Merely a few seconds after the Death Eaters left, one of them came back. "Wormtail!" He hissed and caught his collar, shoving him into the wall. "You little, sneaky rat! The Dark Lord will hear about it!"

"Wh – what?" The other man stuttered. "I – "

The Petunia which had entered the room released him and motioned with her hand in a complex series of movements, finally pointing at Pettigrew. "Causa satani!" The already-pale skin of Petunia had almost matched the walls now. Another flick of his hand and Harry's hazel-colored lenses flew out of his eyes. He blinked repeatedly, trying to get used to the sudden change. Petunia's expression smirked amusedly at him, then turned to Wormtail.

"If I won't come back from my trip upstairs, little sneaky snitch, you know what will happen… The Dark Lord is not lenient towards spies. You remember what had happened to Snape in his first night." Pettigrew visibly gulped, his horrified expression looking quite ridiculous on Petunia's. "And you don't have his… status."

With those words, Pettigrew through himself on the floor, reaching out to the other man's shins. He tried to convince him that he was not a spy, that Johnathan Prince couldn't have known that they were coming (Harry wondered what exactly happened there), but no use. The Death Eater ignored Pettigrew's pitiful implores and tried to dissociate the groveling, sobbing creature.

To Harry's satisfaction, it seemed like even Voldemort's inner circles couldn't stand the traitor. When Wormtail betrayed the Potters, he believed he was signing up to ride the Firebolt to success and triumph, to catch the Golden Snitch. However, all he has ever done was grabbing a Quaffle and tossing it towards his own goal.

Harry shook off his musings; if he manages to survive the day, he'll beg Hermione for lessons of writing essays without using Quidditch analogies.

"You are wasting your precious time." The Death Eater growled at Wormtail with disgust and the coward leapt backwards as if he was burned. With a smirk of satisfaction, he walked out of the room, raising his wand.

In the silence, Harry and Dudley could clearly hear a constant tick. Dudley locked gazes with him, alarmed. Harry tried to silently sign him that bombs weren't used in the Wizarding World.

Pettigrew paced around the kitchen. "It's all your fault, Potter!" he raised his voice for a moment, soft talking following. Harry had managed to catch some of the words. "… Dark Lord… Blood… Prince…"

Harry looked at him, trying to concentrate on his moving lips. Did he just say Half Blood Prince?

The man tilted his head, listening to the tick. Harry was sure that the rhythm accelerated itself. "No time!" he squeaked, shattering the window with the Dursleys' microwave. Wormtail jumped through the hole as someone dashed down the stairs. Dudley's hands trembled as he saw his Mother turning midair into a rat.

At the disappearance of their masters, both Vernon and the nurse seemed uncertain at what to do. The woman fainted, yet Vernon's eyes narrowed down as he saw the broken window and the damaged device.

His face color resembled the one of the prunes he had picked with Ron and Ginny during the summer a year ago, on a special occasion of no chores. Ginny revealed her talent at tree climb. Ron made the mistake of calling her a monkey and thus a downpour of purple fruits had hit his face, merciless.

"You worthless – freakish –" Uncle Vernon stuttered with shock, unable to digest the amounts of magic and the damage that was done to the house.

"BOY!" he settled on a roar, grabbing his Smeltings' cane from where it rested. Harry tried to shrink into the chair as much as he could, but the sticking charm prevented him from moving. He closed his eyes, waiting for the unavoidable hit.

The blow hadn't disappointed, striking him straight on the torso. His chair flown backwards and Harry was falling. He remembered McGonagall's warnings and reprimands about swinging on a chair, falling and breaking the loment –

The chair stopped midair, tilting in an angle of 30 degrees. Harry's head whiplashed and the metallic taste of blood appeared in his mouth as his chest and chin collided. He tried to wriggle aside, see if Snape managed to conquer the house once again –

SMACK!

Vernon Dursley stumbled in his place, his back hitting the fridge, near the disappointed Harry. It must be a Death Eater. After all, his teacher seemed to grow fond of his uncl–

CLASH!

Harry watched with awe as Johnathan Prince moved forwards, clobbering Vernon Dursley's nose. For a moment, it was easy to forget that the vigor, young man was the greasy git from the dungeons. His sunglasses' left lens was fractured and it hanged rakishly from the front of his muggle t-shirt, which was soaked with sweat.

Yet, the most conspicuous difference was neither the man's clothes nor appearance, rather his demeanor and stance. The usually fathomless and stiff man was enraged, his movements were almost graceful during his scuffle with Vernon. His strikes were brisk and his dodges even quicker, not leaving Uncle Vernon any chance of winning.

Harry contemplated, trying to understand how did Snape practice on his fistfight's technics. A small voice in his brain tried to urge him to ask the man for trainings, but this notion was quickly tossed aside as the Professor had managed to subdue a man which weighted like a small whale on the floor, knocking him out cold.

Snape stood above Harry's Uncle, panting. He stared down until he caught his breath again, as if his own glare could stall Vernon's waking (Harry wouldn't be surprised if it was the truth).

Snape slowly raised his gaze towards Harry, wearing a wild, triumphing and maddened grin on his thin mouth. The boy involuntarily recalled his first Occlumency lesson with the drunk man. He almost looked like a child who drew a sketch at school and waited for his father's praise.

At this moment, there was nothing that Harry wanted to do more than flee.

If it weren't for the damn sticking charm!

In the moment that Severus had caught sight of Vernon Dursley hitting Harry Potter, a parallel picture of another small boy and his father floated in front of his eyes.

Severus saw red.

He hadn't quit until the fiend man has lost his consciousness. The sight of the land-whale laying on the floor had sobered Severus; it was not his childhood nightmare, not his own father. Tobias Snape was not there. He was tossing restlessly six feet under the surface ever since Severus was sixteen years old.

It was not his role to avenge.

And yet, it was years since he'd felt so liberated, so careless. His barriers were hurled away. Hell, he cannot recall when did he relished with his whole heart. The emotions filled his brain, stirring and arousing the living part of his brain that was long neglected. The euphoria in redeeming a vulnerable teen from abuse has found its way to his lips, forming a huge grin upon his face.

Adagio Severus' eyes pierced the emerald orbs of the Boy Who Lived, taken aback as he spotted uneasiness instead of gratitude.

The unanticipated emotion which radiated from Potter was enough to shake the Johnathan Prince façade off.

"Finite Incantatem." Severus motioned at the pair of the cousins who could not be more diverse, suddenly weary. Dursley was obese and terrified, very alike his father. Severus glanced at the other boy, who stumbled from his inclined chair without the grace that blessed every gesture of his father. He was small, yet his green eyes shone piercingly and he immediately began to fanatically search for his wand.

Dudley Dursley bounded from his chair with an unexpected briskness and tried to exit the ruined kitchen. A mere snap of his left hand ejected a burst of magic, which caused the door to slam in the face of the amazed teen, almost severing his fingers.

Severus scowled. Seems like both his emotions and magic were keen to commemorate his leapt in judgement, their momentary freedom.

"How many?" he asked Potter, as the boy retrieved triumphantly his holly wand out of a vase.

"We saw three. Pettigrew, Nott and another one."

Severus' lips tightened into a white, thin line, as he stupefied wordlessly both Vernon Dursley and the nurse. "Nott is the master of imitation." He must be with either Dolhov or Mucliber, and the first won't go down effortlessly… "The third was Mulciber. I happen to be acquainted with his dueling pattern."

The boy stared at him for a moment with surprise and Severus found the feeling mutual. It wasn't like him to rumble. Potter seemed to reach the same conclusion, since his hand sneaked towards a heavy metal pan.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake! Put it down, you silly boy." Severus snapped, unable to malice his words as usual. Perhaps Minerva was right and the boy had some self-preservation and common sense.

Speaking of which…

With a motion of his hand, pointedly ignoring the two other residents of the kitchen, Severus conjured a beautiful silver doe. He elucidated the situation, asking for both backup and evacuation teams. His eyes bore irritatingly at the brat as the blasted animal decided to rub herself under Potter's palm before she began her gallop to Hogwarts' Headmaster.

The cheeky boy had the audacity to owlishly blink at him, a small smile conquering his face.

Perhaps there was hope, indeed.

"Let's address the elephant in the room." Severus smoothly uttered, emphasizing the epithet, his gaze reverting towards the third fully conscious man.

"Now, Mr. Dursley," he began. "Tell me everything you know about your disease."

Then, he disarmed Potter with an almost unseen movement of his wrist. "Meanwhile, Mr. Potter, I would like you to infer why you shouldn't lie to me about how did you receive your scar." And as the boy's hand automatically reached his forehead, he merely tapped on the back of Potter's left knuckle with a long, pale finger.