past the open doorway. “See if you can take it from me,” he suggested to Snape.

Snape stepped forward, but although he could take the bird from Dumbledore’s hands, as soon as he tried to pull them back towards himself, he looked to be pulling hard against something that didn’t want to give.

“Whatever this is, I did not do it,” Snape said, eventually, giving the bird back to Dumbledore.

“No, otherwise it would have shown up,” the headmaster agreed. He looked down at the bird, who gave a miserable cheep. “I’ll have to take the bird to Hagrid, and will do some research.” Without further ado, the headmaster disappeared with a muted crack.

Snape hissed under his breath and slammed the front door shut. “Honestly, you’d think we didn’t have that little thing called the Statute of Secrecy,” he grumbled to himself as he came back towards Harry.

“The what, sir?” Harry asked. He’d moved himself so that he was now leaning back against his armchair. He didn’t hurt much now, but there was a dull ache in his muscles.

Snape rolled his eyes. “Honestly, how do the muggleborns cope?” he lamented to the ceiling. “The Statute of Secrecy, Potter,” he said, tilting his head back down. “The law that says we must remain hidden from the Muggles. It is illegal to perform magic in front of Muggles.”

Harry thought about this, and then frowned. “But what about people like Hermione?” he asked. “Her parents are Muggles. What happened when she did accidental magic? Or the Dursleys . . . they’re Muggles.”

Snape covered his eyes with his hand, apparently praying for patience. “It’s illegal to perform magic in front of Muggles that are not part of your household,” he clarified.

Oh, Harry mouthed. He supposed that did make more sense, since surely Hermione would have mentioned at some point if she’d continually got in trouble for doing magic in front of her parents.

Snape cast a quick tempus, and then sighed. “I will make lunch,” he said, not sounding the least bit happy about it. He gave Harry a sharp glance. “You may as well continue with your homework whilst I do so.”

Now Harry sighed. “Yessir,” he muttered, and groped around himself for the things he’d dropped when the headmaster’s patronus had arrived earlier. It seemed a very long time ago.

Snape had just turned away to the kitchen when there was a small pop, and a medium-sized wooden crate appeared in the middle of the floor between him and Harry. Harry stared at the thing warily, and Snape spun around, his wand already drawn and aiming.

Although he relaxed slightly when he saw the crate, Snape didn’t approach it until he’d cast several spells on it. Nothing appeared to happen. Harry frowned, confused.

“You should always check unexpected things for curses,” Snape said, abruptly, apparently catching sight of Harry’s expression from the corner of his eye. His gaze darted to Harry for a split second before returning to the crate. “In your case, it will probably become necessary.”

“In my case, sir?” Harry asked, tilting his head.

“You are the Boy-Who-Lived,” explained Snape, with a slight scoff. “Everyone will want to send you mail for the least little reason. Not all of it will be good.”

“But nobody sends me any mail,” Harry protested. “Um, even when there isn’t something stopping the owls,” he added.

“No doubt Albus had it diverted. He’ll probably change that when you’re older,” Snape said, casually. He apparently found the crate safe, as he took two steps towards it, just enough so that he could see the top of it. He made a sound of disbelief, and then all but pounced on the crate, a brisk slash of his wand causing the lid to shoot into the air like a cork from a bottle.

Harry watched with alarm as Snape’s temper went from relatively calm to almost nuclear in the space of a second. He cringed back against the armchair as Snape whirled on his heel and thrust his wand at a spot in the air. A piece of parchment tinged with red and a large, ornate quill popped into being and held themselves ready in front of Snape.

“What Merlin-blasted idiot decided to send my order via PORTKEY?!” Snape roared. Harry jumped, and the quill began to scribble on the parchment. “There were ingredients in there that cannot travel by magic, hence why my order was to be DELIVERED BY OWL! Even Neville Longbottom would know better, and he is an absolute disgrace at potions. Would you kindly find someone there who is NOT INCOMPETENT and find a NON-MAGICAL way of getting my order to me, before I decide not to waste any more time or gold on imbeciles who cannot tell the difference between flobberworms and caterpillars!” Snape made a curt gesture with his wand, and the parchment folded itself up into a red envelope, which floated down to rest on top of the crate. Still glaring fiercely, Snape tapped the top of the crate twice, and then the whole thing vanished with another pop.

Breathless, Harry stared at the place it had been. “Sir, what was that?” he asked, hesitantly. “That letter?”

“That was a Howler,” Snape informed him, looking grimly satisfied. “It will scream my words for the entire shop to hear. Maybe next time, someone who actually owns a brain cell will utilise it and get my order right!” And he whirled away again into the kitchen.

Later that afternoon, Severus retreated to his lab again, determined to salvage what he could of his potions. Unfortunately, most of them were edging towards the stage where the next ingredient had to be added, and the window of opportunity was fast closing on them.

Growling to himself, Severus renewed the stasis charms where he could, and banished what was going to spoil before the apothecary managed to get his order to him. When I get my hands on whoever is blocking those owls, I am going to skin them and boil them in a potion of their very own! he thought to himself.

“Severus Snape!”

Severus startled as the strident voice of Hogwarts’ medi-witch Poppy Pomfrey echoed around his lab, and barely managed to avoid banishing one of his best – and most expensive – cauldrons. A scowl already forming, he turned to face the Floo.

“How dare you keep ignoring my owls!” Poppy ranted before he even had a chance to open his mouth. “It is imperative that I do a check-up on Harry, and you’ve ignored each and every reminder! You cannot keep him from getting medical attention, young man! I insist you bring him to Hogwarts – immediately!”

“Merlin’s beard, have you not spoken to Albus recently?” Severus snapped back, folding his arms and tapping his wand against his bicep.

“Why on earth would I have spoken to the headmaster?” Poppy asked, glaring back at him.

“Because if you had, you stupid woman, you would know that no owls have reached me at all!” Severus hissed, bending closer to the mini-Floo to emphasise his point. “He would also have told you that Potter appears to be physically recovered from his ordeal with Quirrell. Mentally and emotionally, however . . . well, that isn’t your area, now, is it?” he sneered.

“Oh, and it’s your area, I suppose?” Poppy shook her head. “Regardless, Severus, Harry needs a check-up. And I have a list of potions that need brewing. Kindly arrange to visit Hogwarts sometime in the very near future!”

“You—” Severus opened his mouth to tell her just what she could do with her list of potions that need brewing, when Poppy removed herself from the Floo, and the flames disappeared. Severus sighed and reached up to rub the bridge of his nose. “Why me?” he groaned.

Given the events of the day, it was perhaps unsurprising that Harry’s dreams took the turn they did.

“Want to play a game?” a boy, who was verging on the edge of chubby, asked little five year old Harry with a wide smile that showed all his teeth.

It was their very first week at school. Little Harry had hoped that he’d be able to avoid showing any freakiness long enough for him to make at least one friend, but he was too shy to approach any of the other children, and they all appeared to have at least one friend of their own already.

Today, however, it looked like his luck was changing.

“Sure!” Harry agreed, enthusiastically.

The other boy patted him heartily on the shoulder, not seeming to notice that he almost sent the smaller boy flying. “Good!” he said. “You start running, and we’ll catch you.” He patted Harry’s shoulder again, harder this time, and Harry stumbled forward a step. “Off you go.”

“Um—” Suddenly, Harry wasn’t so sure he wanted to play that game. There was just something about the way the other boy had described it . . .

“What are you waiting for, freak?” the boy jeered. He leaned towards Harry and bared his teeth. “Run!”

Still unsure, Harry nonetheless began running. He yelped with shock as a shower of rocks and pebbles suddenly hit him.

“Get the freak!” he heard his cousin Dudley yell. Casting a panicked look over his shoulder, Harry sped up, and began to run in earnest.

He soon realised he was being herded. Dudley was lumbering along behind him, panting for breath even though he wasn’t moving any faster than a plod. The boy who’d asked if he wanted to play was on his right, grinning inanely at him. Another boy, almost as big as Dudley, was on his left, constantly smacking his big fists together.

So concerned with looking behind him, Harry didn’t watch where he was going, and tripped over a foot that someone had stuck out from behind a bush. He went sprawling headlong to the ground. Rolling onto his back, he saw the boys surround him. They appeared to tower over him, looking taller and heavier than five year olds should.

“Good work, Malcolm,” Dudley grunted. “You too, Piers. Another successful Harry Hunt.”

“What we gonna do with him?” asked one of the other boys, eagerly. He looked down at Harry and cracked his knuckles threateningly.

“Anything we want,” Harry’s cousin replied. “Nobody likes the freak anyway. No-one’ll care.”

Harry jerked awake, gasping for breath. The words rang in his ears, taunting him. Nobody likes the freak anyway. No-one’ll care.

Shaking his head frantically, Harry covered his ears, as though that would block the words out. It didn’t work. It was true, he thought, wildly. Nobody did like him. The Dursleys had moved to get away from him. Snape had never liked him, no matter what his recent behaviour was like – after all, hadn’t he argued with Dumbledore about having to look after Harry in the first place? – and his friends hadn’t responded to any of his letters.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Harry rocked himself back and forth as tears slowly slid down his cheeks. Even if he managed to make it through this summer without Snape throwing him out or killing him, there was still next summer to worry about, and the one after that. Who would Dumbledore foist him off on next time?

If only I wasn’t such a freak! Harry thought miserably. If he was normal, then perhaps someone would want him, and he wouldn’t keep attracting gangs like Dudley’s, or that group yesterday.

His introspection was broken by a shout from downstairs. “Potter!” Hurriedly wiping his face – and almost poking himself in the eye – Harry scuttled for the hidden staircase.

Snape was waiting at the bottom. “Here,” he said, hurriedly, thrusting a handful of toast at Harry. “Eat this, quickly. We shall be visiting Hogwarts today, so make sure you take your homework with you.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry murmured, taking the toast from his professor. If Snape noticed how downcast Harry seemed, he made no mention of it.

Twenty minutes later, Harry was being side-along apparated to the gates of Hogwarts. It appeared that he was getting the hang of it finally, since although he was plagued with dry-heaves when they arrived, his legs were perfectly steady.

They were standing in front of a pair of tall, wrought-iron gates, held up by brick pillars. Statues of what looked like pigs, with sharp tusks and large wings, perched on top of the pillars. The gate appeared to be standing by itself, as Harry could see no fence on either side of it, but as they approached, he could feel the hum of magic in the air.

“Come along, Potter,” ordered Snape, placing a hand on one of the gates. It slowly swung inward, looking as though it should be creaking loudly, like in a horror film. “I need to see Madam Pomfrey,” Snape continued, as they began to walk up the long, winding drive towards the castle. “And she insists on seeing you, Potter, so we shall head for the Hospital Wing first, and then—”

Exactly what the rest of Snape’s plans were, Harry didn’t find out. At that moment, a large dark cloud appeared in the sky. It was moving very fast, and heading straight for them.

“Oh, Merlin!” Snape groaned, along with a few other curse words that Harry thought he’d better pretend he hadn’t heard. Snape hurriedly pulled his wand out, and cast a large circle around them. “Brace yourself, Potter,” he warned.

“Why?” Harry asked, biting his lip as the cloud drew closer to them. “Is that cloud—?”

“That’s not a cloud,” Snape informed him, grimly. “That’s all the owls that haven’t been able to get to us over the past three weeks.”

No, no, NO! He curled his hands into fists, and rapped them sharply against his temples. This wasn’t supposed to happen! He thought he’d been so careful – so clever – warding the house of the professor and the young master, and ensuring that auxiliary wards were tied to them, so that no owls or other post reached them – at all – anywhere. It was a safety measure, for the times when he was unable to oversee things himself, when he was . . . called to his duties.

But now they’d come to Hogwarts, and Mistress Hogwarts did not appreciate strange wards clinging to her professors. He had felt his auxiliary wards fail the instant the professor and the young master had stepped through the gate. It had not taken long before the frustrated delivery birds had found them.

How could he not have thought of this? There were other ways, ways that Mistress Hogwarts would not have objected to – or, at least, would not have noticed to object to them. But he had not thought the professor or the young master would approach Hogwarts so soon. It was well whispered that the professor always made his escape as soon as possible at the end of the school year, and never set foot again near Hogwarts’ grounds until the very last second that he could get away with. And the young master . . .

He rapped his fists against his temples again, restraining a squall of anguish. The young master should not have come back to Hogwarts. Danger lurked here, crouching, waiting for the young master to approach so it could pounce. The taint of it was so Dark that he almost gagged on it. The young master was to have remained well away from it, safe, protected. Let the headmaster deal with the Dark; let the professors banish it or not as they chose (Oh, yes, he knows very well what is on this professor’s arm).

The young master was the Vanquisher of the Dark, and the Saviour of them all. He had to be saved from the machinations of the Dark’s followers, from those that would take him and eat him trying to bring back the unholiest of unholies that should never see the Light again.

Nodding firmly to himself, his resolve shored up, he disappeared with a tiny, unheard pop.

Ron Weasley had spent most of the past three days staring mournfully out of various windows.

“Oh, Ron, dear, do cheer up,” his mother sighed, as she turned around and almost stumbled over him for the fourth time that day.

“Why hasn’t Harry replied to me, Mum?” Ron asked. He kept his gaze looking out of the window, scanning the sky for any sign of an approaching owl.

“Maybe he’s busy, love,” Mrs Weasley said, patting her youngest son on the shoulder. “Or maybe he just hasn’t had the opportunity to send a letter yet. Didn’t you say his family are muggles?”

Ron scowled as he thought of all the things Harry had told him about his family . . . and all the things he hadn’t said. “I don’t think they treat him very well, Mum,” he said, turning to look up at Mrs Weasley with a pleading expression. “Couldn’t we just go and get him?”

“Don’t be silly, Ronald,” Mrs Weasley said, sharply. “I’m sure Harry will send you a letter soon. And in the meantime, if you need something to keep you occupied, the garden needs de-gnoming.”

Sulkily, Ron plodded outside. Something was wrong, he was sure of it. He’d tried writing back to Harry, offering to let Harry stay with him at the Burrow for a few weeks, but Errol, their family owl, had been away for three days before returning – with Ron’s letter still attached to his leg, unopened. Ron had tried again, asking Percy if he could borrow his new owl, Hermes, but within a day, that letter had come back unopened too.

“Something the matter, little brother?” a voice to his left made Ron jump.

“Is Lickle Ronniekins in trouble?” chimed a voice from his right.

Ron glanced between his twin brothers. “No. I’m just worried about Harry,” he told them. “My letters to him keep coming back.”

“Maybe his family’s gone on holiday,” suggested Fred on his right.

“As if that’s ever stopped owls before,” Ron scoffed at him. “Besides, I don’t think Harry’s family likes him.”

“What’s not to like about Lickle Harrykins?” George said, indignantly, on Ron’s left.

The twins looked at each other, and appeared to hold one of their silent conversations. It was mostly made up of various expressions and twitchings of eyebrows, but Ron was fairly certain there was an element of actual mental communication there, too.

“Tell you what,” said George, finally, putting an arm around Ron’s shoulders. Ron twitched, wondering if George had just planted something on him.

“If there’s still no reply from Harry in a week,” Fred continued, putting his arm around Ron’s shoulders, too. Ron twitched again. It could be dangerous to have the twins this close.

“Then we’ll see about mounting a rescue,” George finished.

Fred grinned at his twin. “After all, Dad’s just about finished tinkering with that old car,” he said.

The twins both patted Ron on the back. “Not to worry; we’ll sort things,” they announced in unison, and then rushed off, leaving Ron twisting around, trying to reach his back to ensure they’d not pinned any signs to him.

Hermione Granger stared at the snowy white owl, who glared back at her through dark eyes and hooted imperiously at her. She had been attempting to respond to Harry ever since she’d received his letter at the beginning of the summer, but every time she sent Harry’s owl off, it came back twenty-four hours later with the letter still attached and unopened.

Hermione was beginning to worry.

“Couldn’t you send him a letter the normal way, pet?” her father asked, looking over the top of the magazine he was reading at her.

“I don’t have an address for him,” she replied, feeling frustrated to the point of tears. “He wasn’t allowed to tell me. All I know is he was somewhere south of Berwick. I don’t even know who he’s staying with!” She could guess, from what Harry had started to write before scribbling it out, that he was with a professor – but she didn’t know which one.

Mr Granger lowered his magazine, and reached out to pull Hermione to the side of his chair, wrapping his arm around his daughter’s waist. “Don’t worry, pet,” he soothed. “Didn’t you say Harry let it slip he was staying with one of your professors? They’ll look after him. He’ll be fine, pet.”

Hermione remained unconvinced.

Where is it, where is it, where is it? He finally spotted the old, cracked binding of the book he wanted, and removed it from the shelf with a small smile of relief. It would not do to lose that book.

Moving behind the large desk, he seated himself and then placed the book in the middle of the desk, idly moving it until it was perfectly level with the edge of the desk. Then he sat back and brought his hands together, fingers steepled in front of his mouth.

He had plans for this book. Plans that were going to chase that muggle-loving fool Dumbledore from his throne. His preparations were almost done. There was just one more nugget of information he needed to collect, and then he’d be ready to swoop in and take over.

Oh, yes, Hogwarts is going to change! he thought, gleefully. It was about time. Dumbledore and his ilk had sullied their heritage long enough. A cleansing was overdue, and what better place to start with that the supposed bastion of the Light.

It was also time he removed the book from his premises. That muggle-wannabe Arthur Weasley was making noises again about the need to confiscate Dark artefacts, citing the danger they posed. He scoffed just thinking about it. Providing the proper precautions were taken, Dark artefacts were no more dangerous than Light ones. In fact, in some cases, they were less dangerous. Light artefacts could be very powerful in their own right, but people always seemed to think Light meant harmless. They forgot just how very bright and strong light could be.

Still, no matter. In the very near future, Light and Dark would not matter. The only consideration would be Pure. 

By the time the last bird was winging its way back over the horizon, they were ankle-deep in scrolls and packages.

Shaking his head in exasperation, Severus waved his wand to dispel the ward he’d put up and to separate out all the mail. Most of it appeared to be his, but one lone envelope floated its way over to Potter, who grasped hold of it with a look of pathetic eagerness on his face. Severus cringed internally. He knew that feeling. He’d had that feeling when he was young.

He noticed that Potter didn’t mention the fact that he only had one letter, when he’d sent several out. Maybe the tantrum will come later, he mused. If he was really lucky, Potter would still be with either Poppy or the Headmaster when it arrived.

“Come along, Potter,” he said, gathering all his own mail together. “Madam Pomfrey is still waiting for you.”

Albus met them in the entranceway, beaming at them as though he hadn’t seen either of them since the term had ended. “Welcome, my boys!” he greeted them, cheerfully. “At least we know that whoever set that ward isn’t strong enough to overcome Hogwarts.” He reached out and patted the nearest stone wall, lovingly. Severus barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes, and instead just sighed.

“That’s as may be, Albus, but we are not remaining here,” he reminded the old wizard. “So if you could find a way of removing the ward before we leave . . . ?”

“I will see what I can do,” Albus said, still smiling. “Perhaps you could visit me in my office once you have delivered Harry into Poppy’s care.”

Severus wished heartily that Albus would not try to disguise his orders as simple requests. “Of course, Headmaster,” he responded, inclining his head in agreement. Looking around for Potter, he beckoned to the boy and made towards the grand staircase.

It took them no time at all to reach the fourth floor. It wasn’t until Severus heard Potter trip that he realised the brat kept turning back to look at the staircases. “Problem, Potter?” he asked.

“Umm, don’t the staircases usually move?” Potter asked, righting himself and then turning to look backwards once again. He then appeared to realise just what he’d said – or hadn’t said, to be more accurate – and hastily swung his head back around to look at Severus. “Um, sir,” he added, a dull flush creeping over his cheekbones.

Severus made a small noise that he would in no way class as a snort. He began moving towards the Hospital Wing again, hearing Potter scramble to keep up behind him. “The staircases don’t move during the summer, Potter,” he tossed over his shoulder. “With only a few staff remaining, there’s no need. Quite a bit of Hogwarts’ magic goes dormant when the castle is not in use.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Potter’s head twisting about, no doubt trying to discern what had changed. He rolled his eyes, but they’d reached the Hospital Wing by now, so he refrained from berating the boy. Instead, he opened one of the double doors, then placed a hand on Potter’s shoulder and pushed him inside.

“Poppy!” he bellowed towards the back of the Infirmary, where the matron had her office. “Sit there, Potter, and do not move,” he added, pointing a finger at one of the beds. Starting to look vaguely worried, Potter hoisted himself up onto the end of it, and sat, twisting his fingers together in his lap.

“Well, really, Severus, it’s about time,” Poppy started as she bustled out of her office. She caught sight of Potter, and smiled. “Hello, Mr Potter.”

“Madam Pomfrey,” Potter murmured, but Poppy was already turning back to Severus. He held up a hand to prevent any explosion that might be forthcoming.

“You said you had a list of potions for me?” he asked. The matron huffed, but grudgingly turned towards her office, waving her wand. A small, tightly-bound scroll floated out of it. Severus plucked it out of mid-air as soon as it got close enough to him. He didn’t bother checking it, but added it to the pile of mail he already had. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting with the Headmaster,” he said.

As he turned and left the Hospital Wing, he could hear Poppy beginning to cluck over Potter like a mother hen. Shaking his head, he strode towards the Headmaster’s office.

During the summer, the Headmaster’s office remained open, with the gargoyle that normally protected it being placed on the outside of the castle, just above the entrance doors. Severus was grateful for that, as it meant he didn’t have to spend ages trying out the name of every blasted candy known to man – or known to Albus – to gain entrance.

Inside the office, Albus was sitting behind his desk, staring glumly at two pieces of parchment, side by side in front of him. He glanced up at Severus’ entrance and brightened slightly. “Alas, the ongoing hunt for a new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor never gets any easier,” he said, waving a hand for Severus to take the chair in front of his desk.

“You have that many candidates?” Severus asked, lowering himself into the chair gingerly. Albus always preferred deceptive-looking chairs that looked as though they were solid wood, but had the consistency of an overstuffed armchair, leaving the visitor feeling as if the chair was likely to swallow them at any time.

“If only I did; all my problems – or this particular one, at least – would be solved,” Albus said. He gestured at the parchment. “No, this is the curriculum vitae of the only candidate who applied for the post.”

“The only one?” Severus repeated, raising an eyebrow. He’d known that Albus had been finding it harder and harder to find candidates for the role, but hadn’t realised the rumours about it being cursed had spread that widely.

“Mmm,” Albus agreed, then made a little moue of disappointment. “It’s not someone that I would have picked had I a choice, but alas, needs must.”

“Who is it?” asked Severus, trying to bring to mind every person associated with the Dark Arts or the Defence thereof that he knew about.         

“His name is Gilderoy Lockhart,” said Albus, glumly.

“Gilde—” Severus’ mouth fell open. “Lockhart?! The author?!” he demanded, incredulously. Despite the fact Lockhart was a decade older than Severus, Slughorn had been very effusive about the success of one of his ‘Slug Club’, and a small portrait of Lockhart graced the Slytherin common room. Unfortunately for the rest of Slytherin, either Slughorn or Lockhart himself had imbued the painting with a permanent sticking charm, thereby ensuring that every successful generation was treated to the vapid glibness of the poncy git. Severus himself had tried his best to create a potion that would destroy the portrait, but had only managed to burn a small hole in the middle of the canvas, leaving the painted Gilderoy to peer out around the blackened edges of it.

“The very same,” Albus confirmed, heaving a sigh.

“Albus, you cannot hire Lockhart!” Severus protested. “The students won’t learn anything aside from how to style their hair! Merlin, even that dratted pet werewolf of yours would be a better teacher!”

“Hmm, funny you should say that . . .” Albus shuffled the parchment off to the side, avoiding Severus’ gaze.

“What . . . ?” Severus blanched. “Merlin’s beard! Albus, tell me you aren’t planning what I think you are!”

Albus’ eyes were suddenly twinkling at him, and Severus felt the sudden urge to bang his head against Albus’ desk until it all went away. “Planning, Severus? Why, I have no idea what you mean.”

“You mean to bring that mangy, begotten wolf here as a teacher!” Severus pointed his finger at the Headmaster. “You think the Board of Governors will let you get away with that? You think Lucius will let you get away with that?” Severus shook his head. “Much as I don’t like the students, I wouldn’t want to see any of them mauled to death.”

Albus snorted. “Of course the children will be safe,” he said. “You’ll be brewing the Wolfsbane for Remus.”

“I – what?” Severus shook his head. “I’m sorry, I must have misheard you. I’ll be doing what?”

“Brewing Remus’ Wolfsbane Potion for him,” Albus repeated. “Every month.”

“And I suppose I’ll be getting a pay rise to compensate, too, will I?” asked Severus, dryly.

“Now, Severus, it’s not as though you’d be buying the ingredients out of your own pocket,” said Albus, giving him a disapproving look.

“No, just using up more of my own time,” was the response.

“Well, we have a year to sort things out,” said Albus, in what was supposed to be a soothing manner, but which just infuriated Severus. “Now, about that potion I need . . .”

Harry watched as Snape caught the little scroll and tucked it under his arm with his other parcels. “If you’ll excuse me,” the professor drawled, already turning sharply on his heel. “I have a meeting with the Headmaster.” And with his robes snapping out behind him, Snape stalked out of the Hospital Wing.

“Well, now, Mr Potter,” started Madam Pomfrey, “if you’d just sit back on that bed for me – there we go,” she added as she plumped up the pillows. “– then I can check you over.”

Warily, Harry shuffled himself backwards towards the top of the bed. His letter, still clutched tightly in his hand, rustled as he moved. From the writing, he guessed it was from Neville. He had been so thrilled to receive any mail, but now he wondered why there wasn’t anything from Ron or Hermione.

Madam Pomfrey was suddenly beside him, plucking the letter from his hand, and Harry jumped, startled. “I’ll just put this here, dear,” she said, kindly, laying it on the table beside his bed. “Now, just lie still; it’ll be over before you realise I began.”

Harry resisted the urge to glower at her. Honestly, does she think I’m five or something? he thought, churlishly, as the matron waved her wand in a complicated spiral pattern over him.

He was jolted out of his thoughts – because he was in no way descending into a sulk like the five year old he’d just thought of – by the soft lights flashing over him, ranging from green to orange to a pale blue.  And then, with a sound between a pop and a sizzle, they all winked out at once.

“Good,” said Madam Pomfrey, briskly. “Perhaps a little anaemic, but we can soon sort that.” A little bottle came flying out of her office even as she spoke, and she neatly caught it and handed it to Harry. “Drink up, Mr Potter,” she ordered. 

Eyeing it warily – it had the kind of purple colour that indicated it would taste of grapes, but with potions you could never rely on things like that – Harry took a breath, closed his eyes, and downed the potion in one go. His eyes instantly shot open in surprise. It did actually taste of grapes. However, it also seemed to be clinging to the inside of his throat.

“Here.” A glass half-filled with water appeared in front of his face. Harry took it gratefully and drank half of it at once. Madam Pomfrey smiled down at him, amused. “Well, physically, Mr Potter, you appear to have healed nicely,” she said, tucking her wand away up one of her sleeves. She then peered intently at him. “How have you been sleeping lately?”

“Um . . . okay?” Harry guessed. He dearly hoped she wasn’t going to try and make him talk about what had happened with Quirrell and the Stone.

“No nightmares?” the matron pressed.

Harry shook his head, taking a sip of his water to avoid her gaze. It was bad enough that Snape was trying to make him talk them out, without Madam Pomfrey doing it, too. Don’t they realise that I don’t want to talk about it? Harry thought.

“If you say so, Mr Potter,” Madam Pomfrey said, but she sounded doubtful, as though she didn’t fully believe him. Which was fine – because she shouldn’t. “In that case, then, you are free to leave.”

Placing the glass on the bedside table and collecting Neville’s letter in the same movement, Harry slid off the bed and hastened towards the Hospital Wing doors. He didn’t want to give Madam Pomfrey the chance to change her mind.

Once outside the Hospital Wing, though, he had no idea where to go. He didn’t even know if there were areas where he couldn’t go. Although it was probably a safe bet that he wouldn’t be able to get into the Gryffindor dormitory.

He could possibly try the library, but one – he didn’t know if Madam Pince stayed at Hogwarts over the summer or if she was gone already, and two – he was not Hermione, who would live in the library if you let her.

The dungeons? . . . Harry snorted, shaking his head at himself.

Since he didn’t fancy trekking all the way up to the top of the Astronomy Tower, that just left the Quidditch pitch. Harry sighed as he began making his way down the staircases to the ground floor. Once outside, he raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, and glanced around. The castle grounds appeared to be empty. Harry couldn’t even see Hagrid.

The trip to the Quidditch pitch seemed an awful lot longer when he knew he wasn’t going to be flying at the end of it. Perhaps it was a good thing Madam Hooch wasn’t here right now, Harry thought as he trudged towards the stands. If he’d been able to succumb to the temptation to go flying on an old school broom, Snape would likely have him in detention until his great-grandchildren were in school. Instead, he’d just have to make do with the soft breeze that was occasionally brushing past him.

Picking out what looked like a comfy spot – which happened to be in the Ravenclaw section – Harry looked up at the sky for a long moment. It had finally occurred to him that since all those post owls had found them, Hedwig should have appeared, too. But there was no sign of his Snowy.

Sighing, he dropped his gaze to Neville’s letter and tore it open. Hi, Harry! it read. Wow, thanks for writing! I was really surprised to get your owl—

Harry winced, guiltily. Writing to Neville had really been a very distant second-best. But for Neville . . . He hadn’t quite realised, but Neville’s family life had to be as lonely as Harry’s own. Sure, he had family who wanted him, but he also had an elderly grandmother and great-uncle who probably weren’t able – if they were even inclined – to play with Neville. Given how shy the young boy was, Harry didn’t think he had many friends his own age at home. It had been obvious that most of the pureblood children in their year at least knew of most of the others – Ron and Malfoy’s bickering sprang to mind – but nobody seemed to pay much attention to Neville. He was probably desperately lonely.

Resolving that next year he’d make more of an effort to talk with Neville, Harry turned back to his letter. There’s not much to do around here, so I’ve been spending a lot of time in my Gran’s greenhouses—

Severus finally escaped from Albus’ office with a potion recipe tucked into a pocket in his robes and a headache brewing in his skull. Sometimes I think I should put in for hazard pay, dealing with Albus, Severus thought, striding towards the entrance to the dungeons. This would be the perfect time to do a bit of checking on his stores.

It turned out he was only dangerously low on two ingredients; boomslang skin and jarvey fur. Satisfied, Severus made a mental reminder to himself to order more of both when he sent in the order for the school’s needs.

Digging out the scroll from Poppy, he began collecting jars. Nothing she wanted was overly complicated, he thought, scanning the list. If he was lucky, he could be out of here in three hours.

As it turned out, it only took him two. Pleasantly surprised, he delivered the vials to Poppy through the Floo, and then turned his attention to finding Potter.

He was just setting foot outside of the main doors when it occurred to him that he hadn’t asked Albus about any of the Potters’ things. Scowling, Severus debated with himself. Did he really want to go back and interact with Albus again today?

No, I do not, he eventually decided, and gave a brisk nod to himself. He’d either send an owl to Albus later, or discuss it in person some other time. After all, Potter had done without anything this far; a few more days wouldn’t hurt him.

Scanning the grounds, he realised he couldn’t see Potter anywhere. Now where’s the brat got to? he thought.

“Hello, Professor,” said a voice to his right.

“Hagrid,” Severus replied, nodding politely to the half-giant. He wasn’t exactly close with the groundskeeper, but he had nothing against the man. Indeed, Hagrid’s fascination with large and dangerous creatures had netted him valuable potions ingredients several times in the past, and for much cheaper than he would have gotten anywhere else. “Have you seen Potter recently?”

“Harry?” Hagrid asked, his brows rising into his hairline. “No, sorry, Professor. I didn’t realise he was here. Isn’t he supposed to be livin’ with his aunt?”

“Not anymore,” was all Severus replied. He had no wish to repeat the whole saga for Hagrid. “Any ideas whereabouts I might find Mr Potter?”

Hagrid scratched his chin through his beard, thoughtfully. “Could always try the Quidditch pitch,” he suggested.

“Thank you, Hagrid.” With a nod, Severus moved down the steps and began walking towards the pitch.

“Any time, Professor!” the groundskeeper called after him.

It took a while for Severus to spot Potter in the Quidditch stands – he’d half expected Potter to have scrounged a broom from somewhere and be doing death defying acrobatics in the air on it. Instead, Potter was lying on his stomach on one of the benches in the Ravenclaw section, scribbling intermittently on a piece of parchment, with long pauses in between as he seemed to think deeply.

Idly, Severus wondered if that hurt Potter.

Disinclined to shout – or climb the stands, either – Severus cast a quick spell on his throat. “Come along, Potter,” he said, his voice coming from the air beside Potter. “Time we should be going.”

He was gratified to see the boy jump, and then peer wildly around him, before noticing Severus on the ground some distance away. Scrambling to gather all his things, Potter then raced pell-mell down the stands as Severus removed his spell from his voice-box.

“What was that, sir?” he asked, as he arrived panting at Severus’ side. “That was wicked!”

“It’s a spell of my own invention,” said Severus. That was not pride he was feeling, he tried to assure himself. Just smugness. He carefully did not tell Potter he’d developed it specifically so he could harangue people at a distance as they walked away from him without having to strain his voice. He glanced down at the items bundled in Potter’s arms. “I hope you’ve got everything, since if you leave something behind now, you’ll have to wait until the term starts to collect it.”

“Uh . . .” Potter hastily double-checked everything he was holding. Severus rolled his eyes. “Yes, sir,” the boy said, finally. “I have everything.”

“Good. Come along, then.” Severus placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder and pushed him towards the school gates. Once outside, he firmed his grip, and without another word, they apparated away.

The white speck that had been growing bigger in the sky as it approached reached the place where man and boy had been mere seconds after they vacated it. Landing awkwardly on top of one of the gate’s winged-boar guardians, the Snowy owl let out a screech that was full of forlorn frustration. As soon as she’d felt the barrier separating her from her boy dissolve, she had snatched up the letter the bushy-haired girl had been trying to send to her boy, and had flown as fast as her wings could flap towards him.

And now her boy was gone again. She could feel that slippery barrier returning, her sense of her boy diminishing rapidly.

With a heart-felt screech that echoed through the air, Hedwig took to the air again, her speed much slower than on the journey here. It appeared she had no choice but to return to the bushy-haired girl and hope that she had another chance to get back to her boy.

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.

The Egyptian Parlour looked as though it had come straight out of an authentic Egyptian temple. With a ceiling that was almost the height of Hogwarts’ Great Hall, the room was split into sections by tall, slender white columns. The walls were pale, neutral colours, and were decorated here and there with sections of hieroglyphics. Severus had studied them at one point, and knew that they were the names of various wizarding pharaohs, scattered amongst runes for protection. Expensive looking vases alternated with white marble plinths that held statues of various figurines, usually of those the ancient Egyptian muggles had worshipped as gods.

At the far end of the room, grouped around an open fireplace in the middle of the floor, was a set of wicker furniture. The plump figure of Bertie Evergreen was seated in one of these chairs. Resting on a wicker table beside him was a silver tray, holding a sterling silver tea set.

“Severus, my boy!” Bertie beamed, as Severus led Potter across the room towards him. He did not get up from his chair. A broom accident some years before had damaged his spine beyond any healer’s ability to repair. Although he could walk – barely – getting in and out of chairs was a slow, agonising process that he didn’t undertake unless necessary. Remembering how active and athletic Bertie had been when he’d first met the man, Severus thought it was a shame.

“Bertie,” he greeted, as warmly as he was able. Of course, to most people, his tone wouldn’t have seemed any more friendly than he usually was, but Bertie had seen him grow up, and had known him before most of his masks had been developed.

Bertie raised an eyebrow as he looked behind Severus to where Potter was gawking unabashedly at the room. “Don’t tell me Albus is making you look after the sprogs during the summer, too?” he asked.

Severus snorted. “As if I’d agree to that,” he said. “There were—” the words felt sour in his mouth “—special circumstances. Bertie, this is Potter.”

“Potter? As in Harry Potter?” Bertie’s other eyebrow rose to join its fellow. “Lily’s boy?”

“One and the same,” Severus agreed. “Potter, this is Bertie Evergreen.”

Potter took a step closer to the two men, his fingers twisting anxiously together. The boy was practically vibrating with intensity. Severus glared at him, hoping to forestall any outburst that might be imminent. Unfortunately, apparently he’d worn the glare out when it came to Potter, as the brat didn’t even seem to notice it.

“Hello, sir,” he said breathlessly to Bertie, and then, with barely even a pause for breath, he blurted, “Did you know my mum, too, sir?”

Oh, Merlin! Severus groaned internally to himself.

“Not as such, no,” Bertie told him, glancing sideways and up at Severus as Potter’s face fell. “Only through what little I heard from Severus here, and through the grapevine.”

“Potter, go explore the room,” Severus ordered. “Bertie and I have business to discuss. Just don’t touch anything!”

“Yessir,” Potter muttered, disconsolately, and slouched off towards the other end of the room. Bertie watched him go, then turned to Severus with raised eyebrows.

Severus seated himself in the chair beside Bertie, and cast a sharp glance over to make sure that Potter wasn’t listening – or causing trouble. “Every person he meets cannot seem to help themselves from commenting on just how much like James Potter his offspring looks – except for the fact that he has Lily’s eyes. It is not helped by the fact that he gained a spot on the Gryffindor Quidditch team after his very first flight on a broom.”

“Ah, so everyone plies him with tales of how just like his father he is,” Bertie said, nodding in realisation. “Conveniently forgetting the poor boy has two parents.”

Believe me, I never forget who his parents are, Severus thought, bitterly. He cleared his throat, and turned his gaze away from the living reminder who was currently examining a vase with a pearl-like sheen, his hands clasped behind his back as though helping him to resist the urge to touch. “So, your letter said you were thinking of selling one of your animated models?” he asked, hoping to steer the conversation to safer waters.

“Yes,” Bertie agreed, after a pause and a frank gaze that said he knew exactly what Severus was doing. “You know how I hate to lose even one, but there is a new spinal treatment being proposed in Vienna. It may not, no, it will not completely cure me, but it may at least mean I am not reduced to either spending all day in whatever chair I choose in the morning, or in crippling agony.”

He paused, and waved a finger at the tea service. He had become very proficient at small wandless magics like that, mostly because it meant he didn’t have to move very far.

“Unfortunately,” he continued, as a tea cup floated over to Severus, “as you may expect from what is still a fairly experimental treatment, it is very expensive. Thus, when faced with a choice of keeping hold of my friends, or being able to move with less pain, the choice was fairly obvious.”

“No doubt,” Severus said, taking the cup. He took a small sip, then lowered it to the arm of his chair. “Although I noticed the one you advertised as possibly for sale was one of the duplicates you have.”

Bertie suddenly gave a big, booming laugh, throwing his head back in delight. Out of the corner of his eye, Severus saw Potter swing round at the noise, then turn away again when he realised it wasn’t because of something he’d done.

“Ah, Severus, it really would have to be a miracle cure before I ever give a thought to giving up a non-duplicate,” Bertie chuckled.

The corner of Severus’ mouth quirked upwards in a smile. If it hadn’t been a duplicate figure for sale, he doubted he’d be sat here now, as he’d likely have keeled over from the shock of it.

“Essy!” Bertie snapped his fingers, and the house-elf that had let them into the house popped into the room. “Please fetch the viewing stand and Marble,” he instructed her.

“Yes, sir, Master Bertie,” the elf said, bobbing her head in a respectful bow and popping out of the room again. Almost immediately, a small round table materialised between Severus’ and Bertie’s chairs.

“Essy will have to physically bring Marble in,” Bertie explained to Severus. “Marble’s fussy that way – doesn’t like being transported by magic.”

Severus raised his eyebrows. Perhaps being a duplicate wasn’t the only reason that this particular figure was being sold off.

“Um, sir?” Potter’s voice piped up from the other end of the room. “What does this do?”

Looking up, both men saw he was standing in front of an open display cabinet. The little wooden cuckoo bird inside was bobbing its head as it looked at him, tilting its head to peer up at the boy imperiously with first one eye, and then the other. Something inside the bird was glowing, and it was flashing regularly, little pulses that were almost invisible in the daylight.

“It’s an early warning system from an ancient tomb,” Bertie told the boy. “The bird was placed somewhere near the entrance, and if anybody stumbled upon the tomb – or actively went looking for it – then the bird would see them, and watch to see what they did. If it deemed them a threat, then it was linked to curses inside the tomb, which it could set off as and when necessary, leaving the tomb undisturbed.”

“And now it’s rigged into your security system?” asked Severus, knowingly.

Bertie laughed at him. “Indeed it is, my boy, indeed it is!” he chuckled.

“It looks alive,” Potter said, wonderingly, bending closer to look harder at the bird.

Severus rolled his eyes as Bertie laughed again. “That was the whole idea,” said Bertie. “Not much good having a secret alarm system, if your sentry gave the game away!”

Potter flushed, but before anything else could be said, the door to the Egyptian Parlour opened, and Essy walked through it very carefully. At first glance, it looked as though the elf was pretending to carry a box; it was only when she got closer that Severus realised she must be carrying an actual box that had been charmed invisible. Apparently floating a couple of inches above the elf’s hands was a figure of an Aethonian.

Reaching the table, the house-elf gingerly lowered the box to rest on it. The corners of the box were edged in metal, allowing the dimensions of the box to be seen, and also indicating where it was so that people could actually find it to lift it.

Potter shuffled his way over to them as Bertie leant forward and tapped a finger on the top of the box. “Come along, Marble,” he said, in a jovial tone. “You have company.”

Blinking slowly, the Aethonian seemed to come awake. It ruffled its wing feathers, and then unfolded its wings as far as they would go, flapping once, twice, before bringing the appendages back into its body. Stretching its neck out, it appeared to sniff the air, its muzzle wrinkling, before it drew back, shaking its head. Its mane flopped over its neck.

“Ohhh,” Potter breathed, sounding awe-struck. “It’s gorgeous!”

Severus had to admit that it was a very handsome figure. It had been named well, either by accident or design, as its acorn-brown body was streaked with paler browns and whites, making it look as though it were made out of actual marble.

The stallion was also apparently very susceptible to flattery, as at Potter’s words, it stuck its head out again, curving its neck and lifting its wings from its back, striking a pose so that all could admire it.

“Vain bugger,” Bertie said with a laugh. “He thinks he’s choosing new owners.”

“Oh?” Severus shot his friend a curious look. “He knows he’s leaving, then?”

The older wizard sighed. “He hasn’t given me much choice,” he murmured. “He may be a duplicate, but his temperament is not like the others’. He picked fights with two of the others, plus one with an Abraxan, too. He’s also taken a great dislike to one of the other Aethonians, and pushed it off their display shelf. If Essy hadn’t been there, then the poor thing would have been smashed to pieces.”

“So you think the best thing is to move him elsewhere?” Severus asked.

“It’s either that, or remove the charms from him,” Bertie pointed out, frowning at Severus. “He’s not a real stallion, my boy; I can’t have him gelded to calm his temper.”

“Couldn’t you just put him in another room?” Potter suddenly piped up, and both men turned abruptly towards him, having almost forgotten the young wizard was still in the room beside them.

“Good thinking, my boy,” said Bertie, beaming at him. “Unfortunately, most of my display rooms are full, and Marble doesn’t react very well to being left completely alone.”

“Am I going to have to fork out for another animated one to keep him company?” Severus asked, frowning. He’d barely be able to afford this one, and it was only by virtue of Bertie being his friend and willing to offer him a substantial discount.

Bertie shook his head. “No, no. He’s been quite alright so far with the non-animated Abraxans, likely because they’re too heavy for him to push around even when they don’t move, but he, ah, suffers separation anxiety if there’s no other figure in the room with him.”

“Separation anxiety?” asked Potter. He peered closely at the Aethonian figure as though expecting some flaw or disease to be visible.

“It means he panics when he thinks he’s completely alone,” Severus informed him. “In animals – even animated figurines – it can lead to very destructive behaviour.” He tapped a forefinger against his chin, mentally cataloguing his own collection and the space available in his house. “Mmm, I may have to clear some space from one of the bookcases downstairs,” he mused. “Probably best to keep him in eyesight for the immediate future.”

“Probably wise,” Bertie agreed. He looked down at the winged horse, who was looking back intently at Potter. “Well, Marble?” he prodded, tapping a finger on the glass box to draw attention to himself. “Are you happy to leave with Severus?”

The Aethonian flicked its tail, contemplatively, as it looked from Potter to Severus. Then it ruffled its wing feathers, mantled its wings for a brief moment, and then tossed its head in a nod as it tucked its wings back in close to its body.

“Good,” Severus said, giving a brisk nod of his own. He glanced at Potter. “Looks like you have your wish, Potter. We’ll be travelling back home via the Knight Bus.” He smirked, as Potter’s expression showed delight at not having to Apparate yet again, but then fell into lines of consternation as he remembered that first, wild trip.

It was quite late by the time they left Mr Evergreen’s house. This time, there were little carts that trundled them back up the long drive to the gate. “No need to prove they want to leave,” said Snape, when Harry commented on this. It was a very smooth ride, and Harry felt his eyes growing heavier.

The cart rolled to a stop, and the jostle of Snape getting out jerked Harry back into full consciousness. Marble gave a loud snort, as if warning him to be careful.

“Come along, Potter,” Snape said, and ushered him out through the tall gates. Moving a few steps forward, Snape held up his wand.

The Knight Bus had obviously been in the middle of a turn when summoned, as it appeared curving towards them on just two wheels. There was a horrifying moment when Harry thought it was going to tip over on them and crush them. He drew back against Snape’s still figure. Marble, his travelling box clutched tightly to Harry’s chest, reared up, his wings outspread as though trying to intimidate the monstrous purple vehicle.

Just when it appeared the bus was going to lose all balance and fall, there was a loud, metallic ping! from near the top of it, and it abruptly tilted the other way and landed with a thump on all four wheels. It juddered to a complete halt in front of them.

Harry found himself panting after holding his breath in anticipation of imminent death. Marble was agitatedly rustling his wings, snorting contemptuously. Apparently, he already didn’t much care for this mode of transport either. Harry couldn’t blame him.

“Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for stranded witches and wizards,” the conductor was saying, reading off a small card. Despite the fact it was the same conductor that had been there when Snape had tried to return him to Privet Drive, he didn’t appear to have learned his lines too well. “My name is Stan Shunpike,” the teenaged boy continued, “and I will be—” He raised his head, and came eye to tip with Snape’s wand. A strange gurgle escaped from his mouth, but no other words.

“We know who you are,” Snape sneered at him. He jabbed the wand forward, and the boy hurriedly backed up. “Come on, Po—” Even giving the wand a cross-eyed look, the conductor was obviously too interested for Snape’ peace of mind. “Podraig,” the professor corrected himself, with barely a hiccup.

Harry looked down at Marble. Podraig? he mouthed, but the Aethonian just shook his mane out and snorted.

Still puzzling over what the strange word meant, and why Snape had applied it to him, Harry followed his professor up the steps into the Knight Bus only to come to a halt as the interior met his eyes.

For instead of the armchairs the bus had had last time, now a row of beds stretched out. They all appeared to be four-poster beds, but without any curtains hanging around them. Strangely enough, they were all single four-poster beds, and were already swaying alarmingly from the bus’ wild halt. They all had different coloured bedding, none of which seemed to match any other piece. One bed was already occupied, the sleeping wizard in it snoring loudly. Harry wondered how on earth he managed to sleep through what was, essentially, a roller-coaster ride.

“Here, boy,” Snape called, and Harry darted down the aisle at the end of the beds to where the professor stood. He gestured for Harry to choose a bed. Dubiously, Harry poked at a bed with a pale green cotton blanket on it, before gingerly clambering onto it. Snape waved his wand, and Harry felt the Sticking Charm hit both him and Marble’s box.

“Ah, and where might we be taking the professor to this time?” Stan Shunpike asked, giving a smile that he no doubt thought was charming, but just made him look creepy.

“Spinner’s End,” Snape said, briskly, handing over the relevant coins, and sat himself down on the bed beside Harry’s.

“Spinner’s End,” said Stan, and then paused, as though expecting something else. When Snape said nothing, merely stared at him, Stan frowned slightly. “Right you are, sir,” he said, and made his way to the driver’s area, casting looks over his shoulder every so often. Harry was quite surprised he didn’t trip over one of the beds, since he was more concerned about what was behind him, rather than looking where he was going.

The Knight Bus took off with a jerk – apparently back to the corner it had been rounding before, as the entire vehicle suddenly slewed sideways. The bed Harry was sitting on abruptly felt like it was on wheels, and it rolled with the motion in a way that made Harry feel distinctly unpleasant. He grabbed hold of one of the upright columns, and swallowed hard.

Snape didn’t appear to be having any trouble, but when he could spare a glance, Marble was standing with all four legs braced, and his head low to the ground. Idly, Harry wondered if horses could get travel sickness.

“Where . . . exactly . . . are we?” Harry managed to get out. He’d tried looking out of the window, but it was now too dark outside to see. Then again, that may have been a blessing in disguise, since he wasn’t sure he wanted to see the route the bus was taking – or not taking.

“Essex,” said Stan, confidently, but then he frowned. “Or maybe Edinburgh.” There came a gargled murmur from the driver’s seat, and the conductor’s expression cleared. “Ah, Middleborough,” he proclaimed, beaming at them.

There was a sudden bang and lurch from the bus, and then the sound of water hitting the bus. At the same time, there came the faint, tinny sound of an alarm clock. Harry glanced upwards. He didn’t want to think of how loudly that alarm was ringing if he could hear it from a floor down . . . or even two, if it had been on the top floor.

Stan disappeared up the stairs, just as the bus came to a halt as abruptly as if it had smashed into a brick wall. All the beds on the ground floor – and presumably the other floors, too – smashed together at the front end of the bus. Despite the Sticking Charm, Harry grabbed frantically for both the bed and Marble’s box as the entire bed swung wildly. He vaguely envied Snape, who sat there as calmly as if he were sitting in his own non-moving armchair.

“Loch Ness!” Stan’s voice floated back down to them. “Loch Ness! Who’s for Loch Ness?”

“Loch Ness?” Harry tried to peer out of the window, but could still see nothing but the reflected interior of the bus. “We’re actually at Loch Ness? In Scotland?”

Snape made a vague humming sound of agreement. “From the sound of it,” he said, “we’ve just travelled straight over the Loch.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. That’s what the sound of water had been? Then his eyebrows drew together in a frown. “The bus can travel over water, sir?” he asked.

“It’s a magical bus,” Snape pointed out, raising an eyebrow of his own at Harry. “It can travel almost anywhere you want the bus to take you.”

Harry tried hard, but couldn’t entirely suppress the blush that crept up his face. He supposed he should have thought of that, but he was still getting used to the fact that wizards even had a bus system at all.

Voices came from upstairs, and two wizards tip-toed down the stairs, Stan hurrying behind them, trying his best to get in front. The foremost wizard staggered to the door and lurched out before Stan could grab him. There was a brief whoop, and an almighty splash.

“Mind the step,” Stan said to the other wizard, forcefully. He spun the wizard around, and pointed at a door that Harry hadn’t noticed before, directly opposite the one they’d got in by. “That’s the land side.”

From outside came a bellowing, yet somehow musical, roar that sounded as though it were underwater. Something slapped against the outside of the bus, which rocked alarmingly, and something went yodelling overhead.

“Thanks, Nessie!” Stan yelled out of the door the unfortunate wizard had fallen through, and half-pushed the second wizard out of the land side door.

Harry gaped at Stan, then tried his hardest to see out of the window, before turning to Snape. “Nessie?” he asked, disbelievingly. “The Loch Ness Monster is real?!”

“Of course it’s real,” Snape said, sounding briefly puzzled. “Even the Muggles have pictures of it.”

“I thought they were just hoaxes,” said Harry, turning back to the window. He jumped when the underside of what looked like a flipper slapped against the glass, before sliding off again.

“Nah, Nessie just don’t like being photographed that often,” Stan said from behind him, and reached out to slap twice at the wall. “Thanks, Ness! Take ‘er away, Ern!”

“Yeah, take ‘er away, Ern!” chortled the shrunken head hanging beside the driver.

Harry gulped and made a grab for the bedcovers and Marble’s box, as the bus leapt away as though rocket-propelled, and all the beds slid down towards the back of the bus.

By the time they stumbled off the Knight Bus in Spinner’s End, after zig-zagging up and down the country for half an hour, Potter had turned a nasty shade of white, and the animated Aethonian was leaning heavily against a corner of its box, as though the two walls were the only thing keeping it upright.

Severus had to admit, the trip had been a tad wilder than it normally was. No doubt the vision spells on the shrunken head that linked to the driver’s thick coke-bottle eyeglasses needed refreshing again. Either that or the thing had been asleep for part of the journey.

“Come along, Potter,” he said, turning to unlock the wards on his front door. “I think it’s past time you were in bed.”

The boy looked as though he wanted to protest, but even as the thought crossed his mind, a yawn took him by surprise.

Severus carefully concealed a smirk as he ushered the boy into the house in front of him, ensuring that he set the wards again once they were safely inside. Turning back again, he studied the living room. “I believe that Marble will be spending the night in your room, Potter,” he decided, finally. He’d heard a lot of stories about how long it took animated figurines to settle in, and he had no wish to be disturbed by the Aethonian flapping back and forth and posturing at the non-animated figures all night.

Potter had sat down on the edge of his armchair, his school books still lying on the seat from when Severus had discovered Bertie’s letter and hustled him out. His head was down, although Severus couldn’t tell if that was because the boy was studying Marble or if he was falling asleep where he sat. Or, of course, he could be giving thanks for being back on steady ground, Severus thought, a corner of his mouth curling upwards before he caught himself.

Drawing his wand, Severus leaned in and tapped it thrice on the top of Marble’s travelling box, preparing the charms to reverse themselves. It was hard to ignore Potter’s violent flinch as his arm suddenly appeared in the boy’s line of sight, but when Potter flushed and darted a quick upward glance at him, Severus pretended that he hadn’t noticed. That was a conversation for another day when it wasn’t so late.

“Place the box upon the desk in your room,” he instructed. “Marble may be very active at first; try to ignore him if at all possible. He needs to learn that he won’t be pandered to.”

The Aethonian let out an indignant snort and shook his head, his mane flopping over his neck.

Potter gave a weak smile, then a slightly firmer one to the Aethonian. “He won’t bother me,” he said. He rose to his feet, clutched the box tightly to his chest with one hand and scrabbled to scoop up his school books with the other hand. “What about food and . . . stuff?” he asked, hesitantly. Marble tilted his head and peered up at the boy.

Severus shook his head and moved towards the bookcase hiding the stairway. “He may be animated, but he’s still only a figurine,” he pointed out. “His innards are still resin. What the entire figure is made of,” he added, sensing rather than seeing Potter’s mouth open on another question. “It’s a type of modelling material, made of hardened tree sap.” It was a bit more complicated than that, but he wasn’t sure Potter would have understood, even if the boy wasn’t almost asleep on his feet.

Opening the bookcase, he gestured for Potter to go up. “Go to bed, Potter,” he said.

Potter had barely set foot on the first stair before he suddenly paused, and then turned and scurried back into the living room, a flush creeping over his cheekbones, setting Marble’s box onto the seat of the armchair as he passed. Realising what was wrong, Severus stifled a chuckle as Potter dashed outside towards the outhouse.

When he returned some five minutes later, he scooped up Marble’s box and headed for the stairs again. “Good night, sir,” he murmured. Marble snorted and bobbed his head.

“Good night, Potter,” Severus responded, and closed the bookcase door behind the boy.

Harry placed the travelling box on the small desk and sat down on the bed. The box slowly turned opaque, almost as if it were filling with fog. Once he could no longer see inside, the box abruptly sprang open, almost like a flower unfurling its petals, until it was lying flat on the desk.

It reminded Harry of primary school, when they’d been making 3D shapes. He’d figured out how to do it fairly quickly, but Dudley hadn’t seemed to get the hang of it at all, so Harry had done it once, just to prove to himself that he could, and had then spent the rest of the lesson putting it together in every way but the correct one. After his fourth ‘attempt’, the teacher had left him alone in disgust at his ineptitude.

Now, the animated Aethonian stalked off what had been his box and stood at the edge of the desk, his head up as he examined his new kingdom, his wings mantled up and open to make himself look bigger. Finally, with a long rolling snort, Marble backed up a couple of paces, and then launched himself off the desk, spiralling upwards to circle the light fixture.

Harry shifted to lie on his back under the covers, idly watching as Marble soared past the other figurines, obviously showing off to them. It was hypnotic, and it wasn’t long before his eyelids were drooping shut.

“Marble, no!” Harry shouted, as he lunged sideways out of his chair to catch the falling figurine before it hit the floor.

With it safely in his hands, he rolled onto his back to glare upwards at the nickering Aethonian.

The day after they’d brought Marble home, Snape had rearranged the living room bookcases, removing some of the books that Harry wasn’t allowed to touch and replacing them with some of the figurines that he had elsewhere. This allowed Marble to have company whether he was upstairs or down.

Unfortunately, Bertie Evergreen’s comments about Marble picking fights had been remarkably restrained. The Aethonian appeared to be incapable of getting on with all of the non-animated ones. In the past week, he’d already pushed a Granian off the shelf in Harry’s room – only the fact that there was almost no spare space at all had saved it, as it had landed on the bed.

And now he’d just done the same to a heavy-set Abraxan foal.

Cradling the poor thing in his hands, Harry clambered to his feet. He was about to set the foal back on the shelf where it had been when he caught sight of the look Marble was giving him. Realising that the foal would only end up making another swan dive towards the floor, he retreated to his chair, and placed the cream coloured foal carefully between his leg and the arm of the chair. Marble snorted in disdain, and went back to posturing at the rest of the adult Aethonians.

Giving him suspicious glances every now and again, Harry went back to concentrating on his Astronomy homework. They were supposed to draw a chart of how the planets had aligned on the day of their birth, and then project it forward to draw how the planets would look on the day they came of age – which Hermione had helpfully informed him was seventeen in the Wizarding world. Professor Sinistra had said that they were then to write an essay on what influences this would have on them, and how they could enhance or mitigate the effects.

He was just struggling with Europa – all of his circles were a little wobbly, but this particular one looked more like a spreading ink blot than the others – when a sleek silver cat suddenly strolled through the wall.

Surprised, Harry blinked at it, as it sat down in front of him, drawing itself up, tail curled neatly around its forepaws. It gazed imperiously around the room, and then looked up at him, head tilted as if to ask who he was, why he was there, and why he wasn’t immediately getting the person it was after.

“Um, if you’re after Professor Snape,” he said, hesitantly, “he’s out in his lab.”

The cat turned its head as if it could see through the house wall to the lab outside, then turned back again, one ear flicking in a desultory manner.

Harry sighed. “You want me to go fetch him, don’t you,” he stated.

The cat blinked once.

Sighing again, Harry put his homework aside and got to his feet. Crossing the room towards the kitchen, he had to backtrack to collect the Abraxan foal when he spotted Marble preparing to dive-bomb the poor thing. Clutching it safely to his chest and glaring at the Aethonian, he made his way outside and hoped that Snape wouldn’t be too annoyed with him for interrupting.

The first round of knocking was so faint that Severus momentarily paused in stirring the potion in front of him, trying to decide if he were hearing things. Unfortunately, the experimental potion was extremely volatile, and the moment’s inattention cost him.

The second round of knocking was obscured by the deep, rolling BOOM that shook the entire laboratory.

Gingerly picking himself up from the floor, Severus glared at the thin layer of orange-yellow liquid that was now covering everything – including him. Striding towards the door, he gestured curtly with his wand, and the door burst open, ricocheting off the wall so hard that it almost slammed itself shut again. Severus’ temper was not improved by the sight of Potter cowering away from the doorway. The boy was clutching a figurine to his chest, and Severus hoped the boy hadn’t come to tell him that he’d been clumsy whilst playing and had broken it.

“What is it, Potter?” he snarled.

Potter’s eyes widened as the boy got a good look at him, and his mouth opened and closed soundlessly a few times. “Err . . .” he finally stammered out. “Sorry, sir. One of those silver things came through the wall again, a cat, and I think it wants you.”

A cat Patronus. Severus froze. Only two people that he knew had a cat as their Patronus, and Minerva McGonagall would not have bothered to announce her arrival. “What does it look like?” he asked.

“Posh,” Potter said, and Severus felt the chill creeping up his spine again. Damn. Definitely not Minerva’s, then. Her Patronus was an almost-feral looking Scottish wild cat.

Severus’ mind began racing, trying to determine whether it would be better to hastily banish Potter to his room, with strict orders not to come down for any reason – easily trapped – or to send him to walk the surrounding areas – better chance of Lucius getting to him first – or to just lock Potter into his lab – too many dangerous substances, especially for a nosy teenage boy.

In the end, there really was no good choice.

He spat something that made Potter gape at him, then grabbed the boy by the shoulder and hustled him inside. As soon as they reached the living room, the silvery messenger stretched languidly and came to sit at his feet, ignoring Marble, who had been prancing in front of it, wings up and neighing in strident challenge. “Ah, Severus,” it purred in Lucius’ lazy drawl, “I shall be calling round to see you. Do be available, there’s a good chap.” And with a flick of its tail, the Patronus faded away.

Severus swore again – although only mentally, this time – and pushed Potter towards the hidden doorway. “Upstairs,” he ordered, following closely on the boy’s heels. “No,” he barked as Potter automatically turned towards his own room, “not that way! In here!” Shoving his own bedroom door open, he yanked Potter sideways.

No doubt Potter was gaping at the place, but there was no time for that. Hastily tapping out the sequence for the wards, Severus pushed the boy into what was essentially a large wardrobe. “Stay here,” he ordered. “Wait until I come back for you. Do not attempt to leave – you won’t like what the wards would do to you. Keep quiet, no matter what you hear . . . and touch NOTHING!” With that, he slammed the door and locked it again.

Hastily conjuring his own Patronus, he sent it off to Albus. He didn’t think the headmaster would be able to do anything to or about Lucius, but at least he’d know where to start looking if Potter went missing.

Then he went downstairs to wait for his . . . visitor.

Harry barely paid attention to Snape’s warnings. He was too busy being gobsmacked about actually getting to see inside Snape’s room without being dead first. And then . . . the space he’d been pushed into . . .

He’d thought at first that Snape was shoving him into an ordinary wardrobe, and had been trying to resign himself to spending who knew how long pressed up with robes that smelt of potions ingredients.

Instead, he found himself at the beginning of a long corridor that seemed to stretch into the distance for miles. On either side of him, towering above his head, were shelves with little spotlights built in. And on the shelves were figurines. Hundreds and hundreds of them.

Still cradling the Abraxan from downstairs, Harry began wandering down the corridor, stopping occasionally to closer examine a particular figure.

About halfway down on the right hand side, he came across a small alcove. Instead of shelves, it held a pedestal, with just one figurine on it. Bright spotlights shone down on it. A half-way opened scroll was hung at the top of the alcove, and in curly letters, it proclaimed, ‘Lily’, although Harry couldn’t tell if that was an official name for the figurine, or just one that Snape had come up with.

The figurine was a Hippocampus. Its tail curled underneath it, with its forelegs draw up as though it was resting on thin air. It was slender, and smaller than the ones that Harry had seen in his room. A young one, then, he decided. Not an actual foal, but a young adult.

The horse part of it was a deep and yet somehow bright auburn colour, and its tail was a striking emerald green. Its mane looked as though it was being moved by underwater currents, and it drifted across the Hippocampus’ face, so that it was peeking out through the strands in a remarkably shy manner. Its ears, though, were eagerly pricked forward.

“Wow,” Harry murmured. His fingers tingled with the urge to reach out and touch the beautiful figurine, but he suddenly remembered Snape’s warning and tucked his hand more firmly around the Abraxan foal he still carried. The figurine was not pretty enough to die for.

Strangely reluctant to look away from this figurine, Harry slowly began meandering down the corridor again, wondering if he’d have time to see all of them before Snape remembered he was here and came to fetch him.

Lucius Malfoy appeared in his living room with an authoritative crack, opened his mouth, spotted Severus, and gaped at him.

At that point, Severus remembered he was still covered in the exploded potion. Growling, he swiped his wand over himself.

“Well, if you will interrupt me when I’m brewing,” he grumbled. He just hoped the substance hadn’t hardened by the time he was free to go and clean his lab.

Lucius closed his mouth and cleared his throat, pulling together his dignity again. “I shall remember that for next time,” he said, and luckily turned away before he could see Severus wince. Severus dearly hoped there wouldn’t be a ‘next time’. “Two chairs, Severus?” Lucius abruptly asked, sharply.

“Dumbledore,” said Severus, folding his arms over his chest and scowling. “The old man will make himself free with other people’s belongings.” Seeing the sideways glance his old school mate gave him, Severus rolled his eyes. Some people are too paranoid for their own good, he thought. “Don’t be obtuse, Lucius,” he sighed. “Of course those aren’t the chairs Dumbledore conjured.” He shuddered just thinking of some of the monstrosities Albus had conjured in the past. “His were a lot more garish.”

“Hmm.” Twirling his wand between his fingers, Lucius suddenly gestured commandingly at the chair that wasn’t covered in parchment. With a sinking feeling, Severus realised that Potter had been doing his homework in ‘his’ armchair when Lucius’ Patronus had arrived. In his rush to get Potter out of sight, he hadn’t asked what the boy had been doing.

The chair that Lucius was looking at was morphing inwards and upwards, turning into a wooden chair with a tall back, with a cream-coloured leather panel running down the middle of it, and matching the leather seat. It looked rather like something come directly from the Malfoys’ dining room.

When it had stopped moving, Lucius twirled his wand again, slotting it into place in the top of his cane, and gracefully seated himself. Severus was about to take the other armchair, when Marble abruptly dashed in front of him, clutching a piece of parchment from Merlin knew where in his teeth. The Aethonian landed on the seat of the armchair and dropped the parchment right over the one that Potter had obviously been drawing on. The animated figure then crow-hopped onto the pile, turned around twice, and then faced Lucius, his head and wings up to make himself look bigger.

“Marble!” Severus growled, scowling to hide his relief. Shooing the Aethonian off the chair, he scooped up the parchment and shoved it onto one of the shelves. Marble flicked his tail at Severus, then disappeared into the kitchen. Several seconds later came the sound of cutlery clattering into the sink.

Lucius raised an eyebrow at Severus, but made no comment.

As it was no concern of Lucius’, Severus merely raised an eyebrow back as he settled himself into the cleared armchair. Crossing his legs, he leant back and studied Lucius.

“A little bird told me the most fascinating rumour,” Lucius began. He rested the cane upright between his knees and rested both hands on the handle.

“Since when do you listen to rumours?” Severus asked.

“The Ministry runs on gossip, Severus,” Lucius said. His gaze sharpened. “Don’t you want to know what they’re saying about you now?”

“More of the same drivel they usually spout, no doubt.” Severus folded his arms again and glared at the blond aristocrat. “Why should I care this time? It’ll pass soon enough when they find something else to bandy about.”

“You may want to listen this time, Severus, in case it reaches the wrong ears,” Lucius said, firmly. “It appears that the Boy-Who-Lived is no longer safely hidden with his relatives. Cornelius had word that he was spotted here, with you.”

Severus snorted. “Does it look like anyone else is staying here?” he demanded. When Lucius briefly glanced away from him to check the room, he was suddenly glad that Potter hadn’t broken the habit of clearing up after himself. Granted, Severus wouldn’t have stood for any mess, anyway, but Potter’s relatives had beaten it into him – all but literally – that nothing was to remain in sight to remind them of him. Their neglectful treatment meant the boy didn’t have much, but what he did have was kept safely and neatly in whatever place he considered his – in this case, the room upstairs.

“Hmm.” Lucius’ cold gaze swung back to the Potions Master. “And of course, if he did end up being foisted upon you—”

“Then of course, I’d take the appropriate actions,” Severus confirmed, making sure his Occulmency shields were firmly in place. If Lucius took his phrasing to mean Severus would be turning the brat over to his . . . friends, well, Severus couldn’t help that, could he.

Lucius smiled, although there was no hint of mirth in it. “Good,” he said, and rose to his feet in a fluid movement. “Oh, I may have some good news for you,” he added, as though he had almost forgotten. Severus wondered if this was the real reason the Malfoy patriarch had come to visit.

“Oh?” he prompted, refusing to move from his chair.

“You may not have to put up with the old fool much longer.” Lucius smirked as he smoothed a hand down his robes, checking for non-existent creases. “Two-thirds of the Board of Directors have . . . agreed with me that it is high time Dumbledore retired.”

“Indeed?” Severus made a note to warn Albus about the shenanigans obviously going on in the background. The Hogwarts Board of Directors were famous for not agreeing on anything – and certainly not unanimously. “Glad tidings indeed. Although I shall believe it when I see it, as Dumbledore is tenacious when it comes to holding on to his power.”

“Oh, he may find that it’s not so easy as he expects. Especially this year.” Lucius inclined his head. “Good day, Severus.” And with a sharp crack!, he was gone.

Annoyingly, Albus did not look nearly so worried as Severus thought he should be at hearing the news that Lucius Malfoy was in some way coercing the Board of Directors to fire him.

“Honestly, my boy, they’ll find it much harder to get rid of me than that,” he tried to reassure Severus from the reformed armchair. “Not to mention that just agreeing to fire me isn’t enough – they’ll need a reason.”

“Oh, of course, because it’s not like they can’t just manufacture one!” Severus said, throwing his hands up in disgust as he paced the living room.

Albus’ laughter stopped him in his tracks. “My dear boy, you’ve not read the Charter, have you?” the headmaster finally managed to splutter out. “They must prove that my remaining in the role is detrimental to the school. Merely disagreeing with me will not suffice. If it did, they would have removed me in my first year!”

Relieved, although he still thought Albus was dismissing it far too easily, Severus sat down in the other armchair, dubiously accepting the cup of tea that Albus conjured for him. To his pleased surprise, it wasn’t as sugar-laden as Albus normally made it.

“I believe you had another reason to invite me here?” Albus asked, a few minutes later.

Severus put the cup aside. “I did,” he agreed. “Potter would like to know if you have anything that belonged to his parents.”

Albus raised his eyebrows, then they lowered into a thoughtful frown. “I know there was a family vault,” he said, finally. “I’m afraid I have no idea what they might have stored in there. In fact, I’m unsure if Harry would even be allowed access to anything in there . . .”

“They left nothing with you?” Severus queried. “What about anything from the house after . . .” His voice trailed off.

“The house and all its contents were almost completely destroyed,” said Albus, regretfully. “The only thing they left with me was James’ Cloak. I had requested it to study, and had not found the opportunity to return it.” A thought suddenly seemed to hit the headmaster, and he tilted his head, his eyes suddenly beginning to twinkle at Severus. “Why the sudden interest, my boy?”

Severus growled at him. “I am not interested,” he stated. “Potter is interested, naturally, in anything his parents might have owned.”

“And I suppose you volunteered to ask, out of the kindness of your heart,” Albus teased. Severus scowled harder. “Speaking of Harry,” Albus continued, “I was hoping to speak to him. I presume you sent him out of Lucius’ way; when do you expect him back?”

At this, Severus shot to his feet in panic. Oh, Merlin, I left Potter in the exhibit case!

Luckily for Severus’ peace of mind – and Potter’s continuing state of good health – he hadn’t discovered that his exhibit case was now a shambles of pottery shards. Instead, Potter had been casually walking back towards the door, stopping every now and then to closer examine one figurine or another.

It was also fortunate that the boy hadn’t been startled too badly when Severus had abruptly burst in. If he’d had time to think, then Severus would have made a calmer entrance. It was pure chance, he reflected to himself ruefully later on, that Potter hadn’t jumped a mile, straight into one of the display shelves.

Hustling him back out of the case as quickly as he’d hustled him in, Severus pointed him in Albus’ direction while he secured the exhibit case again, after giving a quick glance at the Lily figurine and a brief caress of her nametag.

He joined the others just in time to hear Albus asking Potter about his summer.

“It’s – it’s been fine, sir,” Potter answered, hesitantly. “Much better than it usually is,” he added in a low mutter, casting a sideways glance at Severus.

Unfortunately, Severus doubted that he’d have to work too hard to make it better than it had been, and Albus’ look told him the headmaster shared his opinion.

“Still, you must be looking forward to next week, eh, my boy?” Albus asked, gesturing for Potter to take the other armchair. Severus nodded as the boy looked questioningly at him, and Potter sank onto the seat, still clutching the Abraxan foal to his chest.

“Um, next week?” he asked, when it became apparent that Albus was waiting for an answer. “I don’t know what—” His voice trailed off, even as Severus’ mind flicked through a mental calendar and came to a halt on the last day of the month.

Oh, Merlin! Potter’s birthday! he thought, and barely managed to suppress a wince. Seeing the twinkle in Albus’ eyes, Severus had to stifle a groan too, and escaped into the kitchen, ostentatiously to look for Marble, who’d remained in there since Lucius’ visit. No doubt Albus expects me to buy Potter a present, he grumbled mentally to himself.

“Oh,” he heard Potter say, tone full of surprise. “My birthday. Er, right. I suppose . . .”

Wincing, Severus remembered some of his own birthdays, where his best present had been when his father had ignored him. He hadn’t quite known what to do the first time he’d had his birthday at Hogwarts – it had been the first time that he’d ever received a proper present from anyone. Even Lily had never gotten him one in those early days before they’d gone off to school; she’d known all too well that Severus would never have been allowed to keep it for long. Instead, she’d usually settled for getting her mother to bake his favourite kind of biscuits for him, and they’d spend an hour or so after school in her parents’ kitchen, eating warm biscuits, drinking cold milk, and generally laughing their heads off at what they planned to do once they really knew how to use magic.

He was broken from his reverie by Marble abruptly landing on his shoulder. Fluttering his wings for balance, the Aethonian huffed softly, and nudged Severus’ cheek with his cold, hard nose.

Severus reached up to run a finger down Marble’s neck. “Yes, you were very clever,” he admitted. Marble gave a smug nicker, and stretched his neck out so Severus could stroke more of it. “It’s a good thing you don’t actually eat,” Severus pretended to grumble. “I’d spend a fortune buying you treats.”

With a neigh that sounded suspiciously like a cackling laugh, Marble launched himself into the air, and swooped back into the living room.

Hoping that all talk of birthdays was past, Severus followed him and stood in the doorway, his arms folded across his chest.

“Ah, Severus,” Albus said. “I was just informing Harry that I’ll have to send his letter by Floo or portkey.”

“You’ve still not discovered what’s blocking the owls, then?” Severus asked, raising an eyebrow.

Albus scowled. “No,” he admitted, reluctantly. “And I have tried every method of revealing that I know of, and even a few that I don’t technically know of, and yet nothing shows up!” He slapped a hand on the arm of the chair in frustration, then peered at Severus. “Are you sure you added nothing that would cause this?” he asked.

It was Severus’ turn to scowl. “Of course I haven’t!” he barked, indignantly. “For Merlin’s sake, Albus, you saw for yourself what spells I have here! And WHY would I inconvenience myself this way?”

Sighing, Albus’ shoulders slumped. “No, of course, of course, dear boy,” he said. “I apologise; of course it isn’t anything you did. Nor you, Harry,” he added, causing Potter to jump at being addressed so abruptly.

Potter blinked. He hadn’t even considered the possibility it was something he’d done, Severus realised. Although, if it turned out it had been Potter’s fault, Severus would eat his best cauldron . . . after making Potter scrub it thoroughly clean, naturally.

“Still, there are still one or two avenues that I haven’t explored yet,” Albus continued. “With any luck, we’ll discover the answer before the summer ends.” The headmaster began to rise to his feet, but then paused, and sank back into the chair. “That is another question that must be answered,” he said, gazing steadily at Potter. “Where you will be staying next summer.”

Potter’s mouth opened, then he shot a glance at Severus, and closed it again. Severus raised an eyebrow. He was rather eager to hear Albus’ solution to the problem. He just hoped it didn’t involve him – he was not a babysitter!

“Do you have any preference, my boy?” asked Albus. Potter silently shook his head, and looked down at the Abraxan that was still cradled in his hands. “Mm, well,” Albus carried on after a moment, “we have almost an entire year before it becomes necessary to decide, don’t we?” The elderly wizard stood up and turned to Severus. “Let me know if Lucius pays a return visit,” he ordered, and without even waiting for Severus’ return nod, disapparated on the spot with a neat crack.

Three days later, Harry was in the kitchen when a small leather and metal trunk appeared in the middle of the living room. He was about to go and examine it when he remembered Snape’s reaction to the last item that had suddenly appeared that way. “You should always check unexpected things for curses.”

The problem was, Harry had no idea what curses he should even be looking for, let alone how to check. He frowned and gave a quick glance to the clock. Snape wouldn’t be out of his lab for at least an hour, and the trunk was right in the middle of the room. If the thing was booby-trapped, how far away from it was safe?

His curiosity was not diminished by the sight of the word “POTTER” stamped across the top of the trunk in what looked like gold letters.

“What do you think?” he asked Marble, who was peering down from the top of one of the bookcases. “Snape’ll likely kill me if I just go ahead and open it . . . but it says Potter on it; that must mean it’s mine.”

Marble gave a loud snort and tossed his head, scraping a hoof along the shelf. Harry’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah, I know,” he sighed. “I shouldn’t touch it, but wait for Snape to look at it.”

The Aethonian gave a pleased whicker and went back to snuffling around the top of the bookcase. Harry had no idea what on earth the Pegasus was up to, but at least he wasn’t bullying any more of the other figurines. Just as a precaution, he’d taken to carrying the Abraxan foal with him everywhere. Harry was pretty sure that Snape was gearing up for an explosion as to why he shouldn’t be touching the figurines, let alone carrying one all the time, but every time he’d even thought about putting it back on the shelf, Marble had turned a beady eye on it.

Biting his lower lip, Harry edged around the trunk to reach the armchair that his homework was resting on. He’d actually almost finished it all – Hermione would be proud of him, he was sure, although Ron would likely be horrified when he found out; it was highly doubtful that his first friend had even started their homework, let alone finished it. He only had Herbology left to do, and then, if he’d understood the headmaster’s comment correctly, he’d have his second-year books, and would have to start reading them.

Then again, if he’d been with the Dursleys, no doubt he’d have been doing it all on the train to Hogwarts.

Harry managed to engross himself in his homework so much (“Explain why it is illegal to plant Night-Blooming Ceffapods in Muggle areas” “The Muggles keep thinking they’re drunk because they start seeing dancing pink elephants”) that he actually jumped when Snape appeared in the doorway from the kitchen.

“Well, at least you’ve learned sense, Potter,” he said, in tones that actually contained something an awful lot like approval. He waved his wand in several intricate patterns over the trunk. It glowed a soft red colour, which made Harry wonder just how cursed the thing was. “Hmm, come here, Potter.”

Warily, Harry let his parchments slide to the chair and inched his way back around the trunk to reach Snape’s side.

“You are obviously not allowed to use magic outside of school,” Snape started, “but that doesn’t stop you from learning wand movements and incantations. Stand here, Potter.” He pointed a finger at the space just in front of him.

Wondering if Snape was going to curse him in the back – or use him bodily to discover what curses were on the trunk – Harry did so, and tried not to be obvious that his neck and shoulders had tensed at having someone behind him like that.

“Normally, you don’t start to learn curses and their counters until fourth year,” Snape continued, “but seeing as you’re the Boy-Who-Lived,” his lip curled in disdain, “then it may be in your interests to get a head start. Now, pretending you’re holding your wand like so . . .”

Surprisingly, Harry actually enjoyed learning how to detect if something was cursed. Considering Snape was a lot more enthusiastic – and patient – than he ever was in the Potions classroom, then Harry supposed that Percy Weasley had been right, way back at the Welcome Feast last year. He most likely did want the DADA job.

“And to end the spell, swish your wand upside down like this, and a curl like that, and then—” Snape brought his wand up abruptly in front of him, and the glow that had been surrounding the trunk disappeared. “No curses. You may as well open it now,” he said, in a very stilted way that Harry presumed was supposed to be casual.

“It really is for me?” Harry asked, feeling a burst of delight tickle his stomach.

Snape snorted and strode past the trunk to sit in his armchair, casually plucking Marble out of the air as the Aethonian tried to dive-bomb him. Marble snorted in protest, and struggled free of Snape’s grip to stand on the arm of the chair, but then heaved a great sigh and lay down. Snape gave a huff of amusement, and ran a finger along his back. The Pegasus’ flanks twitched, but he didn’t bother to move away.

“Yes, it’s for you, Potter,” said Snape. “Albus went looking for anything your parents had. He was not allowed into the family vault, nor could he gain you access, but the goblins were apparently willing to pick out a few things. I believe it was supposed to be a birthday present,” he continued, waving a hand dismissively, “but of course Albus had to send it so it appeared right in front of you . . .”

Harry gaped at the trunk. Not only a birthday present (from who? The headmaster? SNAPE?!), but things that his parents had owned, had touched. Torn between just standing and staring at it in reverence, and dashing over and throwing himself across it, Harry slowly inched towards the trunk, and held out a trembling hand to touch the gold letters.

To his surprise, as soon as his fingers brushed the lid, there was a pulse of warmth that shot straight up his arm and settled in his chest. While he was basking in the glow of that, a small click came from the trunk’s lid.

“Interesting,” said Snape’s voice, and Harry jumped, having forgotten his professor was still in the room. “A blood ward – I didn’t think the Potters had anything to do with blood magic.”

“Is it bad, sir?” Harry asked.

Snape shook his head. “Of course not,” he said. “There were blood wards on your relatives’ house, too, powered by your mother’s sacrifice and the matching blood in Petunia’s veins. Most blood wards are created for situations exactly like this – to enable the relatives of a person access to something but ensuring that no one who might be . . . undesirable can touch it. Strong wards don’t even let anybody else see there’s something hidden.”

Dropping to his knees beside the trunk, Harry tentatively hefted the lid. Either it was a lot less solid than it looked, or there was more magic at work, because the lid flew open, smacking against the back of the trunk with a bang.

Harry winced, shot a quick glance at Snape to see how angry he was, and resolved to be more careful.

The first layer in the trunk appeared to be books, but when Harry pulled two of them out, he discovered they were photo albums. Opening one to a random page, he gasped as he saw a little girl and a young boy in a garden, convulsed with laughter, while another, older, girl was running away with her hands over her face.

Remembering what Snape had said about knowing his mother when they were young, Harry tilted the album so the professor could see the picture. “Sir?” he asked. “Is this . . . you?”

Snape snorted as soon as he saw the photo. “Mrs Evans must have taken that. Sneaky woman!” he said, fondly. “Yes, Potter, that is me. Your mother had just had a ferocious argument with Petunia, and had a burst of accidental magic. Petunia suddenly broke out in purple and green spots.”

Harry giggled, just imagining his aunt with great big multi-coloured spots. Flipping through the album, he could see lots of pictures of the little girl, quite a few of which also featured the young Snape, and a few which included other people that he didn’t know. Trying one of the other albums, he discovered it held pictures of Hogwarts.

“Oh, wow,” he gasped, coming across a wizarding photo that sparkled. It showed a large crowd dancing in what looked like it could be the Great Hall. Icicles and snowflakes were everywhere. A couple on the left of the photo suddenly twirled themselves closer to the middle, and Harry gasped again as he realised that they were his parents.

“The Yule Ball,” Snape commented, his tone gone sour. “Our sixth year.”

Although he desperately wanted to hear more – what on earth was the Yule Ball? – Harry hastily shut that particular photo album and turned to rummage in the trunk again. The next layer seemed to be clothes, as he pulled out several large woollen jumpers, two T-shirts, a large, extremely fancy dress that Snape grudgingly told him had been Lily’s wedding dress, and three different length dressing-gowns. Tucked into the pocket of one of the dressing-gowns was a pair of extremely small shoes.

“No doubt yours,” said Snape, raising an eyebrow. “I believe parents become unreasonably attached to baby clothing . . .”

“No way!” Harry gaped at the shoes. They both fit comfortably in the palm of one hand. It was hard to believe that he’d ever been small enough to wear them. As gingerly as if they were made of glass, he tucked them back safely, and made sure not to throw the dressing-gown anywhere.

The next item from the trunk seemed to be a large ball of what felt like velvet. Snape suddenly sat upright, his breath catching in his throat. “Open it,” he demanded. “If that’s what I think it is—”

Puzzled, Harry unwrapped and unwrapped and unwrapped. In the end, resting on a thick pile of velvet over his knees, lay an Abraxan figurine. Moving cautiously, he lifted the figurine upright. Snape made a noise that, in anyone else, Harry might have called a sob.

“Lily’s favourite,” he said, huskily. “She found it at a yard sale just before her thirteenth birthday. It was being held by a group of elderly witches – all the matrons from the old families had them – and Lily fell in love with that one as soon as she saw it. She was determined to have it, even if it cost her every last Knut she had on her.” Snape suddenly chuckled. “See, Potter, the matrons would usually name a price, and that was it – you had to pay that much if you wanted it. Supposedly the money raised went to good causes, although that depended on your definition of good. And here was Lily, who actually had the audacity to start bargaining with one matron.”

“Wow,” Harry mouthed, looking down at the figure. He could see why his mother had fallen in love with it. It was a slender figure, with a feminine look about it. Its body was a dark golden colour that seemed to shimmer with the colour of cream if you turned it just the right way. Its mane was long, flowing over the shoulders – withers, Snape had called them once – and falling to halfway down the chest. The forelock that went between the ears looped and curled around the edge of one eye. One foreleg was raised, just balancing on the tip of the hoof. Its wings were half open, in what looked like a playful gesture. Its head tilted to give it a coy look, the expression on its face was pure mischief.

“Lily seemed to get very annoyed that this matron didn’t seem to understand the concept of negotiating, and she ended up with her hands on her hips, stating that she was going to pay so much and no more, while the elderly matron just gaped at her.” Snape outright laughed at the memory, causing Harry to smile, too. “I think she agreed to Lily’s price in the end just to get rid of her.”

“Does this one have a name?” Harry asked.

“I believe it’s called Strawberry Meadows,” Snape said. He shook his head. “I have no idea why, but Lily liked it.”

“How come there aren’t more animated figures?” wondered Harry.

“Because it’s very hard, very complicated magic,” the professor explained. “Certain spells have to be cast at every stage of production, and some of them take enormous amounts of magic, which usually means either one very strong caster, or several casting at once.” Snape shook his head. “Be grateful that one isn’t animated, otherwise I think we’d have the house down around our ears.”

Marble snorted indignantly, but Harry thought Snape was right. Strawberry Meadows had the kind of look that just screamed ‘I’m a trouble-maker’, but he rather thought he’d love her anyway. 

Just a few nights later found Harry lying in bed and wide awake, despite the fact that it was almost midnight. He couldn’t remember how young he’d been when he’d first started staying awake the night before his birthday, but it had been long enough that tonight he’d woken up automatically. It was usually the only chance he got to celebrate his own birthday.

His life had changed so drastically – so fantastically – over the last year that he was half afraid he’d blink awake to find himself still lying on the dusty floor of the hut in the middle of the sea, with his aunt and uncle running from something he didn’t understand. He could still see, in his mind’s eye, the outline of the cake he’d drawn on the floor, and the candles he’d pretended to blow out . . .

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM! Someone was hammering on the door, causing the flimsy bit of wood to tremble on its hinges. Thunder crashed outside, long and loud, rolling around the house. On the settee above him, Dudley had jerked awake, snorting. “Where’s the cannon?” he asked in bewilderment, looking around as if he expected to find one in the room with them.

Uncle Vernon came rushing into the room from where he and Aunt Petunia had been sleeping. He was holding a shotgun. “Who’s there?” he bellowed, his remaining moustache twitching wildly. “I warn you – I’m armed!”

With a noise that rivalled the crack of thunder, the door abruptly gave way and crashed inwards, causing a large cloud of dust to mushroom up around it. Harry coughed, and waved a hand in front of his face to dispel it.

In the doorway stood an absolute giant of a man. He was stooping to look through the now open door. His face was mostly obscured by wild, tangled hair and a thick bushy beard, both of which looked like coarse black wires.

Harry – smaller than he really should be at his age – felt his heart skip a beat, even as he frantically backed himself into the corner behind the fireplace. This stranger was big enough to squash him without realising it.

Ducking even further to squeeze through the door, the man easily hefted the door back up into position, then he turned around and gazed at Dudley. “Couldn’t make us a cup of tea, could yeh?” he said, and there was a small squeak from where Aunt Petunia was standing in the doorway to the other room. The giant man turned his head to look at her. It was impossible to make out his expression.

“Dudley Dursley?” he asked, turning back to Harry’s cousin. Dudley let out a meep, but nodded. “Good to meet yeh! I’m Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds.”

Hang on a minute. Harry shook his head. This was all wrong. Hagrid should be there for him, not Dudley. He should have twisted Uncle Vernon’s gun into a pretzel, and he should have given Harry his first ever birthday cake . . .

Instead, Hagrid was now busily cooking sausages over the roaring fire that he’d somehow created, and Dudley was inching closer, his nose twitching eagerly. With a chuckle of delight, Hagrid scooped six onto a plate and handed it to Dudley, who grunted before shoving three into his mouth at once. He glanced enquiringly at where Harry was peeping around the brickwork at him.

“Don’t bother giving any to him,” Uncle Vernon sneered, finally putting the shotgun down. “He’s not worth it.”

“Rightio!” Hagrid agreed, and set about dishing up the other sausages between the four of them.

Harry felt his mouth water at the mere smell of the cooking meat, and his stomach growled. This wasn’t right. Hagrid should have given the sausages to him, and warned off Dudley, who had been ordered by Uncle Vernon not to touch any. They had been the best thing Harry had ever tasted . . .

“So,” Hagrid said, eventually, settling back onto the settee, which gave an ominous creaking sound. “Yer a wizard, Dudley.” He reached into a pocket and withdrew one of the letters that Harry knew had been for him, that Uncle Vernon had dragged them all out here to escape from. “You’ll enjoy Hogwarts.”

“No. NO!” Harry cried, taking a step forward from the shelter of the fireplace. “I’m the wizard, not Dudley!”

The other four in the room burst into loud laughter. “As if you’d ever be a wizard,” said Aunt Petunia.

“Yeah, freaks aren’t special,” Dudley chimed in. He looked delighted with the chance to gain new ways of tormenting Harry.

Hagrid shook his head, and dug in a pocket for a large handkerchief. He wiped his eyes and blew his nose with a loud honk. “Don’t worry,” he said to Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon. “I’m sure we can find somewhere that’ll take him for yeh. Got to concentrate on Dudley, after all. Not every day you find out you’re a wizard.”

Harry stood dumbstruck, his heart beginning to race in panic, as Aunt Petunia sighed and went all misty-eyed, and Uncle Vernon beamed proudly and puffed his chest out. Dudley was reaching for more sausages, the lure of food eclipsing all else.

This couldn’t be happening. This was supposed to be special, the night when everything changed for him.

“No, the letter’s for me!” he insisted, stepping forward to reach for the letter that Dudley still hadn’t opened yet. “It’s got to be for me! I’m a wizard! Let me see it!”

“Gerroff!” Dudley grunted, elbowing him aside as he reached for more sausages. “’s mine.”

“Just as good for nothing as my sister and her husband,” Aunt Petunia sniffed. “I always knew my Duddykins was special!” She threw her arms as far around Dudley’s shoulders as she could and squeezed tightly.

“No. No!” Harry screamed, his hands forming into fists and lifting to beat at his temples. If he could just wake up, he could prove he was a wizard, he could, he could, he just had to wake up now . . .

“You’ll have to learn some good curses,” Uncle Vernon said, his eyes glinting maliciously in Harry’s direction. “You’ve got a nice guinea pig right here, after all.”

Suddenly, Dudley was pointing a wand at Harry, even though he hadn’t had one a second ago, and couldn’t have gotten it from anywhere. “Let’s try the one that killed his parents,” said Dudley, enthusiastically. “How did it go again? Oh, right . . . AVADA KADAVRA!”

Harry bolted upright in bed, screaming his head off, his arms uselessly trying to protect him from a spell that wasn’t there.

“Potter. Potter! Harry!” he could hear Snape yelling, but he couldn’t stop screaming.

Abruptly, there was something icy touching the back of his neck, which caused his lungs to seize, and he wasn’t screaming anymore, because now he couldn’t breathe—

Snape moved beside him, and the iciness disappeared. It had been Snape’s hand on the back of his neck, Harry realised, as he inhaled deeply several times, trying to get himself under control. Snape was standing with his arms folded across his chest, watching Harry, and Marble was prancing anxiously in circles on the desk.

“So-sorry,” Harry stammered, realising that he’d woken them both up.

“Potter,” Snape started, then sighed, and actually sat down on the side of the bed. “Harry,” he began again. “You had a nightmare. It was not your fault.”

“But I was screaming,” Harry pointed out, hoarsely. “I woke you up.”

Snape eyed him for a long moment. “Your cousin must have had nightmares, surely?” he asked. Harry gave a vague movement of his head that could have signalled agreement – although most of Dudley’s nightmares were the result of too many sweets, rather than actual terrors. “Did your aunt care that he woke her up?”

Harry hesitated. “N-o,” he finally said, slowly. Aunt Petunia had always fussed over Dudley. He, on the other hand, had always then been blamed, as if he’d somehow caused Dudley to stuff himself sick. The nightmares in the week after the Hogwarts letters had arrived had been the worst. With Dudley waking up every few hours screaming about “that giant” turning him into various animals, then Aunt Petunia had been downright vicious to Harry in return, since – as she pointed out numerous times – if they hadn’t been saddled with Harry in the first place, then her poor Diddykins wouldn’t have been abused and traumatised like that.

Snape sighed, obviously hearing what Harry hadn’t said, along with what he had. “Regardless, it smacks of stupidity to blame someone for having nightmares,” he said. “Since, unless they’ve over-eaten, then they did not consciously decide to suffer through one.” He paused and regarded Harry for a long moment. “That means that it is not your fault,” he repeated.

“No, sir,” Harry said, trying his best to at least sound agreeable. If only he wasn’t so weak, then he wouldn’t keep having dreams like that. . . .

Snape frowned at him. “Repeat after me, Potter,” he said. “Having a nightmare is not my fault.”

“Having a nightmare is not my fault,” parroted Harry, obediently.

“With a bit more belief, before I make you write it out a thousand times,” Snape said, but he shook his head when Harry opened his mouth again. “I think that’s a conversation for another day – and one for Albus, too,” he added under his breath. Shaking his head again, the professor rose to his feet. “You should try to get back to sleep,” he said. “However, if you find you really cannot sleep, then you may stay here until a more bearable hour.”

He took a step towards the door, and then hesitated. Taking his wand from his sleeve, he gave it a flick, and then put it back. Harry wondered how on earth it stayed up there. Did the man glue it to his arm?

Catching a package wrapped in plain brown paper, Snape half-turned back to him, for once looking unsure of himself. Finally, he held out the package to Harry. “In case you can’t sleep again,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” said Harry, a bit puzzled.

“You’re welcome,” replied Snape, and he turned to go again. Marble, having come to a halt, suddenly stomped a foreleg on the desk, impatiently. Snape glanced over his shoulder and glared at the Aethonian, who just tossed his head. “Bossy Pegasus,” he growled, then shot a quick look at Harry. “Happy birthday, Potter,” he said, and swept from the room.

“Um . . . thanks?” Harry said to the empty room. Shaking his head, he looked down at the package he was still holding. No, the present. Despite himself, Harry felt a spark of joy fizz inside him. The only birthday present he’d had before this had been Hedwig the previous year. Strangely enough, the Dursleys had never felt like celebrating the day he’d entered the world.

A wide grin beginning to grow, Harry tore off the paper. It was a book. The Complete Works of Sherlock Holmes, the title read in a bright golden font stretched over the front of the book.

“Wow,” Harry murmured to Marble, running a hand over the cover before eagerly flipping to the first page. ‘In the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London, and proceeded. . .’

When Severus woke up the second time – at the much more sociable hour of seven-thirty – it was so quiet that at first he thought Potter had managed to fall back to sleep after all.

A quick check, however, showed him that Potter was still in bed, but not asleep. Instead, he was thoroughly engrossed in what looked to be the book Severus had given him just a few hours ago. This theory was borne out by the paper that was still scattered on the bed.

Shaking his head in bemusement, Severus made his way downstairs. He had planned to continue his experiment in his lab today, but having been reminded of what day it was, then he supposed it wasn’t really fair to Potter to keep to their usual schedule.

Fair, he snorted to himself, rummaging through a kitchen cabinet. Since when was I concerned with being fair? Especially to a Gryffindor?

A terrible thought struck him, and he froze, horrified. What if Potter’s Gryffindor-ness is rubbing off on me?! Shuddering, Severus hastily banished the thought deep into the recesses of his mind, layering his Occlumency shields on top of it so that it would never see the light of day ever again.

Thankfully, any further thoughts of that kind were banished by the sounds of Potter coming downstairs. Unseen by the boy, Severus raised an eyebrow. He’d thought that he’d have to go upstairs and physically haul Potter away from that book, but either Potter had stopped himself or Marble had made him come down – probably by trampling all over the book until Potter tucked it away.

“Here,” Severus said as Potter appeared in the kitchen doorway, thrusting a bowl of cereal at him. “Eat this, and then go and get dressed in something that can pass for Muggle.”

Potter gaped at the bowl – understandably; they hadn’t eaten anything other than toast or porridge since the boy had been here – before taking it with a murmured thanks. Marble, who had followed the boy down, was now standing on the counter, poking his muzzle towards Severus’ own bowl of porridge. Severus flicked his fingers at the Aethonian’s nose, and Marble skittered backwards, snorting as though the thought of trying to eat – or pretending to try and eat – Severus’ breakfast had never occurred to him.

“I don’t want varnish in my food,” Severus said to him, sternly. Really, did Bertie have this much trouble with his other animated figurines? he wondered. He’d have to ask his friend sometime.

There was a choking sound, and Severus turned his head just in time to see Potter hurriedly place his bowl on the counter while he doubled over, coughing. Shaking his head, Severus cast a quick spell to clear the boy’s airways.

“Sorry, sir,” Potter murmured, straightening up again and reaching for the bowl again, but Severus could hear the faint laughter that had caused Potter to choke in the first place.

“Be quick; and dress for Muggles,” Severus reminded him, collecting his own bowl and heading for the back door. “That also means you have to leave the foal here, Potter.”

Guiltily, the boy clapped a hand to the waistband of his pyjamas, where the Abraxan foal was tucked in. “I can’t leave it, sir,” he protested. “Marble keeps trying to hurt it.”

Severus raised his eyes to the ceiling in a ‘why me?’ gesture. He beckoned his fingers towards Potter. “Give it here,” he ordered. “It can stay in my lab while we’re gone.”

Instantly, Potter’s face lit up, and he scrambled to pull the foal free. “Thank you, sir!” he said, enthusiastically.

Severus said nothing aloud, but grumbled internally to himself all the way to his lab about the contagiousness of Gryffindor foolishness.

One thing this summer had been good for, Harry reflected later that morning, was that he’d finally gotten used to the horrible feeling of Apparating. Sure, he still got a bit nauseous, but he didn’t fall to his knees, or actually throw up anymore. He still didn’t like it, though, and was determined to create a new way of travel that was safe . . . and sane.

As they walked out of the deserted alley that Snape had Apparated them to, the sunlight burst over the tops of the buildings beside them, so Harry was blinking away dazzled tears when he realised they’d stopped in front of a particular building. Lifting a hand to shade his eyes, he gaped in astonishment.

They were in front of a cinema.

Snape cleared his throat, awkwardly. “I thought—” he started, then shook his head slightly and began again. “They’re showing a special viewing of Silver Blaze.”

Ordinarily, Harry wouldn’t have had a clue what Snape was on about, but the name rang a very loud bell for him. He’d seen it, only a few hours ago, in the book – in the present that Snape had given to him. “As in the Sherlock Holmes Silver Blaze?” he asked.

“The very one,” Snape agreed briskly. “It’s in black and white, of course, but—”

“I don’t mind!” interrupted Harry, then he cringed slightly. “Sir,” he added, hastily. “I don’t mind that, sir.” It wasn’t like the Dursleys had taken him to see any films in colour, after all.

“Hmm,” said Snape, but apparently he was willing to overlook Harry’s bad manners this once, as he placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder to propel him inside.

Harry blinked rapidly as they entered the cool, darkened building. It was emptier than he’d thought it would be, but then again it was still relatively early. Maybe most children were like Dudley and refused to get out of bed before noon at the earliest.

Twisting his head to examine the colourful array of posters along one wall, Harry dawdled a bit as Snape strode towards a counter where a young woman was serving another customer. “Two, under the name Snape,” he was saying when Harry finally caught up.

“Of course, sir.” The girl clicked several times on her computer, then a whirring sound came from under the desk. Harry craned up onto his tiptoes to see what she was doing. He dropped back as Snape gave him a small nudge, but the girl just smiled at him as she handed over a strip of tickets. “Here you are, sir. Silver Blaze starts in twenty minutes. Enjoy your film!” She winked at Harry, who beamed back at her, even as he felt himself start to blush.

“Wow.” Harry came out of the cinema feeling dazed and very star-struck. “That was . . . Wow.” Scenes from the film kept running through his head. “Can we see it again?”

Snape made a strange noise from just behind him. “Not right now,” he said, and placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder to steer him down the street. “I take it you enjoyed it, then?”

“It was fantastic!” Harry burst out, beaming up at Snape. He’d been on the edge of his seat for most of the film – it was a good thing hardly anybody else had been in the room with them, as Harry had literally been clinging to the back of the seat in front of him, his gaze riveted to the large screen. “I thought Silver Blaze was going to win the race!”

Snape’s lips twisted, no doubt remembering Harry bouncing in his seat to urge the fictional horse onwards. Another reason to be thankful there hadn’t been many other people – Harry’s gasp when the jockey had been shot off the horse had been rather loud. “In the book, I believe he does,” was all he said.

“And the way Holmes decoded the telegram!” Harry was all but skipping as Snape directed him to an open door that led into a large, airy cafe. “And poor Doctor Watson was going to get killed!”

“Stay there while I order,” Snape interrupted, pushing firmly on Harry’s shoulder to plant him into a chair.

With a great effort, Harry managed to close his mouth as Snape strode off towards the counter at the rear of the room. He couldn’t help it; he just wanted to replay everything they’d just seen.

Squirming, he tried to distract himself by looking around the room. It actually wasn’t as big as he’d first thought, but the white walls offset by the filmy yellow curtains and matching tablecloths gave it an airy, summer feel. Did Snape come here often? he wondered. He must do – he’d known the cafe was here, after all, and it wasn’t terribly busy. In fact, only two of the other tables were occupied; one by a woman by herself, reading a book, and the other by a family.

The muffled clatter of a tray landing on the table made Harry jump. He hadn’t seen Snape coming back.

“Here.” The professor handed an empty plate to Harry, and gestured at the plate stacked with sandwiches that was still on the tray. “Select whichever ones you want.” He placed a bottle of orange juice beside Harry.

Delighted, Harry peered at the sandwiches to determine what kind they were. Not that it would make much difference – the Dursleys had quickly taught him not to be fussy about what food he was given. But these weren’t flat and stale and curling at the edges. These were big and white, and Harry’s stomach gave a small growl of anticipation.

Harry flushed, and peeked sideways at Snape, who pretended to be concentrating fiercely on his own sandwich. Unable to decide between cheese and tomato, chicken, and corned beef, Harry took one of each. They fell into a marginally uncomfortable silence as they both chewed, but Harry was used to this by now. Snape wasn’t really fond of small talk.

Apparently, however, Snape had been busy thinking, as once he’d finished, he leant back in his chair and studied Harry contemplatively. “We will need to take a trip to Diagon Alley soon,” he said, his voice low so as to avoid anyone overhearing. “Your Hogwarts letter should be arriving any day now, so make sure you think of anything else you need to get whilst we’re there.”

Harry struggled for a moment, and then swallowed his mouthful of bread. “Yes, sir,” he agreed. “Um, sir?” he added, cautiously. “Do you think there’s any chance we’d see the Weasleys while we’re there?”

Snape grimaced. “It’s possible,” he admitted, reluctantly. “They should be getting their letters round about now, too. Of course, they may not go on the same day as we do.”

“Isn’t there a way we could ask them?” Harry asked. He wanted to see at least one of his friends, to reassure himself that they were still his friends after the enforced silence.

Tapping his fingers on the table, Snape made a small noise that could have meant anything. “I will ask Professor Dumbledore to pass on a message,” he said, finally. “But we will not hang around for days waiting for a response. If there is no reply by the time I decide to go, then that is that. Understood, Potter?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry murmured, and turned his attention back to the sandwiches. It wasn’t the unequivocal yes he’d been looking for, but any chance was better than none. 

At the same moment, far away in the heart of London and deep underground, Lucius Malfoy was in the Minister of Magic’s office, pretending to sympathise with the complaints of Cornelius Fudge.

“It’s the Boy-Who-Lived,” Cornelius grumbled, his fingers nervously twitching various quills on his desk. “He should be somewhere proper, but Dumbledore refuses to tell me what he’s done with the boy.”

“The headmaster has always had a habit of interfering where he shouldn’t,” Lucius agreed, his face as blank and pleasant as ever. No need to worry Cornelius by showing just how frustrated he actually was. None of his contacts had been able to tell him anything about where the Potter boy was now staying. It was maddening.

“Apparently,” Cornelius continued, aggrieved, “the boy is friends with the youngest Weasley boy, so I called Arthur Weasley in, but all he’d say was that he didn’t think it was my business!”

It took more effort, this time, not to let his feelings show. Arthur Weasley; the Muggle-loving, bumbling fool of a blood-traitor; the one who was behind the recent efforts to purge the Dark from them all, and thereby strip half the magical population of their heritage.

“Not my business!” the Minister repeated, indignantly. “As if I shouldn’t know what to tell people when they ask where our saviour is, and if he’s safe!”

Lucius coolly and calmly crossed one leg over the other. “It may be that Dumbledore hasn’t seen fit to inform him,” he said. “He does like his little secrets, after all. And isn’t Weasley senior busy with that legislation at the moment . . . ?”

“Hmm? Legislation? Oh – yes,” Cornelius absently agreed, neatly accepting the change of topic. “I believe it’s on the agenda for the next Wizengamot meeting.”

Lucius silently cursed to himself. The meeting was scheduled for next week, and several of the people he relied on to vote favourably for him were out of town until just before the new school term. He’d already used up several important favours getting Arthur Weasley’s legislation postponed and suppressed; the bribes necessary to delay it again would deplete even the Malfoy coffers to an unacceptable level. He’d have to ensure he got rid of the most incriminating evidence. Really, the blood-traitor needed taking down a peg or two; if only he and his family weren’t considered so disgustingly good . . .

A thought suddenly came to him, and he had to repress a chuckle of delight at his own cleverness. There was a way of removing three birds with one avada kadavra.

Let’s see how high and mighty he is after it is discovered that his own children have been dabbling with the Dark Arts, he thought, and imperceptibly settled himself deeper into his chair, humming apparent agreement as Cornelius’ complaints continued.

Also at the same moment, Ron Weasley was sulkily weeding his mum’s vegetable garden, which also involved chucking the occasional gnome over the hedge into the field next door.

He had still heard nothing from Harry. He had attempted to remind Fred and George of their promise, but the twins had been holed up in their room, and the loud, frequent explosions emanating from inside did not inspire the courage to knock on the door. Mrs Weasley had been upstairs to yell at them at least twice a day, but they appeared to have put up a one-way silencing charm, and Mrs Weasley always had to admit defeat – even if only for a few hours.

Ron had hoped that Harry would get in touch so they could arrange to go to Diagon Alley together. Hermione had already contacted him, asking if he’d had his letter yet – he hadn’t – and if he’d completed his summer homework yet – he had plenty of time to start that! – and he’d been overjoyed to see the owl winging its way in at first, because it had been Hedwig, so he’d naturally thought it was Harry. Finding out that the snowy owl had been staying with Hermione all these weeks had been a bitter blow.

Hauling a gnome out of its hole as he remembered that moment all over again, Ron drew his arm back and flung the gnome as hard as he could. It went cartwheeling over the hedge with a shrill scream that grew fainter the further it went, until it eventually crashed almost at the other end of the field.

“Tut, tut, Lickle Ronniekins,” said a voice from behind him.

“Temper, temper,” another added.

Ron spun on his heels so fast that he fell over backwards, and ended up sitting in the middle of a patch of lettuce. Fred and George smirked at him, as he scrambled to his feet, scowling at them.

“Problem?” George asked.

Ron fumed for a moment, then considered. Perhaps this time they’d actually help him. “I’ve still not had anything from Harry,” he said, finally.

“Oh, yeah, we were gonna go rescue him, weren’t we?” said Fred. He tilted his head at George, who blinked once, then nodded twice.

“Dad finished the car ages ago,” George said, lowering his voice as though worried someone would overhear them. With Mrs Weasley around, it was a valid concern. “We could sneak out tonight; take it for a little spin and go rescue Lickle Harrykins.”

“Got his address, Ron?” Fred asked, abruptly serious.

Ron nodded. “It’s upstairs,” he said.

“Go get it,” his brother suggested, and Ron tore off towards the house. Thankfully, Mrs Weasley wasn’t around to see him skid through the kitchen, but he almost ran into her as he dashed up the winding, rickety staircase towards his room.

“Ronald Weasley, how many times have we told you, no running in the house!” his mother screeched after him, as he muttered something that sounded like an apology and kept going.

“Sorry, Mum – urgent!” he hollered back over his shoulder. Grabbing the doorframe to swing himself around into his room, he fell to his knees beside his school trunk. Throwing the lid back, he scrabbled through sheets of parchment, old clothes and pieces of broken quills until he found the paper Harry had written his address on.

Then he was running back outside, almost running his mother over for a second time as he hurtled down the stairs. Panting, he came to such a sudden halt beside Fred and George that he almost fell over again. Wordlessly, he held out the paper, then bent over with his hands on his knees to catch his breath.

The twins bent their heads over the paper to study it, their mutters barely reaching Ron’s ears. “Is that near—?” “Must be. What about going—?” “Nah, too far north.”

Eventually, as Ron straightened up, they both looked up at him.

“Not to worry,” said Fred.

“Leave it to us,” said George.

“We’ll have Harry out of there in no time,” they added, together, and both clapped a hand on Ron’s shoulders before hurrying off around the back of the house.

Sniggers drifted back to him on the wind, and Ron had one instant to get a very, very bad feeling, before his hair abruptly turned into bright green feathers.

Arriving home that afternoon, Severus disappeared into his lab, after returning the Abraxan foal to Potter, and informing him that he could do as he liked – provided he did it quietly – for the rest of the day.

Once he’d closed the door behind the boy, he checked the potions that were simmering. Two were ready for the next step, so he spent a few minutes dicing and chopping and sprinkling.

Then, with the air of a man doing something deeply unpleasant just to get it over with, he reached for the Floo powder and threw it into his small fireplace. “Headmaster’s office, Hogwarts,” he called.

It seemed to take an inordinately long time before the headmaster’s head appeared in the flames, and when it finally did, he looked harried.

“Is this a bad time, Headmaster?” Severus asked.

“No, no.” The movement of Albus’ beard suggested he’d sighed heavily. “I was just finishing a meeting with our new Defence professor.”

“Ah,” said Severus, in a tone of sudden understanding. Really, meeting with Gilderoy Lockhart would cause anyone to look harried. “Potter has asked if you could pass a message on to the Weasleys,” he continued. “He wants to meet up with them in Diagon Alley once the school letters have gone out.”

“Hmm, that reminds me.” Albus disappeared briefly, and then there was a flash of brighter green, and an envelope came sailing out of the fireplace. Severus reared back to avoid having it stab him in the eye. Albus’ head reappeared. “Harry’s letter,” he said. “The rest will be going out by owl, as usual, in two days’ time, but I suspect Harry’s wouldn’t reach him.”

“You still haven’t learnt anything about what is blocking the owls from us?” asked Severus, plucking the letter out of the air from beside his ear.

“No.” Albus looked incredibly frustrated. “I am running out of places to look. I think I will have to ask Minerva and Filius if they’ve ever heard of anything like this.”

“As long as you don’t ask Lockhart,” said Severus, his lip curling in a sneer at the very thought of allowing the pompous imbecile anywhere near his house. He glanced down at Potter’s letter. “I’ve informed Potter that although I would ask you to pass a message to the Weasleys, I will not wait for them to get it and respond. I was planning on going to Diagon Alley in three days’ time. If there is no response, or they cannot make it, we will continue as planned.”

“I will let Molly know before then, if I can,” Albus agreed. “How is Harry enjoying his birthday?” he asked, pointedly.

Severus scowled at him. “Oh, yes, the brat is thoroughly enjoying the heaps of presents he’s received,” he said. “Or no, perhaps he’s thoroughly enjoying scrubbing every inch of the house with his toothbrush.”

Albus’ eyes began twinkling, and Severus was severely tempted to cut the Floo connection there and then. “Well, please wish Harry many happy regards on my behalf,” Albus began, and then suddenly moved to look somewhere behind himself. “Ah, my next meeting has arrived,” he said. “Was there anything else you needed, Severus?”

“Aside from my sanity back?” Severus muttered, but shook his head at the headmaster. “No, Albus, not at the moment.”

“Very good.” And Albus’ head disappeared from the flames with a pop.

With a sigh, Severus checked his potions one last time, then made his way to the door. “Shopping for school supplies,” he muttered in disgust as he exited the lab. “What could possibly be more fun than that?”

“Beds empty! No note! Car gone — could have crashed — out of my mind with worry — did you care? — never, as long as I’ve lived — you wait until your father gets home, we never had trouble like this from Bill or Charlie or Percy —”

Standing hidden in the shadows on the first landing, Ron winced as his mother faced down Fred and George. He could hear her clearly even from here. He was actually quite thankful now that the twins had slipped off in the middle of the night without him. (Although he’d descended into an epic sulk when he’d first found out – Harry was his friend, after all!)

Unfortunately, however, unless his friend had been stuffed into the boot of the car – and Harry may have been small and scrawny, and the car magically enlarged, but he still wouldn’t have fit – then Fred and George seemed to have returned alone.

“You could have died – you could have been seen – you could have lost your father his job—” Mrs Weasley was still ranting.

Ron snorted. He thought Hermione might get on very well with his mother if they ever met – she had the same sort of priorities.

Eventually, looking very subdued, the twins trooped inside the house. After backing up a few steps, Ron made a big production of stampeding down the stairs into the kitchen.

“And don’t think I don’t know whose idea it was!” Mrs Weasley snapped at him, causing him to jump. She brandished the wooden spoon she was holding at him. “Didn’t I tell you that Harry was fine?”

Ron glanced sideways at his brothers, who both shook their heads.

“No Dursleys,” said George. “Or Harry.”

“Looked like someone else was moving in,” added Fred.

Mrs Weasley made a noise like an over-boiling tea kettle, and the twins ducked their heads as they went to sit down at the kitchen table, Ron trailing after them.

Ron tuned out the banging and shouting over the next few minutes. If Harry hadn’t been where he was supposed to be . . . although how did he know that Fred and George had gotten the right house in the first place? If they’d just taken me with them, he thought.

“As it happens,” he finally heard his mother saying, “I received a message from Dumbledore last night, about the possibility of you lot meeting up with Harry and . . . his guardian in Diagon Alley.”

“He’s all right?” Ron burst out.

Mrs Weasley scowled at her youngest son. “Of course he’s all right,” she said, impatiently. “Dumbledore wouldn’t have left him there if he wasn’t.”

“So when can I see him?” demanded Ron.

His mother folded her arms crossly. “Harry is being taken to Diagon Alley today,” she said, then held up her hand as Ron made to spring up from his seat at the table. “You would have gone, too,” she informed him, “except now I believe your day will be filled with clearing the gnomes from the garden.”

“What?! But, Muuuummmm—” three voices chorused.

“No,” said Mrs Weasley, firmly. “It wouldn’t be much of a deterrent if I let you go haring off to have fun. So today, you three will be helping me around the house. We’ll go to Diagon Alley to get your things next week. Perhaps you can meet up with Hermione,” she added to Ron, as though that mattered.

Huffing indignantly, Ron slid down in his chair, arms folded over his chest. It’s not fair! 

‘Fun’ is not the word, Severus thought as he stalked past yet another small knot of people in his way. Perhaps ‘torturous’, or ‘aggravating’, or ‘I’ve lost my mind!’

There was a small “Oof!” from behind him, and Severus turned to see that yet another person had bumped into Potter. The boy was scrambling to catch up with Severus, idly rubbing his shoulder.

Perhaps it had been a bad idea to disguise him, Severus reflected, but it had been this or suffer the crowds engulfing them because of Potter.

“All right, there, Po—Podraig?” he asked, barely remembering not to say the boy’s name out loud.

“Uh, yes, sir,” Potter said. He looked down at his feet, blinked a couple of times, then looked up again. “Sir, what does that mean?”

“What does what mean?” Severus slid his wand out of his sleeve surreptitiously to shorten the tether that he’d placed on Potter again. Most people in the alley tended to scramble out of the way when they saw Severus stalking towards them. It might help Potter if he were close enough to take advantage of the space that afforded.

“That name. Po – Pod – Podrag?” Potter tried, and Severus wanted to both wince and laugh at the mangling of the name.

“Podraig,” he corrected. “It’s Irish, and means ‘of the line of kings’. Although it’s actually pronounced as Paed-rihg, it was chosen mainly because it sounds similar enough to your own surname, and Mr Shunpike was unlikely to know the difference.”

“Oh,” said Potter.

Anything else he might have been going to say was interrupted by a wizard all but flinging himself out of a door nearby and almost crashing into them. Severus gripped Potter’s shoulder and swept the boy behind himself and out of the way.

“So sorry!” the wizard gasped, then looked up at them properly. Severus stifled a groan. Of course it would be Lockhart; today of all days. “I’m afraid I wasn’t quite watching where I was going,” Lockhart explained, grinning madly at them both. It was quite obvious that he didn’t have a clue who either of them were. “I’ve just been discussing my new book, Magical Me, with my publisher,” he continued, waving a hand behind him at the door he’d come out of. The sign over it said ‘Obscurus Books’, with each letter on the front of a different coloured book. “Due out just next week!” Lockhart added, clearly expecting them to be excited over the news. “I’m holding a signing next Wednesday in Flourish and Blotts!”

“Then we shall be sure to avoid the Alley on that day,” Severus said, glaring at the odious wizard. He tried to steer Potter around the popinjay, but was thwarted by Lockhart throwing a hand out.

“Ha-ha, don’t want to admit just how much of an admirer you are, eh?” Lockhart suggested.

Severus suppressed the urge to growl at him – or hex him. The man’s loud voice was causing people’s heads to turn. They did not need this level of attention.

“Tell you what, why don’t I just autograph a copy of my new book for you now. That way you can keep the pretence going.” Lockhart actually winked at Severus, nudging him with his elbow, apparently completely oblivious to the other wizard’s glare.

“MERLIN’S BEARD, IT’S LOCKHART!” a witch suddenly squealed from just beyond them. Two more were holding a fierce debate on the other side of them.

“You go.” “No, you go!” “I’ll turn into a blithering idiot!”

“Did he say he’s got a new book?!” someone else shouted from further down the alley.

“Where? Where! Let me at it – I must have it!” An elderly witch – who really should know better, Severus thought – all but pounced on the three of them. She gripped one of Lockhart’s shoulders tightly, and shook him. “Your new book – where is it?” she cried. “I need to complete my collection!”

Within seconds, what seemed like the entirety of Diagon Alley had descended upon them. Lockhart appeared to be lapping up the attention, but Severus heartily wished he could curse every one of the dunderheads. Potter was plastered against his side, clearly intimidated by the crowd. At least it’s not Potter they’re after, Severus thought, as he began edging through the mob towards safety. Ah, well – looks like I won’t be cursing Lockhart today after all.

Finally managing to push their way out of the crowd of Lockhart fans, Severus then received proof that either the gods hated him, or Potter’s ‘sheer dumb luck’ was spreading.

Standing just feet away from them – thankfully with his back turned – was Lucius Malfoy.

Hastily spinning back towards Potter, Severus leant close to the boy, lowering his voice as much as he could in all the noise.

“I have to send you back to the house,” he warned. “I will follow as soon as I can.”

“Wha—?” Potter began, but Severus had already tapped twice on his emergency portkey, and the rest of the boy’s words disappeared with him.

Hoping that his body had shielded Potter’s vanishing, Severus turned around again. 

Harry landed in the living room of the house in a tangle of limbs.

Not all of them were his own.

Scrambling off whatever it was he’d landed on, he hastily checked the room for other intruders before turning back to stare.

It looked a great deal like the creature at Mr Evergreen’s house that Snape had said was a house-elf, but a lot more ragged and . . . wild. It was staring back at Harry as though it had never seen a human before.

“Harry Potter, sir,” the thing said, breathlessly. “Dobby is not knowing you is coming back.”

“Er, what are you doing here?” Harry asked. “I didn’t think the professor had a house-elf . . .”

The elf shuddered, closing its eyes for a brief moment. “Dobby is not belonging to the dark professor,” it said. “Dobby belongs to a . . . proper wizard family.”

Strangely, the elf pulled a face on the word ‘proper’, as though there was an insult behind the insult.

“So what are you doing here?” Harry repeated, frowning.

“Dobby came to warn Harry Potter,” the elf said. “Bad things will be happening at Hogwarts this year. Harry Potter must not go!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Harry after an incredulous pause. “Where would I go?”

“Anywhere would be safer than Hogwarts!” said Dobby, nodding his head emphatically.

“I can’t live on the streets!” Harry protested, horrified. “And besides, my friends would still be there – I can’t abandon them!”

“Even if they have abandoned Harry Potter?” the house-elf asked, slyly. “Even if his friends don’t write?”

“I’m sure they would if they could, but they . . . Hang on,” Harry said, slowly, as realisation dawned. “You’ve been keeping the owls from reaching us!”

“Harry Potter must not attend Hogwarts!” Dobby repeated, clutching at his ears in alarm. Then he perked up, a gleam in his eyes that sent a shiver down Harry’s spine. “Dobby will make sure of it!” he proclaimed, and snapped his fingers.

To Harry’s horror, Marble floated down from the top of the bookcase to land in Dobby’s hands. The Aethonian’s neck was straining, but the house-elf appeared to have clamped its magic around the figure, as Marble’s wings remained against his back and nothing else moved.

“Marble!” cried Harry. He took a step towards Dobby. “What are you doing? Let him go!”

“Not until Harry Potter agrees he will not go back to Hogwarts,” said Dobby, firmly.

“I can’t!” Harry shouted, clenching his fists.

“Then Dobby is sorry, Harry Potter,” the elf said, mournfully, and disappeared with a loud pop! An equally loud noise from outside told Harry where he’d gone. Running for the back door, Harry managed one step into the yard and then froze, his heart in his throat.

The crazy house-elf was standing on the roof of the shed, holding Marble over the edge of it.

“MARBLE!” Harry screamed.

Dobby let the Aethonian go.

The crack of someone Apparating into the yard was not loud enough to cover the terrible sound of Marble hitting the ground and shattering into pieces.

“Severus.”

Severus once again mentally thanked Potter’s ‘sheer, dumb luck’ as he studied the Malfoy family patriarch. Lucius had apparently turned around at the same moment Severus had, and if he’d seen any signs of the illegal portkey travel happening behind Severus, he didn’t appear to have connected it with Severus. Or if he did, he wasn’t letting on.

“Lucius,” Severus said, inclining his head in greeting.

“This is a . . . surprise,” Lucius said. He sneered at the mob that was still surrounding Lockhart. “Doesn’t quite seem your thing,” he added, loftily.

Severus snorted. “I was running an errand for Albus when I had the . . . misfortune to run into our new Defence professor,” he said.

“Ah.” Lucius sneered even harder. “Perhaps the Hogwarts Board of Governors should become more involved in finding new professors,” he said.

“Hmm,” Severus hummed in agreement. He didn’t want to outright state what a terrible idea he thought that was, but enthusiastically endorsing any suggestion of Lucius’ would probably come back to haunt him sooner than he’d like. “Running errands yourself?” he asked, in a blatant change of subject. “This part of the Alley doesn’t seem quite your thing either.”

“I have some business to take care of,” Lucius responded after a moment. “In the . . . less busy area of the Alley.” He carefully tipped his head to the side with just the slightest movement, and Severus realised that Lucius was admitting he had errands to run in Knockturn Alley. He raised his eyebrows.

Giving a quick glance around them, Lucius stepped closer to him, dropping his voice to a lower register that wouldn’t draw attention. “I have been warned, by Cornelius,” he said. “Raids on certain homes are being planned, all under the guise of protecting—” He spat the word, and Severus barely resisted the urge to flinch back. “—those disgusting Muggle-lovers from us. Wouldn’t do to have anything darker than Light magic around.”

“So you’re . . .” began Severus, letting his words trail off. Albus had mentioned before the start of the summer holidays that Arthur Weasley had been pushing hard for raids on the Manors of certain Pureblooded families. It seemed that, for once, Arthur had been successful. Of course, if their bumbling Minister had gone around warning all the families, then it was debateable whether Arthur and his teams would actually find anything, but if some of the nastier items suddenly became available on the open market – or as open as a black market could be – then the Aurors had a chance of being able to dispose of at least some of the Darker items.

Lucius smirked. “Renting a few things to Borgin,” he replied.

“Renting? – Ah,” Severus said, as realisation dawned. He had to admire – reluctantly – the sheer nerve Lucius had. It had been one of his favourite Muggle-baiting games: he would pawn off, or sell, an item and attach a blood spell to it that was bound to Malfoy blood. Then, after a certain period, he would activate the spell, and the item would immediately return to Lucius’ possession. He had fleeced the equivalent of a minor fortune out of Muggles before the Dark Lord’s defeat.

“—glorious news!” Lockhart’s voice suddenly carried over to them. “But I’m afraid it will have to wait for next week – can’t spoil the surprise!” he added, jovially, giving a broad wink to an elderly witch nearby. The idiot instantly swooned, collapsing backwards into two young men, who were non too gentle about lowering her to the floor.

Severus grimaced. He knew all too well what the ‘surprise’ was, and he was more determined with every passing second that he would be well away from Diagon Alley the following week when Lockhart’s newest load of dugbog tripe went on sale.

“I believe that’s my cue to leave,” he muttered to Lucius. “Especially since I believe that’s an Auror approaching . . .”

Lucius gave a genteel snort, a brief nod to Severus, then turned on his heel and strode off. Despite the fact he was anxious to get back and see what chaos Potter had managed to cause in his brief absence, Severus was very interested to note that Lucius wasn’t heading for the entrance to Knockturn Alley, but was instead making his way towards a small, family-owned shop that sold various little knick-knacks.

Something for Albus to investigate, Severus thought, as he cast one last sneer at the crowd still surrounding Lockhart, and then swiftly Disapparated.

He arrived in his own back yard just in time to catch a blur of movement on top of his potions lab, and to see his long-awaited and very expensive animated figurine smash to pieces on the hard ground.

Potter was standing in the doorway into the house, expression horror-stricken, hands over his mouth, and well on the way to hyperventilating, if Severus was any judge.

There was a loud squeak of alarm, and Severus’ incredulous-but-edging-towards-furious gaze shot upwards to see, for some unfathomable reason, a house-elf perched on top of his lab. Pulling its own ears as it met his gaze, the elf gave a miserable squall and popped away.

As soon as it did, Potter let out a sobbing gasp, and wobbled forwards to fall to his knees beside Marble. Or what had been Marble.

“Potter, what in Merlin’s name is going on?” Severus demanded.

“The house-elf – here when I arrived – landed on it – been stopping the owls,” the boy managed to get out. He was reaching for, but not quite touching, the Aethonian’s head.

Severus frowned. “The house-elf has been stopping the owls?” he repeated, to make sure he’d heard Potter right. “What for? Whose elf is it?”

Potter shook his head, rather wildly. “Dobby,” he spat out, almost visibly grinding his teeth over the name. “Said there’s danger at Hogwarts. Tried to stop me going back.” Then he looked up at Severus with a suspicious sheen to his eyes. “Please, sir,” he croaked, voice cracking. “Marble?”

Heaving a large sigh, Severus crouched beside him to examine the figurine. Finally, reluctantly, he shook his head. “I could put him back together physically,” he informed Potter, “but the magic has to be embedded in the figure during the stages of its creation, as I’ve explained previously. With the physical base for the spells broken, then I’m afraid the spells have dissipated. I cannot replace them.”

“Could – could the makers?” Potter asked, but his tone showed that he knew he was grasping at straws.

“I’m sorry, but no. They’d have to completely remake him, and then he wouldn’t be Marble anymore.” He laid a hand on Potter’s shoulder, as the boy made a sound that Severus suspected was a stifled sob. “I’m sorry, Harry. He’s gone.”

The next sound, made as the boy curled in on himself, was definitely a sob. Severus squeezed his shoulder. He had no idea what else he should do to comfort Potter, so settled for letting go and giving him a brisk pat.

“I have to contact the headmaster,” he informed Potter. “Now that we know what caused the wards, we can hopefully lower them again.” He took a step towards his lab, and then paused. “You should go inside, Pot— Harry. I’ll . . .” He hesitated, wondering what wording he could use. “. . . look after Marble.”

The boy stumbled to his feet and, sniffing heavily – a disgusting mannerism, but Severus didn’t think this was the time to berate him about it – made his way into the house. Severus suspected he was half-blinded by tears, as he almost crashed into the doorframe, but managed to right himself at the last moment.

Bending down to collect the scattered pieces, Severus’ fury began to smoulder and grow again. If he ever got his hands on whoever owned that Merlin-forsaken dung-ridden excuse of a house-elf, they would soon sorely regret not giving it clothes as soon as it was born. For all that people were so fond of reminding everyone else that he was – had been – a Death Eater, they never seemed to stop and think that perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to get on the bad side of someone who was known to be part of a group that willingly hunted and tortured people.

Scooping up the last bit, Severus stroked a finger down the muzzle. He hadn’t had Marble for all that long, no more than six weeks at most, but it felt like losing a family member. Perhaps it was a good thing that he wouldn’t be able to afford another animated one any time soon, he thought, as he entered his lab.

Gently depositing Marble’s remains on an out-of-the-way table, he crossed to the small fireplace and reached for the Floo powder. “Headmaster’s office, Hogwarts!” he called.

It seemed to take a very long time before there was any response, and then it wasn’t someone Severus had expected. “Severus, is that you? I’m afraid Albus isn’t here at the moment.” The bearded face of the Charms Master appeared in the flames.

“It doesn’t matter. If you could just pass on a message for me? We’ve discovered who put the wards on my house.”

“Have you really?” Filius Flitwick squeaked, his eyes widening. “Albus just informed Minerva and myself last week. We were actually supposed to be meeting today to discuss our progress, but Albus got called away.”

“We may still need you to inform us of how to remove the wards,” Severus informed him, scowling. “It was a house-elf.”

“What was a house-elf?” asked Filius. “Oh! You mean a house-elf put up those wards?” He frowned. “Presumably on someone’s orders. Do you know whose house-elf it is?”

“No,” Severus growled. “And if they’re very lucky, I won’t ever find out. According to Potter, it’s name is Dobby.”

“Potter? Oh, yes, Albus did say something about you looking after Harry this summer.” Filius tapped a long forefinger against his chin. “I presume a simple finite didn’t work?” he queried.

Severus shook his head. “I’m fairly certain that was the first thing Albus tried,” he said.

“Hmm. Then perhaps I should come and see for myself,” the diminutive professor suggested. “Gain a better idea of what’s been done.”

“Certainly.” Reaching sideways for a spare piece of parchment and a quill, Severus hastily scrawled the coordinates for his home on it. “Here,” he said, passing the parchment through the Floo. “The Apparation coordinates.”

“I shall be there shortly; must just leave a message for Albus,” Filius said.

“We’ll be expecting you.” And with that, Severus closed the Floo.

Filius had apparently left a very short message for Albus, as Severus had barely set foot in the living room before a short, sharp crack! announced Filius' arrival.

“Afternoon, Severus,” the Charms Master said. He glanced around and spotted Potter, curled up in his armchair. “Hello, Mr Potter. I hear you and Severus have been having a spot of bother courtesy of a house-elf?”

The boy blinked at his professor, then nodded. “It said it was called Dobby,” he said, his voice hoarse. “It said it had been stopping the owls so that I wouldn't go back to Hogwarts.”

“Hmm.” Filius tapped a finger against his chin, considering. “That may make it trickier,” he said. “If the house-elf warded the house for a specific reason, and those wards go down before whatever point it has decreed, then it could simply replace the wards.” He fell silent for a moment, studying the walls.

Eventually, he withdrew his wand from where he kept it in his sleeve. “I’m just going to check how the wards were done,” he said.

Potter tilted his head slightly. “Professor Dumbledore tried, but he couldn’t see anything,” he said.

Filius raised his eyebrows at Severus in question. “Back when we first discovered there was something blocking the owls,” Severus explained, “Albus tried to force it to show itself or bring it down, but the only thing he managed was to nearly overload my existing spells.”

“Ah, well,” began Filius, smiling at Potter, “I shall be trying something a bit different from the Headmaster. I want to see the wards, not disrupt them.” The Charms Master turned to face the nearest wall, and began waving his wand in a long, sinuous pattern.

Severus couldn’t see any results himself, but apparently Filius could, as he made an interested sound.

Finally, Filius lowered his wand and turned to face them again. “A very interesting puzzle!” he informed them, beaming enthusiastically. “I shall have to consult some of my research tomes. And maybe Minerva,” he added, thoughtfully. “Perhaps we could— Yes, well, I shall look into it!” he promised, jerking himself out of his thoughts with a visible effort. “I’m afraid the wards will have to stay put for the moment, Severus. I hope it won’t inconvenience you too much.”

“If I haven’t expired of frustration over it yet, I can doubtless last another few weeks,” replied Severus, dryly. There was a small sound from where Potter was sitting, but when both professors looked his way, he was still curled up in the chair, watching them.

Filius tucked his wand away. “I shall see you at the start-of-term meeting, Severus,” he said, then nodded to Potter. “Goodbye, Mr Potter.”

“’Bye, Professor,” Potter managed to get out, just before Filius Disapparated with a brisk crack. 

Harry stood in front of the bookcase, the Abraxan foal in his hand. He’d realised that morning that he could put the foal back, now that it wasn’t in danger anymore, but now that he’d actually come to do it . . . he couldn’t. It felt too much like admitting that Marble was really . . . gone.

He hadn’t slept well the previous night, his dreams constantly replaying the awful moment when the struggling Marble plummeted towards the ground. He wasn’t sure whether he’d actually woken screaming from any of those dreams – he’d certainly screamed enough in them – but if he had, then Snape hadn’t said anything about it. He had, however, allowed Harry to sleep in, even if only for an hour.

Blinking against the sting of tears, Harry eventually crouched down and pushed the foal through the figurines on the bottom shelf, ensuring it was hidden at the very back. Snape entered the room as he was straightening up again, but if the professor had seen what he’d done, he didn’t comment on it.

Instead, he sat in his armchair and sighed heavily. He looked tired, too, Harry thought. “Potter – Harry,” he began, but was interrupted by a muted crack from the backyard. Snape looked frustrated, but Harry just felt relieved. He had a horrible feeling that Snape was going to try and make him talk about what had happened yesterday.

Instead of the headmaster, as Harry was mostly expecting, it was Professor Flitwick that entered the house.

“Filius,” said Snape, blankly, and Harry realised with a tiny jolt that he could actually hear the various emotional tones in Snape’s voice now, that it didn’t just switch between neutral and angry, as it had appeared to all year. Snape was surprised to see Flitwick here.

“Good morning, Severus!” Flitwick said, cheerily. “And to you, as well, Mr Potter. I apologise for not sending a Patronus ahead of me, Severus, but I wanted to take some readings from those wards.”

Snape gestured towards the wall. “Have you managed to discover how to bring them down already?” he asked.

“Mmm, not quite,” Flitwick hummed, facing the wall that Snape had indicated and squaring his shoulders. He brandished his wand, then began waving it in movements that were fairly hypnotic after just a few moments; Harry had to shake his head to snap himself out of the trance he’d fallen into. “I discussed the matter with several of the Hogwarts elves,” Flitwick said, abruptly, and Harry jumped. “They think they can bring the wards down, if the elf – this Dobby – can’t or won't remove them, but not until you’re out of the house, I’m afraid. Something to do with the intent of them.”

Snape scowled for a moment, then gave a sigh. “Well, we’ll be moving to Hogwarts for the start of term preparations in a week’s time anyway,” he said. “After that, they’ll have nine months to disenchant the things—”

If Snape said anything else, Harry didn’t hear it, nor any response Flitwick might have made. He’d just suffered a second, bigger, jolt.

“Start of term preparations in a week,” Snape’s words echoed in his head. That meant that term would soon be starting. But that couldn’t be right. What had happened to the rest of summer?!

Hang on… That meant they’d be leaving Spinner’s End. Leaving the narrow, dingy rooms, leaving the small bedroom, leaving the outhouse, leaving all the figurines.

I don’t want to go.

Shocked, Harry examined this thought. With the Dursleys, he’d always prayed for the school days to start sooner, so he had at least some time where Dudley and his friends couldn’t prey on Harry. It had meant a rest from chores and beatings and extended stays in his cupboard.

Is this what it means to have a home?

A surprised exclamation snapped Harry’s attention back to the two professors, and he blinked several times. The fact that he apparently considered Snape’s house a home could wait until later – much later.

“What happened?” Snape was asking, frowning, his hand hovering close to the sleeve where he kept his wand. “Filius?”

Flitwick’s eyebrows had risen, and his wand movements had stilled. “Something just changed under the wards,” he said. He glanced down at his wand, then began a new set of movements.

Snape frowned harder. “What do you mean, something changed under the wards?” he asked. “And what changed?”

“It looks like another ward has just snapped into place,” said Flitwick. “Unfortunately, it hasn’t affected the house-elf’s ward, but it appears to be a defensive one.”

Harry wondered where that had been before that elf had stopped the owls.

“I shall give these new readings to the Hogwarts elves, as well as the original one,” Flitwick was saying. “Perhaps Albus might be able to shed some light on things, although I suppose it depends on where the house-elf attached the anchor…”

The following conversation descended into technical terms that rapidly went over Harry’s head, and he found himself tuning out. Still reeling a bit from his revelation that he didn’t want to leave Spinner’s End, he suddenly wondered what would have happened if he’d still been at the Dursleys’. Would he have even realised that something was wrong?

And just what does Dobby expect me to do? Harry thought, frowning in confusion. I’m only 12; I couldn’t just not attend school... Even if he had wanted to, his guardian was a professor, for crying out loud! There was no way Snape would have allowed him to go off on his own for the rest of the year.

“—r Potter.” The sound of his name jolted Harry from his thoughts just in time to see Professor Flitwick Disapparate.

Snape sighed. “Take a seat, Potter,” he said, gesturing at the other armchair. “We need to discuss yesterday.”

Harry winced, but sat as directed.

“Now then.” Snape drummed the fingers of one hand on the arm of his chair. “Tell me precisely what happened after I sent you back from Diagon Alley.”

“Umm.” Harry wanted to pause, to pretend to be thinking and maybe stall until Snape got fed up and let him go, but unfortunately the entire scene was fairly well fixed in his memory. “The elf was here when I got back,” he said, reluctantly. “I landed on him.” Shame I didn't squash the rotten thing! something inside him hissed. Harry sort of wished he had; then maybe Marble wouldn’t have been...

Snape suddenly straightened. “It was already inside?” he demanded. “Actually in the house?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry agreed, nodding. Snape frowned but waved for Harry to continue. “It said I shouldn’t go back to Hogwarts, tried to convince me that my friends didn’t want to be friends with me anymore. That was when I realised it’d been stopping the owls getting through.”

“Did it say why you shouldn’t go back?” asked Snape, curiously.

Harry shook his head. “No, sir. It just said bad things were going to happen this year.”

Snape made a noise of disgust. “Of course it couldn’t be more specific,” he grumbled to himself before focusing back on Harry. “Carry on,” he prompted.

“Then it said it’d make sure I didn’t go back, and that’s when it . . . when it gr-grabbed Mar-Marble,” Harry got out. Heat rose in his cheeks as his voice broke at the end of the sentence. He closed his eyes against the renewed prickling in them. It was bad enough he’d already cried in front of Snape yesterday; he didn’t want to do it again.

“Potter . . . Harry,” Snape said after a long moment. “What happened to Marble was not your fault.”

Startled at the mildness – one could almost call it gentleness – in Snape’s voice, Harry’s eyes flew open. The professor was, as expected, looking at him, but for once it wasn’t the strict, flinty gaze it usually was. “But,” Harry began to protest, “the elf was here to stop me—”

“Harry,” Snape said, firmly, and Harry’s voice abruptly stopped working. “I am your professor. Believe me when I tell you that it is not your fault.” Harry remained unconvinced, and Snape apparently read it on his face. “Have I ever absolved you of fault before?” he asked.

Harry’s mouth opened, and then closed again. With any other adult, he would have just thought that they were pandering to him; trying to convince him it wasn’t because of him when everyone knew it really was. Snape, on the other hand, was more likely to accuse him of something that wasn't his fault. So if he was now saying that this whole situation wasn’t Harry’s fault, then . . . .

It really isn’t my fault.

But . . . it had to be, didn’t it? The Dursleys certainly would have agreed it was.

The Dursleys aren’t here anymore. Their opinion doesn’t matter.

It felt like the first Quidditch game he’d played in, when his broom had suddenly gone berserk underneath him, the sudden swoop in his stomach as his centre of balance lurched.

For almost eleven years of his life, as far back as he could remember, the Dursleys’ opinion of him had been set in stone and roughly lower than their opinion on dirt. The surrounding neighbourhood had been full of Petunia’s ‘friends’ – even if they were more like acquaintances – and nobody had ever taken the time to get to know Harry and thereby change their own opinion of him. Even being allowed to go to school hadn’t helped, as Dudley had been big and loud and brash, and had gotten to all the other kids immediately. Harry hadn’t blamed them for not wanting to get beaten up every day; he didn’t want to get beaten up every day, but he hadn’t had a choice.

Snape had originally seemed to be just like the Dursleys, sneering and jeering at Harry for no reason other than for who his parents had been. He hadn’t cared about Harry, hadn’t even seen Harry; he’d been too focused on Potter.

He had occasionally resented the unfairness of it all but in the end, to Harry, it had just been an extension of what he’d been used to from the Dursleys and he’d been mostly able to concentrate on his first ever friends. Snape’s opinion of him – especially once they’d thought he was after the Stone – hadn’t mattered.

But now . . . now Snape was his guardian. Snape had been his guardian for several weeks, and his opinion of Harry had changed. It had improved. He was treating Harry like a regular twelve year old. He had taken Harry somewhere for his birthday. He had brought him a present.

The Dursleys had never done that for him. Tissues and coat hangers and old socks didn’t count. The Dursleys didn’t like him.

The Dursleys would never see him again.

So why would their opinion matter ever again?

Severus studied Potter. The boy had looked as though he was going to argue with Severus about it being his fault what had happened to Marble, but then he’d abruptly frozen. Apparently, some new thought had struck him, as he appeared to be in very deep thought.

Deciding to leave him to it, Severus rose from his chair and stalked across the room to the bookcase where his books on wards were kept. He’d thought the wards he’d placed on the house would prevent any house-elves or anyone with dubious intent from getting in, but Potter had said the house-elf had been inside the house already when he’d been sent back from Diagon Alley.

Which meant that either the house-elf had been crazy enough to find a way around them, or the wards just plain hadn’t worked as advertised. If that was the case, Severus was going to be sending a very scathing letter to the publisher and the author of the warding spell he’d used about allowing the general public to use such things without extensively testing them first to ensure they did what they were designed to.

As he pulled the relevant book off the shelf though, another thought occurred. Their shopping trip to Diagon Alley had been interrupted, however inadvertently, by Lucius Malfoy, and then the situation with Marble and the house-elf and the wards had overridden everything else.

Severus sighed in resignation. With the ward still blocking owls, they would have to return to Diagon Alley in person to get the remainder of Potter’s things. And they would have to return soon. Didn't Lockhart mention some sort of announcement at Flourish and Blotts next week? Severus was not going anywhere near that circus.

A movement from Potter’s direction caught his eye, and Severus turned to see the boy blinking at his chair in bemusement before he caught sight of Severus standing beside the shelf. “Sir?” Potter asked, obviously confused.

A quick mental debate raged. Would it be better to continue with the conversation they’d been having? There were only so many times Severus could tell Potter that what had happened hadn’t been his fault before the words became meaningless, to both of them.

I’m not the person Potter should be talking to, Severus finally decided. He’d discuss the matter with Poppy once they were at the castle; maybe she knew someone suitable. Or I can just shove him at Minerva.

“We will have to return to Diagon Alley,” Severus informed the boy. He scowled down at the still unopened book in his hand. Perhaps a brief look at Flourish and Blotts' ward section would help... “We shall leave in an hour; make sure you’re ready, as we will be going whether you are or not.”

“Um, yessir,” Potter agreed, still sounding confused but also sounding a bit relieved. He shuffled himself to the edge of the armchair, and then paused. “Sir?” he asked. “What if that elf comes back while we’re out?”

“Then it will get a very nasty shock,” Severus said, grimly. He had a potion that he’d been wanting to try out but hadn’t been able to find a suitable candidate for testing. That house-elf would do nicely.

Surprisingly, Potter just nodded before getting to his feet and making his way into the kitchen, presumably to go outside to the outhouse. Severus summoned another book from upstairs before making a quick trip to his lab. He had his own preparations to make.

Diagon Alley was just as crowded as it had been the day before. Harry would never admit it out loud, but he was actually grateful for the tether spell that Snape had once again attached to his wrist. It made getting around so much easier when he could use the space that just naturally opened up for the potions professor.

Flourish and Blotts held more books than Harry had ever seen, including the Little Whinging Public Library and Hogwarts’. Although still crowded with people milling around, it wasn’t quite as bad as it was outside on the street.

“Here.” Harry came to a halt beside Snape and felt the tether disappear from around his wrist. “The Hogwarts books are usually over in that corner there. If you can’t find all the ones on your list – you do have your list with you?” Snape raised an eyebrow at him, and Harry nodded. “—then you will come and find me. I shall be in that section over there.” Snape gestured to an aisle that had a velvet rope stretched across it. “You won’t be able to enter the section; alarms and other unpleasant things will go off if you try. So don't try.”

“No, sir!” Harry agreed, hastily. He’d seen how some of the librarians acted in the Little Whinging library; he didn’t want to know what wizards might do to stop people from looking at books they weren’t supposed to.

Snape looked as though he might say something else, but instead just gave a slight shake of his head and stalked off. Harry briefly wondered what he’d been about to say – Probably something along the lines of 'Don't you dare do anything to damage these priceless books, Potter, or you'll be scrubbing cauldrons in detention until you're Dumbledore's age' – and made his own way over to the corner that Snape had pointed out first.

Pulling the list out from his pocket, Harry studied it. There were a lot of books by this Lockhart person on it. Whoever their Defence Against The Dark Arts teacher would be this year was obviously very fond of him. He sure seemed to have done a lot involving various creatures.

“Harry?”

Startled, Harry spun round, almost dropping his list. “Neville!” he exclaimed.

Neville Longbottom was standing beside an elderly lady, who was wrapped tightly in a fur-lined robe and with a small hat perched on her head. What looked an awful lot like a vulture was attached to the hat, and as the lady tilted her head to peer down her nose at Harry, the bird moved as well. Harry nervously eyed the sharp beak, and took a hasty step back.

“Wow, Harry, I didn’t expect to see you here!” Neville said, his face beaming in delight. The lady beside him cleared her throat, and Neville winced. “Oh, er, Harry, this is my gran, Lady Longbottom. Gran, this is Harry Potter.”

“So I see,” the old lady said, and Harry realised that her eyes were fixed on his scar. He resisted the urge to sigh, and held out a hand instead.

“Pleased to meet you, Lady Longbottom,” he said. Given the look of the elderly witch, he figured the posher his manners were the better.

Lady Longbottom gingerly shook his hand, and dropped it almost immediately. Harry wondered if he should have offered to kiss her hand instead of shake it. “Likewise, Mr Potter,” she said. “Are you here on your own?”

Harry winced at even the thought of having to navigate Flourish and Blotts, not to mention Diagon Alley, on his own. “Um, no, ma’am. I’m here with . . . uh, my guardian. He’s over there,” he informed her, and pointed at the section that Snape had vanished into.

“Good. Neville, you may get your books with Mr Potter here whilst I pay a visit to Gringotts before we attend Madam Malkin. Do not wander off, do you hear me?”

“Yes, Gran. I won’t, Gran, promise!” Neville agreed, nodding his head frantically.

“Hmpf.” With a sound that in someone less stuck-up Harry would have called a snort, Lady Longbottom spun on her heel and strode out of Flourish and Blotts, leaving Neville standing aimlessly beside Harry.

Severus pressed the tip of his wand to the velvet rope blocking the aisle he needed. After a moment to check his magic, the rope grudging unravelled for him. Stepping past it, Severus paused to flick a quick spell over his shoulder. The inside of Flourish and Blotts might be marginally safer than the bustle of Diagon Alley, but after running into Lucius Malfoy, Severus wasn’t taking any chances. Albus really would kill him if he lost the bra— the bo— Potter now, when they were so close to the start of the new school year. Insane house-elves were bad enough; Severus didn’t want to risk Death Eaters too.

Satisfied that he would be alerted the instant Potter got into trouble, Severus strode down the aisle to the section on wards. The Hogwarts elves might be able to remove the wards this time around, but he wouldn’t be able to rely on them after that and would need something else for next year.

It took him, however, four attempts before he found a book that even mentioned house-elves, and even that result was not exactly encouraging. “Many wards currently exist that claim to be able to ward against house-elves; and to some extent, these do work. Unfortunately, not much is known about how house-elf magic works, and it has been proven that elves who are elderly or not quite right in the mind are able to circumnavigate even wards specifically against elves due to their ability to twist their masters’ orders in a justification of intention that meets the wards’ specifications. As of the date of writing this book, no-one has yet managed to find a way to block a determined – or demented – house-elf. The theory has been put forward that perhaps goblin magic may work, but as this wouldn’t benefit them in any way then the goblin nation have not been willing to test this. The best thing to do is to use the Hillman-Prachett ward, which is at least guaranteed to ward against anything else—”

Growling in displeasure, Severus barely restrained himself from slamming the book closed. How typical of Potter to attract a house-elf that was obviously “not right in the head”. Scowling, Severus placed the book back on the shelf. He was absolutely determined now to create a ward that would work against even the battiest of house-elves. He just needed to think. Obviously warding against bad intentions wouldn’t work, and nor would trying to ward against elf magic. Perhaps physically...? he wondered. That would be very tricky, as how would he manage to find what made an elf physically an elf to ward against?

I shall have to discuss the matter with Filius and Albus, he thought, making his way further down the aisle in case there were any other books that might be marginally more helpful. Possibly Minerva, too. Kettleburn works with creatures; how much help could he give...

Lost in thought as to how he could distil the essence of a house-elf, Severus continued to wander.

After several minutes of uncomfortable silence, while he and Neville awkwardly avoided catching the other’s gaze, Harry finally remembered what Snape had actually brought him to the shop for and that he was still holding his book list in his hand.

“Want to help me find our books for next year?” he offered, holding the parchment out so Neville could see it.

“Sure,” the other Gryffindor agreed, nodding his head. “I’ve already got mine – Gran had the shops owl them as soon as the list arrived – but I can help you find them!”

“They can do that so quickly?” Harry asked, curiously.

Neville shrugged. “I think most of the teachers use the same books, so Flourish and Blotts know most of the ones to get already.” He suddenly brightened. “Look, there’s the one for Herbology!”

Harry picked one up and tucked it under his arm, then consulted his list again. A thought struck him as he read over the books he’d need. “Wow, our new Defence professor sure likes this Lockhart,” he said to Neville. “Look at all the books by him we’ve got to get!”

“Really?” Neville leaned over to study the list over Harry’s shoulder. “I haven’t had a chance to really look mine over yet, but I’m fairly sure there were more than Gran was expecting.”

Harry swiftly counted, then gave a low whistle. “Seven!” he said in astonishment. “I think I’d better leave them till last; there’s no way I could carry all of those for long!”

Neville was glancing around the corner they were standing in. “Where are they, anyway?” he asked. “I can’t see anything that looks like a set of books.”

“Hmm.” Harry looked carefully at the books surrounding them. Neville was right; he couldn’t see anything that looked like a set of one author’s books either. “Guess if we can’t find them once we need them, I’ll just have to ask Sn—” His voice cut out as a thought occurred to him. “Um, Neville,” he began, tentatively, “I don’t want you to freak out or anything—”

“What? Why?” Neville immediately went pale, and cast a frantic glance around them. “What is it? It’s not Snape, is it?”

“Uh...” Harry winced. “Not right now, but . . . he’s been acting as my guardian over the summer, so he’s the one who brought me to Diagon Alley today . . .”

“What?!” squeaked Neville, and seemed to go even paler. “You’ve been living with Professor Snape?!”

Harry hastily put a hand on Neville’s shoulder, both to keep him from bolting straight out of the shop and to be halfway to catching him if the other boy fainted. “Yeah, but it hasn’t actually been that bad,” he assured his classmate. He paused, thought of how his summers with the Dursleys usually went. “It’s actually been fairly good,” he added.

Neville didn’t look convinced. “He – he hasn’t been making you scrub cauldrons, or-or pickle ingredients, o-or . . . anything like that?”

“Nope,” Harry said. “He actually taught me how to check items for curses, gave me a present and took me to the cinema for my birthday, told me stuff about my mum—”

“Ohh,” Neville breathed, suddenly, looking much happier. “You’re joking with me! Ha ha, Harry, very funny.”

What? “What?” Harry repeated his thought out loud. “Um, no, Neville, honestly, I really—”

“Wait till I tell Dean and Seamus about how you got me,” Neville interrupted, seemingly not listening anymore.

Sighing, Harry shook his head. He just hoped that Neville’s Gran had collected him before Snape emerged from the aisles, otherwise the boy was in for a nasty surprise.

It was later than Severus had planned when he finally reached the end of the last book that could have helped his efforts. The spell on Potter hadn’t been triggered, so hopefully he’d find the boy right where he’d left him – and hopefully with a pile of books all ready to go.

Letting himself out of the aisle, he gave a brief nod to Augusta Longbottom, who was sailing past with her grandson in tow. He was quite thankful when the dowager witch just sniffed at him in response, although the boy himself went pale and squeaked in fright. He wasn’t certain he would have had anything to say if she’d wanted a report on the Longbottom boy’s prowess in potions. Blithering idiot would have been about the kindest description, and he was certain that Augusta wouldn’t take well to that at all.

Then again, he mused, as the sound of her voice berating the boy drifted over to him as the pair exited Flourish and Blotts, maybe it’s the kindest description she’d use, too.

Severus frowned to himself at that thought. Longbottom was an absolute disaster in his class, but he didn’t think the boy was quite that bad elsewhere. Admittedly, Filius and Minerva had both complained to Albus about the fact that Longbottom’s wand was not a good fit for him (it had been his father’s wand, the rumour went; apparently Augusta had insisted that the boy use it), but that was hardly his fault, and Pomona always praised his way with the plants in her Herbology class.

Perhaps we need to have a word with Albus about that situation, Severus thought as he turned towards where he’d left Potter earlier. The boy was standing in the middle of the corner, a pile of books cradled in his arms, and frowning at the various stacks of books around him.

“Problem, Potter?” asked Severus. He was not in any way amused by the squeak of surprise the boy gave.

“Sir!” Potter gasped, as he juggled the books to keep from dropping them as he spun round to face Severus.

“I take it you found everything on your list?” Severus raised an eyebrow.

A look of confusion flashed across Potter’s face. “Not quite, sir,” he said. “I can’t find the ones by this Gilderoy Lockhart.”

Severus suppressed a sigh. He was actually a bit surprised that the entire stack wasn’t underneath a self-proclaiming banner, but maybe that was being held until Lockhart’s signing the next week. “Come along, we’ll ask at the counter,” he told Potter.

“Um, sir?” Potter said, hesitantly, as he scrambled to follow Severus. “How will I be paying for these? We haven’t visited Gringotts yet...”

“The cashier will manage it,” Severus said. “If you don’t have the coins to hand—” Because some families didn’t have the coins “—then the cashier will mark off your booklist, which will automatically take the funds from Hogwarts’ vault, and the school will then claim it back from your own vault.” If the family had a vault to claim back from, of course. Severus’ mother hadn’t had one; most of Severus’ school items had been her old hand-me-downs...

“Good afternoon, sir!” the witch behind the counter chirped. Severus internally winced. She was far too perky for this time of the day – or for any time. He suspected a heavy-handed dose of a Cheering Charm. “Did you find everything you were after?”

Potter slid his armful of books onto the counter. “Almost, ma’am,” he said to the witch, whose smile got impossibly brighter as she beamed at him. “I just need the books by Gilderoy Lockhart. Could you tell me where they are, please?”

“Of course, Mr Po—” The witch caught sight of Severus’ sudden glare, and stumbled over her words. “I-I m-mean, sir, of course, sir.” She gave an awkward cough to clear her throat. “I’ll just . . . get those for you.” Clearing her throat again, she hastily ducked through a door behind the counter.

Potter gave Severus a quick, confused glance over his shoulder, before realisation struck and he turned away again, hunching his shoulders.

Interesting, Severus thought, even as the witch returned, dropping a pile of books onto the counter next to the others. She briefly wiped her forehead before taking Potter’s book list and beginning to mark off each book with a tap of her wand. Potter watched avidly, as the title of each book scrawled itself onto a blank bit of parchment beside her, a bright green check mark appearing at the end of each one.

“There we are!” the witch chirped, once the last of the Lockhart books had been done. “All sorted! Will there be anything else, gentlemen?”

“No.” Severus scowled at the thought – he’d hoped to find at least one book that could have helped him to improve his wards against house-elves – but the witch seemed to take it personally, and shrank back, her smile finally dimming. Severus ignored her, and tapped his wand on the piles of books to shrink them. “Come along, Podraig,” he said, handing the items to Potter.

The boy peered in delight at the books for a moment, which nestled in the palm of one hand, before tipping them neatly into a pocket and following Severus out of the shop.

“You have everything from the list?” Severus queried. He did not want to have to make a third trip to Diagon Alley.

“Yessir!” Potter replied, nodding. He pulled his list out of his pocket to check again, then nodded again, more firmly.

“Good. Then we’re heading back to the house,” Severus informed him, and took a firm grip on Potter’s shoulder. “Hopefully with no more house-elves,” he muttered sourly.

“No, sir!” Potter agreed, fervently, right before Severus Apparated them away from the Alley.

Harry stared at the page of Year With A Yeti dubiously. He was only three pages into the book, and he’d already learnt more about Gilderoy Lockhart than he’d ever needed – or wanted – to know.

“Problem, Potter?” Snape asked casually. The professor had been sitting in his armchair, scribbling increasingly frantic notes onto a bit of parchment, for well over an hour now. Harry hadn’t even thought Snape was aware of anything else anymore.

“Um...” He flicked over another page, double-checking to see that this wasn’t just a biography bit that somebody had forgotten to mark. “Are these the right Defence books, sir? This one seems a bit . . .” His voice trailed off as he struggled to find a word other than ‘rubbish’.

Snape raised his head from his own parchment to eye the book Harry was holding. He sneered at it, and turned back to his work. “Unfortunately, those are the right books. Whether you can actually call them ‘Defence’ books, however, is another matter,” he said. “I’d recommend a course of self-study this year, Potter.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said automatically, then he frowned at the book. What sort of things should he be ‘self-studying’? Hermione might know, but then again, she’d checked out a book that had almost broken the table when she’d dropped it a bit too heavily for ‘a bit of light reading’. Who knew where she’d gotten to in her studies!

Harry glanced up at Snape, preparing to ask, but the professor was already deeply involved in his notes again, and Harry didn’t want to get his head bitten off for interrupting.

Snape was interrupted anyway, by a short, muted crack from the direction of the back yard.

“For God’s sake!” exclaimed Snape in irritation, as the Headmaster strolled in through the kitchen. “Must I put up anti-Apparation wards, as well?”

Dumbledore smiled blithely at them both, seemingly ignoring Snape’s outburst. “Good morning!” he said, jovially. “No need to get up, Severus,” he added, waving a dismissive hand at Snape – who hadn’t even moved from his chair. “Filius informed me a new ward had gone up, so I decided to come and take a look myself.”

Snape looked up towards the ceiling, obviously praying for patience. “Don’t let me stop you,” he said, finally, bringing his gaze back down to glare at Dumbledore.

Dumbledore hummed in acknowledgement as he retrieved his wand from the sleeve of his wand. “Now, don’t be alarmed,” he said to Harry. “This won’t hurt.”

Harry shot a surprised glance at Snape. “Should I have expected it to, sir?” he asked the professor, as Dumbledore began waving his wand in tight spirals.

“No,” Snape said, with a sigh. He determinedly turned back to his parchment, and Harry bit his lip at the sight of his professor so obviously trying to ignore the Headmaster.

He attempted to read some more of his Defence textbook, but in the space of a page, he was informed twice more that Lockhart’s favourite colour was lilac – and that was really twice more than he wanted to be told.

When Dumbledore finished waving his wand, Harry decided that now would be a good time to stop trying to get anything useful from this book.

“Hmm, how very interesting!” the Headmaster said. He turned to beam at Harry. “A pleasing development, wouldn’t you say, Harry?”

“Umm…” Harry wasn’t at all sure that he would say, since he had no idea what Dumbledore meant.

Snape had apparently given up on trying to complete his work, and was now frowning at Dumbledore, his arms folded across his chest. “What are you going on about, Albus?” he asked. “What development?”

The Headmaster transferred his bright grin to Snape, who just frowned harder. “Why, the new ward, my boy!” he replied, cheerfully.

There was a pause, and Harry had the impression that Snape was counting – to who knew what number – to hold on to his rapidly escaping patience.

“What about the new ward, Albus?” he asked once he’d seemingly reached a suitable number.

Dumbledore looked at Snape for a moment, then glanced back at Harry. His eyes twinkled, and he looked very pleased with himself. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” he said, airily, waving a hand. “Nothing to be concerned about. Now, I must go; I have to discuss these readings with Minerva and Filius.” And he Apparated away before Snape could stop him.

The professor gave a small growl of annoyance and turned back to his work.

Harry went to collect his Gadding With Ghouls book, to see if that was any better than the Yeti one. He was still lost. What on earth had Dumbledore been talking about?

Severus waited until Potter had gone to bed before he retreated outside to his lab. He wanted answers about whatever Albus had been so enthused over, and even if he wasn’t actually planning to speak to Albus about it, he thought somewhere where Potter wasn’t disturbed by his yelling – because he was certain he was going to do quite a bit of it – was best.

“Hogwarts, Filius Flitwick’s quarters,” he called, dropping a pinch of Floo powder into his fireplace.

It took longer than he had expected before the Charms Master’s face appeared in the fire. “Severus?” his colleague asked. “Has something else happened with the house-elf and the wards?”

“No, nothing else,” Severus told him. “Albus was here this morning, checking on the new ward. He seemed very . . . delighted, but was his usual cryptic self and instead of telling us anything, he spouted some nonsense about an ‘interesting development’. Has he told you or Minerva what, exactly, that development is?”

Filius’ head made a motion that Severus guessed was the other professor settling himself in front of his own fireplace. “Yes, Albus was incredibly pleased when he came back,” he said. “He said it was a blood ward, but wouldn’t say anything more than that.”

Severus froze. “A blood ward?” he managed to get out in a croak. “Are you sure that’s what he said?”

“Oh, yes,” Filius agreed, nodding. “Minerva was very concerned, obviously with it being blood magic, but both Albus and I managed to assure her that it’s a defensive ward, not an offensive one.”

No, it couldn’t be… Severus thought. Albus’ words from weeks before echoed in his head: “Providing the blood conduit – in this case, Petunia – is willing, the wards can protect anywhere the protectee considers home.”

If a blood ward was now surrounding his home . . . then that meant that Potter considered it home, too.

“—erus? Severus!” Filius’ voice intruded on the imminent mental breakdown that Severus could feel approaching, and he became aware that Filius must have been talking to him for a while. “Are you alright?”

No, I don’t think I am, was the first response that came to mind, but Severus wasn’t going to actually say that out loud. “I’m fine, Filius,” he said, instead. “I’m afraid I have to go. Please let Albus know I’ll be contacting him soon to discuss the matter.”

Filius nodded, still looking concerned. “Of course,” he replied. “I’ll see you next week at Hogwarts, then.”

Severus gave a brisk nod and shut the Floo down, before slumping against the nearest table.

It didn’t seem possible. How in Merlin’s name could Potter actually feel comfortable enough, secure enough, to have begun considering Spinner’s End as his home? Even Severus didn’t feel like it was home at times! He’d just never gotten around to selling it after both his parents had died, and it gave him somewhere else to be during the long summer holidays that wasn’t Hogwarts.

Then again, Severus mused, he supposed that anywhere would come to feel like home to Potter if it was better than his previous so-called home.

A thought struck him, and he straightened in alarm. If the blood ward was now around Spinner’s End, that meant that Albus would ensure Potter stayed at Spinner’s End in future.

Congratulations, Severus, he thought to himself as he slumped again. You’ve just become a father to a twelve year old boy!

Severus spent most of the following day in his lab. He was absolutely not ‘hiding’ from Potter in any way whatsoever. He just happened to need to start packing up the lab equipment ready for his return to Hogwarts the following day. The fact that he could have done it in just a few seconds with a wave of his wand was immaterial.

In previous years, he’d simply put Muggle-repelling wards around the entire yard, with extra ones wrapped around the shed for good measure; he’d learnt that was necessary the hard way, after he’d returned from Hogwarts one year to discover that the padlock had been forcibly broken off, and the interior of the lab had been ransacked. One of his biggest cauldrons had been missing, which had been quite the surprise, as Severus had had everything Charmed to look like average items you’d find in a shed, and that particular cauldron had looked like an extremely large, empty flowerpot. Quite what a Muggle would get out of that, Severus had no idea.

This year, once everything had been neatly stored away, Severus wondered whether he should use blood magic to ward the place. He didn’t trust his wards to keep out deranged house-elves anymore, and although there shouldn’t be a reason for a house-elf to force its way into his lab, he was trying to protect against a house-elf that was . . . well, deranged.

Eventually, after more thought than was probably needed, he decided against it. Cornelius had already proven that he didn’t trust Severus, and blood magic was forbidden for a reason – mainly because it was Dark wizards using the blood of someone else, rather than their own. If Cornelius even had a hint that Severus had used blood magic, no matter how small the spell, Severus would be in the deepest recesses of Azkaban before he could blink.

And Potter would be moved elsewhere. Again.

The thought caused Severus to pause as he was striding up the yard towards the house. He still couldn’t quite wrap his mind around the fact that Potter apparently now considered Spinner’s End as his home. And now Severus had to consider somebody else when making decisions. He’d never wanted children – he hadn’t really wanted a family at all after he’d realised that Lily had cut all ties with him completely.

But now he had one.

Lily’s son, as Albus had pointed out to him a few weeks ago.

Oh, the irony, Severus thought, as he began moving again. He was going to be guardian to the boy of his dearest love, and also the son of the man who’d taken her from him.

Entering the house, he glanced into the living room. Potter was curled up in his usual armchair, engrossed in one of the books from the bookcase, with a textbook lying discarded beside it. Ordinarily, Severus would have snapped at him to treat the book more carefully, but in this case it looked like one of Lockhart’s books so Severus didn’t bother.

A quick examination of the cupboard showed him that their options for dinner were limited. Severus didn’t really want to go grocery shopping this close to leaving for Hogwarts. They had enough to get by for the last day or two they’d be at Spinner’s End.

“Chicken or tomato?” he called out to Potter.

There was a brief pause, and the sound of a book being fumbled. “Sir?” came Potter’s confused response.

“Dinner will be soup. You have a choice of chicken or tomato,” Severus informed him.

“Oh.” Potter didn’t sound any less confused by the explanation. “Um, tomato?” he asked.

Severus briefly debated asking Potter if he was asking or telling, but decided not to. His blasted relatives probably hadn’t taken Potter’s opinion into account very often, and it seemed like Potter was expecting his choice to be laughed at or ignored.

Hmm, Severus pondered, as the soup heated. I wonder how many other choices he never had.

Potter had apparently been keeping part of his attention on Severus, as when he brought the soup into the living room, Potter instantly looked up and was able to put aside his book and accept the soup without fumbling or dropping either one.  

Severus had been debating the best way to bring the subject up. As Potter went to put his book away before going upstairs to bed, Severus cleared his throat awkwardly. “If you want to take the book with you to Hogwarts, you’d best leave it out,” he informed the boy. “Tomorrow I’ll be warding all the cases before we leave. And don’t forget to sort out the clothing that’s not going with you.”

The boy paused, book just about touching the shelf, before turning to give Severus a look of even more confusion than he’d had over the soup question. “I . . . I can take the book with me, sir?” he asked, shooting a quick glance down at the book. “But . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Yes?” Severus raised an eyebrow at him.

“I just . . . thought you’d want it to stay here,” Potter mumbled, and ducked his head.

“I was under the impression that you’d want to finish it,” said Severus, “but if you want to leave it here and start it again next summer, then you can do.”

Potter’s head swung up and around so fast, his neck audibly cracked. Severus winced, but Potter didn’t seem to notice. “Next summer?” the boy squeaked. “You mean . . . I’ll be coming back to Spinner’s End?” 

Severus sighed and gestured for Potter to sit in the other armchair again. “You may remember,” he began, “that when Albus sent you the trunk of your parents’ things, I mentioned that there had been a blood ward on your aunt’s house.” Potter gave a slow nod, obviously confused about where Severus was going with this conversation. “A blood ward such as that one, generated by a mother’s desperate love and the blood of her sacrifice, is almost like a binding agreement. It usually consists of two parts, with either side having to uphold one condition to uphold the ward. If either side fails, then the ward is weakened. If both sides fail, then the ward collapses.

“In this case,” he continued, “the conditions were that your aunt willingly gave you a home and allowed you to stay there, and that you consider the place as home.”

Potter had been nodding slowly almost continuously through this explanation, but now he frowned instead. “But . . . Aunt Petunia didn’t want to give me a home,” he said. “Wouldn’t that have, er, cancelled the . . . agreement?”

“Whether she wanted to or not, the fact that she did was enough to stabilise the wards,” Severus informed him.

Potter frowned even harder, and Severus was fairly certain he knew where the boy’s thoughts had gone.

“This is rough conjecture on my part, as I don’t know the intricacies of how a blood ward – and this one in particular – work, but I would suspect that your relatives moving away only weakened their part of the ward, rather than causing it to fail completely, because as far as you were aware, it was still your home, and they were still willing for you to live there, whether or not you had any right to.”

“So, when I realised they’d moved…” Potter began.

Severus nodded at him. “Then your side of the ward collapsed completely, and their—” He absently twirled a finger in the air, trying to decide on the best way to phrase it. “—benign negligence wasn’t enough to hold their part of the ward, and thus it came down.”

The boy looked down at where his hands were resting in his lap. Severus couldn’t tell what thoughts were going through his mind this time, but unfortunately he couldn’t let Potter mull things over until he finally arrived at the logical conclusion.

He cleared his throat again, even more awkwardly than before, and Potter glanced up at him again.

“When the Headmaster was here yesterday to check on the new ward that Filius detected—” Severus paused, and grimaced. He really didn’t want to have to tell Potter this, but if he didn’t, then he doubted anyone else would. Albus certainly wouldn’t; as already proven, the old fool would just make cryptic remarks that enlightened nobody and twinkle at them all. “—he determined that it was a blood ward,” he finished.

“A blo—” Potter’s voice cut off mid-word, and his face suddenly went pale, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. Severus tensed, ready to catch Potter if he fainted – or chase after him, if he bolted.

After ten minutes, though, nothing had changed, although Potter had been looking steadily more horrified. Severus supposed that, even if the boy had recognised in himself that he now considered Spinner’s End home, it didn’t mean that he’d wanted anyone else to know that, just in case he was mocked for it and cast out like his relatives had done.

“Potter . . . Harry,” he conceded with a sigh. “This may not be what anyone had even thought to imagine would happen, but it has, so now, we will deal with it. Certainly due to the Headmaster’s interference, if for no other reason. The blood ward is up around Spinner’s End, which means that during the summer holidays, you will be returning here with me.” Harry made a small sound, but Severus couldn’t tell whether it was of shock, horror or delight. “No doubt Albus will produce legal guardianship papers at some stage in the future, which will likely mean some sort of investigation by the Ministry.” He was developing a headache even thinking about it.

“Investigation?” Pott-Harry whispered, and Severus realised he was probably thinking of a Muggle-style investigation. He idly wondered how often Petunia had threatened Harry with being removed by officials because of something he’d ‘done’.

He shook his head at Potter – Harry. “Don’t borrow trouble before you come to it,” he advised, then shook his head again. “But there won’t be much the Ministry can do to reverse this, even if they want to. The blood ward that protects you will require you to live in the property for a certain period of time to anchor them and refresh the protection annually. Headmaster Dumbledore will no doubt point that out to whoever the Ministry sends; even to the Minister himself, if needs be. And,” he added, as Po—Harry opened his mouth for another ‘what-if’, “I shall point out again that the blood ward only works on places that you call home. No-one else can move it, nor can they force you to do so.”

Harry subsided, and silence reigned as the boy digested the new information.

“I think,” Severus said, eventually, when it became clear that Harry wasn’t going to ask any more questions that night, “it’s time for bed. Remember, tomorrow we pack the items going with us to Hogwarts, as we leave here tomorrow afternoon.”

“Yessir,” Harry murmured as he slid off the armchair and approached the hidden staircase. He paused briefly at the bottom of the stairs and glanced back at Severus. “Good night, Professor.”

Severus gave him a brief nod in response. “Good night . . . Harry.”

Severus was the first downstairs the following morning despite the fact that, when he finally stumbled his way down, Harry didn’t look as though he’d slept very well. There’d been no screaming, so Severus presumed the boy had just been thinking too hard on the information he’d been given the previous day.

“Here,” he said, thrusting a bowl into Harry’s hands as he came back inside from the outhouse. “Eat this, then you can help me with packing the books away.”

Harry blinked at the bowl, seeming surprised at the obvious thickness of the porridge. “Yes, sir,” he agreed.

Leaving him to eat breakfast in the kitchen in peace, Severus retreated to the living room to begin organising the books. Usually, he would have just left them all behind, but if he was going to create a ward that worked against house-elves, then there were some that needed to go with him.

He also needed to Charm some of the more . . . active books to ‘sleep’. He’d once returned from Hogwarts to discover that one had all but eaten every other book on the shelf with it.

By the time Harry appeared beside him, Severus had a small pile of books hovering in the air.

“Here,” he said, handing another two books to the boy. “Take these and that pile there, and put them in that trunk over there.” He gestured to the small trunk that was sitting near the armchairs.

“Yessir,” said Harry, taking the books from Severus. He poked a finger at the hovering pile before obviously deciding they weren’t going to bite him, or fly at him, and picked them up. “Do they need to be put in the trunk in any particular order, sir?” he asked.

Severus shook his head. “No, the trunk will sort and shelve them automatically.”

“Really?” The boy peered into the trunk as if expecting to see tiny elves or pixies in there. Severus had to look away to stifle his amusement. “How do you fit more than two books in there?” he wondered upon seeing what, to Muggle eyes, looked like a trunk that wasn’t any bigger than the length of one standard-sized book. “Is it wizard space?”

“Of a sort,” Severus replied. “It’s an Extension Charm. Although you can’t see the dimensions of it, the trunk itself is actually capable of holding all of these books five times over.”

Harry’s expression turned appropriately awe-struck. “Wow! Is it a hard charm, sir?”

Severus handed him another handful of books. “The charm itself is not particularly difficult to learn; it’s managing to keep the space stable that is the hard part to master. In fact, I believe it’s one of the requirements for becoming a Charms Master – performing an Extension Charm that doesn’t immediately collapse.”

Gingerly, Harry lowered the books into the trunk. “Are you a Charms Master, sir?” he asked, giving Severus a curious look.

Severus snorted. “No,” he said. “Professor Flitwick is, but my Mastery is in potions.” He cast a quick glance over the remaining books, then flicked his wand to set the charm on the shelves. Harry blinked as something indefinable in the air abruptly stilled as the more active books ‘slept’. Turning, Severus flicked his wand again, and the trunk’s lid promptly snapped shut, a loud click signalling it had locked itself. “Now,” Severus said, looking at Harry. “Have you sorted your clothing into what is remaining here and what is going with you?”

“Umm . . .” Harry sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. “No, sir,” he admitted.

“Then you’d better hop to it, hadn’t you?” Severus said, waving him towards the staircase. 

Once upstairs, Harry dumped all of his clothing onto the bed, then stood there, staring down at it. It was a much bigger pile than he seemed to remember Snape buying; more clothes than he’d ever even owned in his life. Up until a year ago, he’d lived in Dudley’s old hand-me-downs until they fell apart. Even once Hagrid had come to fetch him, and he’d discovered he had actually money of his own, Harry hadn’t spent much of it on clothes. The thought just hadn’t occurred to him.

But now he wasn’t sure what he should be taking with him to Hogwarts, and what should be remaining here (at his new home!). How many T-shirts would do? Trousers? Jumpers? He just . . . didn’t know.

How do Ron and Hermione do this? he wondered in frustration. How do they know what to bring with them?

Oh, he abruptly realised. Their mums probably did it for them. Mrs Weasley probably had plenty of practice!

I could ask Snape, he thought, but then imagined actually going downstairs and asking Professor Snape to help him pack his trunk. Instantly, and involuntarily, his shoulders drew up, and he cringed. No, he didn’t think he’d be doing that.

Although if he dithered any longer, Snape would likely be coming up to see what the problem was, anyway.

In the end, he decided to be logical, and split the clothing into two equal piles. One then went back into the drawers, and the other was folded neatly into his trunk. The sight of his neatly packed trunk gave him a strange feeling in his chest that he couldn’t quite identify, but Harry had had enough of odd feelings for today, and he firmly shut the lid of the trunk.

It wasn’t until he came to take it downstairs that he realised the consequences of having so much more stuff. The trunk was now heavy enough that he couldn’t lift it more than a couple of centimetres. He dragged it over to the doorway, and then stopped to reconsider. He was fairly certain that Snape would not be pleased if he physically dragged the trunk downstairs, not least because of the noise it would make as he bumped it down the stairs.

He didn’t really have a choice. Leaving the trunk in the doorway, Harry made his way downstairs. Snape was standing in the middle of the living room, the trunk with the books now sitting on top of two others. Snape tapped his wand on the top of the trunk, and all three of them immediately shrank down until the professor was able to crouch down and pick them up.

Harry couldn’t wait to learn that spell!

Snape straightened up, and spotted Harry lurking at the bottom of the staircase. His gaze flickered past Harry, and he frowned. “Is your trunk packed?” he asked, sounding as though he thought Harry had just been goofing off upstairs.

“Yes, sir,” Harry informed him. “I, um, just need some help to bring it down? It’s too heavy for me to lift on my own.”

“Ah.” Snape’s expression cleared, and he flicked his wand over Harry’s head. Harry flinched, unable to help himself. He knew Snape hadn’t been going to attack him, but he was too used to having to avoid fists from Dudley and his gang. Snape’s mouth pressed into a thin line, but the only thing he said was, “I’ve placed a Featherlight Charm on it; you’ll be able to manage it now.”

A flush heated up his cheeks as Harry mumbled a thank-you and darted back upstairs. Well, that was embarrassing! he thought, cringing all over again. He had a nasty feeling that, once again, there was going to be a talk about things in the possibly very near future. He was not looking forward to it. If they’d just leave him alone about these things, then he’d get over them much quicker.

Lifting the trunk, he suddenly remembered all those weeks ago when Snape had first found him at King’s Cross, and how his trunk then had suddenly become much lighter and easier to handle than he was expecting. What did Snape say downstairs? A Featherlight Charm? Is that what he did to it back then?

Magic really was wicked!

Carrying the trunk downstairs, Harry placed it down beside his armchair. Snape had his cloak on, and was in full teaching robes. It gave Harry a small jolt; Snape hadn’t looked this much like a professor in a while, and he’d almost forgotten the whole ‘Dungeon Bat’ look.

“Here.” Snape passed Harry his own cloak. “Put this on and bring your trunk outside. We will be Apparating to Hogwarts, but I need to set the wards here, first.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, swinging the cloak to rest over his shoulders. Getting the trunk through the front door was a little awkward – it didn’t occur to him until he was already outside that he could have pulled it outside, rather than carry it – but once outside he was fine with holding it.

Snape left the house with a trunk of his own. He placed the trunk on the ground, then turned back to the front door and began tapping on it with his wand. Harry vaguely thought it was in a reverse pattern to the one Snape had done the very first night they’d arrived at Spinner’s End. Of course it’d be a reverse pattern! a voice that sounded a lot like Hermione huffed at him. He unlocked the spell that night; now he’s locking it.

Harry rolled his eyes at himself. He knew it was a stupid thought when even his own inner voice was berating him.

“Come along, Pot– Harry,” Snape said, and gestured for Harry to stand next to him. “Hold on tight to your trunk,” he warned, and Harry tightened his grip, just as the sickening, twisting sensation of Apparation took hold. 

Instead of landing outside of Hogwarts’ gates, as they had done last time and as Harry expected them to now, they came out of the Apparation at Hogsmeade Station. Confused, Harry looked around at the eerily empty place.

“Sir?” he asked.

Snape heaved a put-upon sigh. “It was decided that even though you were coming back to Hogwarts early, you should still have the benefit of riding to the castle as your peers will,” he said, placing his own trunk on the ground. “Leave your luggage here; the house-elves will collect it and place it in your room.”

Harry slowly lowered his trunk to the floor. He wasn’t certain that he wanted a house-elf to be touching it, even if the chances of a Hogwarts elf being like Dobby were very unlikely.

“They will not tamper with it,” said Snape, apparently guessing his thoughts. “Hogwarts has very strict rules when it comes to its house-elves, both for their behaviour and their treatment.” The professor twitched his cloak straight and began to walk to an open area off to the side. “Come along. Our carriage awaits.”

Wondering just what mode of transport was actually waiting for them – he hadn’t seen how the other students were taken to the castle the previous year – Harry scurried after him.

Only to pull up short at the sight of the literal carriage that was waiting for them. It was black and wooden, with large wheels, but the sight that concerned Harry the most was what would be pulling the carriage. Hitched to the carriage were two creatures that, thanks to Snape’s figurines, he easily recognised.

Thestrals.

“They pull the Hogwarts’ carriages,” Snape’s voice echoed in his head. “Thestrals are mostly invisible, unless you have seen death.”

Harry hadn’t even given a thought to it at the time. He had seen death, hadn’t he? He’d seen Professor Quirrell die. He’d caused Professor Quirrell to die. Even if the man had allied himself with Voldemort, he’d still killed a man, however accidentally and in self-defence.

An unexpected hand on his shoulder caused Harry to flinch so violently he almost fell over. Snape’s grip tightened, keeping him upright. “Steady, Potter,” Snape said, calmly. His gaze flicked over to the Thestrals, before coming back to land on Harry. “I apologise, Harry, I should have thought to warn you of the possibility you’d be able to see the Thestrals. It always takes a bit of getting used to, the first time you realise you can see them.”

Harry’s gaze shot to Snape’s. “You can see them, too, sir?” he asked, and bit his lip at the way his voice wavered.

Snape nodded, once, briskly. “I can,” he said, and gently directed Harry towards the carriage door, which obligingly popped open for them. “Most people can’t, so people may look at you askance when it comes out that you can.”

“People will think I killed Quirrell,” muttered Harry.

Snape’s grip tightened even further on his shoulder, and he was pulled to a halt. “You did not kill Quirrell,” Snape said, firmly, and swung Harry round to face him. “Quirrell was tainted, not only by his association but by Voldemort’s possession of him. Your mother’s protection certainly injured Quirrell, but only because it was Voldemort within him. It was ultimately Voldemort escaping his body that killed him. Not you.”

Unconvinced, Harry stared down at his feet. Snape sighed, and gave him a small shake. “And besides, you would have already seen death,” the professor said. Surprised, Harry’s gaze shot up. “This is not common knowledge,” Snape warned him, “but Voldemort killed your mother in front of you. You more than likely don’t remember – and shouldn’t try to – but you had already seen death before the incident with Quirrell.”

“I—” Harry found he wasn’t really surprised by that information. It suddenly made the flashes he’d had, of green light and a high-pitched laugh, make a lot more sense.

“You should remember as well, most people will speak out of ignorance,” Snape continued. “If they know nothing of what happened, then their opinion does not matter. Thestrals are not evil; seeing Thestrals does not mean you are evil.”

“No,” Harry found himself agreeing.

Snape gave a small smile, then gave Harry a push towards the carriage again. “Now that we’ve wasted enough time, into the carriage,” he said. “They’ll be waiting for us at the castle.”

Harry smiled to himself as he clambered into the carriage. It appeared that Snape was done with ‘feelings’ for the day. 

Minerva was waiting for them when their carriage finally drew up outside the castle. “Severus, Mr Potter,” she greeted them, cheerfully. “Welcome back to Hogwarts.”

“Minerva,” Severus responded, giving a brief nod to her.

“Hello, Professor McGonagall,” said Harry.

Minerva gave the boy a quick once-over, then nodded at Severus, obviously satisfied that he hadn’t harmed her Lion. “Albus has called a meeting, Severus,” she said to him. “We’re in his office. No password yet.” She turned back to Harry. “Mr Potter, you have the run of the castle, wherever you have access during the school year. I’m afraid the dorms aren’t open yet; they won’t be accessible until the day the rest of the students arrive. However,” she cast a quick sideways glance at Severus, “I believe there has been some renovation in the dungeons.”

Severus groaned internally. That meant that Albus had seen fit to create a bedroom for Potter attached to, if not outright in, his own quarters. Although he supposed there wasn’t really another choice. There were no spare rooms in the castle, and the boy couldn’t very well remain at Spinner’s End on his own for a week.

“Very well,” he sighed. “I will show Mr Potter the way, then come up to Albus’ office.”

“I’ll inform the others,” Minerva said. She smiled at Harry before turning and striding up the Great Staircase.

“Come along, Pot- Harry,” Severus said. He beckoned with his head for the boy to follow as he turned towards the entrance to the dungeons. “No doubt the house-elves will have put your luggage in your new room already.”

Harry made an agreeable noise, but Severus could see that he still wasn’t convinced about having house-elves around his things. To be fair to the boy, Dobby was the only elf that he’d had close contact with – since Bertie’s Essy hadn’t interacted with him beyond greeting them at the door – and the deranged elf hadn’t made the best impression on him.

It hadn’t made a good impression on Severus, either, but he’d had the privilege of dealing with other elves over the years, and recognised that Dobby was the exception, not the rule.

Severus paused as they reached the end of the corridor that led to the Potions classroom. “The way I am about to show you is for you alone,” he said, abruptly, to Harry. “No other student, except for my Slytherin prefects, are allowed this way. If I find out that you’ve been leading hordes of Gryffindors to my door, Potter, you’ll sorely regret it!”

“Yes, sir!” Harry said, smartly, then he looked confused. “I mean, no, sir! Er… I mean, I won’t?”

Don’t smile; that’ll just encourage him, Severus thought to himself. “No, you won’t,” he said instead. He led Harry along the corridor towards a door that looked like it led to a store cupboard. He could see the boy’s surprise from the corner of his eye as the door opened to reveal yet another stretch of corridor, although one that looked a great deal more homely than the rest of the dungeons, with a dark green rug on the floor and brightly lit sconces on the walls.

“Wow,” Harry murmured, mostly to himself.

“This particular corridor leads only to my – our” Severus grimaced “—quarters. Not even you would be able to get lost from this point. And don’t even think about trying it, Potter!” he added, as Harry opened his mouth.

The boy closed his mouth again. “No, sir,” he said, unable to squash a grin.

Shaking his head, Severus led the way down the corridor. As far as he understood it, the corridor was actually much longer, twisting its way through the dungeons under the castle, but whatever spell was on it made it appear a straight and fairly short journey before they reached his quarters.

Severus drew his wand and tapped it on the door. “Give me your hand, Harry,” he ordered, as he drew the pattern that would grant entry permission on the door. “Touch the door just above where my wand is pointing.”

Cautiously, Harry did so, jerking in surprise as a rush of warmth ran over his hand and up his arm. “Sir?” he asked, looking up at Severus. “What did that do?”

“It gave you permission to enter my quarters,” Severus informed him, tucking his wand back into its holster. “You can stop touching the door now.” Harry pulled his hand back and examined it, as though expecting to find a mark of some sort on it, before looking up curiously as Severus opened the door for him.

Casting a quick glance around as he entered, Severus briefly wondered what it would look like to Potter’s eyes. He honestly hadn’t cared about the décor when he’d first begun teaching at Hogwarts; he’d given the house-elves permission to decorate his quarters as they’d seen fit. Harry didn’t immediately run from the room, screaming in horror, so he supposed that meant the elves had done a good job.

I should probably thank them for that, he thought, absently, as he looked around for where the new ‘renovation’ had been done. A plain wooden door was tucked into the far corner of his living room, half hidden by a bookcase.

“I suspect that is yours,” he told Harry, pointing at the door. “I will not enter it unless absolutely necessary. The same rule as at Spinner’s End applies – ensure you keep it clean and tidy. The house-elves do the cleaning in the castle, but that doesn’t mean that you can act like an uncivilised slob.”

Harry nodded, but remained speechless. Severus suspected he was a bit overwhelmed at the fact that he’d actually been granted a room of his own.

“Well.” Severus cleared his throat, a bit uncomfortable. “Get settled in, then you may roam about the castle whilst I am in the meeting with the other professors. Remember Professor McGonagall’s restrictions – do not attempt to enter anywhere you are not permitted to enter during the school year. Return back to these quarters by 7 o’clock. I’m unsure how long this meeting will last, so you may call a house-elf to get dinner if I’m not back by then.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, then paused. “Um, sir?” he asked. “How do I call a house-elf?”

Severus sighed to himself. What part of the universe thought I’d make a good parent? he wondered. “Just call for Tribble,” he advised Harry. “Tribble is one of the kitchen elves.”

Potter nodded, but still looked a tad confused. He’d soon figure things out, Severus reasoned, and turned to leave. “Try not to get into any trouble before school even starts,” he advised, and shut the door firmly behind himself. 

The castle was eerie when it was this empty. Even the holidays the previous year hadn’t seemed like this, and there’d only been a few other students. Now the space seemed big and echoing, and Harry lost himself in thoughts of being the only presence left alive in the castle. Or maybe I’m a ghost, floating through the ruins of my ancestral home… he thought, and smiled at his own flight of fancy.

Snape had been spending most of his time in meetings with the other professors, doing whatever it was teachers needed to do before the school year started again. Harry had had lunch with all of them in the Great Hall on their first proper day there, but it had been horribly awkward, and Snape had agreed that he could just get his meals from the house-elves or directly from the kitchen.

He wandered through the first floor, ducking into rooms to explore whenever they caught his attention. So far, most of what he’d found was old teaching equipment and enough dust to create another copy of Hogwarts.

One such room seemed familiar, and it took a few minutes – and spinning around to determine the view from different approaches – before Harry realised it was the room that he’d discovered the Mirror of Erised in over the Christmas holidays. He didn’t expect to find the Mirror there anymore but entered the room anyway.

The dust in the room looked as undisturbed as it had the last time Harry had been in there with Dumbledore. He could see the marks on the floor where the Mirror had stood. Scuffing the toe of his trainer through the dirt, Harry wondered what he’d see if the Mirror was right in front of him.

Last year he’d seen his family, his parents, the love and acceptance that was his heart’s desire. Now he had a proper home, a guardian that actually acted like a guardian, even though they hadn’t wanted to be one in the first place.

“It doesn’t do to dwell on dreams,” Dumbledore’s words suddenly echoed in his mind.

Giving himself a sharp shake, Harry slipped out of the empty room again, closing the door behind him. 

“The other students will be returning to Hogwarts tomorrow,” Snape said over dinner one night, and Harry jumped at the abruptness of it, fumbling with his knife and fork. “The dormitories will be open as of 4 o’clock tomorrow afternoon, when the first carriages begin arriving. The Hogwarts Express will arrive in Hogsmeade at around seven, so the remaining students will reach Hogwarts soon after that.”

Harry thought about this as he finished chewing his mouthful. “Does that mean that some students don’t take the train, sir?” he asked.

Snape snorted, although not as derisively as Harry thought it would have been just two months ago. “No, they do not,” he said. “First year is mandatory, as they travel to the castle a different way than the older years, and it is much easier to keep new students all together if they all travel the same way. After that, it is up to the parents or guardians. Students who live up here in Scotland, for example, arrive by carriages, or other methods, as their parents see no point in having to take them down to London for an eight hour train ride back again.”

Harry blinked. That . . . was actually more sensible than he gave the Wizarding world credit for. “Okay,” he said, slowly, “so should I move my stuff out when the others start arriving, sir?”

“Leave whatever will be going to the dorm with you in the living room,” Snape told him. “The house-elves will move it up. Anything you’re leaving here, leave it in your room.”

Harry’s brain felt like it stuttered. I can . . . LEAVE some of my things HERE?! he repeated to himself. He’d thought this was just going to be for the few days he was at Hogwarts until the term started and he moved to the Gryffindor dormitory for the rest of the year.

Bloody hell, that means Snape was serious when he said not to lead any of my friends to his door!

He wanted to laugh hysterically. He wanted to bang his head against the nearest hard surface to wake himself up from this obvious hallucination he’d fallen into. He wanted to cry.

He almost fell off his chair as a hand suddenly landed on his shoulder. The grip tightened enough to stabilise him.

“Steady, Potter,” Snape said. Harry hadn’t even noticed him get up from his chair.

“Sorry, sir, I—” The rest of the words wouldn’t come out; they just got stuck in Harry’s throat.

Snape crouched beside him. Surprisingly, his gaze on Harry was steady and calm. “I had a similar reaction once,” the professor told him. Harry gaped at the man. “When your grandmother offered to let me sleep in their spare bedroom for two weeks during one summer. So I understand this may take a while to sink in. But if I am now your legal guardian, then you will have, at the very least, your own room both at Spinner’s End and here at Hogwarts, and anywhere else we may end up. It will be your room, Harry. You may freely leave anything you like in there, rather than carting everything you own with you all the time.”

Harry had to clear his throat several times, and even then, his “...Thank you, Professor,” only came out as a barely-there whisper.

Snape gave him a faint smile as he rose to his full height again. “Tomorrow is likely to be a long day, so I suggest you go to bed now,” he suggested.

“Yes, sir,” Harry agreed. Not that he thought he’d actually get much sleep, but at least it would give him a chance to reflect on today’s events. 

By the time his friends were due to arrive, Harry was almost jumping out of his skin with excitement at seeing them again. Hedwig had arrived at Hogwarts a day later than he and Snape had, and she had come bearing a long-ago written letter from Hermione. Once he’d had a chance to read it, Harry was thrilled that at least that part of Dobby’s plan hadn’t worked either; his friends had not abandoned him.

The students that had arrived earlier that afternoon were now hovering in the Entrance, waiting for the first glimpse of the carriages coming up from Hogsmeade Station.

“Here they come!” someone screeched, and Harry found an involuntary yell of delight escaping from him. Luckily, it went unnoticed amongst the other yells that were given off.

A whole crowd of students dashed in front of him as the first lot of carriages pulled up and spat out a horde of people, and Harry strained to make himself as tall as he could, trying desperately to see over everybody’s head. He had been one of the shortest people in their year last year; he couldn’t wait until he hit a growth spurt!

Where are they? he wondered, searching for a hint of either Ron’s flame-coloured or Hermione’s bushy hair. I hope they’re not still at the station searching the train for me!

“Harry!”

The shrill screech of his name was the only warning he got, before something was crashing into him so fast and so hard that he was almost bowled completely over.

“Let the man breathe, Hermione!” he heard Ron’s voice say, and he squinted around whatever was obscuring his vision to spot his friend grinning from nearby. “Hiya, Harry!”

Harry grinned back, spat out a piece of Hermione’s hair that had managed to get in his mouth, and wrapped his arms around Hermione just as tightly as she was hugging him.

“Oh, Harry, we were so worried!” Hermione gasped, finally pulling back a bit so she could examine Harry for herself. “I tried to send Hedwig back to you, but she just kept coming back—”

“It’s okay, I know. I’ve got a lot to tell you,” Harry assured her. “You won’t believe everything that’s happened to me this summer!”

Ron stepped closer and clapped Harry on the back. “I even convinced Fred and George to go and fetch you from your relatives’ house,” he said. “But they came back and said there was nobody there! Mum went spare, I tell you.” He rolled his eyes in exasperation.

“The Dursleys moved to Canada,” said Harry. He let go of Hermione and began leading them towards the Great Hall. “I spent the summer at Spinner’s End, with Professor Snape.”

“Snape?!” Ron and Hermione chorused, stopping dead in their tracks. “Neville said you tried to get him to believe that,” Ron continued, “but I didn’t think—”

Harry nodded. “It’s true,” he said. “Snape’s likely going to be my guardian from now on. I’ve got a room down in his quarters and everything!”

His friends simply gaped at him.

“Harry, WHAT has been going on?” Hermione demanded as they finally reached the Gryffindor table.

Harry glanced up towards the staff table, where Snape was already seated beside Professor Flitwick and deep in conversation with him. He smiled, then turned back to his friends. “Well,” he began, “it all started six hours after we got back to King’s Cross and the Dursleys hadn’t turned up to fetch me...”