When she woke, she was floating through a dungeon.

Now that looked more like a proper kidnapping!

However, the impression was ruined when the kidnapper said a nonsensical word and the dungeon walls parted to reveal what looked like a perfectly nice living room.

It was old-fashioned, with mahagony wood and dark green velvet. There was dust on every surface that wasn’t regularly used, Harriet noticed, and felt uneasy for a moment before remembering that no angry aunt Petunia could appear to scold her for it.

The kidnapper pointed his wand at the couch and said something in what Harried suspected was Latin, and suddenly ...

She must be dreaming! Magic, okay, but had he just turned the couch into a four-poster bed? Perhaps he had drugged her after all ...

In her dreams, that sort of thing often happened, but dreams were dreams. She was pretty sure she was awake, now.

“Miss Potter?”

Harriet didn’t react in time, only to see his face grow concerned. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes?” No one ever called her Miss Potter! The Dursleys mostly called her ‘girl’, and when they really needed to use a name, they used her full name or just ‘Potter’.


“Are you able to change into a nightgown by yourself?”

“I guess so?” She felt weak, as she always did when she was sick, but she had managed to walk down the stairs, so ...

“Very well.” He took something from his pocket, pointed his wand at it and it grew, and grew ... into a green nightgown.

“Here, that should be your size.”

She sat up and he handed it to her, then turned around on his heels to, seemingly, stare at a wall.

Huh. Weird.

Harriet pulled the pyjama top over her head, which wasn’t all that hard, considering it was Dudley’s, and put on the nightgown, which was a bit harder because it was actually her size.

Did kidnappers usually give you privacy? Harriet only knew about them what she saw on the TV when Dudley watched his favourite crime series. And of course Dudley had seen fit to inform her that kidnappers were mostly after girls, but he probably just said that to scare her.

Anyway. Normal kidnappers were rude? This one wasn’t exactly polite when it came to talking, but somehow, Harriet thought a typical kidnapper would leer at her and call her a pretty little thing in a creepy tone that implied he would later on threaten to cut off her nose.

So, while not exactly polite, the man was also not quite rude enough for a criminal.

And then there was the whole ... magic thing. The nurse seemed nice, and if she wasn’t lying, then the man must be telling the truth, too.

After all it would be pretty stupid to tell someone who was not a criminal that he had kidnapped a girl, right?

Except he totally had kidnapped her. He had said he was taking her away because the Dursleys were horrible, but Harriet knew how those things worked. Kind of. He should have called the authorities, and then some nice lady would come to the Dursleys and find out if they really mistreated Harriet, and ...

And Aunt Petunia would have told them that old story where Harriet was a freak and a difficult child, and the nice lady would have believed it because a woman with such a sparkly clean kitchen and an immaculate white couch in the living room could not possibly be the kind of person who mistreated children ...

Huh. It must have happened before, perhaps when Harriet had been too young to really remember. Why else would she be so certain that everyone would believe Aunt Petunia?

The teachers usually did, but ...

Well. Perhaps the stranger had been right to just kidnap her.

But he should have asked. If he had just asked politely ...

“Who are you, and why do you know my name?” She had intended to be more polite, but really, there was no nice way to word it.

For a moment, she was not sure if he would answer. He did not turn around. “My name is Severus Snape. As for the reason why I know your name ... I knew your mother.”

“I’m dressed”, Harriet informed him. In fact she felt better dressed in this than in Dudley’s old clothes.

The nightgown was very thick flannel, soft and comfortable, and the same colour as the furniture here. So the man – Mr. Snape – did have a favourite colour, after all! And it happened to be the same as hers.

“You knew my mum?”

He turned around. “Good. Now, get under the covers, girl, do I need to tell you everything? Will you trust me if I show you a photography of your mother?”

“You have a photo? I mean, yeah, sure.” Anyone could have a photo, in theory, but Aunt Petunia had been adamant that none existed, so perhaps not.

The bed was very warm and comfy, especially considering it had been a couch moments ago.

It was stupid to trust someone just because he had given her a nice warm bed, but it was tempting.

“Here.” Mr. Snape had walked to a bookshelf and opened a book. He took something out of it and pointed his wand at it.

Magic!

This time, Harriet didn’t see anything happen.

“This is a magical copy”, he informed her when he handed her the photo. “It will vanish upon my death, but for the moment, it should suffice.”

Harriet took the photo. There was a girl on it, not much older than she herself. “Wait, that can’t be ...” Oh, no, how silly of her! Of course her mum had been young, once. “So you really knew my mum? When she was my age?”

“Obviously.”

“She’s very pretty.” She was not the beautiful woman Harriet sometimes dreamt of, but a girl whom Harriet would have envied very much if she had met her at school. “She was very popular at school, wasn’t she?” She was smiling on the photo, in that carefree way of people who were never bullied at school, Harriet thought enviously. And she didn’t have any traits someone could bully her for. Like needing glasses.

“She was, indeed. Everyone liked her.”

“And ... did she bully the children who weren’t popular?” She knew TV wasn’t like, real-real, but the popular girls in the American series were always cruel to the ugly girl with glasses. At her school, it was only Dudley and the boys who bullied her, but you never knew.

“No. Your mother was never a bully.” Somehow, this sounded more true than anything he had said before.

“Good. Aunt Petunia told me my dad was an useless drunk, but that’s still better than a bully.”

“I knew James Potter”, Mr. Snape said slowly. “And for all I know, he never had an alcohol problem. He was well liked by many.”

**

Severus cursed himself. Why had he said that? If the girl asked, he would have to tell her the truth, and the truth was worse than Petunia’s lies.

But she didn’t ask. “I guess I somewhat suspected Aunt Petunia lied about them. She never wanted to tell me more.” She placed the photo on the bed, carefully away from where she was lying, and closed her eyes.

Severus transfigured the couch table into a nightstand and put the photo there.

What had he done? Dumbledore would have his head. As soon as he heard about it. Which was not likely to happen soon. Madam Pomfrey knew Severus often ran errands for Dumbledore, and had obviously assumed that taking the Potter girl to safety was one of those.

From her point of view, there was no urgent need to inform Dumbledore of anything. And with how busy she was, she would probably not have time for idle chatting anytime soon. Probably.

Severus sat down in his armchair. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Would have to do that sometime soon.

What a day.

Why had he taken the Potter girl? Because ... Petunia was not fit to care for a child. Yes, but, what was he going to do now?

He couldn’t keep the girl here. He was not any more fit to care for a child than Petunia was.

And he had to teach!


The girl seemed now fast asleep, lying on her stomach, her head to the side, with the glasses on. It looked rather uncomfortable. Severus raised his hand. “Accio glasses”, he whispered.

Slowly, as he had intended, the glasses moved away from the girl’s face and into his hand.

Without glasses, there was almost nothing of Potter in that face. Comforting, considering he would have to see quite a lot of that face in the next couple of ... weeks, probably.

And then? Dumbledore had defended his decision to give her to Petunia, but blood relatives or no, Petunia was just ... no.


Severus ascertained that the Potter girl was asleep, then tiptoed out of his rooms. He didn’t like going to the kitchens, all that attention from the house elves was a little too much for his taste, but there was no helping it.

It was just as bad as he remembered it. He was practically drowning in house elves. Good thing he had used Madam Pomfrey’s abridged bubble head charm, so that he couldn’t infect them. If the new virus could spread to house elves, and if it affected them similarly to children, he didn’t want to imagine the horrors.

And the fact that Professor Flitwick was in the hospital wing meant that people who were not fully human could catch the virus. And probably were more severely affected if they were small.

“I just want a sandwich”, he said in his strict teacher voice. “And in a couple of hours, a meal for a sick child will be needed. I trust you know what would be suitable.”

Did they ever. Especially those who were new to Hogwarts (their masters had probably perished in the recent war) had lists and lists of traditional recipes for just such an occasion.

“It’s a disease that affects the lungs”, he added, hoping that would reduce the number of recipes being debated, then fled the kitchen.


One of the few perks of being a teacher at Hogwarts was that the food was good. Even this simple, triangular sandwich was perfect in its own way. The lettuce and tomato were fresh, the cheese was ... whatever cheese had to be.

That he rarely cared enough about food to make himself some proper meal didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate good food.

Which reminded him ....

His rooms were a mess. At least the bathroom was clean. He had decided to allow the house elves in there after realizing that, left to him, it became rather disgusting rather quickly, and he couldn’t risk Dumbledore needing the bathroom on one of his visits.

The kitchen was filled with experiments for a potion to combat the new disease, as was, of course, his private laboratory.

And the living room ... well, it had gathered quite a bit of dust. He didn’t mind the dust and thought it quite sufficient that the house elves cleaned it in the summer holidays, but ... the child might judge.

And make fun of him.

Heaven forbid that she should see his bedroom.