“You were a while,” Snape said when Harry finally reappeared in the kitchen. “You know if you hadn’t rushed out so fast, I could have told you there’s a downstairs loo under the stairs.”

“Oh.”

“And I haven’t forgotten the question I asked.” Snape fixed his penetrating gaze on Harry, as if trying to read his mind. “Well?”

Harry sat down slowly. “On Christmas Eve I used to help my aunt prepare stuff. The food and everything.”

“I see.” There was a note of doubt in Snape’s tone, as if he knew Harry was holding out on him but couldn’t quite figure out what or why. “Well, then, what time shall we say I—”

“Between five and six,” Harry said immediately.

Snape blinked. “Why?”

Because Aunt Marge turns up at six and after five I’d generally finished the most laborious work.

“Um, no particular reason. Just thought it would be a good time.”

“Right.” Harry was sure Snape wasn’t falling for it, but to Harry’s relief he chose to drop the subject. “Now then, I do believe the cobbler may be ready …”

They dished up in silence, and began eating. The food was absolutely delicious. Harry had to admit, things could be worse. Snape could have been as bad at cooking as Uncle Vernon (which was to say, appalling). But instead he was almost as good as Molly Weasley—high praise indeed.

Harry’s thoughts wandered to the Weasleys. He wondered if they would all still be as accepting of him now he was officially a Snape …

A thought suddenly struck him. “I don’t have to change my name, do I?” Harry asked, dropping his fork. Snape scowled at the clang, but didn’t comment.

“No, you don’t. I doubt that will be questioned, since at your age it is entirely your decision, and as you have been Harry Potter for so long it is only understandable that you would prefer to keep it that way.”

Harry sighed in relief. As much as he hated being The Famous Harry Potter, there was no way on earth he wanted to have to answer to Harry Snape. He supposed it was one other small blessing in this whole mess.

“I’ve been thinking,” Snape said after a moment, “that, in addition to working out our cover story, we should also, er, find out more about each other. Things that we’d know if we’d known each other well for six and a half years.”

“Oh.” Harry paused. “You start.”

Snape took a couple more mouthfuls before he started speaking.

“I’m thirty-five. My middle name is Leander. My birthday is the ninth of January. I’m an only child. I’m considered a half-blood since my maternal grandfather was a Squib, but the rest of my family were wizards. My parents both worked in the Ministry of Magic until they died, which was nine years ago.”

“Sorry,” Harry mumbled. Snape was far too young for his parents to have lived their full lives. Harry knew what it was like.

Snape didn’t acknowledge his sympathy, he just continued. “Unlike most pureblooded children, I went to Muggle school before Hogwarts.”

“Really? Why?”

“My grandfather insisted my mother went, and she thought the experience was a valuable one. It pays to be knowledgeable about Muggle culture.”

Harry got a flashback to the oddly-dressed wizards at the World Cup, and hid a grin.

“My favourite colour is green,” Snape continued. Big surprise there, Harry thought. “I enjoy reading, writing and gardening. I like to keep up to date with the Muggle news. I speak Latin. I used to have an owl called Trebax, but he had an unfortunate encounter with one of Hagrid’s Blast-Ended Skrewts last year.”

He paused. Harry thought he detected a lingering sadness in Snape’s tone, and was wondering whether to try saying “I’m sorry” again or if it would just be ignored, when Snape continued, “I imagine that’s probably enough to begin with. Your turn now. And before you start, I already know your birthday. And your middle name.”

Harry pondered his answer for a while.

“My favourite food is treacle tart. My owl is called Hedwig and she was an eleventh birthday present from Hagrid. I beat Ron in Exploding Snap about ninety percent of the time, but he always beats me at chess. I can run very fast. I’m allergic to wasps. Well, all stinging insects actually.”

“Really?” Snape looked rather taken aback. “Do you have something for this?”

“Yeah; Madam Pomfrey gave me a pack of things to suck on if I get stung.” Harry had already tried one after accidentally stepping barefoot on a bumblebee last summer. They looked like regular boiled sweets, a vivid purple colour, but Harry thought they tasted like someone had blended bad mushrooms with raw egg, salt, aniseed and heaps of sugar and then bound it into suckable form. Personally, Harry would have preferred an injection like the Muggles used—a brief moment of pain sounded much more appetising—but he wasn’t one for complaining.

“You carry them all the time?”

Harry nodded. Except when he forgot to pick them up off his bedside table. But he didn’t bother saying this. It had only happened a handful of times, and not for ages.

“Who knows this, apart from Madam Pomfrey?” Snape asked.

“Just Ron and Hermione. Oh, and Neville, he asked what the sweets were once. But no-one else. I’m not stupid enough to let it be public knowledge. Draco Malfoy would probably put a hornet on my chair just to see what would happen.” Not to mention what Voldemort could do with the information, Harry thought, but didn’t say.

Snape made a ‘carry on’ gesture.

“I learned a bit of German at primary school but now I only really remember the numbers and colours. I can’t swim and I don’t like water. I don’t have a favourite colour. I like really really spicy food. Dudley once dared me to eat a whole Tabasco pepper. He was astonished when I liked it.” To be more precise, Dudley had forced it in his mouth and been thoroughly disappointed by the result, but there was no way Harry was going to say that.

“Hmm.”

Harry wondered if he’d said too much. Snape was getting too clear a picture of Dudley. Harry changed the subject. “Hermione’s started a house-elf rights group called SPEW. She sort of roped me and Ron into it.”

Snape frowned. “Why are you telling me this?”

“They’re my friends. I would have talked about them—a lot—if the story was true.”

Snape took a moment to process that. “You have a point. Continue.”

Harry told him about some of the best times he had spent with Ron and Hermione. He told him about their habits and their hobbies. He even mentioned, as casually as he could muster, that he had never had any friends before Hogwarts.

He hoped his friends could forgive him for sharing this information. It was a question of survival.

After a while, he couldn’t think of any more to say, so he asked, “Anything else you want to know?”

Snape considered. “Do you have any hobbies? Quidditch aside, obviously. You haven’t mentioned any.”

“Erm … does infuriating Dark Lords count?” Harry said with a half-grin.

“That’s not a hobby. It’s the sign of an attention-seeking moron who wouldn’t know self-preservation if it bit him on the nose.”

Don’t talk to me about self-preservation, Harry thought sourly. You’ve no idea how much I know about that.

“I thought you weren’t going to insult me anymore?” he said pointedly.

“Sorry.” The word looked very difficult for Snape to get out. “Force of habit.”

“I play the flute a bit,” Harry said shortly.

“The flute?”

“Yeah. I mean—I don’t read music or anything. But Hagrid whittled me one in first year and I play it sometimes. I can do Happy Birthday and Old King Cole and I’m trying to master Magic Works.”

“You like the Weird Sisters?”

“Yeah. I don’t know them well, but I do like them. Can I ask some questions now?”

“Yes.”

Harry considered a moment. “What kind of music do you like?”

Snape drummed his fingers on the table, apparently thinking hard. “Hmm. I like most types of classical music—I prefer choral and strings. Also jazz. Though I do have a fondness for The Rhythmic Runes.”

Harry didn’t know them, and made a note to familiarise himself. “Any big events in your life in the last six and a half years I should be aware of?”

“Er … I won a Potions award the November before you began Hogwarts. I’ve had five papers published in that time. My grandmother, my last living relative, died three years ago.” Again, Harry felt the urge to offer sympathy, but didn’t think it would be welcome. “Last summer I missed the World Cup due to dragon pox.”

“You like Quidditch?” Harry asked, surprised. He’d never thought Snape’s interest in the House matches went any further than his own House’s pride.

“I do,” Snape replied. “I merely choose not to act like a hooligan about it.”

Harry felt slightly cheered by this fact. At least they would never be stumped for conversation.

“And on a related note, my friends—my closest friends—are the Headmaster and your Head of House.”

“You’re friends with McGonagall?” Harry was even more surprised at this.

“That’s Professor McGonagall, and just because we take our Houses’ Quidditch rivalry seriously does not mean we are not on friendly terms—at least, when nosy students aren’t around.” Snape smirked.

Harry paused. There was one thing he had been wondering about Snape for a while, and he’d blurted it out before he really had the chance to think it through.

“What made you stop being a Death Eater?”

Snape went very still. His nostrils flared. Harry could tell he had hit a nerve, and regretted the question.

“Somehow, I don’t think that question will come up,” he said in a very final tone, and pushed away his empty plate. “I’ll get the dessert.”