Harry Potter was highly unusual in many ways. For one, he didn’t have to live in an orphanage, despite his parents being dead. For another, he really wanted to go to school, but he had to focus on earning his keep with the Dursleys: Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia and his cousin Dudley. And he also happened to be a chimney sweep’s apprentice.

It was nearly dawn and Harry and his fellow climbing boys -and girl- were sleeping black. The cloth and sacks Master Edwin used to capture fallen soot draped over them, bodies shaking nonetheless from the cold seeping through the dirty cellar floor.

Harry untangled himself from the heap of bodies first. Treading with care as not to wake anyone up, feet unsteady. He shivered. Wrapping his jacket around him for warmth, eyeing his friends with their rising and falling bodies with a glint in his eyes. Tempting. So very tempting. But Master Edwin would come soon. Shrill voice jolting them awake and among the hustle, Harry would miss the opportunity to wash up, be late and suffer Edwin’s wrath.

What would Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia say when Master Edwin complained to them? Hurtling Harry back home and declaring him useless? Uncle Vernon wouldn’t take his small physique as an excuse and no doubt throw him out. Screaming that no sissy boy deserved to be housed under his roof.

He shuddered again, not cold, and when he was ready enough the lofty steps of Edwin’s boots echoed behind the door. A momentary fumbling of keys and the wood hurled open, smashing against the wall with enough force to wake the others.

And if that wasn’t enough to stir the heaviest of sleepers (namely Oliver), the ragged shouting certainly was.

“Wake up, ‘ye useless clotpoles!” Erwin boomed, snatching the blanket from over the boys. Draping the fabric and sacks over his soot-stained jacket while the five others withdrew with sharp flinches. Sleep induced and tripping over their feet in the result, they scurried off to the morning routine none were too pleased to share.

For once, Harry -almost thirteen and not showing it- watched. Sight a blur of shapes and shadow. Running wild like the thoughts in his mind. Another day. Another sun. And Harry Potter has woken once more to the void in his chest eating away the heart he prided himself to have. Oldest he might be, to these children… a brother that they didn’t have and the hope they would better be without… but the light from life was starting to dim for him after all. Oliver… Little Joe and the only girl, Marie-Lue... All lined beside him, ash and dark and clothes that were never meant to be theirs.

Another clench of his heart and Harry faced forward.

Edwin, scowling in the face Edwin, took them in with a grunt. Eyes narrowed. Searching for a toe out of line, as the thought bolted in their minds , “That all of you?” he asked, adjusting his cap.

Harry nodded, curtly, and only because the rest did not. Clenching his jaw hard enough to rattle his teeth, Harry allowed the man his petty fun of spitting at their feet. The hands clasped behind his back jarring his skin, drawing angry gashes over the ones already lining them.

"A'ight. Off with you all, then," Edwin said, banging his cane against the metal rails. Making small Marie, only six, flinch and duck her head. Launching for Harry's hand when Edwin marched up the steps, head ducking to get past the door when his hat almost fell off.

Despite himself, despite what he told everyone in the business, Harry squeezed back. Hard flesh against Marie's soft, innocent skin snagged by two weeks of labour. Tears already forming, trails against red skin. The disappointment Harry had to learn to leave behind as not to stagger. As to win. As to earn his keep.

As to earn the love that he now doubted he deserved to have.

London, on this summer morning, wore fresh fog. Cold fumes, dirty and from the mines and factories. The ones the adults assumed as progress and what the children assumed as early death. Harry squeezed again, against better logic. Meeting Oliver's eye -the second oldest- and shaking his head. Oliver raised a brow and turned back around. And left. Left him all alone. Fending for the girl, whimpering and weak when he wasn't anything more.

When the cart, a feverish clutter of dark shapes appeared, Harry tugged, pulling the girl closer. Eyes lifting from under the cap to eye Edwin, now smoking Edwin, and leant down to her ear.

"Marie," he whispered, sharp as winter snow, "You have to stop crying."

Marie sniffled, shaking her head. She lifted an arm, wiped her eyes. Fast and fuming, though not scared, "I want to go home. To mummy and daddy."

Mummy and daddy. The words winked from the corners of nightmarish nights. Glinting in the stars that sang of them, rose for others. Harry risked another look. This time Oliver nodded in his stead and Harry sighed. When he stopped walking, Mary slammed against his back.

Her fingers lifted. Cradling the bridge of her nose, now tutted red and glanced up. Slow and trembling. The wind sweeping loose strands of black, once blond and no more the silk it used to be. Harry’s hair wasn’t what it used to be. The once rich black hair with red highlights dark and rough under the cap due to the soot.

Harry lifted a single finger to his lips, light brown and not from the soot, "We have to stop crying. Alright, Marie? Your-" he bit on his lips, blinking hard, "Your Mummy and Daddy aren't here... yet. So you must- you have to... you should be strong, yeah? You're a strong girl. Mummy and Daddy want little girls to be strong because everyone loves strong little girls," he whispered, standing up and tugging on her hand, walking faster to keep up.

Marie-Lue sniffed. Wiping the soiled tears from her eyes -brown, doe eyes- and looked up when they stood in line to get on the carriage, "Will Mummy and Daddy love me when I'm strong?"

Harry stared. Stared until Edwin was behind him. A hand smacking down on his neck, ripping off his cap and barking at his face. Smoke and spit coiled around Harry's nose. Taking most of the willpower Harry had to not scrunch.

He bent down for his cap. Thanking Marie-Lue by lifting her into the carriage for finding it, he jumped on. He took the seat at the very end for his tardiness and Marie-Lue cuddled to his side, rubbing her head against his chest. The others watched. Harry watched them back. Little Joe and Oliver... David and Rory and Harry number two (or as they called him Mums, since he never talked), all small and searching. All learnt of affection here, or the lack thereof. Not to look for it. Not to search for it. Keep the yearning inside you, where it won't come to harm you.

And still, yearn you would.

The carriage jolted. The children jolted with it. The driver's whips sliced the air, earning a shrill whine from the 'beast' that didn't look like it could pull anything but its own weight.

"Harry," Marie whispered, only six and so small, "Will they come back for me if I'm strong?"

A family walked in his mind. Happy and laughing. A woman wearing dark blue robes and a man wearing a suit, smart and something Harry saw behind the glass one freezing Christmas two years back. Getting a shaky look before the tailor chased him out, screaming about how Harry would scare off customers. He only found him because Harry had left his soot in the snow. Betraying him in the ally where he lied, frozen and beaten with blood in his teeth.

Bad Christmas. But he'd seen his parents there and begged to join them. In his mind, his mother black-haired and kind-eyed. His father red-haired and green-eyed and only because he once saw a heard of red-heads and their own father in town. Poor, not well off but happy all the same. Happy. And Harry would doubt Aunt Petunia in these instances. How poverty, while making those five children happy, made Harry Potter's parents leave him on his Aunt's doorstep one summer night.

One summer night almost twelve years ago, and even now Aunt Petunia refused to say anymore.

And Harry wouldn't either.

He cleared his throat. The girl, only a girl, looked up and returned Harry's smile, though it didn't resemble the grimace on Harry's face, "We'll pray for it."

"Every night?"

"Every night."

"Will you teach me?"

Harry paused and looked up. Oliver regarded him with narrow eyes and crossed brows. The look Harry had become better at ignoring over the years.

And ignore he did.

"I will. I promise. We'll pray... we'll pray for a family."

Marie nodded. Harder than necessary and held up a curled pinky finger, "And for food. Yummy food, like in the big town."

Harry opened his mouth. David, eight years old, talked instead, "And clothes."

Rory, ten and a half, "And a warm house!"

Mums, who communicated with hands alone, clasped his hands and faked sleep, winking at them when the rest fell into soft laughter.

Well, most of them anyway. Little Joe joined in, despite not having said anything but Oliver stood stern. Cocking his head when Edwin -bastard Edwin- twisted his neck with nasty threats of no dinner. Took Harry and Marie-Lue with a look that promised far more and turned back to the front with a grunt.

Harry heard the curse. But smiled at Marie. Only Marie. Taking her finger with his own and shook, a deal well made. An oath well earned, "I promise, Marie."

And Marie grinned with hope Harry had lost. She hugged with strong arms. Warm and still alive, and her breath fell soft and steady while Harry watched her closed eyes. Tufting a strand away from her face, Harry leaned back on the wood. Pulling his jacket tighter around himself, against the summer wind that sang of winter. Of sleep. Of today.

The today masked by tall, grey buildings that swam in hasty shapes. Tall and beautiful and alive. Parents and children and families that were warm and not some wind to jolt them out of a dream that wasn't real. Just them, and warm fires and someone's presence to look forward to. Despite the cold. Despite the fog. And no matter what London or England could be, a family it would stay.

He frowned.

And then Harry prayed.

*

London, for all it's worth, was less grime and more stares. And climbing down from the carriage in an unfamiliar neighbourhood was always foreign and strange. Edwin called them all identical. So did Harry, with the shapes and colours so familiar in his eyes that he needed someone to tell him which house was which when Edwin wasn't looking.

Taking one large sheet over his shoulder, Edwin turned to the street. Cupping a hand over his mouth and shouting with a voice no longer raspy, "Soot- Oh, Sweep!" over and over until there were at least two people peekeing through their blinds, their curtains closing just as quick when they caught sight of them.

Edwin clearly didn't mind being at the receiving end of the glares from the residents. Or he was good at hiding it. Or that these particular glares weren't as bad, seeing as most the buildings here belonged to tradesmen and shopkeepers, judging by the signs that lined over the brick architecture.

"A'ight," Edwin turned to the line of children. Dropping a pale sheet over each of their arms, he swept a look over each of them as he passed, the only black eye on his face seizing up Harry when he stopped in front of him, "You come with me."

And with a sharp jab to his chest, Harry followed. Not sparing a glance behind him, Harry squared shoulders. Throwing the worn sheet over his shoulder and stuttering to the sidewalk.

Harry's feet shuffled on the cobblestone. Cold, due to the holes in the soles and the socks that thinned to strings. Edwin didn't look behind him. Grumbling now and again to a passerby, complaining about their dress or shoes or the riches they most likely possessed and Harry was once again reminded of Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. They too took great pleasure in gossip and complaint, sneering at anyone who looked to be better off them in any detail. Gloating over the souls that were unfortunate enough to have the little they didn't. Though, Harry couldn't call their assets little. With their servant and three large bedrooms and the kitchen that never seemed to lack food, they certainly weren't poor. And taking in Harry at a young age and keeping him in the cupboard under the stairs and rarely feeding him could hardly diminish their wealth. Especially when Dudley's birthday gifts showed a visible accumulation over the years.

Harry, called back from his daydream by bumping against Edwin's back, looked up. Ducking his head at Edwin's scowl, he shuffled his weight from one foot to the other. Nodding when Edwin barked at him to wait outside. His ears pricking at the sound of the bell, though his eyes did not falter from the cracked stone on the ground. Interesting stone it was. Grey, dark and not ugly like Edwin. Harry leaned against the glass, crunching the pebbles with his toes.

His breath swirled in a white mist over his mouth and nose. Unsteady. Breaking. And his fascination lasted the three minutes Edwin spent inside before he was dragged in. Arm burning even after Edwin let go.

The shop, in question, was warm. Not the uncomfortable warm that lasted two rare days of summer. Or the chimneys he climbed with their suffocating heat. No, this warmth was tender. This warmth smelled sharp of herbs and teas and flowers he didn't know. Of medicines terrible and strange that reminded him of... well, he wasn't sure.

But it smelled of home.

Either way, Harry made sure to keep his head down. Made sure that his eyes, green and not to everyone's liking hid behind his cap. Stay out of sight. If you can't, stay silent. Be the next best thing and keep still. Mummys and Daddys only like quiet, obedient kids, don't you know Potter? Not some scrawny dark-skinned boy with knobbly knees. Harry nodded, reluctant. But the voice in his head disappeared all the same. Leaving behind a chuckle and a slap on his neck.

Harry sputtered. And then met the eyes of the client.

Black, piercing, angry. Dressed all in black and a not someone Harry would like to meet on a midnight traverse. And though Harry's eyes dropped the black shirt, the man's did not. Continuing to listen to Edwin with his eyes not lingering.

"We settled on the price, then?"

"I suppose it's an adequate amount, in return for your, ah deliverance," the man said, smooth but snide, and Harry's head lifted in surprise. Breath jerking because the man was still looking and it wasn't what Harry would consider in his favour.

A moment of silence. Then, "This way, please. I had the chimney in the shop swept not a while ago. The same cannot be said for the one in my personal quarters and laboratory," and he led them around the brown oak counter to a door behind a shelf of jars and glass bottles. Opening the door that led a flight of stairs, shadow drawn and narrowed between two black walls.

Edwin cleared his throat, making the man turn around. His shoulder-length black hair falling curtain around his face,

"Eh, Mr Snape-"

"Professor Snape,"

Edwin clenched his fist, "Of course. Professor Snape. Do you want another worker for the second chimney, or would this lad be of use?"

For Professor Snape, the question must not have been an easy one. His brows knitted closer and the lean form hunched forward, long arms crossing over his chest.

And then the Professor did something that made Harry stagger down a step.

He kneeled to his height. Taking the arm that wasn't holding the brush and sheet. And with a touch that should not have been gentle, squeezed.

It was in no way familial. Nor parental and no matter how much the scent of the shop swirled the man, Harry told himself it wasn’t home.

He wasn’t home. But now, with his dark eyes soot-black and searching, Harry’s breath did hitch and his heart fell into an unsteady run. Fast, uneven and to his dismay, something the professor noticed. How he knew, Harry couldn’t say. But after that bony finger slithered to his wrist and pressed down, the professor knew.

The arched brow complemented his features. With those sharp and high cheekbones, and the lingering suspicion that the professor wasn’t just a professor bothered Harry. Not much, but enough to take another step back before he was cornered by Edwin. Snatching his wrist back, Harry rubbed the skin and faced away.

Professor Snape, quick to let go and quicker in gaining back his decorum, stood up. He clasped his hands behind him, and with a look positively bored, faced Edwin, “He will suffice, assuming that your...climbing boys clean more than a chimney per day.”

“Oh, yes. Mark me words, five and six if their luck. The economy as it is… Need some income, you know, not that you yourself-”

Professor Snape held out a hand. And Harry allowed himself to grin under his cap at the way Edwin’s face morphed into surprise and then rage.

“Yes yes. Very drastic. God bless the Queen. Now,” he then turned, resuming the rest of the climb, “If you’d follow me?”

They complied. But the sneer that pulled on Edwin’s lips couldn’t mean he was pleased. Harry could almost read the man’s mind, after spending four years with the man. Something between a scoff and a chuckle sounding from his lips when Edwin’s voice echoed in his mind. Complaining in a rigid voice, stomping over and over his mechanical brush while cursing at every professor that came to be.

He hid it, of course. Behind a cough and a grin bit back, just in time for Professor Snape to open the door (oak and dark) on the landing, giving way a large living area.

And it was nothing like Harry imagined.

A dark shadow followed Professor Snape. In the corner, in his heart. A shadow that sneered and scowled and growled like a beast and Harry assumed... well, it wasn't right to make assumptions. No. But with the warm chocolate walls, wooden tiles beneath multiple dark green carpets and furniture that was welcoming more than menacing, Harry could admit that his taste wasn't half bad. Sure, the space was small. With a chimney in the corner below layers of shelves and a long couch and single armchair, there wasn't much area left to the circular dining table and two chairs, as well as the kitchen area lining the opposite wall. All warm and colours of dull brown and green. Not wild, not snark but some comfort to his eyes nonetheless.

"You have a nice house," Harry said, soft, certain. Then immediately clamped a hand over his mouth when the man's head whirled around. Making dear Harry pinch the inside of his palm and avert his eyes.

A slap on the back of the head was Edwin's -cruel and disgusting Edwin's- response. Along with a hiss in the ear to behave while he apologised to the Professor, hands clasped together in apology, back bent.

Disgusting. And people thought the kid's kissed up to others.

Professor Snape waved a dismissed hand, one hand still behind his back, "I do not mind. Now, I'm a rather busy man. Hence I ask you to be quick about it, Mr Edwin."

"Yes yes. Of course," Edwin said, honeyed. Grabbing Harry around the cuff the next second and dragging him across the parlour to the well-furnished chimney. He kneeled down to his knees, bones groaning in protest. Grabbing hold of the metal long holder and removing it from the hearth. Then, he lifted up a hand and Harry passed him the white cloth. All the while the Professor sat in his armchair.

And watched.

Harry wasn't about to return the gesture. So while Professor Snape watched Edwin lay the cloth over the hearth, Harry watched the ornaments that lined over the mantelpiece. A few viles, dried flowers, a portrait of a young Professor Snape and a woman, and an antique table clock.

Edwin's voice rose him, and Harry was once more pushed forward. Stumbling and finding his support on the brick fireplace.

Professor Snape watched.

Professor Snape didn't say a word.

"Eh," Edwin cleared his throat, "Will you be here, Professor Snape?"

"Why yes. I find it impractical to leave children unsupervised, considerably so when dealing with... hazardous tasks."

"I's keeping 'em supervised, Professor."

Professor Snape's arched brow was nothing short of humiliating. Seizing Edwin in a mock question and doubt, "Whatever for?"

"...You're keeping him under lock and-"

Professor Snape held out a hand and Harry indulged himself in another grin at the pale-faced Edwin. Almost liking the man who was now crossing his slender legs, pants pulling high enough to share a glimpse of his black socks, "I shall endeavour to be abundantly clear. I am keeping the boy under supervision so I keep up my honour as a responsible man with proper moral. You, Mr Edwin, have a charge of children needing to be taken care of, to my precise knowledge, and no time to waste. The boy will do fine, and my chimney is in no rush."

"We always keep on the lookout, Professor Snape. We-"

"Are not in a shop your opinions are favoured, as I have made clear to every single sweeper to cross into my quarters. The boy alone, please. You may collect him in, hmm, on your way back from a neighbourhood that hasn't been cleaned just yesterday by another hoard of children."

These things happen, Harry told himself. Running a hand down the shelf, brows disappearing in his blob of hair when his finger came back dust-free. Some others were quicker. Sweeping the neighbourhood clean and making them search for another. Making the children grin while Edwin got scolded by the tenants of the houses. But never was it as fun as this.

"Whatever... whatever shall the boy do, when done with 'em both?"

Professor Snape rolled his eyes, "Ensnare me, Mr Edwin. Actually, no. Rather not. But I imagine that in an apothecary, there is enough work to humour a child. I am a busy man and having some additional aid would be much appreciated. Of course," he added, looking right into Edwin's eyes, a smirk twisting his lips, "You'll receive the payment necessary."

In a twist of fate called 'money', Edwin's crooked back straightened and Harry didn't even have the time to be offended at the word 'senile' before a nasty crack came from his spine, making Harry wince and Professor Snape's mouth twitch. Black eyes glaring at Edwin's hand, which was shaking the Professor's vigorously.

“That’s a deal if I’ve ever seen one,” Edwin said with a toothless grin and only Harry noticed the Professor wiping his hand on a handkerchief after he stood up and led them both to the door. But Edwin turned around just before disappearing. Back arched and on his toes to peek above the Professor's shoulder, a finger jabbing the air rather sharply.

“An’ don’ forget to buff it, boy!”

A muscle twitched near Harry’s eye. And when the door closed, masking the last of their ceasing steps, Harry rolled his eyes. Most adults in his life treated him in the same sense as the Dursleys and Edwin. Stupid, ignorant, arrogant, nuisance, burden… And a couple more which were less mundane. But stating the obvious to his face always got Harry’s blood pumping the worst of ways and anger was never slow to follow.

So when a cough from behind him interrupted him from striping from his pants, anger and surprise found themselves equally alive.

Professor Snape, already by the door, had his arms crossed. Scowl still in his face, though less at ease snapped, “What are you doing?” eyeing Harry's hands.

Harry frowned, “Buffing it, sir?”

“What?”

“It’s to go in nude, Professor,” Harry explained, patiently, like he supposed the Professor did at school. But when the scowl deepened, he grinned. Likely not, “It’s easier to clean that way. Less likely to get stuck.”

Professor Snape hummed while Harry got rid of the remainder of his clothes. Now a nasty pile beside the hearth, Harry greeted the man with a mock salute before entering the hearth, heart already thumping wild. This was fine. He’d done this before. For years, since the day Uncle Vernon finally kicked him out of the house and Annabeth helped him pack his bag, tears in both their eyes, he’d done this before. No need to throw a tantrum now at the sight of the dark, narrow chute that could mean a possible death with a single wrong movement.

No need at all.

So Harry breathed. Readied himself by pulling up by the walls and climbed. Using his arms and legs, he hoisted himself up. His brush ridding the flue line of the black soot. Keeping his head down as to breath as little as the poisonous material into his lunges, body moving much like a caterpillar up the line.

Little help that did, Harry sneered. Over the years he’d spent, climbing chimney after chimney, always panic and little fun, the soot would get to him sooner or later. Suffocating him in an alleyway where nobody cared.

 When Harry woke up, his body ached and heat suffocated his throat. The warmth driving him senseless and afraid until a tug in his mind reminded him where he was -what had happened -  yet  immediately failing him when a hand, cold and comforting, landed on his forehead. Lean fingers drew his hair back and placed a cold, wet rag on his forehead. The water slid down his head, tickling his skin.

The hand left, and Harry moaned. Trying to lift his head for a better view before he was pushed down, stern fingers lead him by the shoulders and Harry complied. 

Cold, hot, burning, freezing.  

He fought to stay awake while the voices around him danced - broken, angry. Snippets of words leaked through the cracks.   

“...fever still up… tomorrow…”

“....can’t… work… Have to take him…” 

One silky, the other very familiar. Not Uncle Vernon, but close enough that Harry whimpered. Shaking his head from side to side because no . Not Uncle Vernon. Not here. Not Uncle Vernon, please -

Uncle Vernon snorted, sauntering closer to the presence that was already beside Harry. A shadow loomed over his frame before the hand intervened. The owner slid between the shadow, slender but not Aunt Petunia, strong but not Uncle Vernon. 

Stern and not afraid.

“...Tomorrow….  need to discuss… unlicensed…”

And then, Uncle Vernon was gone. The floor shaking under his weight, the door slamming after him, rippling the water in the basin beside Harry’s head - rhythmic, appeasing. Afterwards, the rag left and came back colder than before, lulling him to sleep -despite the fingers that pried the sheets from him, despite the cold, despite the whimpers. For at the end, the voice did speak to him.

“... sleep, Potter.”

And he did.

*

The next time Harry woke, his eyes opened first. He blinked at the dark-wood ceiling. Hard. Then again, until the fog in his mind lifted and sleep was just as nauseating as the heat. 

But the heat wasn’t here anymore, was it? Nor the cold that chilled his bones. Not anymore. He altered between freezing and burning, leaving him confused in a stranger's bed with clothes that slid down his thin frame.

Harry pushed himself up - groggy and slow, but desperate to get out. He tried to untangle the sheets first -prying away the light green blanket with clumsy hands, he shook the material free, and stepped out. 

And then he fell.

An arm caught him by the waist before he could faceplant on the wooden floor. 

The arm, or rather the owner of the arm, stood still. Ghost-quiet. Harry perked his ears, searching for a sound, but not even the man’s rising chest emitted one. Swallowing tight, Harry craned his head. Lifting his eyes to see the Professor's face twisted with furious creases. The glare hardened, emphasized by the purple bags under his eyes. 

“Are you as arrogant as you are stupid?” he spat. 

The collar of the shirt cut into Harry’s skin, but Professor Snape didn’t let go. 

 “Does the prospect of death excite you, Potter?”

Well, most days. When the cellar floor was particularly cold or when Edwin’s belt was as sharp as his tongue.

Harry shook his head, casting his eyes away, “No, sir.”

“Does the idea of playing the martyr tempt you, Mr Potter? Or perhaps it’s the glory of the hero that drives you to saunter out of bed as if you haven’t suffered head trauma? Malnutrition and injured bones aren’t even the worst of the problems you have!”

Harry froze. His mouth hung open, ears deaf to the Professor’s voice. While his lips moved, spitting words like poison, all Harry could think was that despite his looks and tone of voice, the Professor seemed… concerned.

“... bruised body and a sprained wrist! Not to mention the filth that coated your skin and hair! The blasted water turned ghastly black by the time you were in an acceptable-”

“Did I worry you, sir? Were you concerned for me, a stranger? Even though…” Harry swallowed, rubbing his arm, “You had to go through the trouble?” Harry asked, hands clasped in front of him. Biting down when the hand that clasped his shirt faltered, planting Harry’s feet firmly on the ground. 

The anger that broke into loss lasted a moment too long. Wavering between confusion and a scowl before finally landing on the neutral frown that greeted Harry and Edwin this morning. The hand left, and Harry cradled his neck uncertainly. He winced as his fingers stroked his skin, stealing the occasional glance at Professor Snape. Bruised,  obviously. But now wasn’t the time to worry. 

The Professor didn’t snap. Nor did his rage return. Instead, he cleared his throat. Averting his eyes to the window in the corner when he spoke, “Into bed with you, Mr Potter. I shall not have you injuring my property any further.”

The hand that touched Harry’s shoulder didn’t have anything to do with the fear that plunged into his stomach. It stabbed him in the gut and twisted, pulled out and let the emotions gush wild in its wake with a grin. 

Harry fell once more. On his knees, this time. He stared up, eyes wide and shaking his head viciously from side to side, “I-I broke something?”

The Professor raised a brow, opening his mouth to answer before Harry jabbed in again, “I broke something when I fell, didn’t I? The chimney lining? The wood stands?” he said, heaving the words - rushing through them while his mind raced further, faster.

“That’s why Uncle Vernon was here, wasn’t he? I broke something and he had to come. Master Edwin told him that I ruined something and he came to take me back!”

“Mr Potter-”

“I’m sorry!” Harry shouted, sliding back until his back hit the bed. Lifting his arms, Harry squeezed his head. With eyes closed tightly, and now rocking back and forward, he cried, “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I-I’ll get the repayment, somehow, but please don’t make Uncle Vernon pay for it. He-he-”

The rest didn’t come. Because now Harry was heaving. His breath raced,  his heart clenching in all the wrong ways, and his stomach prickled with sharp needles over and over. He could no longer think.

At first, Professor Snape didn’t move. A confused look still firm in his face, lips thinned into a line. Harry didn’t take much notice. Even as the Professor kneeled to his height, face now really concerned, Harry remained trapped in one flashback after another. 

Plates shattering, glass falling and the desperate hopelessness before he was hurled into the cupboard. 

Dark, small. 

The dust settled in his lungs, blood on his lips, and the smell of Aunt Petunia’s perfume drifting into the cupboard. All the while, Harry rocked himself. When the fear came, when the door rattled closed on its hinges. 

Dark, small.

Harry came back, eye-to-eye with Snape, and wiped the tears with his sleeve. The Professor's face was still sallow. Sallow and somehow grey. Black eyes searched him from within their narrow sockets.

“Mr Potter?”

“I’m fine.”

“Did you…” The Professor paused, then shook his head, “Nevermind. Up you get, Potter. To bed, now, or you will not get soup.”

Harry complied. Pushed himself up and slid under the covers, keeping his head down even after the Professor brought him a bowl of steaming chicken soup. He did not call for the Professor after he left, his mellow footsteps disappearing behind the closed door.

He couldn’t finish the soup.

It was delicious, all the same.

*

It wasn’t Uncle Vernon that came the next morning. Instead, Edwin stood parading before the shop. He stomped harshly over the floorboards while the Professor, with much distaste, helped Harry down the stairs with a hesitant arm around his waist, stopping every few steps when Harry’s head gave a hard spin. 

“I don’ see why I couldn’a come up myself,” Edwin greeted, crossing his arms.

The Professor chose to answer by dropping Harry in one of the leather chairs by the chimney. Then he straightened out the black shirt beneath his black waistcoat before turning to face him, clearing his throat, “So. The flue lining.”

“Wha’ about ‘em?”

“It’s tarnished.”

“An’ so?”

“It’s your fault.”

Edwin’s scowl was almost enough to rival Professor Snape’s. Almost. The herbs and floral scents wafted through the air, ill-tempered and taking their rage out on Harry. At least for today. The herbs were pleasant the day before. A pleasant greeting in his nose. Now, they only distracted him. The room concealed behind a palette of odors. 

“Now you listen to me, Professor,” Edwin hissed, cocking his head to the side, gritting his teeth, “I am not payin’ for none of your property. I told you I had to keep the boy in line. You told me to leave.”

“No supervision would have helped a boy falling down a chimney, Mr Edwin. And I find it hard to believe that you would have managed to catch him before his body collided with the stone. Can your meagre brain comprehend the damage the boy would have were it not for his fast-thinking? If he had not managed to restrict his momentum? A tarnished chimney flue would be the least of your worries.”

With his back to Harry, Professor Snape’s face was hidden from view, but even then, by the way he stood firm and tall, his slender body almost arching over Edwin, Harry could imagine the man’s expression. Rigid. Terrifying. Something Harry was thankful not to see. 

“I am a decent man earnin’ a livin’!”

A few people passed by the shop, not stopping but staring nonetheless. Harry only noticed because of a woman’s clothes. The colourful fabric a bright contrast to the dim, dark shop. A sort of light, in the boring palette. Her attention led Edwin to regain his posture. He took a step back, straightening his spine, “Get up, boy. We’re leavin’.”

Harry’s breath hitched. His hands clasped the armrest, straining his knuckles. Then Harry smelled the soup, felt the warmth of the brown quilt, and the ghost of a touch brushing his hair back, checking his fever, applying balm to his body, and wrapping the white bandages around his wrist before walking him down. Harry saw the real contrast, then. Of the cellar, of the soot. Of only looking at that red-headed family, only wishing for something that wasn’t his. 

Professor Snape wasn’t family.

Harry told himself he wasn’t attached. But the cold stung harshly when he stood. 

He limped the distance from the chair to Edwin. The wood creaked unnaturally under his foot. Wincing at the sound, Harry stopped directly  beside Professor Snape, where he risked a look up. Professor Snape didn’t return his smile. But Harry didn’t mind, and made it known by mouthing the words very slowly: Thank you.

He did clasp Harry’s shoulder though, once Harry took a step forward. Bony fingers clawed into his skin, pulling him back. Harry almost tripped, flailing his arms until another hand balanced him, keeping him still.

He didn’t let go.

“Potter is not going anywhere.”

Edwin’s bones cracked when his head whirled to face Professor Snape. His brows lifted in a way that showed surprise before knitting in a way that promised something a lot worse, “What?”

“He shall make adequate compensation. You refuse to pay, for you don’t own the amount, and by having Mr Potter work in my shop without pay, I believe he can relieve the debt from the incident.

Harry stared, bewildered, mouth opening and closing. Eyes rushing from one adult to the other, a hint of a smile rose on his lips when Edwin’s face fell after Snape continued in the tense silence, “If not, the inspectors would be delighted with the report I give them. Especially so when one boy was almost severely injured. Are your arms up for the heavy labour that comes with the penance? If needed, I have just the balm. Mr Potter proved its efficiency via usage.” 

He then turned to Harry, clasping his hands behind his back, “How is your back, Mr Potter?” 

“Uh, em-” Harry stuttered, taken back by the address, “Much better, sir.”

Professor Snape looked to be proud of much more than merely his balm, surely. After he offered Edwin a prescription, Edwin turned around, stomped to the door, and before he slammed it close, shouted back, “Mark my words, Professor! You don’ come complainin’ about the boy. I’m not takin’ ‘em back! And you -” he faced Harry, “You work an’ mind you,  do it well. I don’t ever wan’ to see your face again and I’ll tell Dursley exactly so!”

The windows rattled, wobbling the jars lining the shelves. The bell hanging over the door chimed wildly after him, echoing. Swift, loud.  His words settled like the sound, only producing a reaction long after it was rung.

“Did he-” Harry looked up, “ - kick me out?”

Professor Snape arched an eyebrow and turned to face the door. Eyeing the glass as if it were profoundly amusing, though Harry couldn’t find anything funny about this situation. Professor Snape curled his lips, “Come, Mr Potter. There is much that can be learned during bed rest and my patience wears thin by the minute.”

Harry hesitated to follow after him, still facing the door, eyes pinned on the street Edwin had walked away from. All that trouble to earn his keep, all that hard work… those cold nights in the cellar where he dreamed of the Dursleys, warm and waiting for him after he’d proven his worth… And all it took was one accident. One fall. One prayer and Harry was kicked away, never to return. 

“Mr Potter?”

Harry wiped his eyes and followed, “Coming, sir.”

*

Professor Snape, as expected, valued academics and weighed a person's worth by their brains. He, also, stared wide-eyed, book still in hand after Harry had specifically told him he couldn’t read. 

“What?” 

Harry blushed, and hid his face behind the pillow above his knees. A copy of what was apparently Common Herbs and Identifications balanced on his legs.

“I was never taught, sir.”

“Never?”

Harry meekly shook his head, feeling more wretched by the second. He didn’t suppose it was fair for the Professor to belittle him for something he hadn’t done. Or something no one had bothered to teach him when he could learn to earn some money and be useful.

That was Aunt Petunia whenever she caught him sneaking a peek at Dudley’s books or touched the spines of the volumes in the parlour while he dusted. Not that the Dursleys would read when they could spend their time gossiping about neighbours and attending operas. But Petunia’s keen eye always spotted something out of place. It seemed like the only thing it could do, but Harry never said that out loud. 

“My Aunt and Uncle didn’t like me reading,” he muttered in defence, “Said it was wasted on me.”

Professor Snape didn’t comment. His fingers curled along the spine of another, much thicker book. 

So after ten seconds, when he emerged from his thoughts, Harry was taken aback when he was asked (ordered) to follow. The Professor’s curtain of black hair billowed behind him while Harry struggled to keep up, finding it an especially hazardous task to walk down the stairs. 

In the shop, Professor Snape told him to stand behind the counter while he walked around it straight towards two of the leather chairs. He started to drag one behind him, however the legs screeched against the wooden floor, causing him to lift it half-heartedly,  dropping it back down whenever the task got tedious. 

Once the chair was behind the counter, Professor Snape pointed a finger at it, “Sit. Wait here and if you value your fingers, do not touch anything.”

Harry fell in his chair just as Professor Snape stalked behind him to another door on the other side. Throwing it open he prowled inside, rushing down another flight of metal stairs, judging by the gradually falling sounds before eventually, there was nothing. Silence. Not a flinch, not even from a mouse. Not that he expected this shop to have any mice. Professor Snape’s hair was greasy, and his skin sallow and pale over his thin face. But the clothes he wore (and lent Harry) were, if not of great quality, well kept. He had turned his nose at Harry’s body - rolling the sleeves over his arms and legs, complaining about the wrinkles. But other than his hair, Professor Snape was one of the cleanest people Harry had seen, and his building was no different. 

The bell chimed the second time that morning. Harry couldn’t see the visitor from his position. So he craned his neck up above the wood from side to side, wanting to see the owner of these light footsteps with equally light shoes.

“Severus?” a voice called. A woman’s voice. Kind and curious. Warm. Harry enjoyed it awhile before his hand shot up, calling her over, “Um, Madam, over here.”

The voice fell silent. Her footsteps continued, then her face emerged from behind the wood and Harry, with guilt, found himself disappointed. The woman, around the same age as Professor Snape, if not younger, wore a black dress that pooled down her body, hiding her shape. Not only that, but a long fabric veiled her head, masking her hair and neck and draping down her chest. 

“Oh dear,” she looked down, a hand over her thin lips, “Well. Good morning, young man.”

“Good morning,” Harry replied, making sure to look at her eyes - kind- like his mother from a  dream, “I’m Harry.”

“My name is Aisha Patel,” said the woman that looked like his mother. Especially with the long, black fabric that fluttered down her head and her light brown skin. Harry was now very thankful that his bangs covered most of the scar that covered his forehead, “What are you doing down there, Harry?”

“Professor Snape asked me to sit down.”

“Asked you?”

“Well, he didn’t say please, now that you’ve mentioned it, Madam Patel,” 

Madam Patel laughed, hiding her mouth with the back of her hand, “Oh dear. But oddly enough, he isn’t here now.”

Harry shook his head and then pointed to the door Professor Snape had disappeared down , “No. He went down there.”

Madam Patel nodded knowingly, “To the laboratory.”

“The laborty?”

“La-bo-ra-to-ry,” Madam Patel pronounced each syllable and Harry mouthed after, testing the word in his mouth, “What does he do in the laboratory?” 

Madam Patel gestured around the shop, “Oh, many things. Medicine, teas. Personal research, if I know him well enough. And I daresay I don’t,” she chuckled at her joke, “He’s a proclaimed chemist, a very talented one, at that.”

“So he doesn’t just sell… Herbs?” 

“Oh, dear, no. Creams, balms, the whole lot.  He even takes custom orders, if it matches his skill set. More often than not, it does.”

“I have yet to be challenged,” Professor Snape’s voice disrupted. He closed the door to the laboratory behind him. Crossing the distance between Harry and the wall in a few steps, placing both a blackboard and a jar wrapped in brown paper over the counter, “You've arrived early, Professor Patel.”

“Oh dear, have I? You don’t like to be kept waiting, last I remember,” she answered, retrieving a small coin sack from her skirt pocket, counting the coins on the counter.

His lips quirked up, “No, I do not. And we’ve discussed the matter of payment, have we not?

“You also do not like engaging with children outside of school. And yes, we have discussed it,” she slid over a stack of coins, eyeing Harry, making him duck his head, “An assistant of yours?”

“A nuisance, more likely.”

Harry glared, biting the inside of his cheek. He locked eyes with Professor Patel. Seeing as Professor Snape, who valued titles despite not agreeing by their affiliations, used them, Harry did so as well, “I’m no nuisance.”

Professor Snape chuckled, plucking the money from the counter. He then unlocked a drawer on their side of the counter with a key he lifted from his pants pocket, sliding it open and placing them in corresponding sections separated by thin pieces of wood before closing and locking it again, “If you require no more assistance, I shall ask you to leave, Professor Patel. Harry and I have much work to be done.”

Professor Patel lifted the jar, eyes narrowed in concern, and  brows knitted close together as she and Harry shared another long glance. That eased her frown. The corners of her lips lifted into a smile and Harry felt warmth suffuse his cheeks, evidence of the surprise from being called by his first name. 

“Don’t derive your pleasure from insulting his intelligence, Professor Snape.”

“You assume he has intelligence in the first place.”

This time, Harry did notice the sudden turn of personality. Mouth gaping open, staring at the smirking Professor, the memories of the two days blended fast and strong. Professor Snape helping him to bed. Professor Snape rubbing the balm into his back, suspicious, even after Harry assured him the bruises were from the fall. (They weren’t, but he didn’t need to know that.) Professor Snape healing him, making sure his fever broke before retreating. Caring, concerned. Keeping him anchored and away from Edwin, though the hands on his shoulders gripped too hard.

Professor Snape insulting him. Scouting for the minute he was well and scorning him for it with a grudge Harry hadn’t caused. 

“I assume he has more than he’s letting on. And not just intelligence,” she said, then placed  the jar in her bag, “Shall I deliver your regards to Minerva and Poppy?”

Professor Snape nodded, “Please do.”

“Take care, Professor, Harry,” 

She turned, her robes flying behind her, and soon she too was gone.

“So you…” Harry began, “So you two know each other?”

“We work at the same school facility,” 

“Ah,” he nodded, no longer eager to interact with Professor Snape, “She’s very beautiful.”

Well, not very. Harry had seen much prettier women over the years. With modelled hair and touches of make-up, colourful, grand dresses that fluttered after them. Professor Patel didn’t show any hair, and her skin, darker than Harry’s, was make-up free and her dress looked like it had lost its colour long ago. But, Harry smiled, her warmth was vibrant.

“Is she?” Professor Snape asked, bent over the chalkboard, “Not many call her that, upon first meeting.”

Harry shrugged, “She looks like my mom.”

The chalk in Professor Snape’s hand gave a nasty, ear-splitting  screech.  Harry could see half of it between his fingers, while the rest lay broken on the material. The writing beneath was jagged,  jerked in the wrong direction. Angry, though Harry couldn’t imagine why. 

Professor Snape’s back straightened. He ignored Harry. Instead, his eyes remained pinned to the door, as if he saw something Harry could not. 

“What did you say?” he asked, still looking away.

Harry swallowed. The lump in his throat wouldn’t loosen, though. Even after the second gulp, “My mother… She has long black hair and kind eyes. Maybe dark skin, as well, because my father has red hair and green eyes. Must be...." 

Professor Snape’s hands met on the counter. His head lifted. As if his neck had gone stiff from Harry’s words. And it must have. Harry found no reason for the Professor to have gone meek over such a statement. He decided to ask, opening his mouth when Professor Snape spoke once more. 

“And who has told you about this?”

“No one, sir. Aunt Petunia only told me that they left me on their doorstep because they were poor and didn’t want me-”

The sound of hands slamming against the wood silenced his words. It also made Harry flinch, one hand jerking up to his shoulder, clutching his shirt. Professor Snape didn’t look, of course. He acted as though he was personally insulted. That or someone had disappointed him by dropping a bad odour in his shop. A very, very horrid odour, worse even  than the herbs.

Harry said nothing more. But then Professor Snape turned around, the grin from Professor Patel’s presence long gone. His eyes downcast and emotional. Professor Snape took a step towards him. Harry straightened his back. Leaning forward, despite there being no possibility of being heard, the professor whispered, “You do not share this information, or any information about yourself, with anyone. Anyone. Do I make myself clear, Mr Potter?”

Harry had an answer ready. A long string of answers, actually. The first one was a question, Why? Why couldn’t he? He’d shared it among his sweeper family. They all had. At nights, near fires. When one was bored when none could read, and the only stories they’d been taught leaked clear and clean from their lips.  But a bigger question blared louder. In the background, huddled to a corner. Afraid to be noticed and still screaming when Harry blurted it out.

“You know my name.”

Professor Snape’s eyes widened. Just a bit, but Harry still noticed. 

“I never told you my name,” he snapped, “Master Edwin didn’t, either. He called me a boy. You called me by my surname ever since I came here, but not in front of Professor Patel. Why? 

Adults turned amusing, whenever they were backed into the corner. Childish, confused. Much like Professor Snape. The wrinkles around his eyes eased. His open lips complemented his confusion. Harry was beginning to like the situation less and less by the minute, “I said how do you know my name!”

Professor Snape took a step back, looking down at him by the length of his nose, “Tantrums will do you no good.”

‘“I don’t care!” Harry screamed, chest heaving. A blur swam in his vision and mind. His chest seized with uncomfortable tightness. The days under Professor Snape’s ‘care’ no longer held the same warmth and comfort as before. 

“You know my name. Professor Patel must have as well since you’ve only used my first name. And I want to know why. I want you to play fair!”

“You, of all people, should know that life isn’t-”

“Well, you should work for it, then! It’s my life, and I deserve to know what you’re hiding-”

“Mr Potter!” 

Harry’s mouth clamped shut. His hands balled into fists, squeezed against his legs. The anger didn’t leave. In fact, Harry felt his fury rising the longer he stared at the man. The heart thumping in his ears muffled any sound, the injustice of it all suffocating his patience, even more so when Snape spoke again.

“I am underjm4ç no obligation to share anything with a brat who can’t keep himself in line. Anything! You are here to pay a debt, after which you will leave. Furthermore, during this time, you will act with dignity in my presence! Am I understood?”

Harry refused to share his thoughts. He nodded

“A verbal answer, Mr Potter.”

“Yes,” he hissed. The way Snape’s shoulders fell made him bite the inside of his cheeks, suppressing a scream.

Snape left for the counter. Then came back with the small chalkboard from earlier. He smudged the fifth symbol to the right with a cloth. The board wiped clean before he drew it again. Half a circle, with a smaller copy to its right. Harry knitted his brows. They sort of resembled-

“Today, Mr Potter,” Snape said with a controlled voice. He handed the chalk to Harry, dropping the board on his knee, “You shall be learning how to read.”

It took Harry only one week to learn the alphabet. Snape complained that it would have taken him much less time had he not procrastinated and given it his ‘full attention, pathetic though it may be’. Between sweeping the shop and tending the counter, Harry wasn’t sure how he was delaying the task. The alphabet proved to be much easier than the currency he had to learn. Adding and subtracting numbers, all while Snape stalked behind him - a hand pushing him to the side when both the customer and Snape grew impatient - was difficult.  

Snape was trying to teach him to learn on the spot. Harry called him a git for it.

Not outloud. 

Harry didn’t ask for things he wouldn’t get, but neither would he refuse what was offered. Or dismiss the efforts made by others purely for his sake. So during his stay, when Snape took him out and bought him clothes from a second-hand store, Harry decided to keep his mouth shut for at least a week, ignoring every biased criticism. 

Ignoring was doing too much courtesy.

 Harry didn’t ignore them. He suppressed them long enough by scratching his arms, pinching his skin, and clenching his jaw under his cap before Snape would walk away, leaving him to stew in the anger until Harry vented it by screaming into the pillow in his room. 

The room was a different matter. Decorated in dull colors, some days Harry felt the room gradually shrink. Small, dusty. Just like the cupboard. The last swirls of light shyly recoiling away. It made Harry choke, woke him up from the occasional bad dream, and left him exhausted to the bone for Snape to poke fun at. 

Then the cycle would continue. 

Not today.

Harry stared at Snape, then looked down at his hand. He weighed the money pouch stuffed with coins and a folded piece of paper, squeezing the fabric. The edges of the coins dug into his skin. A reminder, rooting him down.

“I don’t understand.”

“Frankly, I am not surprised.”

Harry told himself to bite it back. Lifting his head, he held the paper above his head for Snape to see, “I can’t read this.”

“Surely you’ve learnt every letter in the alphabet?” Snape asked, lifting a brow. His lips curling into a grin, the first one Harry had seen that week.

“Yes, but-”

“And you can recognize them in different textures?”

“Yes, but-

“And are you well-versed in basic money handling?”

“I am, but-”

Snape held a hand to silence him, standing up from his chair and assisting a customer, one Augusta Longbottom, who was old and just as tall, thin and bony. She carried with her a bright red handbag and an atrocious hat that held a stuffed vulture-  with some medicine for her grandson. Harry waited by the chimney for fifteen minutes, trying to decipher the list before Snape returned. His mind was puzzled by the letter. The accumulated knowledge escaped him.

“I can’t read this, Professor,” he said, shaking the list in the air, “You know I can’t.” 

Snape wiped his hands on his apron, marching around him to the shelf directly above the chimney, tapping a jar, “What does it say here Potter?”

Harry squinted. He stood up, walking to Snape’s side to read the label, “G-ginger, right?”

“Correct. Tell me, what is the last item on the list?”

Harry smoothed out the paper. He slid a finger down the crumpled page and replied, bitterly, “Ginger.”

Snape smirked. Gripping the jar, he lifted the lid. Holding it down, he waved it under Harry’s nose. The smell invaded him. It bit, hard, gnawing and not letting go - inducing a cough long after Snape placed the jar back.

“And that,” he said, crossing his arms, “Is how it smells.”

Harry wrinkled his nose, suddenly glad that Aunt Petunia didn’t store it in her kitchen because it was atrocious, “I don’t like it.”

“You’ll love it no more when you have to fill the jar after you come back,” he squinted his eyes when Harry gagged, “Just ask the man down two streets  for the amount specified, and no one else. You’ll need to make more than one trip, undoubtedly, with those pitiful arms of yours. I’m not mending any broken bones, not after you’ve finally healed,” he stilled, “Well, most of you, in any case.” 

Harry’s bones were another recurring argument in the household, this time linked to Harry’s eating habits. Or rather, the lack thereof. Snape seemed to find Harry’s forgetfulness when it came to meals or not finishing even half of his plate as a problem. Even more so the way Harry stared at his food, as if it was going to be snatched away any second. Harry didn’t understand what the problem was. His stomach filled before the food was finished, and it meant he could have some later, when Severus wasn’t looking. 

Harry nodded, pocketing the paper and sack in his new, brown pants. Walking to the coat rack, Harry reached for his cap on his tiptoes. The coat rack gave a rattle once the cap was pulled down from the wood and over Harry’s mop of dark hair. 

“I’ll be leaving, then.”

A customer walked in right as Harry walked out, and Snape gave him a stiff nod, turning to tend to an old man with a cane. 

*

“What do you mean you’re closing?”

The man shook his head, rubbing his neck with one hand, “My daughter’s given birth, kid. Nothing I can do. Tell the Professor to send you back tomorrow,” the man said, turning his back and locking the door. He pulled on his jacket, buttoning it over his wide stomach with some difficulty. He put on a tattered hat over his balding head before reaching for his pocket. He pulled out Harry’s list, handing it back to him and rubbed the edge of his moustache between two fingers, “Give my regards to the Professor,” he tipped his hat, looking both ways before crossing the street to join his wife.

Harry stood very still, looking after the man as he helped his wife onto a work wagon before hopping on himself. They smiled as the horse started to trot up the street, mixing with the street traffic.

The voices meddled with Harry's thoughts and met with the image of Snape accosting him for returning empty-handed. Harry feared he would send him after the man to retrieve his precious ginger, ordering him not to return until he had come back with one whole bag and nothing less. He wrapped his arms around his stomach, slouching. Snape wouldn't kill him for something out of his control, would he? He didn't kill him after Harry's outburst last week, though he made his displeasure known in many different ways. Harry shook his head, breath wavering. The sound of his footsteps fading in the background.

Don't slow down. Don't stop. Don't breathe.

Harry didn't realize someone was calling his name until a hand landed on his shoulder, jolting the world to a stop. The mist didn't leave at once, but the world regained its colour when Oliver spoke. 

When Oliver spoke?

"What are ya doing, Harry?" Oliver asked with a frown, "And where were ya! We thought ya had gone off! Marie-Lue was barking mad, I'm telling ya. Crying every night!"

Harry stared, touching his mouth. He parted his lips when Oliver snapped his fingers to draw his attention, "Ya alright, Harry?" 

"I-I'm... I'm alright, Oliver. I'm so sorry. But not dead, as you can tell."

"Yeah, but were ya? Master Edwin didn't say nuffink, but ‘e was acting quite off. Like ‘e had lost a bet."

Not so far off. Harry scratched his hair under the cap, giving a nervous smile to the people who were now walking around them, scoffing at the way the two blocked the road. 

Oliver noticed as well. He took Harry by the arm, pulling him to an alley near a bookstore. Harry almost snatched his hand away once Oliver's hand touched his. It was rough and scratched with the soot Harry had not missed climbing up into.

"Ya clothes a different too. And ya skin," Oliver said, dropping his brush and bag of soot. He took out his cap, dusting the black heaps from his light brown hair, and smearing his skin with the back of his hand, "What happened?"

Harry bit his lip, shifting his weight from one foot to the next, "Sorry... but it's a long story."

"Tell me anyway."

"You're not going to like it, Oliver."

"Let me hear it, either way."

Harry scratched his face. His mouth had gone dry. Looking at Oliver now, Harry didn't know how he could tell Oliver about Snape while his friend still worked under Edwin, cleaning chimneys for a living, risking his life at every climb while Harry only risked an argument with Snape, which was beginning to resemble less of a threat by the minute.

"Harry, I'm ya friend. Tell me wha’ ya have been doing."

Harry took in a breath, quick and short. He glanced both ways to see if anyone was listening and leaned forward, pulling Oliver down by the  shirt, "Remember the shop Master Edwin dragged me to last week?" 

Oliver nodded.

"The man working there -Severus Snape- I was sweeping his chimney. I reached the top and when sliding down, uh-" Harry darted his eyes, lowering his chin when he felt his ears heat up, "Fell down-"

"Fell down?"

Harry's cheeks heated as well, and he gave a weak nod.

"Must have been a bad one, if ya fell. Bad bricks?"

Harry paused, staring at a passing man’s ruffled hair and dirty moustache, "Yeah, bad bricks."

"At least ya haven't gone off, mate. But I why haven't ya come back?"

Harry saw no point in hiding it from Oliver any longer, hurt him though it may. So he began. He told him about how after he fell, Snape helped heal him. How he told Edwin off. How he bought him the clothes Harry was wearing, while Oliver kept silent and Harry kept folding and unfolding his arms in a constant loop, searching for a sign of discomfort on Oliver's face. He didn't find any, which only led to more nerves, more jittery movement.

Snape caring, Snape not caring. In this situation, Harry didn't know whether to hate the man or respect him, or look for something more. He still couldn't forgive what had happened in the shop just before Snape started to teach him the alphabet, when he shouted at him to not ask questions about his past. Nor the week that followed with insults and undeserved scoldings.

By the time Harry stopped talking, dislike and respect walked hand-in-hand.

"Ya seem to be doing well for ya self, Harry," said Oliver rather quietly, rubbing his arm. The whole street lost its sound but still whirled in the background feverishly. The soot’s odor grew to a nauseating level, to the point that it hurt to breathe

"Uh, yeah. I'm glad Snape is willing to be... generous, despite it all."

Oliver chuckled meekly. Harry's guilt grew to an ugly height once he saw his friend’s bloodshot eyes underscored by angry bags. The blue Harry once knew was lost behind an emotion Harry couldn't understand.

Liar. 

Harry understood well enough. 

He just didn't want to acknowledge it.

Harry cleared his throat, "Sorry, uh...How are the others?" he asked because there wasn't anything else to say.

"Marie-Lue cried her eyes out. Might have filled the Thames, with that amount of tears. Mums almost broke his leg, but Davi shared some sweets he nicked from a house yesterday."

"Everything's fine?"

"Everything's fine, Harry. Ya just..." Oliver bit his lip, then offered a smile, brows knit tight, "Don't work too hard to repay the debt, yeah? Marie-Lue will be okay with us."

"Oliver-"

"Harry, stop. You're in a better place. A much better place than us, at least," Oliver said, then leaned against the wall behind him, a shadow cast across his features, "Keep it. A chimney lining isn't anything cheap. Work well, prove ya self useful. The Professor is sure ta keep ya if he learns that you’re a good worker."

Harry's shoulders fell and he looked at Oliver as if he'd grown another head, "You don't... you don't think I'm doing this to get away from Edwin, do you?"

"Ya not?"

"No!" Harry said. He took a step back, then clutched his friend by the shoulders,  "Oliver, you're my family! I can't just live my life pretending you don't exist!" 

"I'm not saying ya should-"

"We're going to grow up together. In a house, in town. With good food, warm beds and-"

Oliver grabbed Harry's wrist, pulling them away from his shoulders, "Ya want the best for ya family?"

Harry nodded, feeling a little uncomfortable with Oliver's grip.

"Ya family wants the best for ya, Harry."

The words, lined in perfect order, went through one ear. It didn't go out the other. Instead, it spiralled into an echo, lighting up warmly in his mind. Pinned to the back of his head where Harry accepted it willingly, wanting to grow it for comfort during those long, hurtful nights. 

Harry wiped his eyes to get rid of the urge to cry. He accepted the hug, wrapping his arms around Oliver. It was shorter than he would have wanted, but when they parted, leaving the alley, the week of insults didn't hurt as much as before.

"Ya look after ya self, Harry. I heard there's a fugitive walking around, these days. A murderer."

"Don't think he'll come after me, Oliver," Harry said, chuckling and wiping his reddened nose. Noticing the look Oliver gave him, Harry ducked his head, murmuring a quick apology.

Oliver shook his head, then patted him on the shoulder, "Visit us one day, will ya? And let the Professor know you’ve been gettin’ pains, even though you healed. Promise?"

Harry felt the need to apologise for that, too. For complaining about the pain in his body and the headaches while Snape worked hard to heal him. So he apologised to Oliver, and apologised again once Oliver told him not to apologise before promising to let Snape know once he got home.

 “I will. Tell the other's I said hello, and that I miss them. Maybe hug Marie-Lue, will ya?"

Oliver nodded and was the first to turn around. Harry did the same, ready to walk back, hands in his pockets when Oliver called his name once more.

"And Harry?"

Harry turned, tilting his head.

"Happy early birthday."

*

The customer smiled as Harry handed her the Honeysuckle tea in a brown paper bag, handing him the coins before walking out, the bell not ringing behind her. Harry couldn’t remember where Snape had gotten the tea from, or even if he sold any tea, but the customer was already gone, so he didn’t bother calling after them.

Harry sorted through Snape’s drawer, storing the coins in all the wrong places. The bell chimed, and Harry lifted his head to see Professor Patel walking through the doors, smile on her face.

“Professor Patel!” Harry shouted, the coins flying out of his hand as he jumped over the counter, taking her by the hand before wrapping his arms around her waist, his hands lost in the black fabric, “Did you come for the tea?”

“Of course I did, Harry,” Professor Patel said, running a gloved hand through his hair, lifting his hair to reveal his scar, “Oh dear, that's a nasty little thing, isn’t it?”

Harry blushed, straightening his pitch black hair over the scar that turned and twisted on his skin. Sharp lines spiraling on his forward and down his forehead, “I got it the day you left me, Aunt Petunia said. After an incident. She didn’t tell me what it was.”

“It was a fire.”

Harry nodded, leaning his head on her chest, then turning it to the side to breathe, “A wild fire.”

“Oh dear. Harry-” his mom pushed him away, walking to the counter. Her black dress swirling into a blue gown, the black color leaking like smoke from her dress and messing the floor, “You’ve sorted the coins all wrong!”

“What?”

When his mom turned her head, the black veil around her face dissolved into sleek, black hair. It slid down her back, flowing like a dark waterfall, and floated behind her as she walked towards him. 

Harry took a step back, because with every step his mom took forward, the world warped itself black, surrounding the shop in  shadow until Harry was left alone. 

That’s when the sounds began. Crashing plates. Angry screams. All exploding in his ears at the same time while the walls around the shop started to close in.

Harry couldn’t breath. He screamed among the voices, pounding against the walls, “No! Get me out! I want to breathe! I can’t- I can’t-!”

His body jolted in wild tremors, shaking with terror. Harry couldn’t run. He pounded, and pounded, hands not hurting because now, Aunt Petunia’s perfume slid down his throat, choking him. Harry collapsed to the ground, holding his throat. Tears slid down his face while his chest tightened in tremendous pain. Squeezing. Squeezing. A thousand needles and burning sand pricking and puncturing his throat, charring his skin. And Harry was still afraid. Of not being able to breathe again, of hurting. And Harry was angry, because it was unfair. So, so unfair while he suffered, no one else did and now, while he lived better than the others, his family lived no different.

And Harry knew he was drowning. 

His  hand loosened just as the floor gave away, dropping him down a long way. Falling, falling, falling. Patches of white light speckled his vision before they rippled into the  coherent scenery of Snape’s shop.

Snape was there, back turned to Harry, looking over at the mess Professor Patel had left behind her.

Harry coughed into his hand, rolling to his back on the ground. The wood cut into his skin, digging deep until Harry screamed, and screamed and-

Snape turned, livid and easily the scariest thing Harry had seen  in his life. 

He stalked towards him, but Harry couldn’t scoot back, as if he was fastened to the wood. 

Dread filled him, a bubbling clump before it gushed out with an agonizing explosion. 

“I’m sorry! Professor Snape, I didn’t do it! Please, believe me, I-”

“Potter!”

“I’m sorry! Professor Snape, I’m so sorry!”

Snape took him by the shoulder, giving him a sharp tug forward, “Potter!”

“I’m sorry!”

The light of the apothecary dissolved into black. It left Harry among tangled sheets, his skin wet with sweat and heart pounding at a distressing speed.

Someone was holding him by the shoulders. Not shaking him, but nudging him rather gently, another hand untangling the sheets wrapped around his arms and legs. 

“P-professor?”

“You were having a nightmare,” spoke his voice in the dark, matter of factly. The sheets successfully peeled from his body and dropped in a heap on the floor, “I found you whimpering and shaking your head.”

Harry sat up. Professor Snape’s hand didn’t let go until Harry steadied his back against the headboard, leaning back on the hard wood. 

“Stay here,” Snape said, and Harry opened one eye, the bed lifting at the loss of weight. He almost reached a hand, almost asked for him to stay. 

He didn’t, of course. Professor Snape’s footsteps disappeared out of the room, accompanied by a splash of water a few moments later before returning. The door creaked as Professor Snape nudged it open, then again when he closed it. No moon tonight. No moon to shine light on Professor Snape while he pushed a glass of water into Harry’s hands, urging for him to drink.

He waited patiently, no doubt having questions, and Harry took as long as he could with that glass of water.

“I’m sorry about the ginger, Professor,” Harry said to avoid any questions, “I tried to explain to the vendor.”

“We’ve discussed it already, upon your return. In fact, I don’t remember blaming you for it."

Harry took another sip, “I know. But I never apologised, did I?”

Snape sighed, “I’ll send you to buy some tomorrow morning, if that makes you feel better. With the money you didn't return, mind you."

It did, but Harry still let the conversation drop after that.

“Do you have nightmares frequently?” Professor Snape asked, plucking the finished glass and setting it on the bedside table, “Or is this a rare occurrence?”

His silence stretched far too long, and so he wasn’t surprised Professor Snape snorted once Harry said, “No.”

“What did you dream about?”

“I don’t want to talk about it, sir.”

“Hmm.”

The silence stretched again. This time, Professor Snape didn’t ask him to speak, but at the end of it, he nudged him by the shoulder as he stood up, “Come, Potter. Some fresh air before you sleep.”

Harry groaned, wanting nothing more than to put his head on the pillow and sleep until the exhaustion in his bones lifted. Professor Snape pulled him by the arm, far gentler than Harry expected, and led him to the window. 

He let go of Harry to lift the window. Parting the curtains apart first, he dug his fingers under the wood and shoved it open with some brutal force. 

The wind lifted some of Harry’s hair, a cool chill on his skin. Harry didn’t mind. He closed his eyes, swaying with the wind, head leaning against the wall while the night air filled his lungs, scattering some of the effects of the nightmare.

“You have them often,” said Professor Snape 

Harry opened one eye, turning his face to the Professor. No moonlight tonight. Harry could still make out his lean form. Almost too thin, even in the light, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I’m not asking you to share it.”

“But you want me to.”

“Yes,” Professor Snape said, turning his head from the window to face him, “I do.”

Harry bit his tongue looking out into the city. No light, no moon. Only black, soulless masses.

“Why?”

“Because I only noticed now. And only because I woke up to get a glass of water myself, and as luck would have it, decided to check up on you.”

“I don’t believe in luck.”

“Neither do I,” Professor Snape said with a dry chuckle, closing the window and leading him to bed, “Neither do I.”

The bed felt warmer, almost more comfortable as Harry lay on it. Somehow welcoming. Professor Snape didn’t help him with the sheet, but waited until Harry was under them, head on his pillow and eyes closed.

“Sleep, Potter,” he said, right before walking to the door and closing it behind him.

Somehow, Harry did.

*

The next evening, the door opening interrupted Harry’s sweeping session. Harry lifted his head to greet the customer because Snape was in his laboratory, doing what he always did, cooped up in the room. Harry had a growing suspicion that it wasn’t as enjoyable as Snape made it out to be, since he couldn’t imagine the room getting any sunlight. Nonetheless, he wasn’t here now, and Harry was stationed in his absence to tend to any customers. 

But this wasn’t a customer. 

Harry paused mid-sweep to find a boy -his age or older- with tattered clothes waiting by the door, a patched cap hiding his very short hair. The boy walked up to him, hands in his pockets, standing at least a head over Harry as he stopped.

“Good morning,” said Harry, because it was polite as well as a habit Snape had carved into him, “Can I help you?”

“Is there a bloke called, uh, Professor Snape ‘ere?” the boy asked uncertainly, gesturing at the shop.

“Uh, yeah.”

“Where is ‘ee?”

Harry pointed at the door that led down to the laboratory, “Down there.”

“Fetch ‘em for me.”

“What?”

“Look, I ‘ave a message to deliver, alright?” the boy asked with mild annoyance, taking out an envelope from his jacket pocket and extending it for Harry to see, “‘Ere. Now fetch ‘em for me. The man who gave it to me told me to ‘urry up.”

Harry, delighted to be able to recognise Snape’s name nodded. Leaning the broom against the chimney, Harry walked around the counter to the door, a little nervous to interrupt the man, as always. He’d done this before. Done it more time than necessary to worry about Snape’s reaction. 

Harry pushed the door open, which led to a small landing that transitioned into a staircase that spiraled down. 

Making an effort not to look inside, Harry shouted for Snape.

“Excuse me, Professor Snape!” he called out, just like he was taught, “Someone sent you a message.”

A short while later, Professor Snape called back in a less than delighted voice, “Who?

“I don’t know, sir. It came in an envelope.”

Harry could hear the displeasure in Snape’s footsteps. They grew louder until Snape stepped out, a little hunched with prominent bags under his eyes. He looked awful, worse than the past few days when he had started to grow rather… miserable. 

His hair was greasier than usual. The clothes he wore had started to smell too, but the usually very tidy Professor Snape seemed to have no intention of future personal grooming. Or any grooming, really. Harry was the only one that tended to the shop, doing any additional work while the Professor locked himself in his dungeon, leaving Harry sweeping, mopping, and dusting the shop and house. The cooking was no different. The meals had diminished to a notable quality. Harry didn’t mind, of course. But during the almost ten days here, it was uncharacteristic to see Snape in such a… depressed mood. 

“Who sent you?” Snape hissed at the boy, grabbing the letter and not bothering with a letter opener, ripping the envelope and starting to read.

“I don’t know, sir. Just gave me this envelope and told me to-”

“Right,” Snape said, crunching the envelope in one hand, looking both pleased and angry, “On your way, now, if you’ve been paid your price.

The boy nodded. Touching the tip of his cap, he turned on his heel and trotted out the door, disappearing down the street.

With a sudden turn, Snape was moving again. Crossing the distance between the laboratory door with wide steps, he slipped down to the cellar. He came back a short while later dressed in a long, black coat, and carrying a leather doctor’s bag with him. He also wore a hat, in favor of his hair, one would guess. He spared no time in rummaging through the shelves, throwing in some jar or the other.

“Potter,” Snape turned to Harry, marching towards him.

“S-sir?” 

“Unlock the safe-box,” he said while passing him, forcing the key to his hand, “And hurry, I don’t have all day.”

Harry's hands flailed for the key, almost dropping it. With a crude nod, Harry moved to the drawer, unlocking it, an eye on Snape who was kneeling beside the drawers and shelves under the counter. Standing up from the floor, he straightened up, burshing his dusty knees. Moving beside, Harry, he counted some money in his hands, then locked the safe-box again. Then, Snape left. Harry followed after him, cursing himself for forgetting to put the money from today's errands back while the safe-box was unlocked. Already by the door by the time Harry reached him, Snape counted the money again, frowned, and handed Harry some back.

“I’m expected on a house visit, Potter and need you to finish some tasks for me. Are you listening?”

Harry nodded, looking up through his hair.

“Go down to my laboratory. There, on the longest table, you will find a brown bag labeled ginger, the one you bought this morning. Though it’s small, I’m confident even you can’t miss it. Fill the jar up here with the ginger in the bag. Then, drop the box key inside the vase of dry flowers on the same table. And finally,” he pulled a key from inside his jacket, dangling it by a small, rusted chain in front of his face, “Lock up after me. Do not open for anyone, especially if-” he closed his mouth and eyes as if in pain, “Regardless of what anyone says, no one is to enter the shop. Understood?”

Another nod. Harry made a grab for the key, but Snape snatched it away just as his fingers brushed it, “A verbal answer, Mr Potter.”

“Yes, sir.”

Snape raised a brow. Harry sighed, folding his arms over his chest, “Sorry, I… Yes. I understand, Professor. I will not open the door. What now ? Oh, fine. I won’t answer the bloody door, regardless of what anyone says.”

“You are not prone to keeping promises, Mr Potter,” Snape said, dropping the key to his hands, “I am taking precautions.”

“Oliver thinks the same,” replied Harry, pocketing the money and box key, “You two would get along fine, I think.”

“Oliver?”

“He’s a friend. From Mr Edwin. He’s the one I bumped into yesterday.”

“Yesterday?”

Harry’s throat went dry and he almost slapped himself in the forehead. Of course. He had purposely not told Snape about him when he hadn’t questioned his tardiness, as to not pester him with the pain in his body, which had grown from a dull thud to an uncomfortable throb this morning. 

“Yes,” Harry replied, rubbing the back of his head, “He was the reason I was late.”

“You didn’t tell me about this.”

“Sorry sir,” Harry bit back, deciding to be bold, “But you haven’t asked .”

Snape looked like he was going to snap back something equally rude or something worse. But he sighed instead, pinching the bridge of his nose instead, “I haven’t got the time nor energy to deal with this, Potter. We will discuss it at a more appropriate time, do not doubt that,” Snape said, opening the door and stepping out, “Lock the door. I’ll be back before later.”

Then he was gone, a lonely walker on the sidewalk, a stranger among many more strangers.

Harry, of course, did lock the door.

He then walked to the shelf, where the jar stood, and pulled it down from above the chimney, forcing the lid open and wrinkling his nose at the smell. Turning around to head to the cellar with some curiosity, he stopped when movement in the window caught his eye.

The jar almost dropped from his hands when he saw who it was.

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Marge, fuming behind the window and pounding at the door.

And they weren’t pleased to see him. 

“U-Uncle Vernon?” Harry asked, voice thin, and squinting his eyes to have a clear look, desperately wishing he was mistaken, “Aunt Marge?”

No. Though Harry admitted that his eyesight wasn’t perfect, Uncle Vernon was impossible to miss from any distance with his size. Least of all if he was accompanied by his sister of equal proportion. The recognition aside, it was now a matter of what to do. Snape had made it very, very  clear he wasn’t supposed to open the door to anyone, and Uncle Vernon was undoubtedly included in the list. Definitely included in the list, seeing as he wasn’t looking very pleased to him either. 

Uncle Vernon started to pound against the glass. Aunt Marge soon joined him. The fists didn’t sound like they were pounding on the glass, though. Instead, Harry felt his Uncle’s meaty hands slamming against the back of his head, a vile pulse. His Uncle chose to shout at that moment, rattling the door with a mighty strike. 

“Open this door now, boy!” Uncle Vernon roared, yanking the door handle up and down, “Open it or I’ll do something you’ll regret!” 

Harry’s heart pounded. Fast, unhinged. The morning’s breakfast now very much eager to rise up his throat and out his mouth. Uncle Vernon’s face was starting to color, an extraordinary purple that started to rise from his small neck, ruffling his moustache as it went. Harry’s hands shook the more Uncle Vernon spat out his words. But even then, the impatience on Aunt Marge’s face looked far more lethal. And though Harry had witnessed various dangerous expressions over the years, he could only come up with one person that could rival Aunt Marge in the matter. The same person who had trusted him to not open the door to any guest.

The same person whose trust Harry was about to break.

Still clutching the open jar of ginger, Harry walked to the door, balancing the glass in one hand while he fumbled for the key in his pocket. 

Harry liked to imagine many things. He liked to imagine Snape, at that moment. Running. Running fast. Down the street and towards the shop. Snape wasn’t a knight. He didn’t wear armour; he didn’t fight holy battles. Brave, kind, and honest were all that a hero was and what Snape could never be. But Harry didn’t want a knight in shining armour. Harry didn’t believe in tales and only grew up with the ugly truth called life. And life wasn’t playing fair.

Because Harry wanted an escape.

And Snape didn’t come running down. His coat, mended and patched along the edges, didn’t billow. Snape didn’t come.

Harry’s hands shook while he slipped the key to the lock, the door opening with an ominous click. It turned the dread inside Harry gruesome, his eyes still darting down the street, waiting for the familiar pair of shoes on the cobblestone. Stepping back to let them in, Harry’s back hit the wall when Uncle Vernon hit him by the shoulder while marching forward. Harry cradled his shoulder, now stiff, his body rigid and afraid to move. 

“So-” Uncle Vernon barked, hands on his hips and small eyes darting along the walls while Aunt Marge took a closer look, namely inspecting the jars with a tap against the glass, “-So, you thought you could get away, eh? Thought you tricked us, having Edwin off his rocker, screaming bloody murder in our neighbourhood? In our neighbourhood?” 

Aunt Marge humphed in agreement, plopping down on one of the armchairs, muttering something Harry couldn’t quite understand about leather. 

“Uncle Vernon, please listen to me,” Harry said softly, almost begging. Because, really,  this wasn’t any different than what it was with Snape, was it? An angry adult, a situation where Harry was ‘in the wrong’, and a conflict that needed to be avoided. 

But Snape hadn’t hit him. Or hadn’t hit him yet. Given the situations Harry encountered Snape in a worse mood -because to Harry,  the man was almost always in a bad mood- , Harry expected a slap. Always. Or at least a slash, or a bruise. 

Snape only hurled his words.

Once, they would have hurt. Now, Harry didn't think much of them anymore, considering them to be witty and smart more often than not.

“Suppose you’re going to apologise, eh, boy?” Aunt Marge cut in, rising from the armchair, “Going to apologise to my brother? For what?” she released a mighty laugh, the sort of thing you’d expect from an animal, “It won’t cut it, boy! Not for being a burden, not for a perfectly good family’s suffering-”

“Not for ruining our reputation!” continued Uncle Vernon.

“And almost twelve years of you, an ungrateful brat who can’t appreciate good intent. Out of the pure goodness in their hearts, they took you in! I’m telling you, Vernon,” Aunt Marge pointed at Harry, her lips twisting in a vicious turn, “Something was always wrong with that boy. Bad blood, I say. Oh, I do not blame Petunia, of course,” and she patted Uncle Vernon’s shoulder to emphasize, “Turns up in the best of families, you know. If you remember Uncle Johnathan on our side-”

The rest turned into a strain of rants about random family members Harry hadn’t heard about, before the conversation somehow turned back towards Harry again.

“Of course, tainted with his father’s blood as well. What did you say he did?”

Uncle Vernon threw Harry a snide grin, “Unemployed.”

Harry blushed, feeling on the verge of tears while Aunt Marge threw her head back and laughed, hands cradling her stomach. 
“Unemployed! And that Evans didn’t have half the wit, running off with him-”

“Her surname was Evans?” Harry asked, clapping a hand over his mouth when Aunt Marge and Uncle Vernon both spared him a similar glance, their smiles cut right in half.

Uncle Vernon was the first to react, however, shaking a fat finger in front of his face, “Listen, boy, you will not mention that woman in front of my presence. Do you understand?”

“But Aunt Marge talked about her first!”

“Hold your tongue, you brat!” Aunt Marge screamed, shaking her finger just like her brother was while Harry shrunk away, “Just like her, you are. Never liked her. Bad blood, I tell you. A rightful bitch-”

“No!” Harry shouted, his fingers tight over the jar, “My mother wasn’t- wasn’t whatever you just called her!”

He took a deep breath, not able to bring himself to be guilty about his relatives’ hurt pride.

“She was kind. She was beautiful. She had kind eyes, and silky black hair and-”

Both Dursleys bellowed in laughter, slapping their knees and looking at each other before laughing even louder. Harry bit his lip, darting his eyes between the two, fear pooling inside him. It was horrifying, for reasons Harry didn’t understand, to see them laugh as if he were wrong. As if he didn’t know any better.

The realization came swift and cruel, when Harry wasn’t ready. 

Harry was afraid. Harry was confused.

He wasn’t afraid of Uncle Vernon or Aunt Marge.

He was afraid, because for the first time in his life, Harry wasn’t sure if the image he built of his parents was true: whether his mother did have kind eyes, whether the elder Potter was employed. Whether on that cold, November day, they really had abandoned him out of poverty, burdening him on someone else.

And whether he was wanted at all.

Aunt Marge recovered first, wiping her eye clear of a tear. Shaking her head while she patted her brother’s shoulder, who was now choking and coughing into his hand. 

“A downright mess,” Uncle Vernon managed in between coughs, a terrible screech emitting from his throat, “A mess, no doubt. But you better cut it out, boy. I don’t want to hear another sound from you on the way back to Edwin.”

Both of them turned to walk to the door, an occasional whisper to each other sending them into a fit of laughter uncomfortable to watch or listen.

Harry raised his head, suppressing a sob, and said very slowly and very clearly, braver than he had ever been, “I’m not going back.” 

The whispers ceased, half-cut and comical. The way they turned to face him, however, was nothing to joke about. Uncle Vernon looked confused, which often was the only other expression he managed when he wasn’t angry, and Aunt Marge looked like someone had landed a good kick to her precious (and rather vicious)  dogs. 

“What?”

“I’m-” Harry’s voice cracked, but he hid it with a cough, “I’m not going back with you. Ever. Not when I’ve found-” but what was it that he had found, really? A home, a teacher? A Professor Harry had manipulated himself into liking because there wasn’t anyone else to fit the trusted adult role he wanted? Harry hadn’t found a home. He’d found a map. A map that made witty remarks when he took the wrong road, sure, but a map nonetheless. Harry raised his chin, lifting the jar for a better grip, “Not when I’ve found somewhere I can feel safe. Mast- no, E-Edwin must have told you, but I have a debt to repay, or Professor Snape will report him, and he’ll get arrested, and I’m-I’m sure that… You won’t be safe, either, for selling me to work for him either.”

Uncle Vernon sputtered, his face paling, no doubt contemplating the notion of taking Aunt Marge by the arm and dragging her out of the shop, cursing the brat not to come back, ever. Then Harry would lock the door, slide down the glass, and, after Snape arrived, pretend nothing had ever happened. 

However, that wasn’t to be.

Though Uncle Vernon did sputter, taking hold of Aunt Marge’s arm to lead her out of the shop, Aunt Marge wasn’t as willing to comply. Briefly, he saw the confusion fade into anger. And then Aunt Marge was pouncing towards him. 

Harry wasn’t sure what struck him as odd about the way Aunt Marge prowled towards him. But in the next second, instead of reacting the way he usually would (which would be to cower away and accept whatever was coming), the open jar in Harry’s hands flew past his fingers, whirling in the air  and-

Collided with Aunt Marge. 

A few things happened in the following minutes, all in all in a bizarre, unfathomable sequence.

Aunt Marge shouted out in pain, cradling her head, where the jar had hit without breaking, spilling ginger all over her, making Uncle Vernon catch the jar mid-fall and sweep his sister’s clothes free of the spice. That didn’t help in the least, though Harry found some amusement in it. It didn’t last, though.  Because afterwards, Aunt Marge sputtered, wiping her mouth and trying to rid herself of the spice that had fallen like snow over her jacket and shoulder, decorating her face with brown smudges. 

And then her skin started to burn.

Well, not really, but Harry was well versed in rashes by now, and these were no different. Patches of red appearing like wild marks on her skin, Aunt Marge kept on screaming, wiping her eyes and mouth with the end of her shirt.

“WHAT DID YOU DO?” roared Uncle Vernon, running to her side and trying to help her to a chair beside the chimney, dropping the jar in the process, “WHAT DID YOU DO?”

“I don’t know!” Harry shouted back, looking around the shop in panic. As if expecting something, or someone, to appear and handle the situation much better than Harry currently was. For Snape to appear, perhaps. Because the longer Aunt Marge screamed, flailing her arms, the more Harry thought that this really wasn’t a normal reaction to ginger. 

Especially not, when Aunt Marge’s back hit the chimney and her arms flung to the shelves, toppling jars shattering,  the herbs and other prized materials showering down into a chaotic mess. 

That wasn’t all that was broken. 

Like the shattered glass, Harry's defenses also shattered: the once familiar smell of Aunt Petunia's perfume blended with the cacophony of breaking glass and shouting adults, inciting a bolt of fear in Harry. Harry was no longer there.He was in his cupboard, terrified. Terrified and angry because this shouldn’t be fair. It couldn’t be fair.
 
Terrified because he was alone. Because it was all his fault. It burned, really, it did. 
Every thought he harboured on his side of the cupboard and the people that waited outside.
The real chaotic heap, as he rocked on the hard floor, something oozing down his back and the throbbing in his bones that would never heal. 

Terrified. Guilty. Breathing hard and then not at all. 

He doesn’t remember the slashes. The hits. Only feels the aftermaths, when he’d rather not feel at all. Because Harry Potter was an orphan. Harry Potter was a burden. Harry Potter was alone and abandoned, unloved, and he only had himself to blame. 

The intrusive thoughts were there, no matter how mindless Harry was when he left the shop, running outside. They were there, no matter how fast Harry sprinted. 

The sharp wind clashed with his skin, ripping his hair away from his face. The buildings around him whirled past in a single, dry colour. Nothing more than a musky background before the tall structures faded into smaller, dirtier piles in a smaller, dirtier street. Harry didn't stop there, either. He ran, ran, and ran. Pausing once or twice to either catch his breath or turn into an alley to escape an approaching stranger.

The river greeted him when he escaped an alleyway, running down a bridge Harry couldn't remember the name of. Panting, Harry placed his hands on his legs, his throat burning and a stitch stabbing into his side. 

A few minutes later, Harry was dragging himself up the bridge that was abandoned for the night. No cars drove past, no horse came galloping down the road. No uncle Vernon dragged him by the neck, no Aunt Marge wrapped her thick hands around his fist. Only the river dared to make any noise, the stars veiled behind dark clouds, hiding the moon. A full moon. 

Harry stalked down the gravel, beside the columns and rails that looked down at the gushing waters below, black and senseless. A void, really, almost fantastical, now that Harry looked at it, his head in between the rails. 

He sighed, wiping his eyes and blinking furiously, trying to get rid of the tears. He wouldn't cry. He wouldn't give them that satisfaction, though they weren't watching. He wouldn't let anyone, even himself, see Harry Potter crying alone, by the bridge, contemplating whether he could survive a jump.

Covering his face with his hands, he slid to the ground, pebbles rough under his new pair of shoes.

New shoes. Harry stared, transfixed, running a hand down the sole. A smile, similar to the one he had when Snape had handed it to him, a size too big so he could wear it next year, growing on his lips. He hoped Snape wouldn't be too angry when he went back.

When he went back? Harry took a mental step back. Would he be going back? Did he even dare? He didn't want to face the wrath of his Uncle and Aunt- 

Harry winced, shaking his head, a new flashback close to surfacing. He wouldn't think about it. Wouldn't ponder it. Harry was not going back. He'd find work elsewhere, not a chimney sweep this time, and send half of his wage to Snape to repay his debt, after which he would save some for his family, for Oliver, Marie-Lue and the others. He would buy a house, buy food and they would find happiness, not relying on prayers and adults any longer. 

Harry pushed himself away from the railing in new found motivation, feeling like for once, he could shoulder the world. Taking a deep breath, he turned on his heel, chest puffed out and took the first step down the shale. 

He did a double take when he heard a train, or at least something large down the road. A great knobbling sound on approach.

Harry’s brows knit closer as he frowned, blinking multiple times in the direction of the puffing. Rubbing his chin, he tilted his neck for a better view, squinting in the direction of two blurry flames peeking through the darkness. Surely it couldn’t be a train. His knowledge on the locomotives was scarce to none, but even Harry knew that no train could travel without rails or spew as little noise as this train did. 

Harry wouldn’t deny his curiosity. 

The train was approaching, now, faster than any carriage Harry had seen on the road. Turning his body to the source, Harry began to walk, his parted lips tilting in a slight smile. 

At that moment, Harry thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye, along with a prickling feeling that he was being watched, but the bridge seemed deserted, and no light shone other than those of the train.  On the other side of the bridge, the side he’d come from, came a single sound. Harry squinted, turning his head for a better view. He didn't stop walking, though. The shape grew in size, tall and lumpy. But Harry didn’t have time to untangle what it was because the  lump disappeared as soon as the train, which really wasn’t a train, appeared, sending Harry toppling down to the floor with a yell. 

Harry winced, rubbing his arm, which he had flung to block his fall.  A small throb ached on his side too,  while the, well, giant carriage’s puffing stopped, like a person holding their breath. Not only that, but the metal seemed to bend, as if it had run miles upon miles and now needed to take in deep breaths. 

One giant wheel stopped where Harry’s feet had been seconds ago, the many horses drawing it skidding their hooves on the road. They belonged, of course, to a violently purple train (Harry didn’t know what else to call it, though he had seen something similar to this before), which had appeared out of thin air. Gold letters on the side spelled The Knight Bus. Ridiculous. What good would putting the K in front of night do if you had to read it as K-night? 

Harry wondered if the fall damaged more than his arm. Then a conductor leaped out of the bus and began to speak loudly into the night.

“Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency bus for the stranded persons. Just stick in your money, hop on board and we can take you anywhere you want to go. My name-”

“What?” Harry said, bewildered, because there were more than a few things to be bewildered about. So while Harry pushed himself up, he began with the first of all his concerns.

“The Knight Bus?”

“That’s what I’ve said. Now, my name-”

“But it starts with a K! How can it be read as night when it starts with K?”

The man lowered the paper cards from where he was reading from and eyed Harry suspiciously. 

“Who taught you how to read?”

Harry frowned, “A professor.”

The conductor laughed, his voice echoing in the air, “Well, I’m no professor. I don’t know myself, so don’t ask me, but it is read as it is read. Ask your professor when you see him again.”

“I’m not seeing him again,” Harry said, shuffling on his feet.

The conductor shrugged, then eyed the pavement, “What were you doin’ down there?”

“Fell over,” said Harry.

“‘Choo fell over over for?”

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” said Harry, annoyed. One of the knees on his new trousers was torn, and the hand he had thrown out to break his fall had a nasty gash. Harry dusted himself with dismay, then turned to face the side of the bridge where the black shape had been. Nothing, of course, Harry noted with a sigh, inspecting his trousers again with a deep frown.

“‘Choo lookin’ at?” said the condutor.

Harry stared at the man, then shook his head, “Nothing. So, you said you’d take me anywhere, did you?”

“That’s what the Knight Bus is for,” the conductor said, lifting his cards again, “My name is Stan Shunpike, and I will be your conductor this evening. Have any money on you?” 

Harry dug his hands into his pockets, surprised to find them both full. One had the key to the safe box. Harry dropped the key back inside with red ears, and lifted his other hand with the money Snape had told him to put inside the safe box, “Is this enough?”

Stan took the money, counted some in his palm, and looked at Harry, “Depends. Where do you want to go?”

Harry’s shoulders fell. Where did Harry want to go? Somewhere to work, surely, but where was somewhere he could work while being safe? He looked up at Stan, his face shadowed, and asked him instead, “Somewhere I can work safely. Where people won’t question me or where I’ve come from.”

Stan lifted a finger to scratch his hair under his cap. A moment later he clapped his hands, counted the money again. He pocketed some,  and dropped the rest into Harry’s palm.

“Welcome to the Knight Bus!” he declared, ushering him up the steps and into the bus, which, other than the compartment reserved for the driver, was just two rows of seats on each side, and a long, wide one at the very back. The seats weren’t what was remarkable, though. It was the passengers. They lay on their backs and sides on wide, frail looking cushions with blankets draped over their bodies.

“No luggage?” asked Stan with an air of confirmation. Harry nodded and Stan led him to a seat right behind the driver, which looked to be the only empty seat among the fifteen or so. Harry noted that this row of seats were all occupied by men, while the other side only had women lining them.

“This is our driver, Ernie Prang. Ern, this is- eh, you never told me your name, dincha? Woss your name, kid?”

“Neville Longbottom,” said Harry, saying the first name that came to his head. Snape hadn’t used his name with the kind Professor Patel, afterall, and told him not to tell anyone anything about himself.  Nevilles’s name was unfortunate to come to mind because Mrs Augusta Longbottom had gone on a lengthy situation with Snape about her grandchild while buying his medicine, making Harry feel a little sorry for the boy, “So- so this bus,” he went on quickly, hoping to distract Stan, “It goes anywhere? Anywhere?”

“Well, the distance is important, of course, and depends on how much time you have on your hands, but bother that, now,” Stan said, shutting him up with a flick of his hand, “Diagon Alley, Ern. Take ‘er away.”

Ernie, an eldery man wearing very thick glasses, nodded to Harry, who nervously flattened his fringe. The two lights Harry had seen from a distance were glowing warmly on Ernie’s side.

The bus gave a hard jolt, then a BANG, before resonating with the familiar knobling Harry heard, and the bus was off, travelling on the gravel with speed Harry was not accustomed to. He had seen large carriages, of course, and dreamt of riding one someday. But now, Harry would have preferred the small carriage,the rows of seats sliding about as the bus flew down the road.

“How did you know I was stranded?” Harry asked Stan who now had a newspaper lifted to the light and read while shaking on his spot by the door.

“Didn’t,” Stan said, turning the page, the paper ruffling from the wind that whistled through the window of Ernie’s compartment, “Passing by, and we saw you on the street, sort of lonely looking. Why?” he said, looking at Harry from above the papers, “Aren’t you stranded?”

Harry shrugged, lifting his head to look out through the window. Upon seeing nothing but black and dark, Harry looked back at Stan, “I think I am. But what about this Diagon Alley? Will I be able to work there? Without, well, you know,” Harry grabbed his arms, licking his lips nervously, “Where I won’t be pushed away because of my... skin color?” 

“Happened a lot, that, did it?” Stan said, still turning another page with an airy tone that seemed to dismiss him entirely. 

“Happened enough,” Harry said, pulling his legs onto the seat and leaning on the window, some memories resurfacing. Harry cleaning himself up, parting his rowdy hair and dusting his clothes, presenting himself only to be turned away by one employer and the next. Soot was good, in that way. It tainted even the palest person black, and was a perfect disguise for one to walk in town without a second glance. 

“There are those that stand against it. Those that kill others for it,” Harry looked up with a horrified expression, “But Diagon Alley don't judge a man by the skin. Though with Black around, not many are keen on hiring strangers.”

“Black?” Harry repeated, sort of relieved, then squinted at the newspaper,  “Is that the murderer that’s walking around?” 

“‘Course he was, Neville. Where you been?”

He gave a superior sort of chuckle at the blank look on Harry’s face, removed the front page, and handed it to Harry. 

Harry took a single glance before holding it up for Stan, “I can’t read in this light.”

“I reckon not, with those reading abilities of yours. You oughta read the papers more, Neville. Good practice,” he shook his head, refusing to take the page back, “Already read it. I think you need it more than me.”

Harry muttered a thanks and folded the paper, fitting some of it inside his pocket, though half still protruded, “So how long until Diagon Alley?” Harry asked, still trying to stuff the page inside without ripping anything.

“Quite close, eh, Ern?” 

“Ar,” said Ernie darkly.

Stan spun to face him, hands on the back of his head, “You weren’t far, when we picked you up. Cut the fare down slim, dincha?”

Harry blinked. Crossing his arms, he leaned his head on the hard back of the seat tiredly, the events of the night playing in his mind before Harry pushed them away, refusing to think about it, “Hope they have an inn, there. I’m exhausted.”

“You can get a few nights at the Leaky Cauldron,” Stan said, patting his pocket where Harry’s, well, Snape’s money was, “A week, if you're lucky.”

“The Leaky what?”

“Blimey, Neville,” Stan said, crossing the distance between them to flick him on the head, “You really hit your head, dincha?”

Harry supposed he had. Closing his eyes, he leaned on the wood again, dozing off only to open them soon after when Ernie slammed his foot down and the bus skidded to a halt. Surprised no one had slipped down the seats, Harry pushed himself up, about to resume his sleep when Stan opened the door, “That’s you, Neville,” he said, and jumped down the steps, shivering and missing his jacket.

“Thanks,” Harry said to both of them.

“You get your head checked, Neville,” Stan said, and the bus rolled off again, puffing and flying down the road at a speed that still confused Harry. 

Turning around, Harry faced the front of a small, shabby-looking pub. The Leaky Cauldron stood as dead as the night.

Steering himself towards the entrance, Harry lingered there, debating whether to knock or not. He took a deep breath, gripped the door handle and pushed, leading the way to an interior that wasn’t very different from the outside.

The bell that chimed above him brought out a man from a door inside. He was holding a lantern, and when Harry walked forward, he saw the stooping figure of a man who was giving him a toothless grin, “Welcome, young man. Room for the night?”

“Uh, well, yeah,” Harry said, nodding his head.

“Would you like to pay now, or in the morning?”

Harry’s shoulders sagged in relief. With a small smile, he nodded, “In the morning, please.”

The man nodded, walking to the door he had come in from, leaving Harry in the dark until he came back out, key in hand, “Come with me.”

Harry followed the man up a dingy, unstable set of wooden stairs that creaked at every step. Not trusting the railing, Harry balanced himself using the wall, sleep getting harder to fend off by the minute.
At the first floor, the man turned right, stopping at the end of the corridor and slipping the key inside. The lock turned in a satisfying click, and the door opened to a dark, small room with an even smaller bed.

“Your room is number ten,” the man said, pushing the key to Harry’s hand.

Harry stifled a yawn, his eyes burning, “Thank you, er-”

“Tom,” the man said, his voice hazy in Harry's ears. Nodding, Harry walked inside, closing the door but not locking it. Instead, he threw himself onto the bed, not bothering with the blankets, and closed his eyes.

Sleep came easily, that night. 

The next morning, Harry woke up exhausted.

It felt like the Knight Bus was weighing his body down, burying him on the mattress by the bones. Harry opened his eyes, squinted at the sun filtering through the dusty panes, and turned his head to the other side. He would have turned his body, too, if his limbs didn’t feel rock heavy and about to fall off. He tried to move the arm pinned under his weight, at least, and groaned. The bedframe groaned with him. 

Soon after, Harry opened his eyes again. He bared his teeth, both hands clenched into fists. He was tired. So very, very tired. 

Sleep was persistent in dismissing him. 

Fifteen minutes later, Harry finally managed to roll to his back, staring at the ceiling. Old pieces of wood ran down its length. A sour colour that seemed to be coated in several layers of dust. The room wasn't much different, either. Wooden floorboards, thin-looking walls, and horrible decor. Harry wasn't surprised to find himself missing his room at Snape's apothecary, with the warm coloured walls, the small work table and cushioned chair. Harry took some of the sheets in his hands, pinching the material between his fingers before dropping his hand down with a groan. Why had he run away? Why hadn’t he just ignored his Aunt and Uncle? They couldn't break windows, surely, heavy fisted though they may be. Uncle Vernon was always deathly afraid of law enforcement. He’d even backed off when Harry mentioned Snape would report to the constables, dragging his sister with him until the ginger ruined everything.

Harry hated ginger. 

Taking a deep breath, Harry pushed himself up. His feet landed on the floorboards with a dry thud, sending dust flying about, catching the sunlight. Another heave, and Harry was up - wobbling and flinging his arms about him until he caught his balance, resting his hands on the bed. Right, the bed. Harry took the cheap material in his hand, the rough fabric itchy on his skin and pulled it harshly. Dust came with it - a whirling storm that invaded his mouth and nose and sent Harry into an ugly coughing fit. 

Harry waved his hand in front of his face, trying to get rid of the dust and glared at the sheet once his coughing ceased.

“Right, then,” he snapped, grabbing at the sheet one last time before starting to smooth them out with aggressive movements, dragging the creases with harsh pulls until he had a somewhat satisfactory look.

Somewhat. 

Harry noted that it only made him feel guilty.

He could do better than that. And he did. Three tries and some angry tears later Harry stalked to the door, grabbing the key and twisting it to the right. It didn’t open. He tried again. No click came from the door. Cupping his head in his hands, Harry waited until he gained some composure before pulling the key off, number ten branded on its side and cupped the door handle. The door opened without a fight and Harry almost kicked the door as he walked out, this time locking it. 

The hallway on floor one was as he expected: ugly wood, worn out carpets and windows that could do with some cleaning. Harry didn’t understand why the way the wood looked made him so anxious, as if any minute something was going to burst through and strangle him, so he kept his back hunched and his eyes glued on the patterns of the carpet - giant red and blue triangles that flowed down the rug in various directions, leading the path towards the staircase.

He was about to walk downstairs, from which some vigorous noises were already rising, when he caught  sight of himself in the mirror. Confused, Harry stepped back, his eyebrows knitting close together.

He looked pathetic.

The shirt was wrinkled, and so were the trousers. A visible fold ran down his leg and reached the cut on his knee. Harry’s posture sagged at the sight of it. Lifting his eyes, however, Harry found that it wasn’t the only bad thing about him. His hair (which was a bird’s nest already on a good day) was simply  like a bird's nest, or crackling with friction and sticking out in all directions.

Harry peeked at both sides of the corridors, listening for approaching steps. When none came, Harry took a hesitant step forward before the mirrors and licked his fingers, combing through the wild strand, specifically the bangs over his scar. Aunt petunia had always warned him to keep those bangs down, screaming whenever she caught sight of-

Harry shook his head, slapping his forehead. He wouldn’t think about it. Not here.

Bending down, Harry took out his shoes and pulled his socks up underneath his trousers before putting the shoes back on and buttoning them up. And finally, Harry smoothed out his shirt with his hands, rebuttoning them by the sleeves and collar until he looked at least a bit presentable. Not in front of Snape, no. The man would probably send him to his room, shouting behind him to fix himself up before he made a disgrace of himself. 

It was enough for the Leaky Cauldron, however. Dingy inn, dingy boy.

Harry turned around and made his way down the stairs. The creaking wood sounded louder, somehow, even though Harry could make out much laughter coming from the entrance. Well, there shouldn’t be much of a crowd, considering how this place was one of those that didn’t judge a man by the skin, as Stan put it. He wasn’t sure if he believed it. Harry chuckled, his feet touching the landing. Surely the people here couldn’t be like him.

And he was right.

The people here weren’t like him at all.

They were everything and they were more.

Harry’s mouth hung open as he walked beside the counter to the eating area where seated at  the tables were the most, well, un-normal people had ever seen. 

Men, women, children. All of them with skin tones Harry had never seen, ranging from a man paler than snow with even paler hair to a man black as the soot Harry used to clean. But not only that, there were people that wore blemishes and different colour patches on their skin, laughing along and talking to their companions as if this were normal. As if they were normal.

Harry thought Snape was admirable to not abuse him based on his skin colour, and he had never brought it up, grateful Snape was willing to eat at the same table with him while most people loathed walking on the same street as him.  But Harry had also thought Snape had some foreign descent, too, with the same  narrow eyes that some strangers on the harbour had once or twice. A man had called them Asians just as Harry passed. 

Harry didn’t ask Snape about it.

But this scene at the inn? Harry couldn’t stop staring as he walked to Tom who was behind the counter and serving a man with brown skin and clothes that were most obviously not of London, or even England.

Eyes still wide, Harry didn’t notice the man was calling for him until Tom patted his shoulder.

“What?” Harry turned, confused and a hand covering his mouth.

“You are here to pay the bill, young man?” Tom said, grinning and taking a notebook from under the counter, “Had a good rest?”

Not entirely, but Harry gave him a smile. Not a forced one. It came as natural as the bewilderment he was still experiencing, “Uh, yeah, thanks,” he said, pocketing his hands and searching for the coins in his pocket. A few things came out before that, though. The key to the safe box and the folded front page of the newspaper. In the light, Harry could now make out the newspaper’s name as the Daily Prophet and some snippets of the photograph that no doubt belonged to Sirius Black. 

“Uh, would this be enough?” Harry said, pushing the money forward. Tom counted the coins on the counter, murmuring under his breath until he took some portion back, “More than enough. How long are you going to stay, young man?”

Harry looked down, toeing the bottom of the counter, “I’m not sure. Until I earn enough from a job.”

“Ah, where you working at?”

Harry blushed, and mumbled quickly, “Haven’t found one yet.”

Tom nodded, scratching his chin and taking a pen that was stranded on the counter, “Well, I’m sure you’ll find some work in Diagon Alley. If not, you can always tend to some tables here for room and board. Pay me when you need to leave,” Tom said, and pushed the remaining of the coins to Harry, opening his book and grinning down at him, “Deal?”

Harry’s face immediately lifted, a wide smile pulling at his lips, “Really?”

“Well, long as you don’t steal,” Tom said with a chuckle and leaned on the counter, “What’s your name, young man?”

Harry opened his mouth to answer, Neville’s name on his lips before he closed it again. He didn’t like the idea of lying to Tom, after his kindness.

“Harry,” he finally said, settling for a half-truth.

“Just Harry?” Tom said, lifting the pen over a page.

Snape’s warning came to mind again.

“No, uh, I’m Evans. Harry Evans,” he said beaming, and instinctively flattening his bangs, “Harry Evans.”

“Harry… Evans,” Tom repeated, writing the name down, the pen scratching the paper in rough, fast strokes, “I’ll have breakfast ready for you, Harry. You just wait on a table. Anything you can’t eat?”

Harry raised a brow, thinking of what he meant before he nodded vigorously.

“Nothing with ginger, please.”

*
Breakfast, which consisted of sausages, bread, and a cup of warm milk, Harry opened the newspaper Stan had given him and laid it out on the table he was sharing with a couple, smoothing the crinkles on the page. 

Sirius Black’s photograph glared at him, mouth open in a scream. Harry couldn’t hear him, of course, but he still had the impression that he could catch his voice in the distance, his rage echoing inside the cell he was being held in by a number of hands. 

Harry shuddered. Dropping his fork, Harry pushed his plate away and pulled the paper closer, reading along with his finger.

BLACK STILL AT LARGE

Sirius Black, possibly the most infamous prisoner ever to be held in Azkaban fortress, is still eluding capture, the Ministry confirmed today. 

“We are doing all we can to recapture Black,” said Minister Cornelius Fudge this morning, “and we beg the community to remain calm.” 

Fudge has been criticized by some members of the Court and High Council for informing the foreign embassies of the crisis.

 “Well, really, I had to, don’t you know,” said an irritable Fudge. “Black is mad. He’s a danger to anyone who crosses him, British or not. I have their assurance that they will tread carefully on the matter, including word of Black’s alliances. And let’s face it — we’re not the only ones that are in danger.” 

While it has been told that Black is carrying multiple revolvers, the community lives in fear of a massacre like that of twelve years ago, when Black murdered thirteen people with a single explosive. 

Harry looked into the shadowed eyes of Sirius Black, the only part of the sunken face that seemed alive. Harry didn’t think it was possible to look so dead while alive but Black, with his waxy white skin, looked just like a corpse. 

“Scary looking thing, isn’t he?” a waiter said, picking up Harry’s empty plate and mug, “That Sirius Black?”

“He murdered thirteen people?” said Harry, holding the page to the waiter, whose face on one side was terribly burnt, “just like that?”

“Oh, yes,” the waiter said with a one sided frown, the burnt side of his face deathly still, “Best to be careful outside, lad. If he did it in broad daylight, with witnesses and all, God alone knows what he’ll do next.”

And then the waiter left, squeezing himself between the tables and returned to the kitchen. 

Harry watched him disappear behind a swinging door before he turned to the page, looking for more articles to read, when the man in front of him spoke.

“I heard Black was a big supporter of You-Know-Who,” he said. Lifting his head, Harry saw a black man who was wearing a brimless, cloth cap looking down at the article and pointing at Black’s picture with a finger, “Very close to His ranks.”

Harry tilted his head and glanced back at the drawing, trying to decode what the man had said.

“You-Know-Who?” Harry repeated, turning the page over to its front, finding the title awfully hilarious, and would have laughed if not for the situation,”Uh, who’s You-Know-Who?” 

“You don’t know?” the woman beside the man asked in a monotonous voice, a hand adjusting her head wrap before continuing in the same toneless way while the man pulled on his jacket, “That’s very odd.”

Harry was beginning to think that all his life, he was kept out of a secret that he was meant to know. Irritated, he pressed his lips together and crumpled the page into uneven folds, “Well, why don’t you tell me, then?” he snapped, immediately feeling guilty when the man’s eyes widened in surprise while he stood up, reaching for some long sticks, a crescent shape on one end of each, which were leaning on the table.

“Uh, sorry, I’m really sorry,” Harry said, rubbing his neck, “I’m having a bad few days.”

“Completely understandable,” the woman said, again toneless, adjusting her blouse as well as a necklace which had two triangles intervening to make a star at its end, “I’m having a bad day myself.” 

The man chuckled and handed the sticks to her. The woman threw her legs over the bench  and took the sticks from the man. Standing up, she positioned the crescent shapes under her arms and walked around the table, so now Harry could see that she only had one foot under her green dress, making Harry blush around the ears in shame.

“He was a bad man, an evil man that hated those who weren’t him, and killed those who dared oppose him and his ideologies.”

Though Harry processed the words, he wished she wouldn’t say it as though she was talking about the weather. The man behind the woman shuddered, shaking his head with a grim frown, “A serial killer, more likely. He campaigned his ideologies, spread it around those with similar views and began a raining terror in Britain, killing coloured, disabled, and non-Christian folks.”

“I heard he killed many children, as well. Leaving them with scars on their foreheads before setting their houses ablaze. Horrific.”

Harry’s heart suddenly stopped and his mouth went dry, no longer caring if the woman’s voice was monotone. Reaching a hand, Harry touched his own forehead, the words echoing inside his head like blaring sirens. 

No, it couldn’t be. He did have a scar, and parents whose house burnt down, which led them to abandon their son (Harry’s heart gave a twisted, painful wrench), but he was alive now. He was alive. He wasn’t dead, like all those children.

“But you can be happy, lad,” the man said, readjusting his jacket with a hearty grin, “Today’s the anniversary of his death.”
“What?”

“He died thirteen years today, thanks to the Boy-Who-Lived.”

You-Know-Who, Diagon Alley, the Knight Bus, the Leaky Cauldron? And now the Boy-Who-Lived? If Harry wasn’t as shocked as he was now, he would have laughed in confusion, demanding to know who had come up with such names. As of now, however, his head was starting to hurt and a horrible wave of fear was starting to surge up his body, a painfully heavy, foul wave. 

“You can find some books in Diagon Alley, lad, I don’t doubt it,” the man said, lifting the woman’s bag from the bench, “Just look for the library and ask for a copy of Recent Local History, volume two.”

“Poor child,” the woman said, her toneless voice breaking silently and rather painfully, “Survived You-Know-Who but went missing soon after. I do hope he’s happy now, though. Happy and laughing somewhere,” turning to Harry, she gave him a swift wave, “Well, goodbye, then.”

The man nodded at Harry, and turned to follow the woman’s lead, balancing the heavy bag on his right arm. 

Harry blinked, looking down at the crumpled page in front of him. With sudden realization, he ripped it open once more, creating an ugly tear in the middle while he searched for the publishing date.

July 30, 1874. 

His heart almost thudded to a stop before pumping fast in Harry’s ears, because if that was yesterday's date, then today was July 31st. The anniversary of You-Know-Who’s and the Boy-Who-Lived’s apparent death.

It also happened to be Harry’s birthday , which he had forgotten with the events of yesterday. 

Still not believing what had happened and with far more questions than ever, Harry made a sudden turn, snatching the newspaper with a jolt and stumbled after them, almost tripping twice and bumping into various people and furniture multiple times, “Wait!”

The couple turned around, as well as some people around them. Harry ignored them, though he still felt anxious from their stares, but focused on the bewildered confusion on the man’s face, “What was his name?”

“Who’s, lad?”

“The Boy-Who-Lived!” Harry said, throwing his arms up, his faced flushed, “Who else-”

“Harry Potter,” the woman said, toneless, staring at him with hollow eyes. 
Harry’s shoulders fell, the paper floating to the floor in a defeated sort of way. 

“What?”

“The Boy-Who -Lived. His name was Harry Potter.”

*
Harry would have found it easier to focus if he hadn’t heard all of this information. And for that reason alone, he had taken to his room almost immediately to clear his mind before giving up entirely and deciding to enter Diagon Alley to find the previously mentioned book and any information on his new situation.

Walking out the door at around two in the afternoon, Harry found that he was somewhat glad Snape hadn’t disclosed much of his past. Though to be fair, he wouldn’t have believed the man if he had. It still sounded atrocious while he walked to the back of the inn which led to the Alley, a sort of lie these people had brought up. Because if he really was Harry Potter, a famous Boy-Who-Lived, why didn’t everyone else he met during these thirteen years recognize him? Why was Snape the only one to recognize him by face and not name? Shaking his head, Harry crossed the distance between him and the door, lifting his head to get a better look at it.

It wasn’t a big door, Harry thought, staring at the handle on the  dark wood. Windowless and of much better quality than the rest of the inn, spiral patterns carved along its length. Nothing remarkable. 

Taking a deep breath, Harry pulled the handle down and pushed. 

The bright sun hit him in the eye unexpectedly, making him gasp. Squinting, Harry held up a hand to shield his face, blinking to get rid of the light that was now flashing in his vision. 

Momentarily blind, Harry was left amidst waves of noise that came from all directions. Laughter, excited talk and the general sound of the public, all with an air of a celebration. And as his vision eventually returned, Harry swore he could hear some instruments coming from the distance. 

If Harry was taken aback by what he had seen inside the Leaky Cauldron, nothing could match the surprise he had received once stepping into the busy streets of Diagon Alley. And if he hadn't heard what the couple said, he might have enjoyed it far more. 

On a narrow road squashed between rows of stalls and shops, were people of all shapes and sizes, some much, much taller than Harry, while some could only come up to his waist. Exactly like how it was inside the Leaky Cauldron, the people here also had skin colours of various tones and shades, some of which were dressed in clothes that Harry had never seen before. 

Harry took a step forward and started to make his way through the street, dodging people while trying to look for a help-wanted sign on a shop, a wide, lopsided smile on his face. He wished desperately to carve this moment into his head, to forever have this moment of absolute joy and happiness, with all its colours, sounds, and emotions. 

Harry moved through the crowd, dodging people left and right while also keeping an eye out for the library. He wasn’t really in the mood for asking anyone about it, understandably. Who would be able to approach anyone knowing they were some sort of missing idol that everyone supposedly knew? Harry didn’t care if these people here looked approachable, and would most definitely not judge him. He was going to make sure no one in Diagon Alley learned about him.

Sidestepping a few people seated in chairs with wheels (chairs with wheels!) and some other people that used the sticks the woman in the shop had, Harry finally found himself in front of a bookshop. Squinting at the name, Harry lowered his gaze to the window in defeat. Too blurry. But the writing on the glass -painted white over a red crest- spelled Flourish and Blotts. Well, he had some idea how to spell that, at least. Rubbing his hands together, Harry stepped over to the door and pushed.

The door opened into a shop, which, except for the bookshelves that reached the ceiling, was unremarkable in every way. Harry closed the door behind him, flattened his bangs and walked to the empty counter. Well, the almost empty counter. Harry could barely see the other side with the stacks of books piled on the surface. 

He could, however, make out a bell between two tall piles. Wedging his hands between them, he managed to ring it twice, almost toppling the piles when he tried to take his hand back.

A few moments later, Harry heard footsteps coming from the other side of the shop. He couldn’t see the owner, by virtue of the books and his height, but when the man spoke, he could make out the odd lisp in his voice.

“Welcome to Flourish and Blotts. How may I help you?”

“Uhm,” Harry rubbed his neck, feeling foolish about asking a bookshop owner for directions to the library, “I was wondering if you could tell me where the library is.”

“Ah, no matter, my young friend. Just turn right from here and when you see the Healer Shop, turn left and you’ll find yourself there in no time. May I ask what book you’re going to read, out of curiosity?”

“Recent Local History, volume two.”
“Ah,” the man said in a voice that sounded defeated, “Well, doing some reading to honour the day?” 

Harry licked his lips and shrugged his one shoulder, “You could say that.”

“Well, have a good day, my young friend.”

The footsteps retreated to the back of the shop, and Harry left the shop soon after, running the directions in his mind. 

The Healer shop wasn’t far. In fact, Harry found it not long after and took the left, which also led to the library in no time at all. 

But upon seeing what the library looked like, Harry couldn’t help but be a little disappointed. He was expecting something grand. Something huge. Maybe with marble and pillars and statues. But instead, the shop was a two story, red-brick building with a dingy sign that looked like it was leaning a bit too much to the left, as if a powerful wind had bent it to the point of almost collapsing. 

Harry wrinkled his nose and dragged himself to the door. 

It opened with some struggle, the bottom of the door dragging on the red carpet. Harry pushed it open with his whole weight, his back to the door and the heels of his shoes digging into the carpet. 

Harry closed it behind him with equal trouble. A drop of sweat fell down his forehead. Wiping it with his sleeve, Harry moved to the small, round counter where a woman was resting her head with multiple mugs surrounding her pool of long, black hair.

Harry avoided looking directly at the woman, and instead focused around the shop. This was a much better setting than Flourish and Blotts, with a space that looked wider than the prior shop and smelled more musty and cardboard-like than dust and old paper. 

The smell worsened as Harry stepped closer, and he realized it was coming from the empty mugs around the woman, including one that held some still, brown liquid. 

“Excuse me,” Harry said, a little over a whisper. 

The woman didn’t stir, of course, so he tried again. This time louder.

“Excuse me, Ms?”

No response. 

Harry shuffled his feet, and decided to find the history section on his own. 

He didn’t, of course. But he did find some interesting titles he would like to read, as well as sections that tempted him rather too much, specifically the one on the second floor dedicated to basic school knowledge. 

At the end, Harry came shuffling back, glaring at the woman’s head which still hadn’t moved. This was becoming rather irritating. 

Lifting his hand, Harry touched the woman’s scalp, and gave it a few pokes, “Excuse me!”

The woman’s head lifted lazily. Harry clenched his hands into fists behind him before scratching his arms with his nails, which were starting to grow rather long.

The woman finally looked up, but she might as well not have bothered, with the dark, dark bags surrounding dead, cold eyes. Gulping, Harry dropped his arms and cleared his throat, hand in front of his mouth, “Hello.”

“What do you want?”

Well, Harry could work with that.

“History section. I’m looking for Recent Local History, volume-”

“Of course you are. Second floor, far left corner, nudged between languages and geography. Now stop bothering me.”

And taking the half-empty mug, she threw it back in one gulp, a momentary smirk on her lips before her head plopped down on the table with a dull thud. 

Harry knew he wouldn’t be bothering her, again. Confused and rather freaked out, he marched up the stairs behind the round counter, wandering to the far left corner. Sure enough, the section was there, rather small, compared to the other genres in the library. 

Harry ran his fingers along the thick spines, searching for the right one before his hand landed on a tattered copy of the book. 

A satisfactory smile widened on his lips as he pulled the book out. The book wasn’t in good condition, but it was enough for Harry. He’d just have to be careful to not damage the emerald-green cover, though it wouldn't make any difference, seeing as the cover was a few days away from falling off.

Not bothering with a chair or table, Harry laid the book on the floor and swiftly turned the pages. There was a table of contents, which he let out a mighty laugh at seeing, and ran a finger down the table to finally come across what he was looking for right at the bottom. Beneath it was a list of events Harry couldn’t care about, so skipping it, he instead focused on the parts that involved him. 

1854-1865 (pg 100)

• Lord Voldemort (also known as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, You-Know-Who and Lord Thomas Marvolo Riddle), and His and the Death Eaters’ Campaign and Reign.
• The (Assumed) Death of You-Know-Who
• The Potters and the Suspected Order
• Harry James Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived

Harry closed the book. He wouldn’t be able to finish this book now, with said contents taking up almost half the book. Standing up, Harry pressed the book under his arm and marched down the stairs. 

He did try to wake the woman again, to no avail, so with some hesitation, he started to walk to the door, clutching the book with a silent promise to bring it back and left the library, rather nervous as he walked back to the Leaky Cauldron.

He didn’t look anywhere else until he reached the inn, and even there he ran up the stairs without disturbing Tom. 

The path down the corridor seemed longer, somehow, as though someone had stretched it in his absence. 

When he finally reached the door, Harry plucked the keys from his pocket with shaking hands, fumbling with them while his eyes looked from one side to the other, heart thumping fast and unsteady, until the door opened and Harry dived in. He slammed the door behind him, locking it twice and leaned on the wood, breathing hard - hard and unsteady, until he was able to calm down. 

Releasing a deep breath, Harry lifted his head. The book felt heavy in his hands. Heavy, as though he was carrying a grown man and not a 300 page book. He pushed away from the door, walking to the bed briskly. 

The book laid still on his bed. Still and foreign, like it shouldn’t have been there. Harry tried to tell himself that he wasn’t stealing. That he was going to take the book back, eventually, and he was only borrowing it. It didn’t stop him from approaching it with timid hands, though. He bit the inside of his cheek while his hands ruffled the pages to where he wanted to read. 

The Potters and the Suspected Order, black and bold, blinked at him on the page, almost mocking him. All this time, Harry had begged for some sort of information about his parents, about his past, and all this time, it was written inside a published book.

Absolutely mocking.

Harry shook his head, trying to get rid of the hollow feeling in his chest. Because this book, right here, could potentially be the evidence that his parents hadn’t abandoned him at all, and died in that fire instead.

Harry wasn’t sure which option he preferred more, but when he started to read, it didn’t matter anymore.

James Potter and Lily J. Potter (née Evans)...

James and Lily. How suiting. How lovely. How just like them, to have beautiful names. 

Harry felt the tears flow down but didn’t stop them. Instead, he pulled his legs to his chest and lowered his head into his arms, sobbing uncontrollably, his choking gasps making it harder to breathe. 

Harry cried. Harry cried hard. 

Because for the first time in his life, Harry Potter could finally, truly mourn for his mother and father. 

It took Harry several days to get used to his strange new freedom. Never before had he been able to get up or eat whenever he wanted. He could even go wherever he pleased, as long as it was in Diagon Alley, and as this long cobbled street was packed with the most fascinating shops in the world, it wasn’t very hard to wander off to the outside world. 

This freedom also came with certain aspects he didn’t quite fancy. For one, he was utterly miserable for reasons he couldn’t understand. He usually couldn’t sleep at night, and so he would irritably toss from one side to the other, scream into his pillow and cry himself to sleep. Most nights he couldn’t sleep long enough, disturbed as he was by nightmares. Those nights he hated the world more than anything else.

He just couldn’t understand why he was feeling like this. Guilty, angry, afraid at the same time, breaking down at minor inconveniences as though he was carrying the world on his shoulders. 

Then again, he probably was. 

Due to his pathetic sleeping patterns, Harry woke exhausted, struggling to keep his eyes open while working, occasionally snuggling under the sheets in his room during breaks, the inability to fall asleep inducing him to pull  Recent Local History , volume two (which was written by Alenxandria Alexander) from under his bed and read for the next two hours, until around two in the afternoon. Then he’d have a lovely crying session, in which he’d rather avoid the wooden walls in the corridors, before dragging himself outside, head down, feeling entirely numb.

But that wasn’t all Harry was up to. 

He still had to save money, if he ever hoped to achieve some stability, and tending to the tables at the Leaky Cauldron would only get him dinner and sleep, if he was lucky. Harry wasn’t stupid. Diagon Alley was the most resourceful option he had, with many, many shops to choose from. 

To work for. 

To learn all and any information the adults might have on the Boy-Who-Lived.

He avoided the tinsmith, which was right beside the entrance, and wavered between avoiding the apothecary or not. The woman would certainly ask where he’d gotten his experience, small though it may be, and if he even uttered Snape’s name, he was sure she wouldn’t wait a second before writing a letter to assess his abilities. No, best to avoid it entirely. 

He decided to ask Florean Fortesque for work at his parlour, because he had offered Harry some ice cream -free of charge!- after catching him making his rounds in the Alley, back hunched, rather depressed. The ice cream was like magic. Sugary, savoury and all the words that meant pleasant pulled into one. He almost dared to ask for more, when his bowl was finished, but instead thanked the man very sincerely before leaving the shop to head to another.

The rest of the shopkeepers at Diagon Alley weren’t so bad, Harry thought. Sure, that one shop that sold the most expensive articles of clothing had a very rude owner, but he’d have no problem avoiding her. Or the library.

And so, in the one week Harry spent at Diagon Alley, he learned many great things. 

He learned how to serve ice-cream, how to clean books, how to sew clothes that needed mending… 

He also learned no one actually knew what had happened thirteen years ago to the Boy-Who-Lived or Voldemort.

The couple had said Voldemort had died on his birthday, Alexandria Alexander said it happened on a cold, Halloween night.

Tom said Harry Potter was dead, while Harry Potter wiped the counter in front of him with a wet rag and a grin.

The woman at the second-hand clothes store who said she was from Thailand and called herself Fah was insistent that nothing of the sort had happened at all. 

The owner of Flourish and Blotts guaranteed that Lord Riddle and Voldemort were two different personalities entirely. 

Harry got some enjoyment out of watching these adults. Almost every customer had a different version of the tale, and almost none of them had read Alenxandria Alexander, but Harry could understand why. He had to shut the book himself when Alexander began to talk  about a ‘dark angel’ that had come to tell her the truth about the night the Potters had died. For a history book, Harry thought the book was very much subjective. And very much dependent on this angel she called her muse. 

But if there was anything Harry knew was correct, it was that close to his presumed death, Voldemort had turned far more nasty. As though attacking minorities and trying to push bills that would ensure the supremacy of native citizens were not enough, he opted to murder not soon after - murder of the children of families that weren’t ‘normal’. 

He’d invade homes, attack parents, if not killing them, and use a knife to carve their foreheads in lines of scars, after which he’d leave them in the house which his followers would set on fire.

Until the night he attacked the Potter household. 

The book had given a very vivid description of that particular topic.

Harry shut the book the minute things started to turn ugly, and didn’t get out of his room for two days. 

Those two days, he cried more than he had ever before, flashbacks, nightmares, and the eventual numbness that came from refusing to think about it.

That is, until this morning. 

A prickling sensation rippled on Harry’s arm. He hadn’t realised he had picked up the habit of scratching his arms until he felt a jab of pain on his skin. With a groan, Harry twisted his arm for a better look, wincing and staggering back when he caught sight of the red, bleeding line running down his skin.

For a moment, he stared, petrified and curious. The blood was pooling on his skin, dark red. He would have stood transfixed in his own shock, no doubt, if the blood didn’t start dripping to the bedsheets and floor. 

With a gasp, he jumped to his feet, staring wide eyed at the red trail following him, heart thumping loud and angry. He rushed to the door, closed it and didn’t bother locking it behind him. Running down the corridor with his head down, as to avoid the menacing doors, he didn’t notice the man that was walking towards him until he collided with his shoulder and tumbled to the floor, scratching his arm on the carpet. With a hiss, he pushed himself up, cradling his now burnt and bleeding arm. 

“I’m sorry,” he cried to the man, struggling to find his balance, “I’m so sorry, but I’m in a rush!”

And without looking at the man, he rushed down the stairs. 

“Tom!” he shouted into the inn, still cradling his arm, head spinning with bright, small dots, “Tom!” he tried again, leaning against the counter, one hand flying over his mouth to stop a gag.

Tom walked out the door that led to the kitchens, eyes going wide when they landed on Harry. It didn’t compare to the expression he showed upon seeing Harry’s arm, however, confused between a fusion of horror and shock.

“Harry! What on Earth happened to you?”

“I- Small accident, you see, I read this thing and-” Harry’s started, his words ceasing abruptly. Tom looked at him with furrowed brows, his hands held open in front of him, “Harry?”

“Nevermind. I just need… I just need- are there any doctors in Diagon Alley?”

Tom scratched his forehead, silent for far too long. Harry licked his lips and lifted a hand, shaking him by the shirt, “Tom! Doctor?”

“Ah!” Tom jumped, rather clumsily, due to his age and nodded vigorously. He knew the answer, no doubt, and wasted no time blurting out in a jumble of words, “Healer, on the left side, very close to Gringotts, right before you turn into Knockturn Alley. Does her work free of charge-”

“Great,” Harry said, squeezing his shirt sleeve over his stinging arm, biting back a wince as the fabric was rolled over his arm, digging into a gauze above the cut. The metallic smell was becoming nauseating by the time Harry turned to the back door, Tom’s and the customers’ eyes on his back, and he’d rather find this healer before he delayed anymore.

“I will send Yanase with you,” Tom said, turning to the kitchens to find the waiter with the burnt face, “Yanase!”

But Harry had thrown himself out the door the moment Tom had turned his back, blending into the busy street of Diagon Alley, arm clenched to his chest. 

He received a few queer looks. Most of them were concerned, some of them reluctantly so, and Florean gave him a wave, spoon in hand, which Harry returned with a vague smile. The pain was growing from a throb to spasms of pain, now, and the jostle of the crowd resembled ugly screeching in his ears. 

Eyes still down, Harry dodged the crowd ambling down the street, trying to keep as much to the right as he could. The pain, vibrating up and down his arm, was growing heavier and heavier. But with it, Harry felt something else. Something equally, if not more terrifying than the pain, because Harry felt alive. Strong, stable and controlled. The cut had been a mistake, yes, but in a way, it felt like the anchor Harry was searching for. 

He reached the Healer, while lost in his thoughts. The outside isn’t much different than the rest, but is adorned with colourful paint that circles the white walls. There are only two small windows which are too high to reach, and a lonely wooden sign that reads Healer at the very top.

Harry doesn’t immediately trust it. The  shop has a cheap feel to it - built from items discarded on the streets and painted to look defeatedly pleasing to the eye.

Harry’s arm gives another throb. This time, he turns back, deciding to tend to it himself. He only needs to take a single step to see Yasane, the waiter, walking towards him, parting his way awkwardly through the crowd with his pole-like body. 

Harry’s posture sags and his head hangs down. Defeated, he steals a glance at the shop, then a glance back at Yasane and the crowd. He doesn’t give Yasane enough time to reach him. Turning around, pebbles crunching under his shoes, Harry steps over the sidewalk and pushes the wooden door open.

The strong waft of smells are immediately there to greet him. Herbal smells, they are. Minty and sharp inside the hot, suffocating air. For a moment, Harry imagines that this is what Snape’s laboratory would look like. Shelves upon shelves are packed tightly with jars, while bubbling and boiling noises come from somewhere in the room. And hot. So very hot. Harry fumbles with his shirt, casting his eyes away from the phials on the shelves and steps to the front counter. 

There isn’t a healer in sight, nor a bell to announce Harry’s arrival. Instead, Harry finds a small, crystal ball and stacks of cards. Lifting a hand, Harry touches the ball, running a finger down the glass surface. It’s cool, almost cold, and when Harry lifts his head to look at the door, he feels refreshed. 

Behind him, Yasane steps in, closing the door behind him. He smiles at Harry, back hunched because the ceiling is too low and dodges the ornaments and plants hanging from the ceiling to come closer to Harry.

“The healer isn’t here?” he asks, looking like he’d rather be somewhere else. 

Harry gives him a similar look before eyeing his arm, “No,” he mumbles, then looks behind the counter where a curtain parts the way between this room and the next, where the boiling noises were coming from, “Reckon we should, I don’t know, go in there?”

Yasane shuddered, despite the heat, and shook his head, “No. I- I don’t want. Very unpleasing, I think. Wait here?”

Harry shrugs, leans against the counter, and waits.

Five minutes pass. Then ten. At the end of fifteen, when he can barely lift his arm, he storms around the corner towards the curtain, brows knitted tight and a scowl in his face.

“Evans! Evans wait-”

He doesn’t listen to Yasane and is about to throw back the curtains himself when the healer finally comes out. 

Harry stumbled back, gasping. He tries to catch a look of the woman, at least, before he can stagger back but craning his neck only puts him in an awkward situation where he’s falling again, flailing his arms.

Holding out his uninjured  arm, Harry tries to cut his fall, reminded rather hastily of the night with the Knight Bus. He didn’t fall this time, however. Didn't feel the pain from the fall last time. He feels something much, much worse. A seizing pain that rivals almost anything he’s felt that month. Well, almost.

The woman’s grip on Harry’s arm doesn’t falter when he cries out in pain. Without looking at the women, he tries to pry the fingers from around the cut, eyes tearing up. However, the woman’s vice grip stays firm, and furthermore starts to drag him through the curtain to the other room.

“You!” she shouts suddenly, stopping mid-stride to point at Yasane, who points at his chest in surprise, “Yes, you! Go away, umfana, I will be alone with my patient.”

Yasane swallowed heavily, eyes darting between the two, weighing his options before Harry nodded his head, wiping some of the tears trailing down his burning cheeks. 

The healer’s eyes followed Yasane until he was out the door. With a gentle thud, the closed behind him and only then did she return her attention to Harry. 

“Sit,” she ordered. 

Harry did, and upon her gaze, lifted his arm, bloody and wet under the also red shirt.

The woman tutted and shook her head. Taking Harry’s arm in her hands, she looked down at him with soft eyes before motioning his arm

It took Harry an embarrassingly long time to understand that she was asking for permission. Harry blushed and nodded vigorously. A soft smile found her lips before they closed into a stern look. Her fingers, long and square, gripped the sleeve of Harry’s shirt and slowly started to peel it away from the cut. 

Harry tried hard to not wince, to not make any noise. His lips pressed into a firm, straight line, biting the inside of his cheek and gripping the sheet under him in a tight fist. Then, it was over.

The woman turned Harry’s arm, lifting it to the light that was coming in from the window. She must have seen something Harry could not, the way she suddenly sprang to her feet and passed the boiling pots in the middle of the room towards the shelf on the other side, eyes scanning the shelves. 

Harry took this moment to observe the woman further. Her black skirt held rows of beads, and a shawl was draped over her chest. Harry couldn’t see much of her hair, but just beside her round red earring, he could just make out some black shapes over her dark skin before that, too, was hidden by a hat with a round brim on the top. 

The woman turned around and began to stride towards him, a few jars in hand. She bent down beside the table next to the bed, the jars perfectly lined up, and went back to the shelf before coming back with an odd bag with stripes.

She pulled open the latch on the bag, and lifted out some small, white, soft looking balls and dropped them on the table as well. Standing up for the third time, she circled the room towards the fireplace and picked up one of the many buckets beside it. She heaved it with no difficulty, and Harry presumed it to be lightweight until she placed it on the floor, pulling its lid. Harry bent over, catching the glimpse of water before he was pushed back by the shoulder.

“No,” the healer simply said, bending down and reaching under the bed, arms coming back with a wide wooden bowl. Balancing the bowl on the bed, she took hold of his arm again and held it above the bowl, dipping the rag that was hanging on the belt she was wearing into  the bucket, she gave it a tight squeeze before starting to clean the cut on Harry’s arm. It stung. With every stroke, Harry winced and received a tight-lipped frown from the woman. 

Once that was done, and the water that had fallen into the basin was a murky colour, the healer moved onto the jars. Taking one white ball into her hand, she dabbed it inside one of the bigger phials, continuously, until it took the colour of the liquid, and once more, Harry’s arm began to sting. Harsher, this time, and the feeling lingered even when the healer began to spread a balm over his cut. 

“Hurts?” the healer asked, balancing the bag on the bed.

“Uh, yes, but it’s better now,” Harry said, flexing his fingers and turning his arm around, “Thank you.”

The healer gave a stern nod of approval, but a hint of a smile grew on her lips at the concern still knitted on Harry’s face. Lifting a roll of bandages, she held out her hand. Harry offered his arm before she asked for it. With another nod, the healer gently wrapped it around his arm, circling it slowly and steadily, and finally clipping it to place with a needle.

Harry lifted his arm to his line of sight, flexing his fingers and running his free hand over the bandage. The material, rough to the touch, felt soft from the inside. Softer than his shirt, at the very least, because Harry didn’t feel any itching from his cut.

 “Thank you,” he said to the woman, dropping his arm with a smile, “I would have liked to offer something, but I heard you do this for free. Thank you for that, as well.”

 The healer nodded. Kneeling beside the table, she started to pack away her materials, stuffing the extra balls and bandages into her bag and lidding the jars close. Harry, not sure of what to do, jumped down from the bed, one hand still on the wooden frame. He stood still, observing the healer. Oddly reminded of Snape, when he took the time to help him from a nightmare or when he had fallen, always smelling like one herb or the other. But here, while the dominant smell was sharp and minty, Snape had the sort of smell that was nutty and bitter, close to ginger but not quite.

 Oh, ginger.

 Harry didn’t know if ginger had any healing properties, but he was thankful the healer hadn’t used it all the same.

 Rubbing the back of his neck, Harry faced the healer, smile lopsided, “So, um-” he clasped his hands in a firm clasp, “What’s- If it’s alright, can I learn your name.”

 The healer turned, sharp and precise. She looked as though Harry had just emitted an abominable screech in her shop, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. A flash of recognition passed over her eyes, however, and she recovered from her shock quickly. She cleared her throat. Her hands slid down her skirt to smooth the fabric while she stood up before her hands landed on her hips, “I am healer.”

 “But what’s your name?”

 “My name is Uluthando, umfana.”

 Harry tilted his head, “What does ‘umfana’ mean?”

 “You don’t know?” the healer asked, stern lips loosening into a smile.

 “Of course I don’t know!” Harry cried, throwing his arms into the air, “The words I know are only in English. You should speak English with people in this place.”

 “Why? This is my shop. You come to me.”

 Harry lifted his brow, scratching the side of his neck before his mouth opened in understanding. Wide and an almost perfect ‘o’.

 “You’re right. Of course you should be able to speak your own buisness,” he said, red in the cheeks, “I understand now, I’m sorry.”

 The healer nodded. She lifted her fingers, then, from her lips to her face and Harry stared confused until she pulled at the sides of her lips, showing neat rows of teeth.

“Smile.”

 Not being able to help himself, Harry laughed, doubling  over, his own hand covering the grin on his face, “You’re right,” he managed to say, lifting his head, “A smile is enough.”

 The healer herself escorted Harry to the door, casting warning glances to his arm in a way that suggested that she didn’t want to see him here on injury related business. Harry could work with that, and he made sure to let her know with an overly enthusiastic nod and salute. With another nod from the healer, Harry dropped his hand. Transitioning the salute into a wave, he turned left, the opposite direction of the Leaky Cauldron. He didn’t think he had the nerve to face Tom yet.

 He passed the library with his head down, trying to be as small and invisible as possible, though how that was possible with his bloodied sleeve and bandaged arm he wasn’t so sure. Nonetheless, the street led him to a small bank and a few shops scattered on its sides. Nothing interesting, particularly, but in the corner of his eye, something did flicker. It stood out from the rest, because of the polished wooden walls and the name on the board over the door that didn’t explain much about what the shop sold.

 “Ollivanders?” Harry muttered. He stole a glance at the people around him, to see if anyone was walking to this lonely little shop. No one, not a single stray soul. So Harry decided to be that soul instead.

 Ollivanders had no large windows, either. Only a measly door squeezed between two panes of glass. Approaching the door, however, Harry realized that they weren’t just windows, but colorful, patterned glass. One looked to be made by a professional, depicting a woman carrying a bucket, while the other was only shapes distorted into looking acceptable in a very short amount of time. Harry slid his hands down the one with the woman. He smiled, and with a deep breath, pushed the door open.

 Shopkeepers must have an obsession with stacking shelves tight. Ollivander was no different. Shelf upon shelf, touching the ceiling, were stacks of boxes. Long boxes, short boxes. Big and small boxes. Boxes with colors and then ones with no color at all.

 Diagon Alley was something else, entirely.

 The door closed with a sharp thud, making Harry jump. He would have liked to recognize the odors he was smelling, but he just didn’t have the words. Well, there was wood. A lot of wood. A burning smell that wafted in like fog and other smells that accompanied it like a gentle friend, hand in hand.

 “Why, hello there,” a soft voice said. Harry jumped. Turning to the counter, Harry met with an old man. An old man whose wide, pale eyes were shining like moons through the gloom of the shop. Harry swallowed, moving closer to whom he presumed to be the owner.

 “Good afternoon,” Harry said, almost in a question.

 “Good afternoon, young man. And who might you be?”

 Harry flattened his fringe before speaking, “Harry Evans.”

“Harry Evans?”

 Harry nodded his head, wondering if he ought to go by James Evans in the near future, to disregard any relation with Harry Potter at all.

 The man scratched his chin, lost in thought, before his eyes lifted up, silver and bright. Hands clasped behind his back, he moved around the counter, a smile pulling at the lines around his mouth, “I once knew a woman by the name of  Evans, I don’t doubt you know it either. You look a mighty bright young man, Harry.”

 Harry’s looked up suddenly in surprise. He tried to dismiss it with a cough, but his embarrassment stayed long after the man approached him, standing right in front of him with a hand stretched out, “I am the current and only Ollivander.”

 Harry took the hand. Big, warm. 

 “What do you sell here, Mr Ollivander?”

 “Magic, young Harry,” Mr Ollivander said, without missing a beat.

 Harry blinked. And blinked again. He blinked as many times needed to process Mr Ollivander’s words and derive some sense from them. He didn’t. Many couldn’t decipher Mr Ollivanders, surely, if he always spoke of such absurd things.

 But Harry was curious.

 “Magic?”

 “The best of its kind.”

 “Can I see it?”

 Mr Ollivander smiled crookedly, the lines on his face easing, and beckoned him to the counter. Mr Ollivander told him to stand behind the corner, and that he would be back soon. Harry listened, shifting from one foot to the next, looking around the shop in hopes of finding what this magic Mr Ollivander was speaking of was. Harry scoffed, a grin on his face. Magic. As if such a thing existed. As if-

 Something landed on the counter. Harry lifted his eyes to see that instead of perhaps a wand or crystal ball, like the one in the healer’s shop, Harry saw a long, white material pulled over a wooden frame. Beside the frame, was one of the long boxes from the shelves, black and white , and beside that was an old jar smeared with paint holding many, many brushes.

 “Ah,” said Harry with hesitant understanding, “Magic?”

 “The very best,” Mr Ollivander said, opening the box and picking out two tin jars, one labeled black and the other in white. Then, Harry understood.

 “Paint.”

 “Art,” Mr Ollivander said in an air of correction, picking up a brush and dipping it into the black, “Is fine magic.”

 He dragged the brush over the white material in a broad, clean stroke. It trailed behind a path of ink. Black, thick. Not very magical.

 “I don’t think I like this magic,” Harry said, and Mr Ollivander chuckled, holding out the brush towards Harry, “Why don’t you try it, Mr Evans?”

 Harry did. He took the brush in his hands, weighing it between his fingers. It wasn’t anything elaborate. Just some wads of hair pressed into the end of a wooden stick. However hesitant, though, he brought the brush down on to the frame and with a sharp intake of breath, slashing it across the page in a sharp movement.

The paint smeared black like sludge, muddy like soil near the rivers Harry and his chimney family used to bathe when they were allowed to (which was about two days a year). A wrenching pain struck his heart with the thought, surfacing some memories. He missed them. Harry missed his family so, so much. Their late night talks, their laughs, the dreams that one day would come true because now, Harry was going to get this world together and find his family a reason to live, not survive.

He didn’t wipe his eyes when they burned. Didn’t hold back as his eyes watered and three lonely tears slid down his cheeks and dropped to the frame. 

“Sorry,” Harry mumbled, wishing to be numb again, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to do that.”

“Most do not,” Mr ollivander said, plucking the brush from his fingers, “But all the same-” he dipped it into the black paint, “It’s a worthwhile canvas.”

Harry wiped his eyes with a bandaged arm. The canvas stared at him with an obsidian gaze, and Harry held back his tears when he was reminded of Snape.

Mr Ollivander capped the paint and closed the box lid. Gripping the cardboard in his hand, he bent down to slide it under the counter along with the jar of paintbrushes, “Will you be buying anything, young Harry.”

“No, sir,” Harry said, patting his pockets, “I’m saving for my family.”

“Ah, a noble act,” Mr Ollivander said with a smile of approval, his silver eyes shining brighter, “But do come for a visit. I daresay you should taste my tea.”

Harry nodded. Offering a wave, he made his way towards the door. Once outside, a gentle wind blew through him, washing him over with relief and leaving him with a smile. Though, it didn’t last. The burning pain from missing his family had begun to dissipate, but a frown still pulled down on his lips. It dampened his mood. It fought his resolve and made him feel like a leaf in a storm, shaking in the wind, barely hanging on. 

Shaking his head to get rid of the thought only brought a headache. He didn’t want to think about it. He wanted to forget. To forget their existence so maybe, possibly, he’d be well long enough to carry himself  through the time he needed to earn enough control and money.

With that, he turned on the curb. The dreaded street yawned in front of him, stretching longer than it actually was. Harry groaned. He wished he didn’t have to walk back and face Tom and answer questions. The healer was decent enough to not ask questions. Tom would only call the whole inn’s attention to Harry the minute he stepped inside. He didn’t want to go back. He wanted to-

“Harry?” 

Harry wanted to get out of there the minute he heard that voice. 

With wide eyes and parted lips, he turned around, lifting his eyes slowly from the small black shoes and up the small black dress towards the small face that looked far more horrified to see him there than Harry was horrified to see her. 

“Is that you, Harry?”

He winced at his name, clasping his hands behind his back and tried to appear as small as it was possible to be. And without looking into the wide eyes that he’d only want to see as kind, he muttered, voice breaking.

“Hello, Professor Patel.”

Back at the Leaky Cauldron, Harry sat with his head planted on the table. His other arm prickled under the wood, and he didn’t bother thinking of his injured arm as his fingers scratched down the unbandaged skin. Clumsy, impulsive. That was something Harry shared with the scratches. No doubt Professor Patel felt the same way about him, back turned to Harry and engaged in a lengthy conversation with Tom. Yasane was there, too, in the corner and throwing Harry the occasional, concerned glance. Harry pretended to not see them. His head continued to thud against the wood. 

Thud, thud, thud.  

The noise accompanied the throbbing of his heart. The hammering threatened to burst through his chest. 

Harry heard Professor Patel thank Tom quietly. Lifting his head, hair falling over his eyes, he could make out Professor Patel dropping something into her bag. With a fluid motion, she turned around. Her feet padded against the wood, almost nervous. Behind her, the book Harry had borrowed from the library lay dormant, abandoned - a reminder to Harry of a failure. A failure Professor Patel only damaged with her presence.

She didn’t smile, but gestured for him to follow. Her kind eyes didn’t follow Harry as he pushed himself from the table, swinging his legs over the bench in a daze. With a sloppy wave at Tom and Yasane, he followed after the Professor. 

The world Harry came to know swirled out of focus and into the gloomy, grey streets of London. The smells, the sounds - It all altered pathetically into monotone, miserable passers-by of an equally monotonous, miserable world where the only smell was of grime and dirt. Professor Patel, impassive to the change, turned right. Her footsteps mingled with the many others parading down the street. Harry followed, mood spiraling down with every step.

Professor Patel craned her neck to glance at Harry. Slowing down, she hung back until they were walking side by side, Harry’s feet embarrassingly clumsy next to the marched trot of the Professor. 

“How is your arm?” she asked, eyeing the bandages. On instinct, Harry slid his other hand over the bandage, starting at the top. His small fingers met the rough, bloodied shirt sleeves with uncomfortable solace. Healed was just one thing he was, among many. Bruised, healed, relieved, afraid. A whirlwind of emotion that had no place in his heart.

“I’m alright. I mean, well, it’s not as bad.”

“Oh, dear. I was rather afraid, no... terrified to find you as such in the middle of the street, bloody shirt and lonely, rather ruffled. I'm glad you told Tom about the cut. I hope you'll be more careful of pens in the future," she paused, offering a thin smile which only built the guilt Harry had for lying to the Professor

"Especially after hearing such troubling news from Professor Snape.”

Harry grimaced, tugging his bottom lip in a hard bite. Troubling news. Direct and derived from  a terrible source. Though he couldn't be entirely sure, Harry had little doubt that this source was his relatives who   had left the shop in havoc- jars pulled down from shelves, rations of herbs, plants, teas balms and more shattered on the ground in a heap of hopeless disappointment. Broken windows, crushed down doors and wallpaper that wouldn’t ever heal, according to Professor Patel, who said it with such sorrow Harry had to wonder if the shop was hers. She couldn’t be blamed though. Not for her sadness, not for her frown, not even for her down-turned eyes veiled behind her head scarf when the wind embraced the fabric particularly hard. 

They turned a corner on Professor Patel’s command. A placid hand wrapped around his shoulder, steering him clear from the path of a dense crowd. Her eyes remained bitter and dismal. Dormant. It didn’t suit Harry to want them to be kind, suffused in warmth. It was selfish, demanding, and something he didn’t deserve to have. 

Not yet.

Perhaps not ever. 

Harry took a deep breath, his heart anything but still, “Professor-”

Professor Patel gave him a firm squeeze, “Not yet, Harry,” she said, turning another corner that led to a flight of stairs, “Not yet. We’re almost there.”

Harry swallowed thickly, feeling rather shut out. Shunned. And though he knew he deserved it, it stung cruelly inside his gut, a heavy stone seemingly dropping down from his heart. 

The stairs, plain and grey as they are, led them to a street much like the stairs themselves. Long, narrow. Leaving you panting and searching in a hazy spin for a sign of where you were and where you were meant to go. Professor Patel didn’t falter in her composure. Her back stood firm, straight. Harry could barely see her chest rising beneath the layers of black fabric. 

No possible hindrance. 

“Oh, dear. Would you like a minute?” she turned around and matched his pace, her veil drooping beneath her chin when she bent down to his height, brows tightly knit together. Harry ignored her concerned gaze, hands on his knees while he waited for the pounding in his chest and ears to stop. 

After a few minutes, “I’m fine,” he said, lifting his head shakily, “Are we almost there?”

“Actually, we are,” Professor Patel said, back straightening, head turning to face a house close behind them. Breath still ragged, Harry followed her gaze across the street and along the height of a red house to a simple two story building. It was warm-colored and comfortable, but not inviting. Not for Harry. He followed the Professor anyway.

There were people outside. A small amount, so few as to be called a handful. Harry shrunk down against their stares, moving beside the Professor with a nervous step of feet. Professor Patel, in return, recoiled from Harry. Whirling around in a motion that sent her skirts flowing in a flowery swirl before pooling on the floor. Harry, defeated and betrayed, wistfully drew back. He didn’t lift his head when Professor Patel called a stranger’s name and fumbled inside her bag.

For a few moments, there was the familiar scratching of pen on paper followed by a set of footsteps and a foreign tongue. Unfamiliar to Harry, but undoubtedly familiar to the boy exchanging it with Professor Patel.

The conversation ceased. The boy shouted cheerfully after them, feet breaking into a run. 

“I have sent Professor Snape a message. He should be here soon, considering he has no house visits to make.”   

The spin Harry made to look at Professor Patel hurt his neck. Groaning, he slammed a hand down on his skin, Snape momentarily out of his mind until the thought came crashing back down. 

“Professor Patel, you don’t have to.”

“It’s quite alright,” Professor blissfully assured in her ignorance, dismissing his concerns with a smile, “He’s rather worried, I’m certain.”

Harry swallowed thickly, dropping his eyes, “He...” Harry tried in a whisper, “Professor Snape isn’t angry?”

Harry wasn’t sure what he was expecting Professor Patel to say. He hoped Snape wasn’t angry. He hoped that right as he got the message, Snape either came running to make sure Harry was safe or not at all. Though, Snape was always concerned for something. Concerned about the shop, about his customers and herbs.  Sometimes that concern was anger more than anything else.

Concern and only concern was all Harry wanted at this time.

But Professor Patel didn’t answer. Not verbally. Instead of reassurance, her lips pulled into a sharp smile and a maniac laugh escaped her - crazy, high pitched and echoing despite the absence of space in which to echo. The laugh startled Harry almost to the point of falling, his eyes wide with mild fear. She had tried, and failed, to hide it behind a clothed hand.

The brutal picture of Sirius Black entered his mind. 

It was gone as suddenly it came, however - the laugh that couldn’t possibly be hers and the picture that wasn’t meant to be in his mind in the first place. They left, and Harry was left with the soft smiling, ever sweet, kind-eyed Professor Patel. 

“He... He is angry, isn’t he, Professor?”

“What?” Professor Patel asked, brows disappearing up under her veil. They dropped in understanding not a second later, and Harry was afraid she’d fall into another fit of crazy laughter. Her face had contorted into a vaguely mysterious expression, after all.  But Harry would rather not bother solving it. 

“Oh, dear. Not at all, Harry,” Professor Patel said, walking towards the two-story house, leaving a much too relieved Harry behind her. 

Then she snatched it all brutally away.

“He’s rather furious.”

*

The door opened with a twist of a key. Too easily, too quickly. Harry wasn’t prepared. Professor Patel’s hand steered him from the now closed and locked door and stopped him beside a shelf that held-

Shoes? 

Pairs of shoes. Five pairs of shoes. Women’s shoes and men’s shoes. Two shelves of them with two more empty ones lined underneath. Harry’s eyes narrowed further when Professor Patel bent down to take off the one’s she was wearing, collecting them in her hands and stepping onto a red-brown carpet while sliding them into the slot at the very top. 

“Would you please take off your shoes as well?” Professor Patel said, turning to face Harry.

Harry regarded her with a tilted head before turning around and sitting down on the carpet, slipping his shoes out and taking one on each hand. Scanning the empty shelves, he pushed his own shoes directly under a black pair collecting dust. Oddly, that was the only pair that looked to be doing so. The rest were well-kept and in good quality.

“Follow me, Harry,” Professor Patel pulled him from his thoughts and into a hallway leading to an area which opened to three closed doors.

Harry didn’t dare linger far behind while looking around, but the slow pace Professor Patel walked with gave Harry the chance to take a look around the moderate-sized house. The condition wasn’t half bad, well enough to match the apothecary’s... previous quality. The interior, while simple, was coloured in rich pigments and held no space for decoration of any kind save for a mirror in the hallway they left behind. 

“Ahmed?” Aisha called into the house, rapping on one of the closed doors, “Where are you, habibi?”

A male voice came from the door to the very right, calling out in a foreign word, one similar to what Professor Patel had spoken with the boy outside, before the door opened, revealing a young man that resembled Professor Patel in one of those chairs with wheels Harry had seen in Diagon Alley. 

The man, who had dark skin, black hair and (unlike Professor Patel) black eyes greeted them with a soft smile before his eyes fell on Harry and his lips pulled down into a confused frown. 

“Aisha?”

Professor Patel approached the young man, Ahmed, and bent down to plant a soft kiss to his hair line with another jumble of words. Ahmed replied with a similar set and gestured Harry with an incline of his head, and the two conversed in their language. Harry recognized his and Snape’s name with a decent amount of worry and panic, which Professor Patel tried to ease with a smile once she turned around. 

“Harry, this is my brother Ahmed. Ahmed, this is Harry.”

Professor Patel’s brother rolled forward in his chair and extended a hand, “Nice to meet you,” he said in an accent unfamiliar to Harry, gripping his hand in a gentle hold.

“Nice to meet you too Mr. Patel,” Harry managed, shaking back, dropping his hand to his side and fumbling with the hem of his shirt nervously when Mr. Patel pulled back with a laugh.

“It’s been a while since I’ve been called that,” he managed between a hearty chuckle, shaking his head and meeting his sister’s eye.

“Too long,” Professor Patel confirmed, a chuckle of her own escaping her lips. Facing Harry, she slipped a hand behind his back, not pushing him but urging him forward to the door in the middle, “Please wait here while I wash up and bring us some tea. Ahmed-” she twisted her head to face the man once Harry had sat down on one of the sofas in what must be a parlor, “-would you stay with Harry while I wash up?”

Mr Patel nodded, turning his chair around so he could enter through the doors. Meeting Harry’s eyes with a smile, he pulled into an empty spot beside an armchair, flexing his hands before letting them rest on the armrests. 

“So, you were an assistant to Professor Snape?” Mr Patel chose to start, clasping his hands on his lap, “I haven’t seen him in a long time. How is he?”

Harry swallowed. He averted his eyes from side to side at first, unsure how to continue. Opening and closing his mouth multiple times, he finally spoke, head lowered and back hunched, “Well, I think. He was... irritated. Rather angry, I think.”

“What? With you?”

Harry rubbed his arm, “I hope not, sir.”

Mr Patel chuckled, easing back into his chair with relief, “I don’t enjoy seeing him irritated with me, either.”

“Sir-” Harry spoke before he could stop himself, throat drying when Mr Patel turned to face him.

“Yes?”

Harry cleared his throat. Twice and once more for good measure, though it didn’t do any good. His voice fell as soon as he started to speak, “I- nevermind.”

“No, no. Do go on.”

Harry lifted his eyes. Mr Patel gave him a firm nod, waving his hand for him to continue. Harry nodded in return, and took a deep breath.

“So you- You and Professor Patel... Do you know Professor Snape well? Professor Snape said, um, I remember him saying he and Professor Patel work at the same... school,” it came out with an air of question rather than statement, and Harry winced at his own tone while he continued, “Can you tell me about it?”

“Me? Well, I’m not as close to him as my sister, understandably, but yes. They work at the same school, Professor Snape as a teacher of chemistry and Aisha, well, I don’t know exactly, but I know she works with a portion of students. We’ve gotten close because the apothecary he runs actually belongs to our family.”

Harry blinked, narrowing his eyes, “Your family?”

Mr Patel nodded, “The apothecary belonged to our mother, but in recent years, we’ve had trouble managing it after her death. My father is a tradesman, and is often overseas. I’m a lawyer, but-” he motioned his legs, tapping his thigh with a tight-lipped smile, “-I cannot find work, for a number of reasons. We couldn’t sell the shop yet, as it was on contract, and we couldn’t find anyone to keep the shop. That is, until Aisha discussed the matter with Professor Snape and  he agreed to board there during summers until the end of this year. It was a fair deal, profitable, for both parties.”

“Who was the shopkeeper when Professor Snape wasn’t there?”

Mr Patel smiled sharply and pointed at himself with his thumb, “Why, me, of course! I have no knowledge of medicine, but I can manage sales of some plants and flowers.” 

“Oh, dear,” a voice said by the door, and Professor Patel walked in, carrying a tray with a jug and bowl, “If I remember, you almost caused the demise of the shop until you agreed to take in an assistant.” 

“Well, I’m not exactly tall, am I?”

Professor Patel placed the tray beside Harry on the sofa. Now Harry could see that beside the jug and bowl, was a dry, rough looking towel and a block of-

“Soap,” said Professor Patel, thrusting the soap into his hands, “I thought it’d be best for you to wash up here.”

Harry took the slippery bar into his hands and held them over the bowl, scrubbing his hands as he was told, surprised and rather ashamed to see the colour of the water when Professor Patel began to pour the water from the jug over his hands. Once Professor Patel was sure his hands were of acceptable standard, she handed him the  towel and began to walk out the room.

Harry stopped her mid-way.

“Professor Patel?”

She turned around, raising a brow.

“I’m so sorry... about your shop, that is. If I had known...”

Professor Patel’s expression softened, and she turned around fully to stand in front of Harry. 

“You could not have known, though. Those two wretched people had no right to damage our shop-”

“They paid the price, though, Aisha-”

“It wasn’t enough! I want to see them in jail-”

“We had the charges thoroughly paid, including the insurance-”

“Not what I’m trying to say, habibi,” Professor Patel said through her teeth, and the two of them shared a glare. A moment later, both of their drawn brows relaxed and Harry swallowed thickly, looking between the two with growing anxiety.

“The truth is,” Mr Patel spoke, stepping carefully into the matter, “You are not at fault. The two responsible for the damage are, and we’ve already settled it with court, have we not? We’re lucky Professor Snape reached the shop just in time-”

That’s when there came a hard, loud knock from the hallway. A heavy rap that snatched Harry by the heart and shook him until his soul came to pass on.

Thud, thud, thud.

It echoed inside his head, chest, ears, and throat. Suffocatingly loud. Terrifying. 

Professor Patel left the room with a swirl of her skirt, her feet disappearing down the hallway. A door opening, closing. More footsteps and the shuffling of shoes and finally, the outside door opening. 

Harry couldn’t hear much, both from his anxiety and the length of the hall. However, he did hear Professor Patel shout just once, demanding someone take off his shoes, which ended the conversation entirely until there was the sound of another set of shoes being pushed into the shelf. 

Harry’s ragged breathing hitched, almost stopping. Thud, thud, thud came the footsteps from the hallway. The wreckage that was Harry’s heart threatened to rise up his throat and out like bile. His head spun, making wild circles and unbalanced twirls. Taking it between his hands didn’t help, but until the very second the Patels called his name, one concerned, one asking for his attention, it was solace.

Harry lifted his head.

Professor Snape stood with his hands behind his long coat.

“Mr Potter,” Snape said, stepping through, his eyes narrowing towards Harry's arm, “I believe we have much to discuss.”

*

Professor Snape marched the length of the room with uncharacteristic speed. Measured steps crossed the distance between the door and the window before repeating, while more unfavorable words tumbled out of his mouth. Words which were all stolen from Harry’s mind, yet multiplied ten-fold in difficulty leaving Harry confused with cheeks shamefully aflame.

“Idiot, idiot child!” he is free to say, because the Patels are out of the room and have promised to not intervene, “I ask for you to do one thing - one thing , Potter! One simple task!- and you again manage to bewilder me by doing the exact opposite. Opening the door, Potter! I fail to see how you can manage to get into such circumstances when my exact instructions would have prevented you from all and any danger!” 

The floor sways under Harry’s feet. His eyes burn with unshed tears and his knuckles white from his harsh grip on the seat beneath him . Snape doesn’t pause,  and in the following minutes, Harry is left to listen to Snape’s tirade, the scolding that is ‘less than he deserves’. 

Ten long, angry minutes later and Snape throws himself down onto a chair. Ten long, terrible minutes and a few seconds later, his head in his hands and his chest rises with exhausted relief. 

Not a minute later, and Snape lifts his head. His narrow, black eyes boring into Harry’s own and the boy looks away, wiping a stray tear with the back of his head. Snape sighs. Harry wants to look up, look up, and see with deadly curiosity if Snape held concern in his eyes, or if they still flashed with anger.

He doesn’t dare. 

Snape summoned his attention anyway. He does so with a voice both exhausted and something else Harry doesn’t understand.

“How do you plan on defending yourself, Mr Potter?” 

Harry didn’t. He hadn’t thought he needed to, what with running away and assuming a job in Diagon Alley. He had planned on never meeting the Professor again. He was wrong. Very, very wrong, he thought, as the Professor matched him a scowl and a glare; his black hair fell in a curtain around his head far greasier than usual. His clothes too, now that Harry paid better attention, were stained and sewn clumsily in one spot; patches of white coloured certain areas.

Snape cleared his throat, claiming Harry’s attention once more with a thin-lipped frown.

“I asked you a question, Mr Potter. After your late-night travels and a span of a week without your notified absence, do me the courtesy of answering my questions. Honestly and verbally.”

Harry wiped his eyes once more, the burning not easing, “I-I don’t, sir. I never did.”

“Never, you say?”

Harry shook his head in emphasis, “I didn’t think-”

Snape scoffed in a manner which said ‘obviously’.

“I didn’t think I’d...” he said, pausing to swallow and continued the rest in a whisper, “I didn’t plan on seeing you again.”

“What was that, Potter?” Snape bit back, raising a brow. 

Harry repeated. Once more in a whisper. 

“Louder, Potter! Didn’t you hear me when I said-”

“I said I didn’t plan on seeing you again, Snape!” 

The lethal silence stretched far more than necessary between them.

Harry heard his own hitch of breath. He heard the pause while Snape’s back straightened. He heard, with dangerous fear, the ominous foreboding threat in wavering, fast approaching lines.

He heard great many things, but only saw the way Snape’s eyes first rose in mild surprise before narrowing into thin slits in what could only be anger. 

The world spiraled out of focus the minute Snape pushed from his seat with unnatural speed.

“Do. Not. Call. Me. That,” Snape gritted when their noses were touching, both hands on either side of Harry’s seat, his back arching over the armchair, “I mean it, Potter,” he advanced in a stern whisper and a raised finger, making Harry back away as much as he could in the chair, his eyes wide, “I will not put up with it, I assure you.”

Another silence. Harry hoped that, in a few short minutes, Snape would back away and leave Harry alone to deal with his thumping, racing heart. He didn’t, and Harry’s heart beat faster against his chest, threatening to steal his soul away, when Snape spoke once more.

“Now, tell me once again: How do you plan on explaining your actions?”

Harry refused to look back at those eyes, and hid behind a wall of his own arms wrapped about his knees pulled against his chest, “I’m sorry, Professor Snape. I truly am. I know you told me to lock the door. I know you told me to-to...” he broke off midway, voice cracking unceremoniously, “I know you did. You’re right. I know. But when I-I saw them... They were there and-” he wiped another tear he couldn’t hold back, sniffing a few times, “They were there, Professor Snape, and I couldn’t close the door, you know? They were banging on the window and Uncle Vernon looked so angry, and I couldn’t do it!” he cried out the last part, ignoring Snape as he flinched back, “I thought... I thought maybe... You’d taken me in, Professor. And you told Mast- Edwin that you’d report him, and I believed-” and Harry had believed. It was all he had done, and for that, he cried, streams of tears flowing down his cheeks, “I thought I could have been strong, alright? Brave. I thought I could have fended them off because I was away from them. I was here.”

I was with you.

Clearly, I was wrong.

Professor Snape didn’t step back. But his expression settled into something Harry hadn’t seen before. Professor Snape didn’t step back, no, but grimaced at the loud sniff Harry had produced. Slender fingers dug into his breast pocket before returning with a handkerchief which he dropped into Harry’s hands and refused to take it back with a grimace when Harry was finished using it.  

Harry dropped it on the coffee table, much to Snape’s distaste and resigned himself to occasional sobs and sniffs. 

Snape sighed, dropping his arms to his side and pinching the bridge of his nose, “Potter-”

“I found... I learned some things, while I was away ,” Harry cut him off, willing himself to speak now that Snape was far less angry, “Things about-” he looked up, eyes red and puffy, into Snape’s creased ones, “-my past. And my family.”

Snape’s face fell along with his hands. His skin, which was already profoundly pale, turned sallow and pulled at his cheekbones. It made him look thin. Sickly. And for a second, Harry was reminded that Snape didn’t look well at all. 

He ignored it for his own peace of mind.

“The Boy-Who-Lived. That’s what they called me. Did you know some aristocrat was going around murdering babies thirteen years ago, and the reason I earned the title was because he couldn’t murder me?” Harry said, biting out the last bits with rising anger. His jaw clenching with his fists while he continued, eyes narrowed almost as tight as Snape could pull them, “When were you going to tell me, sir? When were you going to tell me about my-” he licked his lips, heart viciously banging against his ribs, “my parents? My name?”

“Potter-”

“I didn’t even know their names!”

It came out in a scream that upset the coffee table as he stood up and shattered the ounce of self-control he prided himself to have. He didn’t care. Not about Snape. Not about some debt. 

Snape watched with raised, amused brows. Watched as first Harry stood up. Watched as Harry straightened his back. And finally, Snape watched as Harry pursed his lips and puffed his chest in foolish bravado.

“I didn’t know their names. I didn’t know anything about them.”

“Your knowledge, or the lack thereof, does not involve me,” said Snape, sweeping the dust above the floor with his coat as he made a turn for the door, “We’ve lingered far more than necessary here. We’ll take this conversation back home, once you’ve cooled your temper.”

When Harry stood his ground, Snape turned to face him with a ready scowl, hand on the door knob. 

“Mr Potter, it’s not in your favor to spoil my patience. I have clearly said we will take this conversation to the shop, where we have the luxury of not intruding on other people’s hospitality. Now come, Mr Potter.”

Harry breathed in, closing his eyes. When they opened, they opened fierce. Bright. He shook his head, subtly, twice, and clenched his jaw. 

“I’m not going with you.”

There was a silence of five seconds, where Snape too closed his eyes and resumed with a stern voice upon opening them, as though he was trying particularly hard to not throttle the nearest object at reach. 

“Potter, do not test my patience. I don’t have the energy nor mentality to deal with your tantrums. Either you will come with me!” he screamed, cutting Harry off with a raised finger and livid eyes, “Or I will leave you to find your own way back to the dirty slums as you so wish.”

Harry threw up his arms, landing a kick to the side of the sofa, “I said I won’t come! I’m not going anywhere with you!”

“You do not have a choice in the matter!” Snape shouted in return, prowling closer. And for each step he took towards Harry, Harry took a step back until the back of his legs touched the sofa and his flailing arm landed on the coffee table for support. He’d be cornered again, with another measured step, his nose touching the Professor’s.

Not this time. 

With speed that surprised Harry himself, he slipped past at the very last second. Sliding around the Professor’s slender frame to bolt for the door. 

With speed that surprised Snape himself, he caught Harry by the collar at the very last second. Choking him with a disgruntled sound, he was pulled down onto the floor with his head facing the ceiling. 

Harry's neck burned, and so did his eyes. More so when Snape’s face appeared in his swirling vision, which he regarded with a scowl while his tears prickled. 

“I hate you,” Harry whispered raggedly, pulling his arm over his head, body shaking with brief, sporadic tremors, “I hate you for so many reasons. You have no idea, do you?” he paused, heart skipping a beat, “ Do you even care?” 

“I have my intuitions. And no,” he paused, bending down, “I do not,” Snape replied from somewhere in the dark; his cold, long fingers meeting Harry’s small ones and pulling him to a stand. 

“Let’s go, Potter. You’ve had enough adventures.”

And as he was led to the door, coiling back from the light, he could almost agree. 

However, before they could leave through the hallway, Professor Patel exited from the door on the side, which from above her shoulder, Harry could make out a kitchen. 

“You’re leaving already, Professor Snape?” she asked, looking rather dreary. Harry hoped it wasn’t in regards to what Snape would do to him. 

Snape’s grip on his upper arm pulled him back to a stop, his shoulders dropping their tension, “We’ve overstayed your hospitality as is. I apologise, Professor  Patel, for getting you involved in our affairs.” 

Professor Patel didn’t look back at Snape. Instead, she stood standing in front of them for some while, looking lost in thought before a sharp smile pulled on her lips and she shook her head. Harry was afraid she’d fall into another fit of scary laughter. 

“I say it’s somehow my affair as well, Professor Snape,” she said, crossing her arms, “I’ll see you out.” 

And with her in the lead, Harry was marched forcefully by the steel grip Snape had on his arm, the hold momentarily gone whilst he put on his shoes only to return back on his shoulder as they walked out the door. 

“Oh, and Professor Snape?” 

Snape and Harry turned to look back, just as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

“I hope you’ll be inclined to share whatever… proceeding you have going on with young Harry with us soon.”

“Have I made it far too obvious?” Snape asked, voice mingled in both amusement and irritation. 

She shrugged, a hand closing the door to a crack, “Obvious enough for me. Take care?”

And the door closed with a click. 

A considerably short walk paved the road back to the familiar street of the apothecary.

This time, on his fourth visit to the brick street, Harry spared little attention to his surroundings and all attention to the sign that was balanced above the door of the approaching apothecary. Patel Apothecary.

He regarded it with an audible gulp and accumulating dread.

The turn of the key in the lock didn’t help.

Nor did the barren sight of the apothecary.

The wallpaper was exactly as Professor Patel had said, hanging by the walls pathetically like sagging fabric. On one particular wall, a shelf, of conspicuously Dursley height, was empty. Not a single jar, glass, or phial lined the barren wood.

The door closed behind him with a sharp thud and he couldn’t find it in himself to be uncomfortable with the familiar smell of the apothecary when the sound rattled both the window and Harry. The door clicked once more, ominously and almost silently. Wind swiped Harry’s side when Snape walked past him with a billow of his coat. The coat was off and hanging from the hanger with one sleek move and then Harry found himself in front of a glaring Snape. His arms were crossed. His lips thin lines beneath his scowl. That is how Harry found himself wishing for his bed in Diagon Alley after all.

“So,” Snape began, sounding more and more like Uncle Vernon, “Have you cooled your temper to a manageable level?”

Harry toed the floor and allowed himself a nod.

Snape gave a long, exhausted sigh. His shoulders sagged with the motion, and Snape looked suddenly too old. The lines on his forehead and under his eyes eased to small creases. He appeared gaunt, miserable - a walking set of emotions in dire need of rest.

“At the moment, Potter, I have no endurance to spare for our... inevitable talk. Head to your room and sleep. You’ll be rising with me tomorrow. And believe me, Potter-” a clawed hand landed on Harry’s shoulder, stopping him from reaching the door that opened to the staircase, “You’ll be needing every minute of it.”

There was no Snape to calm him from a nightmare, that night. And he only barely managed to stop himself from letting his other arm bleed.

*

True to his word, Snape did wake him up early, during the murky, grey hours of the morning. Those too early as to be morning, too draining as to be any good.

He pulled on his socks and then his boots with unwilling hands. Clumsy fingers prying the fabric under his pants and stuffing the shirt borrowed from Snape inside his trousers. But then, he paused. The morning ticked away around him and Harry didn’t stop it. He dismissed it and instead stared at bandages wrapped under the shirt with rolled sleeves.

The morning ticked into colour. Harry opened the door, the bed and his attire equally tended to. The chair he pulled out screeched on the floor and yet Snape, who was working on the counter, didn’t so much as flinch. Ah. Silence, then. Snape had chosen silence. Cruel silence of unspoken rules and boundaries. Invisible borders scattered with trial and error.

Harry hated silence.

The morning blossomed into yellow and orange when Snape brought two plates of steaming eggs, bread, and potatoes to the table. They thudded onto the table, a pair of forks clattering beside them just as Snape collapsed on the opposite seat.

“Eat,” came the simple order.

Harry waited until Snape took the first bite, loosening his hold on the sides of the chair. For a few more seconds, he watched Snape take a couple of bites from his plate, twirling the fork in his hands while he read an older copy of the Daily Prophet, chewing very, very slowly.

Harry lifted his own hand. His fingers, shaking and weak compared to Snape’s, inched closer to the utensil and twirled the tips through the food.

“Food won’t always be at your disposal, Mr Potter,” Snape said, lifting his eyes high enough to stare at him behind his curtain of hair, “Eat. You’re among the last of those I need remind of what it means to lack food.”

Harry flushed. Stabbing his fork down rather viciously on the potato, he swallowed his share of the meal with a few mouthfuls, forcing Snape to remind him to slow down before he caused him unwanted paperwork. Once his misdirected anger was through, however, Harry was left alone and bored under the smug grin of Snape as he savaged his food with cruel pleasure.

At last, Snape too pushed away his own plate. The newspaper, folded carelessly into a crinkled heap, was dropped on the edge of the table, as he collected his and Harry’s dishes in a stacked pile and leaned back on his chair.

Another sigh. Another reminder for Harry of what was coming.

“Now, start from the beginning. The very beginning. Honestly, verbally, clearly and not a single detail left unsaid.”

And with much reluctance, Harry did. Starting his talk with trailing words and occasional whispers before shifting into long, animated explanations. He told Snape of what happened after he was gone. How Harry locked the door, how he was planning on doing as the Professor had told him. How his relatives and their mighty fists disturbed his work and how, without being aware of where he was going, he found himself on the bridge, alone save for his mind and a lone figure on the other side that he could have only imagined. He spoke of the Knight Bus, of Diagon Alley, of its people and finally, of what he learned about Harry Potter.

“I’m the Boy-Who-Lived. That’s what they called me. Or, well, what they called Harry Potter. I was Harry Evans when I got there.”

“You told me you didn’t know what your parents were called.”

Harry winced, squared his shoulders and looked at the door that led down to the apothecary, “Aunt Marge... her mouth slipped. Called my mother Evans, and that... she had...” he looked right into the black depths of Snape’s eyes, “Bad blood.”

Snape said nothing, and Harry continued.

“Did you know she had dark skin? Darker than mine. And green eyes as well as red hair, much, much redder than mine,” he ran a hand gently through his own, trying to flatten his bangs, “Alexandria Alexander said-”

“Who?” snapped Snape, brows knitted furiously close and eyes narrowed in vague confusion.

“Alexandria Alexander, author of Recent Local History, volume two-” Snape ran a hand down his face before masking his eyes behind two hands, “-said her muse told her she was Indian. Is that true? Doesn’t explain why Aunt Petunia-” Harry swallowed thickly, wrenching his eyes closed and keeping them that way until the nausea rising up his throat came to pass, “Nevermind… I don’t think…”

Snape didn’t seem to mind his trailing words. In fact, he looked rather relieved. The hands that were covering his face fell to his sides. They were skeletal things that dropped limply. At the sight of them, Harry felt an abrupt flash of… something, somewhere in his mind. Not a memory. Not a thought. Not entirely an emotion but a reminder. Long, soft and cool hands. Ruffling his hair, touching his forehead. It hadn’t happened, surely?

But did it ever feel right.

And it was gone long before Harry could desciper it.

“It was,” Snape said dryly, pulling Harry from his thoughts.

Harry lifted his head, brows raised, “What?”

“Your mother, Li… Lily Potter. She was Indian, as the book portrays ,” at Harry’s dazzled look, Snape cleared his throat, “I don’t trust…. Alexander’s work. But this I know to be true.”

Harry found that his voice had betrayed him. His throat had gone paper dry and the words that he meant to speak stolen from his lips. So instead, he choked out a sob. It seized Snape’s attention, as well as mild concern, but he did nothing to stop Harry from messaging his clogged throat while searching internally for the questions he meant to ask.

When Harry made no move to speak, Snape started the conversation once more.

“Does that conclude your discoveries of your past?”

Harry touched his forehead. Specifically the scar that wounded down his skin, “Yes. That, and that people only know gossip about me.”

“People barely know little else,” Snape said, with a snort, eyeing Harry who was flattening down his bangs, “Has anyone recognized you?”

“Other than you?” Harry said with traces of anger, “No, Professor. You’ll be relieved to know that you’re the only sensible bloke about.”

“Watch it, Potter,” came the reply, a low, dangerous hiss escorted with a glare. “You are under my roof once again. Whether that is to your liking or not, that hardly involves me. I deserve every ounce of res-”

“Why did you not tell me that you recognized me?”

Snape took a deep breath and murmured something Harry couldn’t hear, “Perhaps I haven’t made myself clear enough. I-”

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out? After you’ve taught me how to read, how to write…” Harry trailed off once more, lifting his eyes to look at the narrow gaze of the Professor, “Why did you do that, anyway? You didn’t need to teach me anything, and it was clearly a hassle. So why?”

Professor Snape made no answer. Nor did he do anything else. Fixing Harry with a signature glare, he started to impatiently fiddle his fingers over the armrest. Harry thought that the man was pouring out his anger with each tap, because at the end of the tenth one, Snape clasped his hands on his lap, face neutral.

“Seeing as you’re eager to not listen to me, I shan’t speak at all,” he snapped, rattling the table with his stand, “I want you to be in front of the door of the laboratory in exactly two minutes with your shirt.”

Harry made a frantic stand of his own, “No, wait, sir-”

“I, of course, won’t suffer the consequences of your actions. But believe me, Potter-” and he shot Harry a nasty smirk from behind the counter, “It will be a pleasure, seeing you suffer.”

Fuming, Harry made a sharp turn towards his (once again) room, “Suffer your displeasure, you mean,” he hissed under his breath.

Snape’s chuckle rang mockingly in his ears.

*
Snape met him exactly five minutes later.

Harry had spent the remaining three minutes angrily replaying the awful things he’d like to do to the man in his mind. His jacket, sleeve still bloody, hung down his arm, wrinkled into a lump.

“I will not bother ironing your shirt, if it comes to that, Potter,” Snape said, appearing out of nowhere and scaring Harry into a jump. Ignoring Harry’s growl, he opened the door and stepped inside first.

“Do not attempt to look around. Your funeral will be a mighty short event, if you come to fall,” Snape said in an echoing voice, his shoes clicking against metal. Taking a deep breath, Harry hung his head and kept his eyes fixed on the steps, only sparing a glance at the railings to grab hold of them.

The staircase, metal and small, spiralled into a circle as it arched down. Snape was already down and waiting for him with a green work apron, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and hands crossed in front of his chest. Waving a nonchalant hand, he gestured around the shop, “Welcome to my laboratory. Do not touch. A. Thing. Potter. I assure you digging your body fro…”

Harry let the rest of Snape’s words drag in the background as he looked around, eyes growing wide with every look.

Harry didn’t understand why but above them, where a ceiling was meant to be, there were arching panes of glass separated by thin borders. They provided the light needed to see the rest of the laboratory and even Harry had to absorb the impressive sight.

On one side of the wall, there were only cabinets. Two of them held thick, bound books of various sizes and colours and beside those, were shelves and cupboards all filled with jars, phials and glass bottles - iridescent and of different lengths, labeled in sharp, black writing.

That wasn’t all, though. Harry took a step towards the cabinets and raised his head upwards, where on top of the cabinets were even more jars and all sorts of important looking objects hiding frames and papers behind them.

Harry turned to another wall. The one opposite the wall behind him which held a currently working fireplace. Again, more jars. More shelves but among those, herbs hung from thin ropes on the walls. The same applied for the final wall, with cabinets and shelves and herbs, but this time only two of those held empty glass containers. It wasn’t difficult to know why, seeing the table in the middle of the room - the gem of the crown.

A simple, wooden table that held a chaotic order of, well, a chaotic order. A few pots dangled from the ceiling by chains. Papers, mortars, inks and pens were all scattered carelessly over the surface. There were scales, jars of pens and flowers, small boxes holding different coloured herbs, lamps, contraptions, empty glass phials joining other empty glass phias with glass tubes. The whole laboratory looked to be a turmoil of misplaced objects that should have been orderly but had no way to be so.

“...burn you. Understand, Potter?”

“Huh?” Harry whirled around to see Snape who was standing beside a grinder and hourglass, fiddling with the objects (pens, empty bottles, note papers) hoisted on the belt of the apron, “Uh, yes, Professor. I think I have.”

Snape looked up from the watch that was hanging from the belt, raising a brow, “You have listened to my every word.”

“I’ve heard them.”

“Yes, but you haven’t cared for them have you?”

Harry shrugged, averting his eyes towards the table with a shy smile, “It’s a brilliant laboratory.”

Both of Snape’s eyebrows lifted at that. Harry, who was too busy looking at the papers on the walls and a book held open on a stand, didn’t notice Snape following him with curious, confused eyes.

Didn’t notice the flicker of a smile on Professor Snape’s lips.

Didn’t notice it disappear just as quick.

Harry turned to face Snape when he cleared his throat. He had changed his appearance once more and had a pair of big, odd looking round glasses hanging from his neck and a pencil behind his ear.

“For now, your task is to get rid of those horrid stains of yours. I have boiled water-” he pointed at the still simmering pot and a small bucket sitting on the stone, some steam rising from it, “And wash it in the garden. Away from the patches. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

And taking the pot by the handle, Harry walked towards the stairs.

“Potter!”

Harry turned around with a sigh, tilting his head to the side.

"Use the soap outside the water closet. I won't have you walking around with saturated red sleeves," Snape said, pulling his hair back and tying it with a ribbon he had in his hand.

Harry stared, blinking in confusion at the sight in front of him.

"Potter?"

"You're just like Professor Patel. She too told me to wash up the minute I entered the house."

Snape shook his head and turned to face the table, rummaging through the papers, "It's the only sensible thing to do."

"Not where I come from. I heard bathing makes you sick. This isn't any different, is it?"

Snape stared at Harry with a neutral nonchalant gaze and was silent once more. Harry shrugged, making his way up the stairs.

The garden, or yard, was relatively unremarkable. The right side was reserved for the two small garden-patches as well as some pots. Harry did his best to steer clear of the rows of potatoes and onions, balancing the heavy bucket while trying to walk on the grey paving stones. Looking to his left, he could make out where the panes above the laboratory started and berated himself for not taking better note of it earlier, considering the trips he had taken to the water closet.

Grabbing the soap which was inside a small bowl beside an empty pile, Harry crouched down on the other side of the water closet and bent down, balancing the rest of the shirt on his shoulder while he poured some water down on the sleeve and began to scrub.

While the blood slowly poured down to the dark soil, Harry began to think.

So the apothecary belonged to the Patels. Harry's mind slowly drifted to the objects and contraptions down at the laboratory and apothecary, and wondered whether Snape or the Patel's themselves were rich. Buying so many jars and materials had to cost money. And even if you ignored that, the building itself had some… aspects that Harry was sure normal houses couldn’t afford. One of them being the hand pump they had in the garden itself, which was a luxury in it's own. The other being what Snape had called a filter, which cleaned water (cleaned water!) which Snape would later boil to ensure it stayed that way. And finally, there was the water closet. Cleaner than anything Harry had ever used, even though in order to use, you had to crouch down, as there was no seat to sit on.

Harry learned not to complain, though. For the first time in his life, he had felt clean here, and didn’t feel any shame for it at all, despite the tales Edwin had told them about how washing themselves would only bring death upon their heads. No, Harry thought while hanging his wet shirt over the fence and grabbing the bucket, even if Snape ordered him to a bath, he wouldn’t complain at all.

Rolling down his sleeves, Harry climbed back into the shop and slipped past the open door into the laboratory, careful as to not slip on the metal stairs and heaved the bucket down beside the fireplace with exhausted relief.

Snape didn't look behind him, so Harry chose to step forward instead, peeking out from behind the man to find him writing multiple sharp words on the papers in front of him before his masterful hands grabbed hold of a small bowl and began to mix the ingredients inside into a mushy substance.

Flexing his fingers, which Harry only noticed now were filled with small cuts and waxy in some areas from past burns, Snape lifted the small bowl and barely dodged Harry as he turned around. He fixed Harry with a glare, once his composure and balance had returned.

“I see you have arrived. The shirt, I hope I’ll find in sufficient condition.”

“I think you will, Professor,” Harry said, clasping his hands behind his back, “What are you doing?

“Balm, for a client,” Snape said, mixing the substance as he walked towards one of the cabinets, pulling open one drawer to reveal various metal containers before walking to the other side and doing the same, only retrieving a small, glass container with a lid, “For future reference, I ask you to not sneak behind me whilst I work. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Snape didn’t acknowledge him, but returned to the table in the middle of the room and placed both the jar and bowl side by side, removing the lid of the jar and tipping the bowl to pour the sticky-looking mush with the help of a spoon into the jar. Lidding that, he walked past Harry, bringing with him the sharp smell of herbs and propped the now full glass container on the mantelpiece.

Harry thought that the man would continue to make another balm or medicine. But instead, he dug into one of the book cabinets, pulling back the spines. Harry watched with some curiosity before quickly becoming bored, moving towards the table to eye the objects he found so peculiar once more. That is, until Snape returned, dropping a book, newspaper and the small blackboard and chalk they used in his hands carelessly.

“Learning starts with the fundamentals of language, that is, the alphabet. However-” and he tapped the book in Harry’s arm with a finger, “It does not stop there. Today, for the whole of one hour, you will read the newspaper. For the next, you will be copying down said articles in order to improve your atrocious scrawl into a comprehensible text. Well? Begin!”

And so for the next hour, while Snape constantly moved around the lab, working diligently on something or other, Harry was hunched over the newspaper on his lap, finding it difficult to be comfortable on the wooden chair and frequently craning his limbs from side to side for it.

By the end of the first hour, Harry was bored with stories of a series of houses catching fire in Blackpool, the lack of development when it came to the search of Sirius Black, and the usual rubbish advertising that went into the papers, all written in words Harry, most of the time, only pretended to understand for fear of being shamed for it.

Dropping the paper on the floor at the sound of the clock, Harry stretched his arms above his head. A hand messaging his sore muscles, he turned to face Snape, who was still working delicately with the scales. He hadn’t acknowledged the clock. And Harry, with prior experience, wasn’t willing to remind him of it.

And so, Harry moved on to the more laborious task. Copying down the articles proved to be fun, at first. The chalk moving rather smoothly on the material and composing some fine letters. But at the end of the first fifteen minutes, it had lost all fun and after half an hour, a throbbing pain was surging from his wrist.

He looked up, hoping to catch Snape taking a break, but disappointedly turned back to his chalk and board.

He almost jumped up when the chime came, ringing exactly eight times.

But Snape hadn’t ceased to work.

Harry looked around in uncertainty, for what he didn’t know, but hoping that Snape would take notice. Five minutes passed. Harry waited some more, telling himself to wait for another five. Ten, fifteen and at seventeen, when it appeared Snape wouldn’t be stopping his work, Harry chose to interrupt him when he was walking towards the cabinets.

“Excuse me, sir?”

Snape’s head jerked up from the paper he was holding. Harry felt as though he had disturbed an injured animal with fright. If animals could declare such emotion, that is, with paling features and ghastly wide eyes.

“S-sir?”

But with a shake of his head, Snape, the usual Snape, was back.

“Yes, Mr Potter?”

“Two hours are through, sir.”

“Pardon?”

Harry pointed at the clock hung above the chimney, “Two hours, sir. It’s over. I’ve completed the work.”

Snape’s thin lips first parted some, before pressing into a thinner line all together. He walked back to the table and dropped the papers into a neat pile. Work now abandoned, he unknotted the apron, changing it above the chair that had pressed against Harry for the last two hours. Relinquishing any other objects he bore, he strode towards the stairs. Only a vague gesture ushered Harry to follow.

Once out the door, Snape waited for Harry to do the same before closing the door behind him. And a few strides later, they were out another door and staring into the back garden.

“Sir?” Harry asked, noting how the dark bags under Snape’s eyes had grown prominent, “What are we doing?”

Snape regarded Harry with a side-glance, and seemed to be doing the same with the words Harry had spoken. Probably considering them to be foolish. Silly incantations, he imagined Snape saying, remembering the word from one clipping. But he didn’t. Instead, Snape bent down and sat on one of the steps, hands wrapped above his knees.

Harry almost reached to catch him, surprised by the unceremonious way he collapsed on the stone, and after a brief look from Snape, he too sat down.

A comfortable silence fell around the two.

Harry didn’t know why. And was sure Snape didn’t either. But the silence of their words, filled instead with the ambience of the street behind them and the passing breeze was nothing short of calm.

Snape broke it just as Harry’s mind became soothed by it, but he couldn’t find it in him to be mad.

“Potter-” Harry looked up, pulling his feet closer, “-I am little less than inclined to be impatient, and your… proceedings this week have very nearly exhausted my endurance. And so, until I say otherwise, it is in both our favor for you to listen to me speak.”

Harry nodded, feeling entirely guilty and partially unwanted.

“You’ve summarised your tale rather loosely. I have no words in regards to it, but press you to be more cautious around the usage of writing utensils.”

Harry stared, and Snape cleared his throat, “On the request of Professor Patel.”

“She told you?”

Snape smirked, “Among a few things. Must have slipped it in between scolding me to take my shoes off.”

This time, Harry grinned along, extending his legs so the heels of his shoes were touching the soil.

Another comfortable silence.

“She’s grown fond of you, I gather.”

Harry inclined his head, but Snape wasn’t eager in meeting his eye. His gaze was pinned on the vegetable patches and keen on keeping them right there.

“Isn’t she with everyone?”

“Only those she scolds or trusts enough to laugh around, I hear.”

Harry shuddered, the laughter suddenly echoing in his ears, “It’s terrifying, for a lady such as her. Or a lady at all! I can only think of that lunatic Black laughing with that voice.”

“What?”

“What?”

Snape, amusingly, looked to be too confused on what sentence to be confused about. Eyes narrowing and lines forming from consternation, before giving up completely and changing the subject.

“Are you informed of what happened after your disappearance?”

“Only v-v-vague details,” Harry said, testing yet another word he had read and learned the definition of, “Will you tell me of them?”

Snape nodded, dropping his hands to his sides, “In short, your Uncle and his sister, as I later discovered during our discussion, wrought havoc in the shop. Demolished the stock, stripped the wallpapers and broke the windows. I arrived from my house visit to find them being escorted by officers, and alerted the Patel’s after sensing your absence. There was a trial, and the two had to pay a fine and make up for the loss, which was also provided by the insurance company. Your disappearance was brought up, and Vernon Dursley agreed for you to work for me until your efforts repay the debt,"
It wasn’t anything different from what the Patel siblings had told Harry (besides the past part), so he merely nodded along.

“Also, I have utilized the opportunity to notify the appropriate authorities of your previous master. Last I heard he’s been escorted to trial as well, and your friends placed together into an orphanage.”

At that, Harry’s head shot up. A bolt of shock, which later shifted into joy and irritation struck through him and he pushed himself up to stand in front of Snape.

“You’re only telling me this now?” he cried, throwing his arms to the side.

“You had gone deaf, as I recall. Charmed to know that is no longer the case.”

“Well, I-” Harry began, but stopped fumingly at the amused look he received from Snape, “Will you please at least tell me which orphanage they were taken to?”

“That I do not know.”

“What? How could you not-”

“I am not all-knowing, Potter, though I admit I have often wished to be. However, provided you answer some of my questions, I am more than willing to find out their location.”

Harry’s shoulders dropped, and the next of his words came with much hesitance and in a restless whisper, “And if I’m uncomfortable with your questions?”

“I will do my best to steer the conversation to a topic you’re more comfortable with.”

Running a hand through his messy hair, Harry weighed his options for some time. His gaze fluctuating throughout the garden and hands refusing to remain still. But at the end of his contemplation, he gave a stern nod.

“Fine. Ask away,” he said, sitting once again on his previous spot.

Snape turned to face him, his long legs pulled under him and back rigid, “I’m aware that you have run away shortly after your relative’s arrival, but can you expound on what exactly urged you to take flight?”

“I don’t understand, Professor.”

“To give an example,” Snape rubbed his chin with his finger that held a thin, long scar; eyes searching the garden, “Was it some statements they made? A particular threat? Fear of punishment? Guilt for… hurting your aunt?”

Harry’s hands froze in his lap, and his mouth felt too dry, too soon. He licked his lips for good measure. No words emerged, though, and Snape must have sensed his distress, because he continued.

“Hurt, as in the reaction to ginger she inhaled, swallowed and had her skin exposed to. There is little medical research, in the matter. But it is common knowledge that particular substances may not agree with particular individuals. Your aunt is no longer in danger.”

Not dead. Harry released a shaky breath at the thought, body sagging in its own accord and not too soon.

“You have yet to answer my question, Mr Potter.”

Harry laughed shakily, “I don’t know, sir. I-It was an accident. I didn’t mean to throw the ginger jar… She lunged at me, and at that moment, the jar flew out of my hands and Aunt Marge collapsed against the jars. A few of them dropped and when I smelled one-” he cut of abruptly, finding it difficult to go on with the sudden tightness in his chest and dizziness in his head, “There was t-this smell… Sharp, and tingly in the tongue. Sour. It- It smelt like… It was her, Professor, and when I… I ran away, and I wasn’t myself anymore. I didn’t know where I was, what I was doing… completely...cold and-”

“Easy, Potter. There are a few things I don’t understand,” Snape stopped him when Harry began to heave, holding out his hands in front of the shaking boy, “So your disappearance was induced by a smell? A sour, sharp smell?”

Harry nodded jerkily.

“And this smell, which turned you unresponsive, numb and confused, reminded you of an individual?”

Another, somewhat uncertain, nod. Individual, yes, but more than that. A memory.

“Who was it, Mr Potter?”

Pressing his lips together, Harry dropped his head.

“Potter.”

“My aunt. Other aunt. Uncle Vernon’s wife, Aunt Petunia,” he managed to say between breaths, looking at Snape with burning eyes, “Is that all?”

Snape looked ready for more questions, but sighed and shook his head. And grateful, Harry didn’t wait a second to follow the man back inside the house, a looming feeling suggesting that their conversation was far from over.

Back inside, Harry lifted his materials from the wooden chair and sat down. Behind him, Snape was getting ready to continue working. Harry waited until he wore the apron tied around his thin waist, and spoke.

"Will you explain something to me, sir?"

Snape turned around, hands still behind his back, "And what would that be, Mr Potter?"

"It's about, well, I suppose it's about both of us."

Snape swept his hair back and tied it into a messy loop behind his head, "I'm afraid you will have to expound on that, Mr Potter."

"I meant to ask you…" he clumsily fiddled with the chalk, finger tips white with the dust, "You didn't explain why you didn't tell me you knew me. I would like to know why you did that...I think," he added the last part after seeing the look on Snape's face, which was a mixture of confusion and frustration, a raise of a brow daring him to go on.

"Will you be content with any answer I give, so long as it is the truth?"

"Content, sir?"

"Satisfaction, Potter. Of the answer. Well, will you?"

Harry eyed the book in his hands, passing it from one to the other, the worn cover spelling out a foreign word. Snape hadn't done anything remotely close to Edwin or Un-... Snape was alright. Harry lifted his head and nodded, shuffling the book to his other hand.

"So long as it's the truth, sir."

"In that case, it was nothing more than a failure of my own will," Snape said, crossing his arms tightly over his chest and upon seeing the confused look on Harry's face, continued sternly.

"Partially, my reason was to make sure it was really you. Another obstacle soon came forth, however, as I did not know how to explain the situation to you; revealing your parentage and your history without invoking suspicion or mistrust on your side," he paused, voice getting slower and slower. Hands gripping the counter, he tapped along the wood long after he continued, "I had the idea to notify a close acquaintance who was well involved with your matters, of your existence. That is, until you ran away, and it would hardly be appropriate to write to him after a second disappearance, one which I have some part in."

Harry's hands curled around the newspaper, meddling the words together. The letters were as comprehensible as the feeling in his chest now. Taking a deep breath, he spared himself a few moments of silence. His surroundings pulled back into a smudge of colour, and his emotions oddly reminded him of those he felt at the Leaky Cauldron.

Guilt, fear, anger. Memories he refused to think about. Emotions he didn't want to feel. The paper crumpled further in his hands, and he stashed it behind him while he made a forceful stand.

"Thank you, sir," he muttered under his breath, lifting the chair to pull it across the room, right below a line of herbs hung by some string.

"The conversation has just started, Mr Potter," Snape's voice carried across the room, right as Harry opened the book, the light filtering from the panes catching the dust in the room.

Harry closed the book, balancing it on the sewn knee of his pants, "What else is there to talk about, sir?"

"Aren't you concerned about the following weeks, child? About the steps we ought to take from this day forth?"

"I… I didn't- that is, it didn't come to my mind."

"Clearly," Snape drawled, lifting a hand towards Harry, "Chasing something, or in this case someone isn't a plausible method."

Harry bit his tongue, book lifting up and down with his jumping knee, "What is that supposed to mean?"

"What it means entirely. Now-" he pulled out a fresh piece of paper, scrawling something sharply across its length, "We will have to write a letter to Professor Dumbledore -yes that is his name do stop gaping, Potter- and arrange for a visit. I daresay he'll be drunk with joy upon the recent news."

Harry watched Snape's ink pen carving across the page, fast yet diligent. The motion continued until the end of the page, at which Snape lifted his ink pen and lay the paper to dry. He wondered if he'd be able to write like such one day. Pen in hand, with more words at his disposal than he and his friends combined.

Not long into this dream, Snape pushed away from the table. Sauntering toward one of the cabinets, he slid his hands across the spines of books before stopping to retrieve one.

Harry didn't need to wait long to see what it was, as Snape dropped it across his lap soon after.

"Ma… ma-tha-ma-tic-s?"

"...Close enough. It's pronounced mathematics."

"Right," Harry agreed, lifting the cover for a look inside, "What is mathematics, Professor?"

"Mathematics, Potter. Stop pronouncing the the so harshly. And to answer your question-" Harry very nearly caught his fingers between the pages he was leisurely turning when Snape slid his own between the pages and managed to open to where 'Unit One' began, "-it's the knowledge of numerals and their functions. Remember the numbers, Potter?"

Harry gave a curt nod.

"This-" he tapped on the page with a sharp nail, "-is their usage."

Flipping through the book, Harry found that in addition to the numbers, there also were foreign symbols indicating what to do with the given combination of numbers. Harry lifted his head, book still open in his hands.

"When did you get this, sir?"

"The day of your disappearance. I was planning on walking you through a slower pace, but now, with the recent developments, I have changed my mind."

Not paying much mind, Harry skimmed through the pages, filling the room with the rough sound of rifling paper.

"We'll just have to consider this a part of your punishment, Mr Potter."

Harry's finger made a sudden slip down a page's side. With a yelp of pain, he stood up abruptly, book flying to the floor and was just about to put his now bleeding and stinging finger into his mouth when Snape's hand wrapped around his wrist.

Heart drumming against his chest, Harry meekly lifted his eyes to Snape's. He wasn't looking at Harry, though, black eyes pinned on Harry's finger. Harry followed his gaze to the throbbing skin, wincing at the cut and the blood sliding down.

"Refrain from such action in the future, Potter," he said, this time meeting Harry's gaze, which Harry averted immediately.

With a sigh, Snape dragged Harry towards the table, leaving the boy to walk towards the drawers. In his absence, Harry squeezed his finger, biting his lip as to not groan at the throbbing pain.

Snape taking hold of his wrist again was distraction enough, until the blood was wiped from his skin.

Snape squeezed a small cloth over the open cut, lifting Harry's other hand and placing them around the cloth for him to do the same.

Harry applied the pressure as Snape let go, a tired look on his face, "What am I to do with you, Potter?"

Not punish me, perhaps?

Harry swallowed thickly, suddenly too afraid. His shoulders tightened even further when Snape bent down to his short height. Snape tilted his head, and Harry lowered his head, persistent in not meeting his eye.

"Potter," Snape said dryly, his voice disturbing the silence of the room, "Look at me."

Playing with the ends of the patched cloth, "Why?" Harry answered quickly without much thought, voice tight.

"Because…" Snape said flatly, sounding on the edge of saying something unpleasant, "Because, Potter, I said so."

That, of course, wasn't enough reason for Harry to comply.

Snape must have understood, because with a swift movement, he pulled Harry's chin between his fingers and forced it up to meet his eyes.

Harry's heart jerked uncomfortably, his hair standing up in a spike of fear. Snape looked to be searching for something, his dark eyes alight from the filtering sunlight above, which highlighted just how greasy his hair was. And while Harry waited for those black eyes to stop dwelling on Harry's own, he couldn't help the gradually rising fear and… well, wasn't that odd? Harry felt sad. Harry felt bloody awful. His lips trembled, just above Snape's cold fingers and shoulders tight with tension and fear hung down, slagging like his posture.

The years of memories came storming down in his mind, and Harry wanted to cry.

The nights in the cupboard. The lonely days. All those times he wanted some warmth, and those times he chased after his family, his cousin especially, in the hope for a friend. He had found them once, in the dwellings of the backstreets and freezing cellars, only to lose them once again. Here, again, he was lonely and afraid, with emotions he never had to deal with before. Guilt, hatred. Why he wasn't enough for his family, and why he couldn't be enough now.

Harry wanted to cry.

And he did.

The burning in his eyes poured out into silent tears, sliding down his cheeks, down his jaw and dripping to his cloth.

Drip, drop.

All the while Snape stared at him, hand frozen and eyes going as wide as they possibly could. Harry didn't have much to look at after that. With his head hanging low and shoulders slouched, he was mindlessly staring at his shoes while his tears fell.

He felt so weak. So cold. He didn't want to get punished. Not for this. Not for something he didn't mean to do.

"Potter?"

"P-please, sir I- Maybe you could, I just think-"

"Potter."

"I-I really didn't mean… you know I wanted to come back but I just, and with my family I couldn't-

"Potter if you'd just listen-"

Harry sniffed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, "I'm sorry, sir. I really am. I know I do terrible things. Things I shouldn't do. I just… I'm so…" and at that, he lifted his head, looking right into Snap's eyes, tears falling fast, "I-I mess up! I feel so angry, at you and everything. My friends are away, I have such a good-good place with you and I don't feel I deserve it. I know I-" he sobbed harshly at this, hiding his eyes behind his hands, shoulders pulled into his body, the light in the room suddenly too bright, "I let them to this. I let them in! I br-broke, I know the promise I wasn't supposed to break and I did! I hate that I did so, and I'm sorry but please, sir… do-don't punish me, please."

For a while, there was only his sobbing. Dry heaves, the wiping of tears that refused to fall and the light from the panes shut out by a veil of clouds, as though to match his mood. Snape was still quiet. Too quiet. It came to a point where, out of concern, Harry looked up and found that he was merely regarding him with a flat, neutral gaze.

Harry ducked his head, and urged himself to stop crying.

"Are you through?" Snape asked, and Harry gave a jerky nod. With a sigh, Snape rose from his crouch and slid a hand into his breast pocket, shaking the object he had retrieved under Harry's eyes.

Harry took the handkerchief without Snape needing to say anything, wiping his eyes and nose.

He offered to give the handkerchief back. Once again, Snape refused.

"There wasn't any need for such theatrics, Potter, as they won't get you anywhere with me."

Harry's head shot up, an unattractive noise coming from his neck. Snape's brows were pulled down, and his hands were tightly folded across his chest.

"But sir-"

"This act might have worked with-" Snape cut himself off, lips still parted. Harry tried to work out what made the man pause, his brows knitted tightly close. Just as quick it had come, however, the expression was gone.

The light returned as Snape continued.

"You are to listen to me very closely, Potter, as I won't repeat myself. Am I understood?"

Harry nodded, albeit hesitantly, and looped his hands behind his back.

Snape shifted from his spot, one finger lifting to point at Harry sharply, "As compensation for your actions during this past week, you will be responsible for a list of tasks. I am going to list them now. Listen well," and before Harry could remember what the word 'compensate' meant, Snape was already continuing with the list.

"I will wake you at precisely six in the morning, after which you will tend to the garden; may it be weeding and watering the vegetable patches, or even cleansing the water closet or ridding the dust from the laboratory's windows, as they tend to collect dirt at a profound speed. This will continue until eight, at the very least. I will prepare a small breakfast, you shall clean the cutlery and bowls afterwards. And finally, for exactly four hours each day, you will busy yourself with studies."

Harry's mouth fell open, his eyes growing wide and in his obvious surprise, the handkerchief drifted to the floor.

"Of course, this time may possibly change in the future, perhaps increasing to six hours by the end of the week," Snape muttered the last part to himself, and Harry barely heard him from the buzz in his ears. Surely this couldn't be his punishment? It was more along the lines of a gift! Four hours each day to perfect his reading, what else could Harry ever ask for!

He didn't hear the rest of Snape's monologue, but when he was finished, and asked if Harry had understood everything, Harry gave an enthusiastic nod and was ready to hug the man.

He didn't, of course. But one could always dream.

"Before you resume your studies, however, I have one final thing to share with you."

Harry sat down as Snape gestured with a hand, Snape himself leaning on the desk with his back to it.

Lifting an empty jar from the table, Snape slid his fingers down it's side, stopping at around the middle to look at Harry, "We have a schedule, this week. I'm afraid the shop lost some important stock, many thanks to the stampede of those two oafs."

Harry ran a hand down his arm, cheeks burning.

"This week, the shop will be kept open until past noon. During this time, while you busy yourself with your chores and studies, I will work on orders given to me by clients. At two in the afternoon, do not be surprised to find that I will be making house visits."

"House visits, sir?"

"I am not merely a chemist, Mr Potter. I am familiar with some medical knowledge, and exercise it with those I can help with the materials I have here," he gestured around the laboratory with one hand, jar sitting firm in the other, "Though I don't doubt I'll have much to do this week. However, should that occur, I cannot take you with me, and we will have to find someone to temporarily keep an eye on you."

Harry nodded, leaving his seat to pick up the fallen objects, "Is that all, sir?"

Again, Snape looked to have some words to say. Instead, he ran a hand through his hair, placing the jar back on the table, "For now. Oh, and expect the acquaintance I spoke of -Headmaster Dumbledore- to pay us a visit sometime in the following weeks. Do you have any questions?"

"Yes," Harry said, squinting at the mathematics book and lifting it for a clear look, "Will you be teaching this to me yourself, sir?"

"Do you find any other candidates, Mr Potter?"

"I thought you taught only che-che, uh…"

"Chemistry?" Snape offered, looking rather amused at Harry's confusion, the side of his lips lifting up, "True, Mr Potter, though you can trust me to teach you some basic mathematics."

Dropping the books on the chair, Harry walked closer to Snape. The light was back, now, and crawling down the walls of the laboratory, softly illuminating the floor. Taking a deep breath, Harry stepped out of the path of the light and with as much courage as he could collect (which really wasn't much) Harry asked, "Will you teach me chemistry?"

The question must have been far more intrusive than Harry imagined, because Snape's expression became odd and he seemed to regain some colour to his cheeks.

"Excuse me?"

"Chemistry, Professor," Harry continued because Snape hadn't scolded him yet, winding his fingers between the folds of his shirt, "I am sort of… well, chemistry looks interesting. And after I repay the debt, I have to leave, and I want to learn as much as I possibly can while with you."

The colour Snape's cheeks had gained fell immediately, and his lips were pulled into a thin line. His silence continued for a minute, leaving Harry nervous and considering stepping back from the request. He opened his mouth to do so, the words fresh in his mouth-

"I will be pleased to teach you, Mr Potter."

And for now, perhaps it wasn't bad, after all.

As promised, Snape woke Harry dreadfully early from an already poor sleep. The sky was a murky grey colour, too early as to be morning, too bright as to still be night.

Once Snape was out the room, confident Harry wouldn't fall back to sleep, Harry pushed himself clumsily up from the bed. The sheets were, as always, tangled around his body, half dangling to the floor.

Cautious to not crumple to the floor, Harry rose unsteadily, mouth hurting from the yawns he couldn't stifle. Dreadfully early, this was. He was used to waking up early, back at the cellars, but after his little excursion to Diagon Alley, where he could rise at whatever hour he pleased, he found it difficult to fall back into the prior schedule. Yes, dreadfully early…

With a scowl, he pulled off his night-shirt, shrugging on the tattered shirt Snape had offered for the garden work.

Snape met him in the parlor once he was ready.

"I expect you no earlier than eight," he dully stated, sweeping past him and into his room.

With a sigh, Harry disappeared down the stairs, almost tripping as he did so, further dampening his sleep-deprived mood.

The garden, in actuality, didn't need much work. Getting a bucket, Harry placed it under the pump. The pump creaked threateningly as he pulled on the lever, jarring his ears. The rust was starting to grow past the pipe and into the screws, and while it didn't stop the freezing water from pouring down, Harry was still concerned.

Despite the backsplash of water on his pants, Harry wrapped both hands around the handle. It didn't come easily, as he wanted, the water surging inside the pail in thick spurts. Harry took a breath, steadying his feet and heaving the handle.

Hands on his hips and back aching, Harry swept a quick gaze over the garden patches, a frown forming. From what he could see (and it often wasn't much) some weeds were growing beside the potatoes. He shrugged. Harry had to often do yard work, back… then, and pulling up his sleeves and getting his hands dirty wasn't always boring. And so, he did exactly that. With shirt-sleeves and pant-legs rolled up, and shoes pulled off, Harry Potter was soon crawling around the vegetables, snatching any nasty weeds on his path.

All alone, not a soul watching from a particular window up in the house.

His hands soiled and sweat dripping from the side of his face, Harry soon stood up, a sharp grin on his lips. He had done well, he prided himself, and it hadn't taken long either. His satisfaction didn't survive long, however, as he stumbled on the bucket, dropping down with it. It was only half-full once he righted it and his pants were smeared with mud.

Right. Punishment, Harry remembered crossley, jerking his hand out of the mud. Some awful, great punishment.

Two hours later, a very dirty Harry placed the bucket in its rightful place, treading over the grass barefoot. Oddly enough, Snape met him by the backdoor, tapping his foot impatiently on the floor.

"Are you certain you haven't gone for a swim in the mud instead?" he tiredly asked, running a hand down his face, "One day upon your return, and you're in need of a bath already."

"I didn't bathe at Diagon Alley, sir," Harry added, thinking it would have helped. It didn't. And Snape responded with his face taking a very interesting expression.

"Well," he spoke, voice laced with disgust and a mild touch of regret, "A picnic, I suppose. Wait here. And if you value your life-" he gave him a sharp glare, "-do NOT come in."

Harry didn't, but he still sat down on the wood. Swinging his legs under him, he savored the feeling of the grass tickling the soles of his feet until Snape came back with a bowl of oatmeal, forbidding him from eating until he had washed his hands.

The rest of the day continued as though Harry hadn't left. He did take a bath, eventually, and had to wash his muddy clothes, wearing his spare pair of pants afterwards while down at the laboratory, working on mathematics, reading and, towards the end of the afternoon, chemistry.

And though Harry didn't admit it, he knew he wasn't subtle in hiding his smile, which would crack through occasionally. But if Snape saw it, he didn't comment. And when he bid the Professor good night, he was still smiling into his pillow, wrapped tightly in the warm blankets.

All until he woke up from a nightmare, the night still dark, scratching his arms back to sleep…

The next morning was profoundly ordinary until after noon, when, instead of having a second chemistry lesson (the first included an introduction into atoms), Snape sent Harry to his room to get ready, as he had a house visit to make. Harry met him downstairs, taking his jacket from where it hung on Snape's arm. Snape waited until Harry had his cap on, his scar out of sight, before opening the door onto the bustling street and locking it behind them.

Twice, for good measure. Probably for emphasis.

Without sparing another look, Snape pocketed the keys, his coat billowing behind him while he made his way down the street.

"Do keep up, Mr… Evans," he called above his shoulder, facing back to the street as Harry stepped forward. Harry didn't pester him about the use of Lily's maiden name, thinking it to be Snape's paranoia of someone recognizing him in the street. Well, Harry couldn't see anyone in this street recognizing him, engaged as they were in both shopping and conversation. He didn't pay much mind to them, though. Thinking about his mother had brought some memories back from reading the book. Specifically the parts he couldn't bring himself to finish, leaving his heart clenched and eyes burning.

He didn't cry as they turned right to the stairs that led up to the familiar neighbourhood of Professor Patel's home.

He came very close when she opened the door.

"I wasn't expecting you this soon," she said with a smile, opening the door wider, "You're very lucky I'm home."

"Indeed," Snape agreed, urging Harry forward with a hand on his shoulder, "May we both come in? I won't be long, but I would like to speak with you. Privately."

She nodded, though Harry noticed her fingers tensing as she held open the door. Inside, Professor Patel stopped Harry before he could take another step, nodding to his shoes.

"Oh, of course," he muttered, ears burning. Wrestling his shoes off, he lined them right before the small carpet began, his socks sliding on the fabric.

"You know the way, Harry," Professor Patel said, stepping beside him and sliding his shoes into an empty slot, "I'll meet you there shortly."

Harry glanced between the two with interest, curious of what they would talk about. It would concern him, no doubt, and Harry would much rather hear what adults had to say about him.

Snape nodded towards the hallway, noting his gaze, "I'll be back for you soon, Potter. Granted, you may not like your punishment, but I have no intention of lifting it yet," he said, and turned to face Professor Patel, finishing their conversation.

Turning his back to them, Harry started down the hall, the hushed voices of the professors' following him.

Entering the living room, Harry sat down on the armchair. Sitting didn't help much, however. His nerves were rising at random intervals, making him tap his foot on the floor with uneven passes. Licking his lips, Harry pushed himself up from the chair and marched towards the wooden bookcases on the other side of the room.

There weren't many things on display. A few books, some trinkets, and one single photograph of a family of four (the Patels, no doubt), yellow along the edges, though the date on the bottom was only ten years back.

Harry moved along, hand collecting dust as he dragged it over the wood before coming to a section behind a glass shutter, which held what looked to be a small stack of newspapers.

Not in the desire to get into any major trouble in the foreseeable future, Harry pulled his hand back from the handle. The newspapers could wait, and so could Harry.

Both didn't wait long. Some five minutes later, Professor Patel joined Harry in the room, a strained smile on her face.

"Welcome one again, Harry," she greeted, motioning toward the sofa, "Have a seat."

Harry shuffled his feet, glancing at the newspapers from the side of his blurry vision as he sat down.

"Are you always at home, Professor Patel?" Harry asked, still stealing the occasional glance at the newspapers, hoping she'd notice.

She gave an odd sort of nod and scratched her cheek, "Very nearly. I don't have much to do outside except for shopping errands. Cleaning and aiding my brother takes much of my time."

"Will he…" Harry began, choosing his words carefully before dropping the matter entirely, "Nevermind. Uh, what will I be doing, today?"

Professor Patel straightened on her seat, joining her fingers in her lap, "I had the idea that we might talk, if you'd agree."

"Talk about what?"

"Oh, many things," she said, lifting a hand and gesturing towards him, "You, your stay with Professor Snape, to give an example. Have you anything in mind?"

Harry frowned, gazing at the glass case as to distract her, "Not anything interesting enough."

To his relief, Professor Patel followed his gaze to the glass, a smile of understanding lifting her lips. With a smooth stand, she stepped towards the case, her skirts sweeping over the floor. She gestured him closer, and Harry moved beside her, glad he didn't need to indulge in conversation yet.

Opening the case, Professor Patel slipped her finger under the first newspaper and closed it again. Her hold was gentle, as though the newspaper would tear at the smallest wind. Harry took it with both hands, glad to have something to read other than the boring book Snape had given him.

His eyes went wide.

"This says… New York Times. New York? Isn't that in-"

"The United States? Precisely," Professor Patel said rather proudly, "My father is there at the moment. He sends letters. I ask him to send newspapers. Very valuable, news from the other nations," she then went on to run a finger down the spine of each newspaper, naming the counties as she went.

"These are from the United States. This hefty pile comes from South Africa, and the final pile from a multitude of countries, including France. Too bad I cannot understand much of it," she said, leading him towards the sofa.

"When did this arrive?" Harry lifted the one in his hands, reading the date April 10,1874,"

"Oh, dear… The middle of June, if I remember," she said, holding her chin, "Yes… might be- No, middle of June," she confirmed, nodding along, "Nothing much to read, save for the front page."

"What's on the front page?" Harry asked, unfolding the newspaper carefully, feeling as though he was holding something quite valuable, "What is it about?"

"Why don't you read it?"

Harry took off his cap, flattening his hair down, "I'm not a fast reader."

"Ah," Professor Patel nodded, coming to sit beside him, she lifted a hand and placed it around the newspaper, her free hand pointing at the title, "Well, the text is overwhelming. In summary, a poor girl - Mary, I think her name is - had to be taken from her adopted mother, as she was being physically assaulted by her. The…" she brought the newspaper closer, searching the column under Inhuman Treatment of Little Waif , "Ah! The American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals bought the case, I read, and the adopted mother was charged."

Harry was under the impression that she was watching him very closely as she explained. He didn't notice much, though. A sudden cold clenched his bones, and his foot began to tap along the floor. Out of all the newspapers and books, he had picked the one similar to his own… relatives.

"Harry?" Professor Patel called his name, dropping a hand on his shoulder but pulling it back once he flinched, "Are you alright?"

Harry nodded, folding the newspaper unnecessarily harshly and placing it in her open hand, "Yes, uh, poor girl," he agreed, tapping the newspaper, "Hope she is… Hope she found someone to care for her."

There was a moment of silence, as Harry didn't know what to say. Unlike yesterday, the cloudy weather cast a gloomy atmosphere, affecting even the house itself. And with the newspaper still in sight, not much kept Harry from twisting his fingers together.

Professor Patel took a sharp breath, "I do not want to lie to you, Harry, or sugar coat your predicament, as they say. You're a smart child. I'm sure you already understood the conversation I am trying to make."

Harry nodded, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, "You think… you think I had something similar?"

"Me? No. Not yet," she shook her head, "Professor Snape did, however. He asked me to speak to you about it, as I have experience."

"Experience in what?"

"In speaking to those with similar history."

"That is not comforting, Professor."

She paused, licking her lips, "Will you let me continue, at least?"

Another nod. A sigh of relief from the Professor, poorly hidden.

"We do not have to have this conversation yet, about you, about your troubles. In fact, I agree that if you are tense, we may continue some other time," Professor Patel said, her usual soft voice grown serious and loud, "I wish to help you, as Professor Snape wishes, for he requested I speak with you on the topic."

Harry's head shot up. He found it mildly threatening, having Snape take notice of… well, he didn't know what the man had seen to urge Patel to speak with him, but nevertheless, he felt uncomfortably irritated that Snape hadn't consulted him about it first.

"So," he managed through a clenched jaw, "We don't have to talk about it now?"

"I just wanted to have the conversation set, as a reminder for you. Perhaps… yes, a reminder... We can continue another time. But-" at that, Harry looked up again, "-I still want to talk with you. To some extent. So, I will ask a single question, and you may answer however you like, and we'll continue the conversation from there. Is that alright?"

Harry wasn't convinced. How could he be? The Professor wanted to talk to him about topics he wasn't comfortable even with thinking of yet. He eyed Patel, biting his lip.

"What kind of question?"

She leaned back on the sofa, hands on her back, "Just this: Who are you, Harry? What kind of person is Harry, for you?"

That had, at least, calmed the slowly rising anger in his chest. He'd expected himself to lash out immediately after Patel had started the conversation, demanding it wasn't anyone's business if his uncle… if he…

No, he didn't lash out. Instead, he made one terrible decision. Without thinking, Harry answered with an embarrassing tone of confidence.

"I'm Harry Potter."

Needless to say, there was little to rival the surge of expressions that twisted Professor Patel's face.

Harry recognised a few. Only a few. Because between finding amusement in a situation that wasn't funny at all and the undoubted wrath he'd face with Snape, there could be only so much he could think.

It wasn't funny at all, yet the darkened cheeks of Patel were all it took to get Harry to laugh, and her stumbling words only ensured his chuckles.

"That is- entirely…what?" she asked, voice thin, weak. Entirely foreign. She stood up, her fingers pressing against her parted lips, "You're not lying?"

Smile and laughter abruptly cut, Harry played with his finger, "I am," he tried, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

He doubted it did any good.

His weak lie couldn't mask his previous laughter, or the flatness of his tone, and Patel's pressed lips told him as much.

She didn't comment. Instead, Harry flinched back when a hand fell on the curve of his forehead.

"May I?"

And she lifted the strands of thick black, gently as though it would tear. Then came a sharp intake of breath, a hand dropping down at the same time Harry averted his gaze.

"Ya Allah.." she tapped along her arm, voice losing its strength until she made an unexpected stand, her arms flying to her sides, "You're alive!"

"Uh," Harry eyed the door, "I suppose I am."

"How are you alive?"

"I've been wondering the same thing, actually. And if someone other than Alexanderia Alexander is willing to tell me the story, I'd love to hear it!"

Patel didn't tell him much, as she believed him to be dead, too. They did fall into a lengthy conversation, however, in which Patel scolded a Snape who wasn't there until Harry reassured her Snape had written to the, uh, Dumble-bore bloke - Dumbledore, Harry - and told him of Harry's existence.

There wasn't much talk, that day. At least, nothing about Harry's… unpleasant past. Instead, Professor Patel woke her brother, who was sleeping in the next room, and she and Harry helped Mr Patel cook an early meal, falling into comfortable conversations that carried on into the table.

Harry found it hard to concentrate on his Shakshuka, and harder to listen to the Patels, eyeing his egg uncomfortably. The attempt to get him earlier had opened the opportunity for unwanted thoughts. Uncle Vernon, Uncle Petunia… the cupboard looming behind their screaming figures. Harry tried to shake his head free of the thought, the fork scraping the bowl as he did so. He dropped the fork, ending the ongoing conversation between the two. Head hanging down, Harry bit down on his lip, fingers itching over the shirt over his arms.

Professor Patel spoke first.

"Harry?" her voice called from in front of him, losing her previous excitement, "Would you like a different meal?"

Feeling foolish and rather ashamed, Harry shook his head, spooning some of the eggs and taking a measly bite, "It's delicious," he told Mr Patel, nodding with a smile, "Thank you."

He was relieved when Mr Patel offered him a wink over his water cup, ripping some of the semi-dry bread and using it to take a bite from the meal. Professor Patel, however, gave a frown, one that was hard to understand, and even harder to dismiss as it quickly lifted into a smile once Harry faced her.

The rest of the meal held no conversation with him. Mostly because he only bothered answering with short replies and gestures. Mostly because he couldn't bring himself to. His hunched shoulders, his undying rapid heartbeat…and under both, a terrible mixture of storming emotions that was still brewing at the end of the meal.

Professor Patel assured him and Mr Patel both that she'd take care of the cleaning up, as she couldn't help with the cooking and ushered them into the living room while she began her chore in the kitchen.

"She's a terrible cook," Mr Patel said once they were inside and it seemed unlikely that Harry would talk.

"What?"

Mr Patel nodded towards the door, a small smile on his lips, "Aisha. She's a terrible cook, and almost set umi's kitchen on fire."

Harry smiled unintentionally, the image of a frantic Aisha pouring a jug of water over the fire coming to mind, "Is the one you're calling umi your… mother?"

"Yes. The same mother who caught her scarf on the fire while Aisha tried to stop the table from burning. Pati wouldn't ask for water from her for a month. That's when I started to help umi in the kitchen."

Harry laughed, imagining a very cautious Snape not asking him to do any chores under similar circumstances before deciding that he'd have more chores to do if he ever burnt the kitchen.

"I can cook too," Harry said, his heart still beating and emotions still at large, but easing with every word, "But I don't think Sn- Professor Snape trusts me to."

"I can tell," Mr Patel said, stretching his arms.

"You can tell he doesn't trust me?"

Mr Patel blinked before his eyes widened in understanding, "Oh, no! You are a good cook. Even though you only cut the onions and tomatoes. My sister doesn't help me with those."

"Can't she use a knife?"

Mr Patel waved a dismissive hand, a sharp smile on his lips while his head turned to the door, "She doesn't like her eyes burning, and says the onions smell worse than my socks."

Letting out a laugh, Harry felt the uneasy tightness of his chest loosen as his body shook with small tremors, his tense shoulders relaxing when Mr Patel went on to say he deliberately made his socks smell bad whenever Professor Patel was particularly infuriating.

"That, however -" he continued with emphasis, eyeing his sister as she came in, carrying with her a small plate, "- Is our secret. Isn't it Harry?"

Professor Patel's eyes narrowed at her brother. She walked past him without another look, placing the plate on the free spot beside Harry, "I suppose I won't ask," she said, grabbing a biscuit from the plate and taking a harsh bite, chewing exaggeratingly hard.

"Mr Patel told me of your brilliant cooking talents, Professor," Harry said, taking an offered biscuit.

"Did he now?"

Mr Patel leaned back in his chair, "Well, brilliant is inappropriate. Though I made no comment on your bakery skills."

"You just want a biscuit."

"You're my favorite and only baker, roohi,"

She did end up giving him a biscuit, which Mr Patel seemed to like but Harry couldn't enjoy as much.

The biggest reason was that it held ginger, which Harry had formed a rather blatant hostility against, and that the biscuit felt foreign on his tongue. Unnatural. Like the ginger didn't want to be baked with the sugar and refused to be sweetened, even with the cup of milk Professor Patel offered.

He didn't take a second helping until Snape arrived at quarter to five.

"I apologise to have imposed on you like this," Snape told Mr Patel (Professor Patel couldn't see him off, as the bell had rung while she was busy 'praying' in the parlour).

Mr Patel shook his head, "Not at all, Professor."

"Are you experiencing any pains?" Snape asked while Harry pulled on his shoes, almost slipping on the steps and feeling his cheeks heat up at the hold Snape got on him without even looking, cutting his fall.

"Yes. The medicine you gave me is finished, and I noticed Aisha's empty… uh, what was the name of the substance?"

"The balm?" Snape said without much drawling, clutching Harry's shoulder to prevent him abling away to catch a better look of kids playing at the end of the street short, "Has her skin shown some improvement, at least?"

Mr Patel gave a pathetic sort of shake of his head.

"Very well. I'll see what I can do," he nodded at Mr Patel, turning half-way around, "My regards to your sister," and without loosening his hold on Harry's arm, he marched down the street, feet clicking ominously on the cobblestone.

"Had an enjoyable time?" he asked Harry while walking down the steps, scattering the few people milling about the bottom, "I suppose your enjoyment makes no difference. They're the only ones I trust you with at the moment."

At his silence, Snape let go of his arm, "Anything I should know about, Harry?"

"We've taken the wrong turn," Harry replied, facing the left street they should have taken instead of the foreign right direction they were heading towards.

"We're making an improvised visit," he said, facing the street, which was comparably more crowded than the one they usually took, "Answer my question."

"Once we take the correct road home, sir, I will."

Harry collided with Snape's back. The people around them, who were more interested in making way for Snape rather than cross paths with him, turned their heads to look at the yelp of surprise from Harry. Harry rubbed his nose, looking up at a rigid Snape who still had his back to him.

"Do not, Mr Potter," Snape began, dangerously quiet and with a thick voice laced tight with rising frustration, "Ever call it that. Understood?"

Harry, who was not even looking at his face and had his ears full with the noise of the street and passing carts already took a step back, giving a shaky nod.

"Yes, sir."

Snape continued to walk without another word.

The rest of the walk was a mixture of silence and single word orders to stand close whenever Harry lingered far, which sometimes shifted into Snape taking a hold of his arm and dragging him forward by the shoulder.

Harry did his best to keep up, futile though it was. He had adopted a particular slide that made it harder for Harry to keep up, often taking twice as many steps to not linger behind.

The labyrinth of turns were little comfort. The buildings morphed gradually from the shops and ordinary houses to a much ignored part of town, one Harry didn't want to find himself alone in at night. He shuffled forward, peering at the run-down buildings from under his cap. Hands in pockets, he shuffled forward, turning his head away from the leering, rotting shapes.

He didn't see the pit. Harry's foot caught the pothole that split sharply from the road, his feet scuffing under him as his balance faltered. Flapping inelegantly, he regained balance right as Snape turned, throwing his arms behind him while arching his spine back, away from Snape's piercing eyes.

"I didn't fall," Harry defended himself, lifting his chin yet ignoring Snape's persistent gaze.

"How convincing," came the unconvinced reply with a roll of eyes.

Harry's reply came later, much later, when they made yet another unfamiliar turn onto an unfamiliar road. Snape doesn't notice, though. He doesn't have to. But as they walk into the street, the involuntary warmth of Snape's arm around his shoulders breathes life in Harry's chest. It was so unlike the evening cold seeping under his skin, inspiring a sense of freedom even beside the leering buildings caging them into the narrow alley.

And so very alive at the sight of a building across from them. .

"I don't believe you," Harry rasps in disbelief. He doesn't leave Snape's side, withholding the excitement that shows itself in dark cheeks and a cracking smile, "You found them."

Snape refuses to acknowledge it, and Harry doesn't want him to. They have no words to say to each other, but the letters arching over the iron gates speak enough, more than the newspapers ever can.

"I have one thing to say, however," Snape stops him beneath the rusty iron, "You may not speak to them directly."

"What?"

Snape turns his eyes to the wooden doors and Harry follows his gaze. Across the patches of dry grass, beyond cobblestones cracked by dry plants, a large window looms.

And behind it a group of children.

Snape takes him by the arm, stopping Harry's first step inside and cutting his smile short.

"Smallpox," Snape says, grim and defeated, "A child has acquired it. They're accepting no visitors."

"But my family-"

"I control no disease, Potter. Believe me."

Harry does believe him. But with his family waving behind the window, a smile on each of their faces, the only thing he wants to believe is what he can see. Defeated, he offers a nod to Snape, ducks under his arm as he pushes open the door and gains speed with every step he takes.

As he approaches, the vague silhouettes resolve into individual features. Upon his last step, his breath catches in his throat.

"David?"

The smiling boy was others were just as he remembered, soot free, identically clothed with bruises blossoming across their faces.

"How ya doing, Harry?"

"How am I doing? What happened to your face?" he asks, frowning at their averted gazes.

He couldn't get an answer. Marie suddenly jumped into view, throwing her hands up and screaming loud enough to make Snape wince in obvious agony.

"Harry! Harry you came back!"

He dropped his shoulders, tilting his head while a soft smile slipped to his lips, "Hello, Marie."

"Harry, I want to tell you something," she continued breathlessly, pressing both hands on the window, "Mama and Papa are coming back! I prayed, just like you said, and now mama and papa are coming back!"

Harry blinked, once, twice. He lifted his eyes from Marie to David, and David pressed his lips together, looking at the other boys who seemed equally lost.

"Marie," Joe said behind her, patting her awkwardly on the head, "Why don't you show Harry the toy your mama and papa bought you?"

Her face lit up brighter than Harry had ever seen. She ordered Harry to not move, pushing past the boys and running down the hall, her dress fluttering behind her.

Dress?

"Why is she…" Harry hissed, peering into the window, "Why is she dressed like that? And what does she mean by mama and papa?"

"That's, well, you see-" Joe tried to explain.

"I tried to tell her but-" David cut in, putting his hand over Joe's mouth only to recoil with a yelp when Joe bit down.

Rory pushed them aside, "Oh shut it. Tried to tell them, they say. I say-"

"You lo' should let me speak," Oliver pushed through, Mums behind him with his hands behind his back, "And don' le' Marie run off like tha' again. The other girls don' look at her nice."

"They're jealous," snapped Rory, cradling his hand, glaring at Joe, "They all are."

"So were ya, Rory. We all are. Don' look at me funny, Joe."

"Stop spitting nonsense then!"

David scoffed, leanin on the wall, "Yes, well-"

Snape cleared his throat. Immediately, each boy turned towards Snape. Harry, of course, didn't give any reaction. The rest, however, much to Harry's delight fell awfully quiet. And even Rory, who was still complaining about his hand, stashed it behind his back.

"Is your matron not joining us in the meeting?" Snape asked, moving to stand beside Harry. He wondered if it was intentional. To loom over the children as such, casting a shadow across their faces and terrifying them with ordinary questions asked in unordinary tones.

"She is kept very busy," Joe whispered, squaring his shoulders and looking elsewhere when Snape faced him, "Elizabeth still has the smallpox. A-and no doctor has come yet, so the matrons don't have time for us... unless sick."

"I see," Snape said,looking deep in thought. He took a deep breath, taking a step forward and turning on his heel to face Harry, "Unless you have infinite time, I urge you to be quick about the conversation."

Harry nodded, "What were you saying about Marie, Oliver?"

Among many things, Harry learned that Marie was being taken in by a family soon, and her soon to be father was to claim her in the following days. In the meantime, they had provided her with clothes and, as Marie showed Harry while jumping up and down, stuffed toys. Harry smiled at her while she could see, but the state of the boys didn't pass unnoticed. At the end, they sent Marie to her bed once more, telling her to rest for her new mama. Marie cried. Snape tried to urge her to bed when they failed to soothe her, and it only made her cry louder, screaming as she ran down the corridor. And Harry realised a few things.

They weren't happy. Not at all. They too smiled, when Marie talked to them, though behind them was the strain Harry knew only too well. Jealousy, anger. Harry, too, had often felt the same whenever he came upon a family during his cleaning days. The loneliness, the unfairness of it all. Watching someone own something you could only visit in your dreams. Harry was better now. He knew he was. He was thin, but they were hinner. He had clothes a few sizes too big yet clean. The rest had uneven patches sewn clumsily on their clothes already too small.

Harry hung his head, "They're hitting you here, aren't they?"

Rory scoffed, earning a glare from Oliver, at which he rolled his eyes.

"Ya aren't this daft, Harry," Oliver said, stepping closer and pressing a hand on the glass, "'Course they hit us-" his free hand swept down the side of his face, above a fresh bruise yellow around the edges, "Don' think there'd be any who didn't."

From the side of his vision, Snape clenched his hand. Harry hunched in on himself, taking a step forward, "Listen," he whispered sharply, drawing them closer with a beckoning of his hand. The group exchanged looks, but huddled their heads closer, bodies pressed together against the window. Harry peeked from above his shoulder, and whispered as loudly as he cold without being heard, "I have a plan."

"What plan?" David asked too loudy. That earned a slap on the back of the head from Mums, which all too quickly turned into a scuffle on their side.

Harry dropped his hands between his palms, groaning. A hand knocked on the door, pulling him back. Oliver smiled, strained and weary - unforced yet pulled over dry, neglected skin. Harry pressed his own hand over the window, the disease be damned, and smiled, his eyes closing.

"I'll look after them, Harry."

Harry chuckled. Forced, dry, "You can't shoulder everything."

"I know."

"I have a plan, Oliver. To help us all," Harry whispered, opening his eyes. His other fist was clenched now fueled by whatever emotion was stirring in his chest, and raised his chin, "I will earn money, and I will get us out of here, into that warm house we dreamed of."

When it was Oliver's time to chuckle, it slipped past his lips like water through a parted gate. Smooth, welcoming. A clean laugh that Harry wouldn't doubt as anything but real.

"I trust you, Harry," Oliver said, joining their hands behind the pane.

And those words stayed with him long after they left Greenpath Orphanage. The clock pointed past eight, the sky a blossom of dark colours racing past the horizon. At the table, the two ate in silence under the company of the lantern. The orange flames flickered weakly, casting long shadows on the wood. Dropping his spoon in his empty bowl, Harry stood up, sinking deeper into the darkness of the room.

"May I be excused, sir?"

"Leave your plate on the counter and wait for me on the sofa," replied Snape, face brimming with darkness, despite a number of lamps placed throughout the room. Harry nodded, steering around the table. Placing the plate on the counter, he poured himself a cup of water from the pitcher and drank it down in one gulp. The cup left beside the plate, Harry passed by Snape and sat himself down on the sofa.

It took an infuriating amount of time for Snape to join him in the parlor, unbuttoning his sleeves. The light caught his body with every step, glowing faintly over his dark clothes. And when he sat, Harry thought he caught a glimpse of something dark and large on his arm. Snape pulled his sleeve sharply down, and Harry pretended not to see anything by focusing on the mantelpiece.

He narrowed his eyes.

"The picture is gone."

Snape stilled, "What picture?"

Harry lifted a hand, pointing at the spot above the mantelpiece where the photo used to be, "The picture of the young woman, under a tree. It's gone. Did you remove it?"

Snape let the void of silence do the speaking, the clock chiming in and the late night wind rattling the window. Harry dared not speak. The sky was a messy splash of white dots, as always, too far for Harry to see clearly. He still watched them, though. The blinking lights so far in the distance. And yet, others could see them. Wish upon them. As foolish as the thought was, perhaps Marie's prayer was accepted because she could see them, if she prayed to them at all.

Harry turned to Snape. Snape was watching him back, just as careful, face half-concealed in the shadows.

"Do you pray, sir?"

An unanswered moment. Then, a sharp intake of breath, "What brick has your head collided with for you to ask such a thing?"

Harry twiled his fingers together, "Marie and I… we spoke, the morning I first came into your shop. Or before coming here. She wanted her mother and father to come back -they're not- well, they died, I think and-"

"I must have missed the point you're trying to make between the unnecessary amount of sentences you've managed to string together," Snape snapped, "Do draw your conclusion."

Harry tapped his fingers unevenly on the sofa, muscles taut, "We both agreed to pray for a family, that morning. For a warm house and warm food and good clothes. She's getting a family now," Harry hung his head, the words hanging his shoulders, "A father, a mother. I think I did it wrong. I prayed, too, just before I fell. But maybe I haven't prayed to the right… thing?"

"Thing?"

"Well, the Patels prayed today, too. Doing some odd actions, such as bending down, though Mr Patel sat on the ground… What? Oh, fine, my conclusion is that they prayed 'salah' to God, called Allah. I know some families-" he squeezed his arm, running a nail down the exposed skin, feeling something vaguely familiar to what he experienced that afternoon, "Attend church… But I prayed to… nothing. Is that why my prayer didn't come true?"

Snape's response was a sigh, his face lost in the shadows, his cheekbones occasionally visible from swelling candle flames. All quite, lost. Eyes lost in the window, the orange flickering in his black eyes.

"Sir?"

"I do not pray, Potter. I do not indulge in such… unpleasantries."

"Unpleasantries?"

"Each to their own, Mr Potter. I do not pray. I do not degrade you or Professor Patel's methods openly. There is little for me to contribute to your views on the matter."

Harry shrugged, "If Marie prayed to the stars, I think mine didn't come true because I can't see them."

"What?"

Harry pushed himself back on the couch.. Snape was close, leaning closer, the lines crossing his face that made him look older than he really was bright in the light. Harry swallowed, clutching the fabric of the sofa, knuckles burinıing.

"I-I won't pray to the stars next time, sir?"

Snape groaned, his scowl cutting sharply into his features, "I was playing at humour, when I said you must have hit your head. I very strongly doubt it is a joke anymore. Do you believe that is the part of the sentence I am critiquing?"

Harry did. He didn't admit it, though. Curling into himself, Harry looked down at his toes, "No, sir."

"Am I correct to assume you cannot see, Mr Potter?"

"Only far distances, sir."

"And how long have you been like this, Mr Potter?"

Harry dug his fingers into his arm, "As long as I could remember sir."

"And you have kept this from me why?"

Sighing, Harry lifted his head, facing Snape who was now standing very close, a hand on the back of the sofa, "It hasn't mattered before, it doesn't matter now."

"It matters to me. What happens in your life concerns me."

Harry snorted, "No it bloody well doesn't," he whispered into his arm, turning away from Snape again. That would have been the end of that conversation. Snape would be angry, send Harry to his room and they would fall into their previous routines, as though the incident hadn't taken place. This time, though, Snape didn't shout. Harry preferred for him to shout, to throw a tantrum and leave him alone.

The dangerous curl of his low voice, strong with a spitting warmth of irritation was much, much scarier.

"Excuse me?"

"I don't matter. Not to you. Not to anyone. The only part of me you're concerned with is the Boy-Who-Lived, not anything else," Harry still challenged, his hands squeezed into fists, heart hammering, mind blaring because this was a terribly foolish mistake.

But it was a mistake Harry was willing to make.

"And you think that is below me?

"I think it's below anyone to think my only worth comes from a title I was giving for something I haven't done!" the words escaped, and he didn't try to stop them as they frothed from inside and spat like wild poison, "I think it's below you to keep me here while acting like a sodding bomb!"

Snape sprang to his feet, jabbing a finger into Harry's chest, "Watch your mouth with me, Potter."

"And you don't even tell me!" Harry shouted through his dry mouth, hands slipping into his hair and pulling them by the roots, "You don't tell me what sets you off, and expect me to keep away."

"I expect you to be an obedient stu-" Snape stopped himself, his long fingers curling into a fist, "I expect you to be respectful."

Harry laughed, dropping his hands, "You want to control me. That's what you want."

Snape took a shaky breath, speaking through gritted teeth, "I am very close to doing something you and I will regret, Potter."

"You are like the atoms you told me about. Like that large ele-something table, except you don't know where to belong and no one knows either. You can't decide on how to treat me."

"Perhaps it's because you don't know how to act," Snape spat through his teeth, uncurling his finger and waving it in front of Harry's face.

"Well, it didn't have to be that, did it?" Harry answered, jaw clenched and body shaking uncontrollably, "No one needed to know! You could have gone around, spent your years in peace without me. Dumble-lore didn't need to know! Patel didn't need to know and-"

Harry slammed a hand over his mouth, much too late.

Snape's hand immediately dropped, his brows lifting. They were down again in only a second, his body bending over Harry, trapping him in the corner of the couch.

"For your own well being," Snape hissed, the light from behind Harry only darkening his face with menacing shadows, "tell me you haven't told Professor Patel who you are."

At his silence, Snape's hand slammed down on the armrest, "Answer me!"

At the loud noise, Harry flinched, nails digging into his skin and heart caught in a deathly squeeze. Trembling, Harry shook his head, trying to hide his head in his arms, "I-I'm very sorry, I-"

That must have been the fire that set off the bomb. Harry felt a thorned grip around his arm, nails digging into his skin. He shouted, at the sudden pain, but Snape's hold stood tight, unwavering. And as far as Harry's pleas went, they didn't stop Snape from lifting him up.

Pulled from the sofa, Snape dragged Harry across the room, not even flinching when Harry's fingers dug into his hand.

Eyes already burning, surroundings turning fuzzy, Harry felt the world slipping past his fingers, the hold he had on himself breaking as he was flung into his room.

And with a final look at Harry, Snape slammed the door closed, the lock clicking.

Leaving Harry alone in the dark.

There was no sound in the room, nor light.

The minute the door closed, time slipped out of his grasp, sending him back before Snape, before even his makeshift family huddled together for physical and emotional warmth.

Harry is still. Much too still.

Until he isn't. Until the stillness he so trusted takes such a rapid shift into a drumming heart, Harry feels like he's been toppled over. Nausea and cold dread pools in his stomach creating a vile mixture. One hand over his stomach, Harry manages to regain a little balance before he feels a hot flash strike his body, leaving behind beads of sweat. Cold, hot. Both of them at once and the growing noise from those thumping footsteps flooding viciously in his ears, louder than they actually are. Louder than they should be.

He tries the door - once, twice. It doesn't open, and the feeling of being abandoned on a high ledge bites his insides.

"No, no…" he drops the handle with shaking hands, tugging his trembling fists against his chest, "No!"

He takes a step back. Another. Then another. Enough steps to get his back to hit something solid and slip down its length, away from the screams, away from the shouts ringing in his ears. But he can't cry. He won't let himself be heard. So with hands slammed against his mouth, legs, stomach and head throbbing with searing pain, Harry curls up into a ball, away from the screams and shouts of his uncle and aunt in the cupboard under the stairs.

The clock in the parlor struck once. Harry stilled, pulling his wet hands from his lips but made no effort to stand up, counting the ringing.

One, two, three… ending at exactly ten.

Minutes. It had only been minutes. Harry further curled up into himself, hands once more covering his mouth, this time to calm his exhausted breathing.

Some stray tears drip past his nose, tapping on the wood underneath him. And only when the half-hour mark rang out, followed by a slamming of a door did Harry pull himself up. His fingers shook still.

The window caught his attention. There was no moon, only pale lights barely making it past his window. Harry turned his back to it, stumbling to the bed. What he had experienced… it wasn't there anymore, but it left behind an exhaustion settled in his bones and a hoard of emotions he felt too tired to sort through. Harry shivered, wiping furiously at his eyes. He wouldn't go through this. He refused to go through this. He refused to be angry, to be sad for the things he had caused and refused to be confused about what had happened.

But when he felt the memories treading back, he pulled up his sleeve and jarred his chapped nail down his arm. Again, and again and again. Whilst he stood, whilst he laid down and even while the exhaustion, too strong for him to fend off, pulled him into a restless sleep.

Morning didn't come when he awoke. The scratching didn't stop. Brief burns flickering down his skin until he was calm enough to sleep.

Morning hadn't arrived the second time he woke up either, so Harry, refusing to be angry, fist and jaw clenched, stumbled to the window. It jarred open sharply long enough for Harry to breath in the half-dirty air before walking back to the bed. The cold seeped through the window. He curled up around the blanket, tossing and turning and scratching until the first blue of the morning.

And then, he slept.

The third time he woke up, the sun was trickling past the window and touching his face, easing him out of his restless sleep.

Harry turned to his right, away from the light, covering his face and trying to go back to sleep. It almost worked, until he heard footsteps climbing up the stairs and crossing the parlor without pausing. Harry tensed, squeezing his hands and lying very, very stil.

The door opened without the click of a lock, making Harry wonder when Snape had unlocked it. Then, he remembered the windows, how he had left them open during the night and how they were closed now. That didn't comfort him at all. In fact, the idea of Snape entering the room while Harry was sleeping, at his most vulnerable, made him wrinkle his nose and grimace.

The footsteps stopped just beside his bed, catching Harry's breath. Just for a second. That's when he remembered to breathe, for the sake of his pretend sleep, taking measured and deep breaths.

Harry heard Snape sigh, then the gentle thud of something being placed on the desk near his bed before the footsteps carried out the room, closing the door behind them.

There came no click of the lock.

It still took Harry long after the footsteps disappeared down the office to lift the blanket, sighing in relief at the cool air that touched his exposed skin and sweaty shirt.

And lifting his head, Harry saw a small tray on the table with a small bowl and a spoon aligned neatly on the side, waiting for him. He still felt exhausted, as though the source of all his emotions and energy had been drained to the last drop, leaving him to navigate alone in the drought. Still, he pushed his legs over the side of the bed, shakily walking towards the table and picking up the bowl of porridge.

Squeezing his eyebrows, he lifted the spoon, hating himself for being able to stomach the food despite everything that had happened.

After the last bite, he dropped the spoon into the bowl, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and wiping that on his trousers. Turning to the bed, he took a precious fifteen minutes to tiredly make the sheets, spending another ten to get himself to look somewhat presentable before walking out the room, tray in hand.

There was no Snape in the parlor. As the man hated Harry washing the dishes, thinking he'd waste the precious water they had, Harry left the bowl and spoon on the counter and stuffed the tray beside the corner of the counter.

The clock rang behind him, making him jump and narrow his eyes. It stopped at nine. Harry raised his brows, turning to the door in surprise. Snape had left Harry asleep this long. Then again, after last night…

Harry sighed. What had they even argued about? Harry couldn't even remember what had stemmed the angry outbursts. Was it seeing Oliver? Getting tired of Snape meddling with his life? Harry bit down on his lip, nodding furiously at the thought. That had to be it. Snape was meddling into his life, and Harry had enough of it, and was going to go down stairs and- But... it wasn't meddling. He stopped short of touching the door knob, pulling his hand back.

Harry recalled all the good things Snape had done, since the day he arrived while pacing around the room, dropping his face into his face. The only times he remembered being angry at Snape were at the comments he made, or when Snape didn't even flick him on the ear were he to answer back.

And, with that, Harry felt a complete idiot for thinking he could barge down the stairs and stand in front of Snape, wearing the clothes he had bought him, stomach full from the food he had made him after sleeping in the room he had given him.

No, Harry rubbed his arm, taking a deep breath and opening the door. He wouldn't say anything. In fact, he wouldn't apologise at all and wait until Snape said anything and act according to how the conversation went.

Even if it took them the whole day to get there.

Mind made up, he threw open the door, chin raised and feet firmly on the step. He wouldn't shrink away. He wouldn't. Harry would open his door, go down the stairs and greet Snape as he normally did before getting back to work and-

He barely reached the door before he pulled his hand back, feeling his cheeks burn as he slid down the wall.

A sigh left his lips, long and tired, leaving his body to slouch against the wall. Extending his legs, Harry leaned his head back on the wall, closing his eyes. This wouldn't work. Harry just couldn't see how he could make up for what happened last night, or the days before, without making a mistake and not letting Snape get the upper hand during the conversation either.

So he stayed there some ten minutes, paddling in a river of his own thoughts for a solution. None came. So when the bell chimed, of course Harry jumped to his feet, finding the customers an appealing alternative to speaking with Snape.

But that, too, made his shoulders drop in defeat.

"M-may I help you?" he asked shakily, the hand he placed on the counter to balance him tapping on the wood.

"Oh, who are you young sir?" said the man with balding red hair and blue eyes behind a pair of glasses, wearing an excited smile, "An assistant of the Professor's?"

"Uh, yes, I am, actually," he said, stopping his hand. Harry eyed the man, and then the child he had brought with him that looked his age, with his father's tall, thin and gangling frame. The boy also had freckles, big hands and feet, and a long nose, which he pitched occasionally with a mild expression of pain, "Would you like me to get him for you, sir?"

"We just came to pick up an order," the man said, a hand over the boy's shoulder, who was looking rather hopeful, "If you know where that is-" Harry shook his head. The boy's eyes dropped, his hands folded over his chest, "-Well, in that case, please tell Professor Snape Mr Weasley came to collect an order."

Harry nodded, looking at the boy one last time before stepping towards the door. Hand on the handle, he bit down on his lips, nervously shuffling his feet.

Mr Weasley's voice pressed forward, "Is everything alright, young man?"

Harry turned his head sharply towards Mr Weasly, and gave a quick shake of his head. No, what could be so wrong as to stop him from opening the door, walk down the spiralling staircase and tell Snape he had a customer? Nothing. Unless one was Harry, or any entity that had gotten into an argument with him. Blinking, he pulled down the handle, the metal almost slipping past his sweaty fingers and stepped into the room.

He thought about calling him from the first step. The room wasn't very deep underground. He would certainly hear. But Harry feared that'd be rude, and rude was something he was not planning to become.

Unless he was provoked, of course.

So Harry took the stairs one step at a time, under the occasional shadow cast from the light on the metal steps. And when he reached the bottom, expecting to find Snape busy bent over his work, he paused at the last step with parted lips.

Snape was in the corner, sitting on a chair. His elbows were placed on his thighs, hands stippled in front of his face, balancing his head while his back arched forward.

Harry took the last step, his hand still on the rails, cool to the touch. This, seeing Snape like that in the corner, felt like an intrusion to his privacy. Snape was a stern man, with a strict composure and even harsher decorum.

Harry ran a hand numbly down his arm, eyes pinned on his shoes, "Sir?"

Harry, of course, didn't see Snape's response, but he heard some small movement, and a low but clear voice crossing the room, "Yes, Mr Potter?"

"Uh," Harry lifted a hand to stroke his hair, eyes now travelling up the length of the cabinets, "There is… Mr Weasley. He said he's here for an order."

"Mr Weasly?" he repeated, the chair sliding across the floor. Harry lifted his head to find Snape had stood up and was crossing the distance between them with lengthy steps.

Harry took a step back, taking a sharp breath. That stopped Snape, right in front of the spot the saturated light of the day hit. His abrupt stop sent dust spiralling in the air. And the room was cast into a silence, left to the tuneless dance of the dust particles catching the light.

Much like Harry's nerves, it was uneven. Rapid. A million things at once jolting his heart until time settled them, like the dust spreading a thin layer on the floor.

At that, Harry took a breath, wiping his forehead and clearing his throat, "I-I'll go up first, shall I?"

It wasn't a suggestion, and had all the implication to be an order, but Snape nodded along, waiting until Harry was halfway up before his footsteps joined Harry's, echoing evenly in the room.

The Weaslys hadn't moved at all. Harry offered them a smile, which only the elder Weasly returned, and stepped around the corner to stand in front of the counter, away from the chimney and where he predicted Snape would stand.

"Mr Weasley," came the greeting, a long leg sliding through the crack in the door, long fingers pushing the door closed, "How delightful to see you back from your trip.

Mr Weasley gave a heartfelt smile, moving forward to join Snape once he was close enough and taking his long fingers in his large hand, "Same for you, Professor Snape. Say, the shop looks a little empty compared to our last visit."

Snape gave a stern smile, "Does it? Pity. I would have hoped it would look far more… lively with an additional inhabitant."

"Ah, yes," Mr Weasley said, his eyes striding towards Harry, "Youth. They bring some excitement to life, wouldn't you agree?"

For some reason, the boy snorted, failing miserably to hide it behind a cough. Harry smiled at the twitch on the corner of his lips, visible with even his horrible vision, though his smile was wiped clean when Snape continued to talk.

"Most excitement I've had in twelve years," Snape said dryly, joining his hands behind his back, "The dangers my students subject me to can't even compare."

"A far more qualified chemist, I presume?"

Snape tossed Harry a glance, seizing him from head to toe before turning to Mr Weasley, "Far more competent than young Mr Weasley's in-class performance. Which does remind me-" he then turned to the boy, hands still behind his back, arching forward, "-Your trip to Egypt does not exempt you from homework."

The boy coloured as dark as his hair and gave a jerky nod, pushing his father's hand from his head when it came down to pat his hair, "Yes, Professor..."

Harry didn't listen after that, as Mr Weasly was engaging Snape in all sorts of enthusiastic conversation, even ones Snape was clearly uninterested in, but was politely nodding along to. Harry took the opportunity to walk around the two once they started to talk about the boy's eldest brother who was an archeologist working in Egypt, and stood right next to him.

The boy turned to face him, and Harry lifted a hand in greeting, "Hello."

"Hello," the boy said awkwardly, shifting his eyes from Harry to the adults (who were now talking about the convict, Sirius Black) and back to Harry again. He then extended a hand, rubbing his neck shly with the other, "My name's Ron. How 'bout you?"

"Harry," he replied, taking Ron's hand with a smile.

Ron, while shaking his hand, pulled Harry to the side, near the fireplace. He didn't notice Harry turning his back to the fireplace, or the way he squared his shoulders, and that was fine with Harry. Ron did, however, lean forward, a hand covering his mouth as he whispered into Harry's ear, "Are you really Snape's assistant?"

Harry glanced above his shoulder, "You can say that, yeah."

"Blimey, he must be less of a git than school, if you can put up with him. Do you work here all summer?"

"Only since a week before July," Harry admitted with a shrug, grinning when Ron took the maths to his fingers.

Ron dropped his fingers, "So, sixteen days?"

Harry grimaced, remembering the week spent at Diagon Alley, "Almost, yeah. Is today the eighth?"

"Seventh," Ron corrected, straightening his posture after looking behind Harry, "Do you go to Hogwarts?"

Harry sighed, shaking his head, "No. I want to, though," he said tiredly, stuffing his hands into his pockets, "What's it like there?"

Ron laughed, lightly patting his shoulder, "You need to be a lot more specific, mate."

So first, Harry asked about the teachers, and what lessons they had there. Ron fell into a long speech about each subject and their teachers, at the end of which Harry only remembered Professor McGonogall, who taught something called physics.

"I'm not good at any of them, though. But this year we'll have different electives, and I'm thinking about choosing art with Professor Trelawney, but Hermione's -she's my friend, at Hogwarts- choosing everything! Can you believe it?"

"She must be smart," Harry said, folding his arms, a pang of jealousy from hearing how Ron could study all these subjects.

Ron nodded, fiddling with his coat pocket, "Too smart for her own good-" he pulled out a small brown paper bag from his pocket, taking out a small ball with a white coating and offering it to Harry, "-Here."

"What is it?" Harry asked without taking it.

"Dates," Ron said, popping it into his mouth, chewing a few times before speaking, mouth still full, "Well, candy. My brother 'aught us the recep'. 'ry some."

Harry took the second offered candy and gave it a smell, immediately wrinkling his nose, "Smells like cinnamon," he said, putting the candy back into the bag.

"Oh," Ron said, swallowing, "It does have cinnamon. How'd you smell it so well?"

Harry shrugged, suddenly very interested to go up to his room, curl into a ball under the sheets and pretend he didn't exist, "Keen nose."

"Are you done, son?" Mr Weasley called from behind them, holding a large cloth bag in his hands. Harry hadn't heard Snape bring up the order, and Ron mustn't have either, because he choked from his third candy, stuffing the bag clumsily into his pocket, "No, da," he then turned to Harry, a a flushed smile on his face, "I hope we meet again. It'd be great, having you at Hogwarts. Bye Harry."

Harry waved him goodbye, nodding politely at Mr Weasley and watching them walk out the door, the bell ringing behind them. Harry waited with Snape until they disappeared down the street, mingling with the crowd.

The two didn't speak. But when the silence grew unbearable, Harry spoke at the same time Snape opened his mouth.

"Professor-"

"Potter-"

They shared a glance, and Harry gestured towards him, reluctant to speak first, "Y-You first, sir."

Snape tapped the counter three times with his long fingers, before pushing away and walking around it. Harry followed close behind, the door open behind them as they went down the spiralling staircase.

Back downstairs, Harry sat down on his chair as gestured, pinching his arm. The room echoed with the sound of a chair being pulled from the corner, which quickly ended as Snape instead lifted it. Harry wondered if Snape didn't like loud noises until the man dropped the chair in front of Harry and sat down.

"I wish to talk about last night," Snape said without giving Harry time to adjust himself, hands clasped on his lap.

"Me too, sir," Harry said, because he agreed. But mostly he didn't have anything else to say.

"You must understand that it cannot happen again."

Harry bowed his head, squeezing his arm, "I do, sir."

"And for that…" Snape's words lingered, silence dragging forth, "We both have a part to play."

Harry lifted his head, "Sir?"

Snape leaned back in his chair, looking very tired, "You cannot expect me to be the lone participant in this… truce."

"I wasn't. I mean-" Harry twirled his fingers, "Is that all we're going to do?"

"Have you any other ideas?"

"I don't. But I don't want to leave last night…. Unresolved."

"You find it unresolved?" Snape said in the tone that wanted clarification and often got on Harry's nerves, face void of emotion.

Harry took a deep breath and held it there, releasing it loudly into his hands, "Yes, I do."

"And so do I. What part of it have you found the most conflicting?"

Harry too leaned back, fiddling with his hands, running last night's argument in his mind. After a few minutes, when Snape waited surprisingly patiently, he started.

"First I want to say… It was a mistake, telling Professor Patel," Harry squeezed the fabric of his trousers, "I thought you trusted her, so… I wasn't careful. Careful enough."

"Yes, I have noticed. That is…" Snape narrowed his eyes, pulling his lips into a thin line. Harry thought he looked conflicted, a few hundred thoughts running inside his head. He did, however, pull out of his thoughts with a blank expression.

Harry often felt Snape never showed how he really felt.

"Last night cannot happen again. We... both were at fault. You, with telling Professor Patel -let me finish, Mr Potter- who you are, with my exact instruction to not do so, followed by an argument which I did not, and currently do not, appreciate."

Harry ran a hand deftly through his hair, fingers pulling his bangs over his scar.

"But I am willing to listen to your reasoning, just this once-" Harry's eyes widened "-Under the conditions that you speak coherently, and listen to me after you break down your argument. Understood?"

A nod. Snape sighed, loosely gesturing for him to speak, "I will not interrupt you."

"And will you-" Harry swallowed thickly, the ghost of a touch brushing his upper arm, "Nevermind. I just… I feel confused. Confused on how to act. Like I-I said yesterday. I don't know whether to act this way or that way, because you don't tell me what to do."

Snape nodded curtly. Taking a deep breath, Harry avoided Snape's eye as he continued, "I feel like you're controlling me. Having a say in everything I say and do. And I realize that for some things, you're right in what you do. But I don't… I don't want to be a servant."

"I haven't been treating you as such."

"I know but what I mean is…" Harry sighed, running a hand down his face, "Please don't act like every mistake I make is killing you. I know- Some things I did, they weren't good. But stop acting as I'm going to put you in danger every second you leave me unsupervised."

Snape dropped his hands, "It's not myself I'm concerned about," he whispered slowly, quiet enough that Harry almost missed it. But without a second pause, and allowing Harry to speak, Snape crossed his legs taking on a much relaxed poise.

"Regarding the way I act, I will make a conscious effort to give clear instructions, steering you in the right direction should I fınd you're wavering without extreme… commentary."

The words, forced through a clenched jaw, left no convincing impression. Harry made it known by blinking rapidly, hands squeezing the edge of his chair. There came no acknowledgement.

"I am inclined towards authority and discipline, and find no issue in being as such. You are a liability I will not risk endangering. My actions, which you interpret as 'meddling' will not change until Headmaster Dumbledore arrives, bearing the news of your future."

Harry blinked, "You're… A stranger is going to decide what's going to happen to me."

"You'll be surprised at how involved the Headmaster is with your affairs, well-being or otherwise."

"...Do you trust him, sir?"

The pause was enough to get Harry doubting the answer. However, Snape replied with an air of sincerity readily apparent behind his intended ambiguity.

"More than I trust anyone."

"That's not enough reason to get me to trust him."

"No," Snape agreed, "I would not expect it to, either. But that is neither here, nor there. I have one more request."

"Request?"

Snape nodded, "You may regard it as a condition, if you're intending to treat the word any less than the rules I have set before you. You are to continue having weekly sessions with Professor Patel, until we agree for you to stop."

"Who is 'we'?" Harry asked, voice very quiet and very cautious, like he was approaching a wounded animal.

"Headmaster Dumbledore, Professor Patel and myself."

Harry crossed his arms, "But why?"

"Because-" Snape bit out, closing his eyes and releasing a deep breath "-Because I said so, and because time will let you know."

"That is not at all relieving."

Snape smirked, standing up and pulling the chair up by the back, "I wasn't intending for it to be. Back to work, Potter, and no interruptions."

Sometimes it was very hard to forgive.

But in this instance, Harry smiled, because the pair of them had at least made it easier to forget.

Standing up as well, he walked towards the cabinets where his books and newspapers were. His back to Snape, he spoke, the words heavy on his tongue.

"I don't know if I have the right to say this, sir, but I am sorry. For the… unjustified words I spoke."

He didn't see Snape, but heard the pause in the ruffling papers, "You're expanding your vocabulary. How comforting."

Lifting his book and not knowing how to respond, Harry collected the rest of the materials in his arms, ready to go back to his chair.

A hand extended in front of him, slowing his step.

He didn't look up.

"My actions were regarding your... " Harry looked up at the right time to catch Snape glancing at his arm. Their eyes met, and Harry instinctively ran a hand down his upper arm, shifting his gaze.

"It won't happen again."

"I know sir."

"And I apologise for it."

Harry fiddled with the side of the pages, stroking the finger he had cut on the edges, "Thank you, sir."

Snape dropped his hand, clasping it with the other behind his back and said, "You may work on the table, if you wish," before turning around towards his work.

The rest of the day was mostly silent.

The following week was remarkably uneventful to the point of boredom.

Their daily routine hadn't changed. Wake up, do chores, eat breakfast, work for four hours and assist Snape in whatever he may need help with after an hour long lesson from the Professor. Only this time, their awkward conversations and forced greetings gradually fell into ignoring and even avoiding one another whenever possible. Harry didn't mind, though. He read, he wrote and learned that mathematics wasn't as easy as the first few topics, all while crossing the dates off the makeshift calendar drafted on the inner cover of the book, waiting for Dumble-bore's arrival.

And with every cross, Harry found that not everything was well with Snape.

Because If there was anything to complain about, it was Snape and the fact that he was driving Harry to a point of insanity.

Again.

Gone was the man whose presence he enjoyed in the garden and tolerated in the laboratory. Snape had steadily grown from teasing to giving monotone lectures (which only made Harry sleepy) to not even hearing him.

The smirks shifted into scowls when he thought Harry wasn't looking, or sneering at the sight of him when he knew Harry was looking, to nothing at all. Silence. Not a word spoken between them since the day after their argument, only small, vague sounds holding no emotion.

Harry tried to convince himself that he was making things up, that Snape was just as bad as he remembered. But even the Patels, who had visited with the arrival of the new stock to help, looked concerned. Snape had refused to tell them anything. Even when Professor Patel had asked him very, very quietly if there was anything he needed help with, to which Snape answered something Harry couldn't hear from the door he was hiding behind.

And all of this, of course, both confused and worried Harry. Because it wasn't just Snape's mood and tolerance of Harry that was in decline - it was his physical state as well. There was the fatigue; the tired, bloodshot eyes underlined by dark bags; the refusal of a bath while urging Harry to be clean; the trouble of waking up in the morning, needing Harry to knock on his door a few times.

Harry would have dared to say even his greasy hair was suffering, but of coure he never told it to his face, lest he murder Harry impulsively. This was yet another alarming change, being impulsive. And Harry was growing afraid.

Afraid that, among many things that Snape was forgetting these days, he'd forget his promise.

The early, early morning of the twelfth of August made everything worse.

Another nightmare had woken Harry. Sweaty and trembling, Harry took gulps of air, trying to steady his hands and body enough to stand up and open the window. Once that was done, and Harry's skin was tingling with the cold blowing through the window, he closed it and turned to the door for a drink in the kitchen, arm stinging with the scratching of his nails.

On his toes, he was just about to reach the pitcher when he smelled it - the burning, foggy smell of smoke. And not just any smoke.

Tobacco.

Harry's head immediately whirled to Snape's door. His heart drummed. His already dry throat burned.

It didn't stop him from approaching Snape's door, still afraid, ears still ringing.

His hand met with the wall beside the door, and creeping up, he pushed himself flat to its surface and stood very, very still.

There was no doubt about it. Snape was smoking. Odd. Harry didn't remember Snape smoking throughout his visit, and found it peculiar for him to choose this hour to do so. He was ready to go back to the pitcher, dismissing the matter entirely, when he heard something.

A sob.

A sob, which didn't stop. A sob which grew. And a sob which finally shifted into crying, wheezing and ugly sniffing. Wails, whimpers. Harry slammed a hand over his mouth in both surprise and fear of Snape hearing him, whose laments were muffled behind something, perhaps a pillow.

Harry felt like an intruder, a witness to his shed tears, an invader and violator of Snape's privacy, the only privacy he had with Harry around. And he did urge himself to move. To leave. Leave for the comfort of his room and forget the night had ever happened.

He stayed, all the same, one hand on the door. And only when both the smell of tobacco and Professor Snape's crying had ceased did Harry go back to his room.

That night, he didn't sleep much.

He didn't dare.

At the chime of the clock, Harry threw back the covers and dressed hurriedly. The room was tidied in a few short moments, with a cold, gentle breeze lifting the curtains. Harry shrugged on a jacket against the chill and made a short trip to the water closet ( after which he washed his hands with freezing water).

Once the potatoes and onions, which were very close to being harvested, were watered along with the ones in the pot, Harry rolled up his sleeves and cuffs and started pulling along the soil for any weeds. There were hardly any left, however, seeing as he had been working in the garden for the past week and moved onto the next chore. He had already washed the panes, and the water closet didn't require anything more, either. Very soon, Harry was back inside with a pleased smile, his hands freezing once again from washing them in the cold.

He was swift in his sweeping as well, and at the end of a few short hours, he had a small meal of potatoes laid out on the table.

The clock showed the exact time the two shared breakfast.

Stifling a yawn, Harry studied his work with a small, beaming smile. For once, glad for the hours spent in… her kitchen, Harry turned to the shut door of Professor Snape.

Harry had expected the man to wake up during his cooking. He hadn't made much noise, but Professor Snape had sensitive hearing and vision to accompany his stealthy walk. Nonetheless, glad for the lack of disturbances, Harry walked towards the door, pressed a hand to it and took a deep breath, and knocked.

No answer.

Once, twice. Again,not even a sound. Growing worried, Harry cleared his throat and this time tried his voice.

"Professor Snape?" he called, knocking once again, "Sir, it's time to wake up, sir."

Dead quiet.

"Professor Snape, please wake up, sir. It's past six o'clock."

He was ready to open the door in fear for the silent man when he finally did hear something. A groan, the lazy ruffling of bedsheets, and finally the shuffling slap of naked, approaching feet. Harry held his breath as a lock was turned and Snape yanked the door open.

He looked worse than Harry remembered.

Dark shadows under his eyes, skin paler than snow, sallow coloured cheeks.

Harry only barely stopped himself from gaping.

"What is it, Potter?" he spat, or tried to, anyway. His usually silky voice came out in a gruffy slur, and his narrow eyes followed Harry's fingers towards the clock.

"It's past six, sir. And I-I have breakfast ready."

"It is my duty to make breakfast."

"I know, sir. I woke up early, today, saw that you weren't up, and decided to make breakfast when you wouldn't answer my earlier calls."

Professor Snape's eyes fell on the table, and then back at Harry. The lines around his eyes eased, and the robes hugging his tense body fell easily down his bony shoulders.

"I didn't answer you earlier summons?"

Harry stared at the space between Professor Snape's eyes and shook his head, "No, sir. You did not."

With a hum, Professor Snape slid past him. Grabbing a plate, he returned back to the door. Before closing it, however, he pointed a finger at Harry, "Continue on your schedule. No customers are to collect their orders until I come down. Leave the washing up to me."

The door slammed in his face, rattling the walls, and Harry blinked.

The breath he was holding came out as a mixture of nerves and relief. Collecting himself from where he had slipped down to the floor, he ate his breakfast quickly and immediately after made his way to the laboratory.

Professor Snape joined him downstairs just as Harry turned the page to a new chapter in Alice in Wonderland.

He didn't look much better. The black circles under his eyes weren't gone, and his thin frame looked skeletal under his loose clothing. Harry pulled his gaze away from the man when Professor Snape looked his way.

"No house visit today, sir?" Harry asked, still not lifting his head.

"No," And with a swift turn, Professor Snape was back to work - sleeves down, back bent.

A slow rumble echoed above them. Though far in distance, it was still very worrying. Harry looked up for Snape's reaction from the other side of the table.

He hadn't even looked up.

There wasn't much light today. Only a grey filter passed above the sun, clouds thick in the sky. Harry shivered, wishing for the jacket he left upstairs. Twirling the pencil between his fingers, he considered whether asking permission was worth interrupting Professor Snape.

The answer was a clear no, when Professor Snape started tipping a very thin jar over the scale, eyes narrowed in concentration. So Harry, without scraping the chair on the floor, So Harry, without scraping the chair on the floor, tip-toed around the table so as not to disturb Professor Snape

There were no customers when Harry walked out into the shop, and only a few people on the street. Harry walked behind the counter, going upstairs to the parlor, only to see with concerned confusion that Professor Snape hadn't washed up after all.

A look at the door behind him told him Professor Snape wasn't intending to finish the job, either. With a shrug, Harry noted where his jacket was stranded behind his chair and cleared the morning dishes, propping them in the shelves after a wash.

Back downstairs, Professor Snape didn't acknowledge him. His hands smoothly moved from jar to tool to herb, bringing them together in fluid movements, all while ignoring Harry.

Harry followed suit not long after, immersed in his books and slowly declining stock of chalk, but still was the only one to hear the chime of the bell from above the laboratory. Looking at Professor Snape and finding him too immersed in his chopping of herbs, Harry closed his book.

Professor Snape didn't seem to notice the constant looks Harry was giving over his shoulder as he climbed the stairs towards the shop.

"Ah!" a man said as Harry appeared behind from the door, putting a hand into his very large bag, "And I was worried no one was in the shop."

"Can I help you, sir?" Harry asked cautiously, eyeing the scruffy man's clothes, which were made to resemble a formal uniform. The man held up a finger, scratching his beard and rummaging through the bag again before pulling something out with an air of triumph.

He walked up to Harry, placing the letter on the counter, "Here ya are, Mr Snape."

"Oh, uh, I'm not-"

"No payment needed," the man said, holding up a hand and shouldering his bag, "You have a good day, lad. Or as good as today's gonna get."

And with that, the bell rang behind the man as he left, leaving behind a white envelope on the counter with very fancy handwriting.

Harry lifted the envelope, and with a final look at the darkening street, made his way downstairs.

Professor Snape still didn't acknowledge him. So Harry dropped the letter on top of the piles of papers, throwing a final look at the envelope and reading part of the address, 'Malfoy Manor' before going past to sit on his chair.

It was when Harry closed his book that Professor Snape stopped working of his own accord, and not because Harry ushered him upstairs to tend to the customers he wasn't able to. Harry stretched his arms above his head, his back arching on the chair, stifling a yawn. Snape looked up from the jar he had lidded, the glass scraping on the wood as it was dismissed to the side.

"Oh, sir," Harry stood, holding up a hand when Snape turned to walk towards the stairs, "You received a letter."

Professor Snape halted on his tracks, a hand disappointedly slipping down the rails, "From whom?" he asked, quiet and firm, not turning around.

"I don't know. But it writes… Ma-Malfoy? Is that how you pronounce it?"

Harry looked up from the letter when there came no response, and stepped back at the look on Professor Snape's face. How anyone already pale beyond health could lose their remaining colour, Harry didn't know, but the professor was proving it could be done. He clumsily tore into the letter, eyes skimming the lines furiously.

Harry thought the man would faint, and prepared himself to catch him should it prove necessary. It wasn't. His thin fingers curled around the edge of the table, pulling the skin above his knuckles taut. Harry couldn't see Professor Snape's face behind his curtain of black hair, but he did notice the small tremors of his arms, and took that as the signal to fetch the Professor a glass of water.

The rumbling of thunder followed him up the stairs, and the rain joined in, gently rolling down the glass panes when Harry returned downstairs.

Thankfully, Professor Snape was sitting down, head on the back of the chair and eyes lost in the rain. Timidly, Harry placed the cup in front of Professor Snape, silently praying death didn't come to collect the soul of the Professor.

It didn't. Professor Snape pushed himself up from his sprawled form, gripped the glass and downed it in a few gulps.

Lightning flashed above; the rolling thunder a reminder of more rain to come.

Harry rubbed his fingers together, looking up and through the panes to the grey sky, "Sir, are you alright?"

Professor Snape gripped the glass tighter in his hand, "I will be alright," he said in a voice entirely unconvincing, webbed with lies that even Harry could see.

"Would you like some tea?"

Professor Snape lifted tired eyes lined with signs of age and lack of sleep. Harry offered a smile, nudging the leg of the chair with his foot, "I won't burn down your kitchen."

"It's not my-" Professor Snape shut his lips, taking uneven breaths, " Some tea would be… appreciated."

Harry nodded, once again climbing up the metal stairs, this time with straining legs.

It took him two trips to get the kettle and cups downstairs, so he was pleased to see that Professor Snape (who looked to have regained some colour) had placed the kettle over the fireplace to boil when he returned from the second trip.

Soon enough, there were two cups of hot, steaming tea on the table. Harry cupped his using the sleeves of his shirt, arms and chin resting on the table while he blew into the cup and tipped it to take a sip.

"I've never had tea before," he said, watching the steam rise from the light coloured tea, a sweet aftertaste lingering on his tongue, "Well, I did once, but I don't think it counts."

Professor Snape placed his own cup down, arms crossed over the table, more relaxed then Harry had seen in days. He didn't answer, which sat well with Harry, as he didn't feel up to explaining the exact circumstances to Professor Snape.

But he still wanted to talk, for some reason he didn't understand - wanted to share, and see what Professor Snape had to say about the event.

But he took another sip, and slumped lazily on the table, smiling into his arm at the sound of the rain, the heat settling on his skin, "What kind of tea is this?

"Chamomile, I believe," Professor Snape said, turning the cup in his hands, "Mr Weasley brought it as a gift from Egypt."

"Mr Weasley? When?"

"While you were engaged with the younger Mr Weasley," he said, tilting his cup back for a sip.

Harry frowned, "I didn't notice."

"I don't believe that's an issue," he said, standing up and walking over to the fireplace, pouring himself another. Harry struggled to keep his eyes open, the sound of pouring water mingled with those of rain and thunder, gently coaxing them closed. Stifling a yawn, he huddled his head closer in his arms, the heat behind him a warm blanket over his shoulders.

"Is the letter from Dumble-roar?" said Harry sleepily, stifling a yawn, "Is he… coming then?"

"Headmaster Dumbledore," said Professor Snape from somewhere above him with a fırm voice. Harry felt a presence around him, and then fingers prying the cup from his hands.

"Yeah…" Harry mumbled, his eyes finally closing, his world muffled behind the sleep that was calling for him, "Dumble-bore…"

And then, there came silence.

Harry was at Patel's house early the next day, his limbs still sore from having slept bent over the table.

Harry scratched out the 13th number on the inside cover of his book, swinging his legs mindlessly as he worked through multiplication problems. Both Patel's were somewhere in the house, excusing their absence by saying they had to pack for a small trip, and that they would join him very soon.

Harry didn't mind, and happily drank his milk and ate his cookies (not cinnamon), almost finishing the plate by the time he closed his book. Picking up a cookie, he stuffed the whole thing in his mouth, chewing as he walked out the kitchen and into the living room.

After a long fifteen minutes, Professor Patel finally came back, rubbing her hands down her skirt, "I'm sorry, Harry. I said I had nothing to do, but I didn't know you'd be coming in the morning."

Harry straightened up, "It's fine, Professor."

She smiled, taking a seat and sighing tiredly before straightening up, "So, did anything happen this week?"

Harry thought for a moment, then shook his head, "Nothing very… important."

"Anything you'd like to share?"

Harry then remembered the tea he drank with Professor Snape, and the memory he wanted to share at that moment. Taking a deep breath, Harry searched for any sign on Professor Patel's face that showed she didn't want to hear anything he had to say. He didn't see anything, only a small smile.

Harry took another breath.

"We drank tea yesterday afternoon," he said shyly, looking down, the words raising the beat of his heart.

"Oh, very nice. What did you drink?"

"I don't remember the name, something starting with a 'k' sound. But it reminded me of something that happened. Can I-" he brushed his bangs down, "-Would you like to hear it?"

She nodded, joining her hands on her lap, and Harry thought the smile on her lips was met with some relief, "Please."

Harry nodded along with her, rubbing his hands together, "The first time I drank tea, I… I stole some from my aunt, after she and her friend drank some and I was taking it to the kitchen. I liked it."

She nodded, "I myself don't like tea, but I have a similar memory, of trying a sip from my mother's cup," then, her eyes dropped to the ground, and her smile faltered before returning a little strained, a little forced, "I burnt my tongue."

"Is that why you don't like it?"

"Turkish tea is very bitter, and I didn't give myself the opportunity to taste anything else. Very odd, considering my mother had ample flavors for me to drink from."

"Oh," Harry said dryly, placing his hands down on the sofa and scratching the fabric, "I think you should try this one. It's very sweet."

Her forced smile eased into something softer, brighter, and Harry could see some of her teeth through her parted lips, "I will ask Professor Snape for a sample."

Silence.

Unlike yesterday, there was no rain, but the sky was the murky grey Harry was accustomed to, and even enjoyed. Mud made it hard to walk, and rain would often have them sick, back when he was with Edwin. But now? Harry hoped (not prayed, because he couldn't see the stars, and he still believed it was the reason behind his unanswered prayer) that he would always have a warm house to watch the rain fall. And Harry couldn't help but let his gaze wander towards the window, eyes squinting to look past the blur of his vision. He did it again. The light, cold and dim, falling across his face.

"Harry, do you have trouble with your vision?"

Harry left the window to look at Professor Patel, giving a shy nod in response, "Yes. When I look into far distances, everything gets blurry."

"And up close?" she asked, looking up at the clock on the wall. Harry's response was a simple shrug.

"I don't think so."

"Professor Snape said he would come back close to six…" Professor Patel mumbled to herself, rubbing her chin, her sentence left unfinished. Harry, though, had a small idea on where the sentence was going, and hoped he was right in what he was assuming when Professor Patel excused herself for a moment to speak with her brother.

It took ten minutes, and when she came back, she was securing her scarf down with a pin, a small smile on her face, "Grab your coat."

As her father used to buy glasses himself, in the recent years, Professor Patel knew of someone called an 'optician', which Harry had never heard of before, but learned that they sold glasses and spectacles. And that alone put a smile on his lips, one that not even the jacket buttoned up to his chin could hide. (It was cold, Professor Patel had argued, forcing him to button all of them while not wearing any coat herself.) Not even the ugly stares at the end of their almost hour-long walk would dampen his mood.

They arrived outside a shop, one with a sign worn with time and with letters Harry couldn't read in the few seconds he had, but imagined one of them had to spell 'optician'.

Then, they entered, Harry right behind Professor Patel, because he really didn't know what to expect from an 'optician'.

"Mr Fahr?" Professor Patel timidly called into the shop, a hand on Harry's shoulder steering him to the counter. Harry took that moment to look around the shop, which didn't resemble any other he had seen. There were no boxes like in Mr Ollivanders, no jars like at the apothecary, and no books lining the shelves - only a counter in a very small and very dust-free space, with a door beside it.

"You know, Professor," Harry said shyly, looking at the door as though a monster would spring out of it at any given minute, "I never said this on the road, but glasses must be expensive and I don't have-"

Professor Patel squeezed his shoulder gently, yet firmly and opened her mouth to reply when the door opened.

There came no monster. Instead, a tall, lean man with thick white hair and what looked to be a single round glass over his one eye walked into the room.

"Good afternoon," the man said in a gruff voice, unfamiliarly accented, his eyes falling on first Professor Patel, then Harry, "I wasn't expecting to see you so soon, Ms. But the eye runs in the family, I suppose."

"Not yet, Mr Fahr," said Professor Patel, motioning Harry with her free hand, "I have brought you another customer."

"Even younger, it seems," said Mr Fahr, unamused, adjusting the glass over his eye while he stared Harry down, making him look away, "Follow me."

Mr Fahr led them both past the door he had entered, walkıing to a chair in the corner of the new room they had entered. Beside it, was a cabinet, brown in colour and angular in shape, holding rows of small circles, similar to the one Mr Fahr was wearing. The man gestured to the chair, and Professor Patel gave Harry a little nudge, retreating to a corner to watch.

Mr Fahr worked without conversation. He asked what he could see and what he could not, how long he struggled with his vision, and finally pulled up a chart with letters and asked him to read after confirming he was literate.

Harry didn't manage to read much, nothing, really, with the chart a blur of black shapes.

That's when Mr Fahr moved to the 'lenses' on the cabinet. He tried many of them, sometimes worsening his vision, and sometimes making it better until it came to a particular lense on his right eye that made Harry gasp.

The room lit up in colour and quality both.

"Ah," Mr Fahr said dryly, with a hint of pride, "Found him."

He then closed Harry's right eye, repeating the process until the second gasp, which wasn't any softer than the previous. Mr Fahr took the lens away, scribbled some things down on his notebook and told Harry he could stand up. After measuring his head for frames, he sent them on their way, asking them to return in seven to ten days.

It had happened so fast, Harry couldn't even comprehend when they had walked outside.

"Am I…" he said carefully, biting his lip, afraid that if he acknowledged it now, the spectacles wouldn't be his, "Was that all real?"

"You getting glasses? Of course," Professor Patel said, taking him by the shoulder once more, "I'm not cruel enough to lie to you about this."

"But why? I mean, thank you, Professor. Thank you so much. But I just-" he felt his ears heat up, and flattened his hair down over them in case Professor Patel notices, "-I didn't make you feel…"

"Obligated?" Professor Patel suggested. Harry looked at her with a raised brow, and she continued, "Forced, you mean? No. If it makes you feel any better, it's the beginning of the Islamic holy months tomorrow, and we're encouraged to do good even more than usual during it."

"How long is it?" Harry asked, instinctively holding the fabric on her arm when they had to cross a street, and tightening his hold when he noticed a woman glaring at them from under her hat.

"Three months," she answered on the other side and, until they reached the Patel household, Harry asked all sorts of questions on what these three months were, what they did and why.

But when they reached the neighbourhood and walked up to the door, Professor Patel paused at the lock, and turned around, "Harry, will you do me a favour?"

"Oh, sure."

"For now, don't say anything to Professor Snape, alright?"

"Why not?" Harry asked following her inside and down the hall (after taking off his shoes) and into the kitchen, where he greeted Mr Patel with a smile before he stopped in his step, smile falling, "Wait, will he get angry?"

"At you, no," she shook her head, rolling up her sleeves and reaching above the cabinets over the counter for plates, "At me? I'm afraid he might."

"But you bought me glasses!" he exclaimed, almost dropping the plates Professor Patel had given him, "Everything was so bright when I put them on, even for a few seconds," he grinned, setting the plates down and coming back for the cutlery, "Thank you again, Professor Patel. You didn't have to do that."

"Ahmed said he'd pay half the price, so I am not entirely to blame," Professor Patel said, running a hand down the side of Mr Ahmed's hair and face.

Mr Patel dismissed her hand with a shake of his head, turning to face Harry instead with a grin, "It wasn't much, Harry, truly. Come now-" he pulled him gently by the arm to the counter, pointing at the pot, "-let me pass on my culinary knowledge to someone who can't poison me with it."

That earned Mr Patel a sharp flick on the back of the head, which only caused him and Harry to erupt with laughter.

"Excuse me?"

"I don't know how else to explain it to you, Professor Snape," said Professor Patel, crossing her arms over her chest, a timid frown on her lips and looking down at Snape, "Tomorrow is Rajab- I mean, the start of the three holy months. I can't turn down the invitation now, I've already declined far too many times," she smiled nervously at Harry, and Harry nervously smiled back before continuing to watch Snape.

Professor Snape, who looked like he had already surrendered his soul, placed a hand on his forehead and pulled his hair back, looking between Harry and Professor Patel and back again.

"Can't you- Three months is hardly less time, Professor-"

"Tomorrow is the first day, in addition to a Friday, Professor. We were invited for iftar- I mean, to break the fast and spend a few days," Professor Patel cut him off, perhaps a little sharply, and Harry looked at Professor Snape to see if that had gotten a reaction from him.

It hadn't.

For some reason, that made Harry very uneasy.

Professor Patel's frown eased, and her hands dropped to grip the door, "I'm sorry, Professor Snape. Truly. But this is a very inconvenient time, and Harry cannot stay for a few days."

Harry saw Professor Snape clench both hands into fists, before giving a small nod, "Have a good trip, Professor," he said very dryly, a hint of venom in his voice and turned around, storming down the street.

Harry gave Professor Patel an apologetic smile and a small wave, rushing to catch up to Professor Snape.

Harry thought he knew what to do when he caught Professor Snape in a foul mood, once they were back in the shop and the door was closed behind him loudly and sharply, rattling the glass.

The lock snick-ed instantly, and Harry shrunk in on himself, watching Professor Snape pace the length of the room from the corner. Cheeks flushed, he spat words beyond Harry's comprehension.

Ten minutes later, Professor Snape placed his hands on the counter, back hunched over the wood with small, unhidden tremors.

"Mr Potter."

"Yes sir?" Harry asked, shoulders tense.

"You are not in possession of a bag, correct?"

Harry swallowed thickly, "No, sir."

Snape nodded, pushing away from the counter and joining his hands behind his back.

Harry thought he was trying to keep calm

Harry also thought he wasn't doing a good job.

"We will have to share then," Professor Snape said, and Harry blinked, taking some steps forward.

"I'm sorry sir?" Harry said, unsure, eyes narrowed as Professor Snape pulled open the door, rushing up the stairs, Harry finding it very hard to keep up with him, "Why would we need to share a bag?"

Professor Snape didn't answer. Instead, he slammed his door shut right as Harry stepped closer, almost catching his fingers.

He came out fifteen minutes later, the sudden opening of the door making Harry jump from his seat. He was about to ask Professor Snape what was going on, but couldn't stop him on his way to Harry's room, leaving him to helplessly watch Professor Snape open his bag of folded clothes and place them beside the clothes Harry had on the chair in the room.

"Put your clothes in here, Potter. Neatly," he said dismissively, walking past him in a whirl of cold air and headed towards the staircase, "I have more to pack."

Harry didn't ask him what. Copying the methods Professor Snape had used, he packed the small amount of clothes he had into the bag, still confused as to why the Professor was insisting he pack now, as though they were going on a-

Harry's hand froze on the shirt he was folding, the sleeve falling from his grip. He turned around, half-expecting the Professor to be standing in the door frame, a smirk on his face as he said, "Figured it out have you, Potter?"

Professor Snape was going on a trip. To this Malfoy character, judging by the letter that arrived yesterday, and his plans of leaving Harry with Professor Patel were ruined because they were going on a little trip of their own. And even if Harry couldn't understand, as he closed the luggage bag with a thud, he knew that Professor Snape going pale for something like this wasn't to be taken lightly.

He pulled the bag up, his back arching backwards under the weight. The parlor floor creaked threateningly as he dropped it to the floor, rubbing his back.

Professor Snape arrived long after Harry was done, his head resting on the sofa, the room illuminated with candlelight. Without a word, Professor Snape slipped into the kitchen, wiping his hands on the towel hung by the chair. Harry could hear the cutting of bread, the chopping of vegetables, and something being stirred aggressively.

"The potatoes chose the best time to be ready," Professor Snape muttered darkly, walking past Harry towards the fireplace and hanging the pot, using the fire from the candle to set the logs alight.

"I'm not supposed to come, am I?" Harry asked into the darkness, playing with the loose threads of the sofa, "That's why you wanted to leave me with Professor Patel."

Professor Snape scoffed, leaving the vegetables to cook and walking back to the kitchen where came the noises of a paper bag, water being poured and something being stirred before Professor Snape was back, holding a bowl in his hand along with a… brush.

"You have a brush?" Harry asked, sitting up straight.

"Among many things, apparently," Professor Snape answered, sitting very close to Harry, making him scoot back on the couch, "Lift up the hair over your scar."

"Wait, what?"

Professor Snape sighed, tilting the bowl to show him a dark, cream textured paste, "The colour is only temporary, but enough to help disguise the scar."

"Why do I need to hide my scar?" Harry asked, a hand over his forehead, "I didn't need to do that before."

"I've never had to look after a boy that fell down the chimney, either, but here we are."

"Yes, well-" Harry's mind suddenly stuck on the chimney, and he had to turn to look at it, his eyes going wide, "Hang on. You said the flue was damaged!"

Professor Snape lifted his fringe, far gentler than Harry expected, and warmer than he wanted, but the paste cool on his skin.

"You'll find the general population relies on routine lies," Professor Snape muttered, lifting the brush after a few strokes, "And mine was hardly any worse."

"I still don't like it."

Professor Snape smirked, placing the brush down inside the bowl, "I imagine you wouldn't."

Before Harry could touch his forehead, Snape slapped his hand out of the way and used something to hold his hair back.

Something which was a hair clip.

"That is not funny," Harry said in a low voice, running his fingers over the metal embroidery.

"You'll find I'm not joking, when I finish talking."

And then he told him about Lucius Malfoy, how dangerous a man he was, and exactly why he shouldn't know Harry's real identity.

Harry found it a lot more troubling falling asleep that night, even with a full stomach.

Harry had greatly underestimated what Professor Snape meant by early.

Because sometime during the night, Harry was coaxed out of his sleep by a voice hissing his name close to his ear. He didn't acknowledge it, not at first, because this was one of those nights he hadn't been woken from a nightmare and he had every intention to enjoy it until morning.

But Professor Snape had other plans.

"Potter," he snapped, tugging at Harry's sheets, "If you do not wake up this instant I-"

"You'll leave me here?" slurred Harry into his pillow, turning to face the other direction and hugging himself, because his blanket was very clearly gone, "Please do… Professor…"

And that's how Harry found himself on the floor, water dripping down his face and the floorboard digging painfully into his side. All of this had happened in the few seconds he closed his eyes, with the offender standing over his gasping, a bowl in his hands.

"And they say children have trouble waking up in the morning," he drawled, ducking out of the way when Harry grabbed his pillow and launched it at his face, "I'm giving you only fifteen minutes to get ready and fix your bed."

It was a painful ten minutes of getting ready, with clumsy flailing about in the dark for his socks and shoes. In the end, he carelessly slipped them on, leaning his head on the back on the bed frame.

Too early, Harry decided, head fuzzy from the lack of sleep, mind seemingly dipping under warm waters. Too early.

And not even Professor Snape, who found him half-slumped on the bed, would make him any less tired.

Shivering from the second round of water, Harry dragged himself outside, wrapping his coat around his body.

The harsh wind carried him past the wet soil, sending dust into his eyes and jabbing at the wet parts of his skin and hair.

Harry had never found washing his hands such a painful job and hoped that he wouldn't have to do it again at the end of his trip to the loo.

Professor Snape was already in the shop, dressed, with a lantern in his hand. Of course he was.

Harry soon stood outside the shop with their shared bag in his hands, shivering from the cold.

No moon, only the unsettling roll of thunder.

"Don't tell me we're going to walk," Harry demanded, the sleep slowly being pushed out of him.

Professor Snape pulled the door shut, fumbling with the coat pocket for the keys. When he couldn't find them, he placed the lantern in his hands on the floor, the light casting a shadow past his legs.

Harry heard the click of the lock.

"I'm in mind to make you walk," said Profesor Snape, with no sleep in his voice. From his right pocket, he took out a pocket watch Harry had never seen him use before and after a quick glance, put it right back, mumbling quietly to himself, "He should be here any minute."

Harry didn't ask who 'he' was. Instead, he put the bag down beside the trunk Professor Snape had dragged out of the shop, and leaning on the shop window, Harry closed his eyes.

The gradually approaching sound of a carriage made him open them at once.

"Who sends a carriage this early?" Harry groaned, kicking away from the shop and turning to where the sound was coming from.

"It's only past five," Professor Snape muttered, an emphasis on the only that Harry almost missed. But too sleepy to extinguish whether it was sarcasm or just Professor Snape being Professor Snape, Harry didn't bother with a response.

The street, without the light of morning, was an endless dark corridor between the two lines of buildings. With no crowd, and only a single carriage echoing above the stone road, Harry felt a shiver run down his spine at the unnerving sight.

The carriage came closer, a small lantern in the distance accompanied by the sharp wind. A near perfectly-timed flash of lightning spiderwebbed across the sky, illuminating a glimpse of sharp silhouettes.

The carriage arrived when the thunder did.

"Mr Snape," said a gruff voice, half his face lit from the lantern hung near him.

"Professor," Harry heard Professor Snape correct with a sharp tongue behind him, followed by footsteps, "I have a trunk."

The man jumped from the carriage, making a loud thud when he landed on the stone. Harry, who had no desire to anger a man a few sizes bigger than Professor Snape, stepped towards the carriage doors. In the dark, he heard the trunk being lifted and then dropped to the wood, jolting the carriage, and buckles fastening softly. Harry wouldn't have given it much thought, if the man had used some help from Professor Snape or at least made some noise when lifting the carriage. He didn't, and Harry slipped inside the now open doors with an impressed look on his face.

Really not someone he wanted to trouble, then.

Professor Snape climbed in afterwards, the door pushed closed after him, and the carriage gave a jolt as the driver took a seat.

"Alrigh'?" he asked, and without waiting for a reply, brought the reins down, earning a pained grunt from the horse.

Harry, who had never ridden in a roofed carriage with actual seats, stood in the middle of the seat as much as possible, even if that meant sitting right next to Professor Snape.

"I suggest you sleep," Professor Snape said, extinguishing the lantern and putting it down with the rest of the luggage , "It's a long journey to Wiltshire."

"How long?" Harry asked, pulling his knees unsurely to his chest and leaning on the corner of the seat, "Will we be there tomorrow night?"

Professor Snape scoffed, somewhere in the dark, "One day, in the future, I hope."

That was the last thing Harry heard before the shaking of the carriage lulled him to sleep.

They hadn't arrived when Harry woke up later that morning, or that afternoon, and Professor Snape said that they wouldn't be arriving until the next day.

That wouldn't have bothered Harry if he wasn't still required to get some work done in a carriage in a state of constant jolts and tremors, which was enough to distract him from work and bring him close to throwing up his breakfast of potatoes.

That was enough for Professor Snape to excuse him from his books, but not from teaching Harry a few important things, like how his name was Ali Patel, a distant relative of Professor Patel's who had become Professor Snape's apprentice for the time being.

Harry thought this lie was utter rubbish.

Professor Snape asked him for any better ideas, and smirked at the look on Harry's face. He taught him many great things about his newly fabricated parentage, such as the reason he could only speak English, and where his parents were, both of which were partially similar to his current status.

By sunset, when the sky had gone from grey to dark and threateningly windy, Harry had memorized all the lies he needed to tell, the words repeating themselves in his head when they entered the small town they were to stay in, both to rest and pass the worst of the rain.

As luck would have it, of course he and Professor Snape had to share a room to cut costs.

"It's no Leaky Cauldron," Professor Snape said, pushing forwards with his back to Harry, key dangling from his fingers before their room.

He didn't finish the sentence, he didn't need to either. Harry wouldn't respond either way, now more than ever, with Professor Snape at least putting some effort into communicating with him.

Entering the room after him, Harry placed the lit lantern on the table beside the bed, almost grabbing it again when the table tilted forwards light momentarily silhouetted Harry's hands. Walking past him, Professor Snape dropped the luggage bag on the bed, stiffening when the bed let out a shrill sound.

Then he continued, as though he was unbothered by the sound.

Harry walked around the bed to the other side, stepping around the noisier floorboards, and frowning at the walls outlining the only window in the room. Two cracks, one on each side, crept from the ceiling and right beside the glass. Harry leaned forward, squinting at the darkness beyond the window.

His hand touched the cracks, and Harry wasn't surprised when he felt a cold breeze blowing through the damp material.

"I hope the blankets are warm," Harry muttered, his words lost in the rain hammering on the window. With a final glance, he walked back to the bed, standing opposite of Professor Snape.

"Put this under your head," Professor Snape said without looking at him, throwing a towel like cloth at him, "I do not want to deal with lice."

Harry didn't catch the cloth, which he only partially saw in the light and had to feel around the bed to find it. Straightening it out, Harry turned the pillow over with the least amount of contact, spreading the sheet over it. Professor Snape did the same after closing the bag and placing it beside the table.

Then there was silence.

Harry sat uncomfortably down on the bed, running a hand down his scar, or where his scar was. Harry hadn't had the chance to look into the mirror yet, but from the nod Professor Snape had given in the morning after parting his hair, he had to assume it wasn't visible.

Professor Snape sighed, and Harry felt the bed dip on the other side.

"From tomorrow, until we go back, you are to listen to what I say word for word. I do not want you talking unless I give you permission to."

"I don't think I need anymore scaring, Professor," Harry said tiredly, pulling his shoes and dropping them to the floor, "I'm pretty sure I'll be seeing Mr Malfoy in my dreams soon."

Harry saw Professor Snape watching him in his peripheral, but he didn't return the gesture. Instead, he pulled the covers over him, still wearing his coat. The scratchy fabric brushed uncomfortably against his cheek, yet not hard enough to keep him from the sleep weighing him down.

And with the blanket tucked under his chin, a shield against the draft, he said very quietly.

"Good night, sir."

Harry heard Professor Snape sigh once more. The covers behind him peeled back, dipping further down, before there was hardly any sound at all.

It still took Harry a while to fall asleep, fighting his own thoughts.

A man Harry didn't recognize entered the shop, taller and bigger than any man he had ever seen. Harry had to arch his back to look at the man, and even then he couldn't make out the face that was hidden in the darkness of the ceiling.

"May I help you?" he looked up from the jars on the counter.

The tall man didn't respond at first. Harry didn't push him, taking a small step backwards in caution. But the man heard the sound, and suddenly Harry felt the warmth inside his chest being sucked from him like the lights in the shop, leaving him cold, afraid.

Alone.

Where was Snape?

Harry threw himself to the ground when he felt a presence beside him, covering his head with both hands, his chest contracting uncomfortably.

The presence suddenly returned, snaking around him, and Harry fought back a scream, stuffing a fist inside his mouth.

"Is this the boy?" said a foreign, hissing voice right beside his ear, the coiling feeling around him now wrapping around his throat, "Is this the boy?"

"Yes!" Uncle Vernon screamed behind the cupboard Harry suddenly found himself, head throbbing and unable to breath with the hold on his throat, "That's the boy! Filthy, arrogant, stupid! Always said his lot was savage, and needed to be taught to be civil! The boy is the pinnacle of proof!"

Harry felt the tears silently fall down his burning cheeks, stinging the cut open bruise under his eye, and yet he made no sound. Mr Malfoy's hold - he knew it was Mr Malfoy, He just knew, wrapped tighter, and Harry felt his body going limp, barely able to mutter a single phrase against his screaming uncle, "No…"

Filthy, arrogant, stupid. His Uncle's favorite choice of words. But now it was his aunt screaming them, adding a few of her favorite ones.

"Arrogant! Selfish! Ignorant! You mistake of a boy!"

The pain only got worse, when her voice was replaced with a familiar one. A softer one. A kinder one.

One he never wanted to hear screaming at him.

"Did you really think I would buy you glasses after you stole your Aunt's tea?" Professor Patel said, and Harry scratched at his arms because scratching the hand around his throat did no good.

"P...prof-"

Then came an insane laugh, one Harry only heard from Professor Patel, filtering through his cupboard. The fear knotted in his stomach increased ten-fold, the pain coursing through his body like blood burning mercilessly under his skin. Harry shook his head, feeling the pressure on his throat cut into his skin, though not enough to kill him.

Barely enough to keep him alive.

Harry heard the smashing of glass, Professor Patel's insane laugh, and the shouts of his relatives while fists banged against the door. Harry felt hot. So very, very hot. He was dying, no longer struggling, the force that kept his arms up wilting like autumn leaves.

The last straw was Aunt Petunia's perfume, going down his throat as he felt the world fall.

Professor Snape's hand pulled him out of the darkness and into the shop.

"Professor?" Harry said with a shaky smile, watching the emotionless man, "Thank you, Professor."

Professor Snape's arms came up, and Harry felt a sense of hope that he was bringing them up for a hug. Harry smiled, accepting the firmness on his shoulders.

And then he pushed, watching Harry with a vile smirk as he fell down the tunnel and into the open mouth of Mr Malfoy.

Harry's eyes snapped open, but he did not move. Only after a few painful slashes down his arm did he realise he was shaking.

There was no weight on the other side of the bed.

He took a few gulping breaths, rolling his shirt and coat over his arm under the covers. Professor Snape wasn't here. Mr Malfoy-

Harry stopped himself before he could think anything else, turning to face the other side.

Professor Snape was there, alright, right beside him, smelling of tobacco and blending in with the dark.

Harry immediately shrunk back.

"Sn- Sir," he said, wincing when his voice shook unsettlingly, raspy and heavy with emotion, "You scared me."

"You were having a nightmare."

"You were smoking," he bit back without much thought, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, furrowing his brows when they came back wet, "We all need secrets to get us through the night."

"Not much of a secret, when a person other than yourself knows," Professor Snape said, stepping back and stuffing something into his coat pocket. The venom of his voice was replaced with tired snide, not entirely angry but not void of offence either, "Would I be correct to assume…"

"Mr Malfoy?" Harry joined his hands under the covers, sniffing and feeling very embarrassed about it, "'Course, though not only him."

"Ah."

Harry wondered if Professor Snape knew what Harry meant, or if he was feigning. Either way, he pulled down the folded sleeves of clothes, shrugging the shirt off his sweaty skin. Professor Snape moved back as he did so. Harry watched him, the coat folded over his arm, curling his hands into fists to stop the shaking. A few minutes later, when his shaking had stopped and Professor Snape lit the lamp, Harry placed his coat at the foot of the bed, ready to go back to sleep.

He stopped when Professor Snape started walking towards the door.

"Where are you going?" he dropped the covers, looking out the window. The rain had lessened. But it had yet to stop.

"I won't be gone long," he dismissively answered, unlocking the door and sliding the key from the slot, "Stay here."

Harry scoffed as the door closed, rolling to his side harshly. As if he could go anywhere.

The door closed, and Harry kept his eyes open until Professor Snape's feet disappeared down the hallway.

Harry turned to the other side, still huddled around him. Behind him, the rain continued to fall in a comforting pace, no thunder, no lighting. Just water hitting the window. Harry wished he could be back in the shop, with this rain, warm beside the fireplace, holding a cup of something warm to drink.

He sighed, closing his eyes and curling in on himself. To miss a place that wasn't his to call home…

That reminded him of when Professor Snape warned him to not call the apothecary home. Harry thought that was rot, because he'd been staying there for well over twenty days, and had more freedom than he ever had at-

He flung off the sheet, clumsily walking towards the window after putting on his shoes and planting both hands on the windowsill. Taking heavy, audible breaths he leaned forward, pressing his warm forehead against the cool of the glass.

It wasn't instant relief, but Harry felt his anger gradually fall to a manageable level.

Each time the glass warmed, he would move to a different spot, squeezing his eyes at the initial touch, but melting into the texture.

And that's exactly how Professor Snape found him, hunched over the window sill with his forehead pressed against the pane.

Harry pretended the fresh tobacco scent on Professor Snape's clothes didn't burn his throat.

"We're leaving, Patel," he said, sharp footsteps drawing Harry from position, "Jean agrees the rain will worsen, come morning."

"You talked with him this late at night?" Harry asked, wondering how that meeting went, "He doesn't look like a... easy to approach man."

"It might not look like it," Professor Snape said, stuffing a few things messily into the bag, "But it's already past five."

Harry stopped mid-stride, thinking of the last time he caught Professor Snape in the act of smoking. The sun hadn't risen yet, but the first part of the night had gone by.

Pulled from his thoughts by the sound of the luggage bag closing, he caught the coat hurled towards him at the last second, glaring at the man as he pulled it on, making a mental note to ask Professor Patel a few questions about Snape.

That is, if he refused to answer. Harry had every reason to believe he would.

Taking the lantern when it was handed to him, Harry followed Professor Snape out the door, getting a small glance into the room just as the door closed. Stifling a yawn, Harry shuffled after the Professor, taking small steps when he noticed he was the only one making a sound as they walked. That was another thing he wanted to ask Snape - Just how he managed to move without a sound, and appear when he least expected him to be there.

The corridor opened into the main hall, and Snape dropped the key on the counter. The inn looked far less eerie than when they arrived, with only one source of light and no creepy innkeeper to frighten Harry with his one eye.

Harry felt a hand slowly go around and land on his shoulder, gently urging him forward.

"Don't fall behind," Snape said without looking at him.

Harry felt the spot where Snape was touching, well, he would compare the feeling to uncomfortable heat, the one that spread through your body and bore down on you until you took off a layer of clothing.

But he didn't shrug the hand off, clamping down his protests by digging his nails into his palm.

In the end, the rain did worsen, but not until two o' clock. Thankfully, clusters of buildings -good buildings, not run-down like some of the villages they passed through- started showing up just as it began to pour harder. Harry huddled back into the seat, still feeling shaken from the nightmare. He was refusing to think about it, burying his head into his arms when he felt a memory or thought resurface.

It helped him to not remember, to keep the emotions behind a wall of his own construction. One thing it was bad at doing, though, was filtering the emotions he did feel, so that Harry increasingly felt nothing at all.

Harry curled his fingers around his arm, well-aware of a pair of eyes on him. This flatness he felt... he was almost sure it was a build-up of the past week, where he had to do his best to keep himself as emotionless as possible, for both his and the Professor's sake.

His arms suffered for it.

But Harry liked how they left almost no trace - some discoloration, yes, but the trace that anything had touched his arm would disappear in a few minutes, sometimes more if he had taken special effort.

I just didn't have enough time to do it, Harry thought, sneaking a glance over his arms to Snape. I'll feel better after I do it. Malfoy Manor should be big with plenty of places where Snape (or anyone) wouldn't catch him.

Plenty of space to hide secrets.

They arrived at five thirty, if Harry had seen correctly on Snape's pocket watch. He couldn't do the calculation in his head, so while the driver -wet to the bone and looking very miserable- got their bags, Harry counted on his fingers.

The trip had taken almost 29 hours, if he calculated right.

Snape tapped his shoulder to get his attention, and nodded to the door, "Don't fall, if you decide to run."

Harry scooted towards the door, wincing at the rain. He put an arm in front of his eyes, and jumped, the rain obscuring the precious little he could see.

Following the black blur in the distance, Harry took careful steps after he almost slipped on a rock, flailing his arms to just barely keep his balance.

The rest of the trip was infuriatingly similar, with Harry leaning dangerously to one side, faltering in the wind until finally, it stopped.

Snape was already under the awning, his curtain of hair sticking to his face and loose clothing hanging off him like heavy drapes.

Harry would have laughed, if he too wasn't looking like an haphazard shape.

"If anything got wet..." Snape said flatly, eyes on the trunk and luggage bags. He didn't finish the rest of his words, because the large doors opened, revealing a very thin man dressed in a formal uniform.

"Mr Snape," he greeted, stepping aside and gesturing towards the house with a gloved hand, "Welcome."

"Professor," Snape corrected bitterly, picking up his luggage, "Come along, Patel."

Harry followed after, shrinking as the man's eyes followed him, his nose wrinkling . The driver, who was standing behind them, brought in the trunk and placed it beside the thin man.

Harry didn't know whether to thank him or not, so he gave him a small wave, not waiting for his response and rushed to stand next to Snape. While they waited, Harry took a look around, shivering as he did so.

They were standing in a large entrance hall with a corridor that led directly to a door. They hadn't seen much of the grounds, what with the rain and Harry's poor vision, but it couldn't be less grand than the inside. The manor, sumptuously decorated with magnificent carpet, held ornate and gilded furnishings.

But oddly, he expressed no reaction.

A few minutes of waiting, under close watch of the thin man, another well-dressed man, much younger than the one behind them, came forward with a towel, handing it to Snape.

"Another towel, sir?" he asked, looking at Snape.

Snape said, "Yes," at the exact moment the thin man said, "No."

All three of them turned to the thin man. Snape had paused drying his hair, and was watching the thin man with a calculating look.

"Is my apprentice to use my towel?" he asked mildly, voice skimming the point of anger.

The man's eyes narrowed, "You didn't hear it from me, Professor."

Harry blinked, looking between the two men who seemed to be having a staring competition. Harry conceded that Snape won, because he pushed the towel to Harry and instructed him to dry himself.

The younger man with the upturned nose faced the thin man, "Another towel, then, Mr White?"

White, after some cautious thinking, waved a dismissive hand.

Harry still didn't understand what the exchange had been about, but he dried himself with the white towel, taking off his coat -the wettest of all his clothes- and draping the soft material around his shoulders.

The younger man, who introduced himself as William Hall after his return, took the sodden coats from them and asked to be followed, leading them to the staircase.

Harry made sure to take as small of steps as possible to not wet the floor, still feeling the hard glare from White on his back.

At the end of the staircase, they turned right to a corridor lined with doors on each side with portraits. Harry found it amusing that each and every man in the portraits had blonde hair and a very similar, pointy look.

Hall stopped in front of two doors separated by a portrait of a bulky man who wore a funny looking hat over his blonde hair. Opening both of them, he motioned for them to enter.

"Master Malfoy is waiting for you in the drawing room," he told Snape, giving a small bow before walking back the way they had come.

Snape told Harry to follow him into the door on the right of the portrait, which was plainly decorated. The pallet was a mixture of green and grey, with a queen-sized bed and a bedside drawer. In the corner farthest from the bed was a small wardrobe, and pushed close to the window was an armchair and table.

Harry walked around the carpet and towards Snape, who was looking through the bag he had placed on the bed. He handed Harry a pair of trousers, a shirt, and a pair of socks that weren't his.

"I don't want to wear your socks," Harry said, grimacing.

Snape put it above the shirt and trousers with a raised brow, "My feet don't smell, Potter, nor are the socks dirty."

Harry was intending to say he highly doubted that before closing his mouth, accepting the socks with a muttered thank you, still not intending to wear them.

Until Snape called after him right as he walked out the door.

"I'm not healing your feet if they get infected, Patel."

Entering his own room, which was very similar to Snape's but decorated with warmer colors, Harry closed the door. Quickly getting changed, he dried his wet feet and slid on Snape's pair of socks. Only problem? His shoes were wet too, and he had no way to dry those. So that was another trip to Snape's door, barefoot because he didn't want to dirty the socks. Snape, without a second thought, went back into the room and produced a pair of-

"Slippers," he said, planting them into his hand and disappearing behind the door before Harry could ask where he had gotten them.

Harry sighed, turning the 'slippers' in his hands. They resembled shoes in the sense that you wore them on your feet, but looked like they had been woven with grey wool above a thin layer of leather. Harry wouldn't have minded if they didn't look like they were meant for children or women.

Regardless, he went back to his room, pulling up his cuffs and slipping on the socks before moving to put on the slippers. They were an almost perfect fit, which only proved they were meant for children younger than Harry.

Harry got off the bed, picking up his wet clothes and hanging them above the chair. After a final glance through the window, he left the room.

Professor Snape was outside, observing the portrait with a bored look on his face.

"Fascinating," he said without heart.

Harry didn't think so, as the portrait looked rather dull, but what he really found interesting was how, without his coat or cloak Snape looked so unnatural. He had the impression that Snape often hid behind his layers, and seeing him with only grey trousers and a black shirt felt absolutely wrong.

From outside, came the very sudden and loud sound of thunder.

Harry jumped while Snape flinched, squaring his shoulders. The two shared a passing glance, straightening at the same time while averting their gazes. With a cough from Snape, that was their cue to go. All the way down the corridor and staircase, and along the length of the corridor that led to the door Harry had seen earlier.

Hall was there, waiting for them and he straightened when he saw them approaching, turning to knock on the door.

Harry hid behind Snape, suddenly feeling very scared and refusing to lift his face. That must have been fine with Snape, because he turned around, placed a hand on the back of his head and put a fınger over his lips.

Harry took a sharp breath through his teeth.

The door opened smoothly, pouring the light from the hallway into the room. Snape removed the hand, going first into what Harry guessed to be a drawing room. Uncle-

He closed his eyes, squeezing his hands together.

He wouldn't think about it. Not now.

Opening his eyes, he was met with two people, both seated on a long sofa and dressed too well. A boy and an adult.

The adult, who had to be Mr Malfoy, had a pale, pointed face, with pale blond hair and cold grey eyes. Harry didn't miss the snake-headed walking cane in his hand. The boy had to be his son, with white-blond hair and a pale, pointed face, very similar to the men in the portraits.

Harry immediately knew he didn't like either of them.

"Ah, Severus," Mr Malfoy said, standing up from the sofa, "Good to finally-"

"Uncle Sev," cut the boy from behind his father, walking around his father and approaching Snape. Harry watched with wide eyes as the boy opened his arms, and flung it around Snape in a hug, his mouth dropping open when Snape's arms actually came around the boy in a nervous embrace

"Yes, hello to you too, Draco," he muttered, patting his head nervously, glaring when Harry unsuccessfully masked his chuckle with a cough, "Pleased to finally arrive, Lucius."

Mr Malfoy, who was looking less than pleased, took his narrow gaze and moved it to Harry, "And who is this, Severus?"

As planned, Harry didn't speak, letting Snape fabricate the stories while he watched his slippers, trying to ignore the way both Malfoy's were staring at him. Finally, when Snape was done, Harry released a deep breath, lifting his eyes.

Mr Malfoy was still watching him.

"Well," he said, putting up his chin and facing his son, "Draco, entertain our guest while Severus and I talk."

"Yes, father," Draco said, moving from Snape's side and walking towards the door, "Come along, Patel."

Harry's head whirled around, face scrunching up in worry. But Snape merely shook his head, gesturing the door with his eyes in a way that said, "Go, but remember what we talked about."

Harry complied, going after Draco, still feeling uncomfortable even after he left the room.

The door closed behind them, hiding the two adults from view.

Harry tuned out almost everything Malfoy was saying. The rain was plenty helpful, pulling his mind away from the boring lecture of Malfy introducing every man in the portraits with a proud smile on his lips.

He nodded when necessary, pretending to be excited when Malfoy turned to face him and hummed along when Malfoy hopped onto another topic. He seemed to be doing that a lot, and even Harry who was itching to go back to his assigned guestroom could notice it. The topics brought up had impossible connections, a series of rambling information that was becoming very irritating to hear.

"-but Nicholas Malfoy, knew of course, and that is exactly why he built this library," Malfoy said, pushing open the wooden doors where Harry lifted his eyes, taking his hands out of his pocket when Malfoy opened the door. He'd only seen the library in Diagon Alley, which was gradually rotting away, and no doubt would leak with the current storm the way it was.

But this library was nothing like it.

In fact, the polished wooden high shelves stacked with thick tomes made Harry feel like he was somewhere important, somewhere foreign. Did Alice feel like this, when she entered the Queen's garden? In a foreign place that wasn't hers to own, with a mind she couldn't help but marvel? Harry took a deep breath, rolling his eyes when Malfoy started to speak about another topic (it was mostly history, and Harry would have listened if Malfoy wouldn't keep jumping from point A to B before Harry could make the connection between the two).

"Uh, Malfoy?" Harry asked when they stopped by a couple of armchairs. Malfoy looked up, raising both brows.

"Do you have anything... easy to read."

He didn't answer. Harry shifted on his feet, looking through the floor length windows. They were trimmed with dark grey metal, latching onto the panes like claws. Shuddering, Harry pulled his arm around himself, "If you don't have any..."

"Why aren't you wearing something warmer? Didn't Uncle Sev tell you it'd be cold in the manor?"

Harry dropped his arms, annoyed, "I'll be sure to bring some next time."

Malfoy chuckled, putting his hands on his hips. Of course, he wouldn't be cold. His sweater, thick with wool, dropped down his frame and past his hips. Harry looked down at his shirt, wishing his coat would dry so he could wear it soon.

"Anyway, do you have thin books or not."

"Oh," Malfoy said, looking like he just remembered, "Come along, Patel. I'm sure we'll find something for you yet."

But instead of venturing into the labyrinth of shelves, Malfoy moved towards the doors that let outside the library. Harry followed after some consideration, but none too happily.

"Aren't the books in the library?"

"If you want to lead the search, go ahead," Malfoy waved his hand, then placed it on the rail of the staircase, a thin smile on his face, "I won't come searching for you, at your inevitable disappearance."

Harry chuckled darkly, "I wouldn't want you to."

Malfoy turned on his heel, walking up the steps with Harry a few paces behind. However, he stopped when he heard another shuffle of feet from the entrance hall, and looked down from the rails to whoever was passing by, "White?"

Harry stepped away from the rails, not very keen on being seen by the man.

"Yes, Young Master."

"Retrieve a few children's books from the library. I want them in my room as soon as possible."

"Yes, Young Master."

The shuffling of feet continued, thankfully away from the foot of the stairs. The two boys resumed the climb, and soon enough were standing on the second floor. But instead of turning right, they went left, the portraits getting older and older as they did so.

"How many floors is the building?" Harry asked, following him to another smaller staircase at the end of the hallway.

"Four. Father says Armand Malfoy tried to get five, at least, worthy of the Malfoy name. His architect, of course, refused and-"

'Worthy of the Malfoy name', Harry mocked in his mind as close to Malfoy's tone of voice as possible. Rubbing his arms, Harry looked up at the walls, half-expecting to find portraits of even more angry looking men with very familiar sneering lips. Instead, there were only a few paintings, all of which depicted nature and forests. In places where there weren't any paintings, stood small tables with sculptures or vases on top of them.

Harry made the mistake of asking what the green vase with elaborate patterns was, and refused to listen to another torrent of information.

And that is when he asked himself exactly why he was following Malfoy. He had had enough entertainment for one day, and he wouldn't be getting any books soon, so he could go back to his room and curl under the blankets to get rid of this wretched cold.

So he started to look for an exit, a convenient moment he could use to slip past and hide out the rest of the day in the guestroom.

Malfoy proved to be more trouble than it was worth when he pulled him to his room by the sleeve, closing the door behind them. Harry opened his mouth to protest, almost tripping on his own feet. But the words got caught in his mouth when he had a good look into the room, his mouth hanging open and eyes going wide.

They stood in a big room. A very big room. Harry knew that if you put the whole upper floor of the apothecary into the bedroom, no doubt it would be a perfect fit.

Malfoy had a big four poster of dark oak with green covers. On one side was the biggest wardrobe he had ever seen and on the other, a dresser. That wasn't all, however. Two armchairs were pulled in front of a fireplace, with partially full bookshelves on each side

But that wasn't exactly why Harry was taken aback.

The room was a mess, its floor littered with artistic debris. Discarded paper and half-finished canvases were interspersed with a collection of paints and the occasional brush, allowing for little ease of movement. Wide-eyed, Harry followed Malfoy to the wardrobe to the best of his ability, lifting his knees well above the ground so as to not crush the half-finished portraits. At least, they looked to be half-finished. On some, charcoal sketches were carved into the white of the paper. On others, some colours were thrown on and discarded mid-stroke. On the rare-occasion, a canvas held something entirely clear, but lacked a finishing touch.

Malfoy, it seemed, was something of an artist. Maybe not like the ones who had painted the portraits on the walls, but Harry enjoyed the discarded charcoal sketches nonetheless.

"Do you not like your room clean?"

Malfoy chuckled, throwing open the heavy doors of the wardrobe and practically getting lost in the clothes hanging from the rail.

"It's not that I don't like it," Malfoy said, voice muffled behind the heavy fabric, "Having everything in front of me makes things easier to find."

Harry glanced over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes at the canvas on the stand, "I think you're right," he mumbled, wrapping his arms around himself.

Malfoy was still rampaging through the wardrobe, so Harry turned around, starting to circle the drawings. Some showed Malfoy Manor, some held gardens and unfamiliar rooms, but when the inanimate objects started depicting faces instead, that was when things got interesting. Next to the messy sketch of what looked like a castle, were single portraits of people: an old man, a stern looking woman, two large boys standing next to each other, a girl with short black hair, and a dark skinned boy... and many more than he could count. But two of them stood out from the rest, because it was the only person Harry recognised.

The first was Professor Snape, drawn with sharp clumsy lines and showing a smile.

And the next, the closest to being complete, was a not so great painting of a blonde woman with rosy cheeks.

"Is this your mother?" Harry asked not looking at either the portrait or Malfoy, instead picking up the drawing of Professor Snape, a hand brushing over the etched lines, "The one in the portrait?"

A muffled response came from the wardrobe that Harry took as a confirmation.

"Is she, eh, you know…" Harry beat around the subject, trying to choose his words right, "Is she-"

"She's…" Malfoy spoke somewhat disheartedly, "She's alive. Just…very sick."

"Is that why Professor Snape is here? To help her?"

Malfoy sighed, a coat jerking to the side, "Father says doctors are expensive."

"Aren't you...well, you look rich."

"I know," Malfoy said, ending the conversation sharply.

Harry nodded, looking around the rest of the pictures "And the rest?" Harry asked, dropping the drawing of Professor Snape and walking back to the wardrobe, "By the way, are you-"

Harry lifted his head to look at the door, confused when Malfoy stumbled out of the wardrobe at the sound of a knock. His hair stood at odd angles, and the button on his shirt had come undone. But with a quick move, both were fixed and it was now Harry's turn to be pulled behind the doors of the wardrobe.

"Stay here," Malfoy warned, a finger pressed against his lips just before the door closed.

Just before the last light of the room was pulled away.

What terrified him even more than the now blossoming pain on his skin was that he was aware of what was going on. He could hear Uncle Vernon, while also hearing Malfoy and White speaking. Fear wrapped around his chest in a thorned hold while the clothes above him breathed against his neck. Harry closed his eyes, clutching his hands and hoping Uncle Vernon's screaming voice stopped soon.

But even when it did, Harry knew that bitter hold on his chest wouldn't leave for a long time.

The bedroom door clicked shut, followed by rushed footsteps approaching the wardrobe.

Harry pulled his knees towards his chest, huddling further into the coats. The door opened, and Harry wiped his moist eyes, blinking to keep them dry.

"Father hates having anyone in my room, and with you- What are you doing?"

"Nothing," Harry said hoarsely, pushing himself up and wiping his nose. The clothes were still brushing his skin, so Harry stepped forward, but away from the centre of the light, "Can I leave now?"

Malfoy raised a brow. Shrugging, he pushed the books he was holding into Harry's chest before walking past him and digging into the closet, coming back a few minutes later with a sweater.

"Aha!" he excitedly raised it, a very proud smirk on his lips as he looked at the sweater which had the letter 'D' knitted in white over red, "A friend's mother knit this for me on my, well I think second year. D for dihor, not Draco. It's Romanian for ferret. That's the year-"

"Great, thank you," Harry said, grabbing the sweater and rushing towards the door without pause. He still stepped above the pages, but not as carefully as before, and pushed himself out the door while ignoring Malfoy's voice behind him.

But of course, he couldn't ignore White standing at the end of the hallway, instructing a very miserable looking Hall perched on a ladder while he fixed a large portrait on the wall.

Harry turned around to get to the other staircase, but White called for him just as he took a step.

"What are you doing here, boy?"

Harry turned around, biting down on his lip.

White had forsaken his task of instructing Hall, and was slowly approaching him with a sour look on his face. The light coming from behind him cast a cruel shadow over his face, and Harry shrunk back, feet shuffling on the carpet.

"I said, "What are you doing here?". Speak up, you wretched-"

"Draco invited me," Harry said, intentionally using Malfoy's name, "He gave me the books-" he lifted them up, "-and the sweater, because my coat is drying."

White didn't look convinced. In fact, he looked ready to throttle Harry and discard him into the rain. Adjusting his very small spectacles, he joined his hands behind his back, bending down silently as is if to mock him.

"I did not see you there."

"I was in the wardrobe," Harry said firmly, clutching the books in his hands, "You know how he needs everything to be on display to find it."

Harry knew he was walking on thin ice, pretending to know Malfoy more than he actually did. White looked skeptical. He smoothed out his tailcoat, clearing his throat, "I will be asking the young Master to confirm that you haven't stolen anything."

Harry's eyes went wide. His hold over the books tightened, eyes narrowing at White, "I didn't-"

"Move along now, boy," White dismissed him with a hand, walking back to the ladder. Harry, bit down on his lips to stop him from saying something he would regret. Taking a shuddering breath, he walked towards the staircase, rearranging the books in his hands.

"And if you know what's best for you…"

Harry paused by the staircase, not looking behind him.

"You won't show up at the dinner table and ruin the Master's appetite with your appearance."

A feeble nod was all Harry managed before he started sprinting down the stairs, head bowed down. The journey from Malfoy's room to the guest room felt like it had been stretched, so that everytime Harry took a step forward he was pushed three back.

With heavy breaths, he finally arrived at the door, slamming it shut and immediately locking it. The bang dug painfully in his ears. Harry leaned on the door with his back to it, attempting to calm his breathing.

He walked towards the bed, dumped the sweater and books on it, and snatched the covers back to curl underneath the sheets.

The warmth didn't come immediately, not until many minutes had passed under the sheets. Harry blinked rapidly every now and then, shaking his head to stop himself from crying.

He'd been doing that a lot lately, crying or trying to stop himself from crying. His emotions leaked from the body he was supposed to keep them in.

He turned to the other side, facing the window, and slowly unbuttoned his cuffs on the arm he hadn't injured in Diagon Alley. Looking down at his long nail, he was met with the memory of the lady that healed him, the one with the name he couldn't remember.

Harry swallowed thickly, inspecting his chapped fingers.

"Just to distract me," he breathed, closing his eyes, "Just so I calm down."

The sky darkened further. Harry didn't notice. Well, not until he was done. He looked up from the arm, discolored with long lines, and relaxed into the bed, releasing his tense muscles. The burning stayed constant under the fabric, without a trail of blood.

And that made Harry feel proud.

It meant that he was doing well. He wasn't leaving any scars, he wasn't bleeding and he could go on forever without anyone noticing.

Harry pulled the blankets above his chin, sighing in relief when his body began to warm.

Harry didn't realise he had fallen asleep until he heard the loud knocking on the door. Like the day before, he ignored whoever was attempting to wake him and pulled the covers over his head, hoping they would leave him if he ignored them long enough.

They didn't. He should have expected that, as it was Snape behind the door, now calling for him in a muffled voice.

Harry pulled the covers down, shivering at the cold. The weather hadn't changed, the storm persisting despite nightfall. Harry kept his eyes on the window as he stood up, walking around the room in the dark and reached for the sweater dumped on the bed.

He'd have to close the blinds.

Pulling on the sweater, he frowned when it fell past his hips, hanging off his shoulders. Malfoy was tall, but the sweater wasn't new. Hadn't he said-

The knocking continued, more aggressive than before, and Harry dropped the cloth in his hands. Turning the key, he opened the door, stepping back to look at Snape.

"Would you like to explain to me the reason you've failed to show up at dinner?" Snape asked, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him, "Or have me explain to you the trouble your absence has caused?"

Harry couldn't see Snape's face in the dark. That aggravated him, because his voice, dry as usual didn't cross the border into anger, or any emotion really.

Harry hated this. Not knowing what to expect. Not knowing what the other person felt or thought.

Not knowing the unknown.

"I thought he didn't want me there," Harry mumbled, pulling the sweater up by the shoulder, "White said so."

"Of course he doesn't want you at his table, eating the same food as him from plates reserved for his political friends," Snape said, crossing his arms, "But he also doesn't want to see you calm and unbothered."

Harry pulled his sweater up again, "So I should just stay calm?"

"As much as the concept is foreign to you-" Snape said, leaning against the wall and running a hand through his hair, "-You eventually start to notice how their words slowly become unhinged."

"You sound like you've done it before."

"I've tasted the satisfaction of gaining their frustration," Snape said, a little too proud, a smirk in his voice, "Men of his social standing rarely face a situation where their words go to waste. It's remarkable how individual their responses are at being ignored."

"You sound like you've really done it before," Harry said, a grin on his lips. And though he couldn't see Snape in the dark, he wanted to assume that he was doing the same.

Snape sighed, resting the back of his head against the wall, "You're going back to your... previosusly bothersome self."

"The return of your snark hasn't been missed, Professor," Harry said lightly.

There was a pause.

Harry cleared his throat, "I mean you were acting-"

"I wasn't."

"Well, there were some-"

"-Nothing has changed about the way I act."

Well, not anymore. Harry sighed, rubbing his eyes. Snape wouldn't ever answer questions, if he was refusing to admit that he'd been acting odd. Maybe it was seeing his... Draco? He'd embraced the boy, as awkward as it had been, and Malfoy had called him uncle.

Harry looked up at the silhouette of Snape. That had to be it.

"You're right, sir," Harry said, shrugging and then having to pull up the fabric, "My mistake."

Snape stood silent far longer than Harry expected. When he did speak, he pushed away from the wall, clearing his throat, "Do you need to eat?"

"Yes."

"Good," Snape said, opening the door, "There's still potatoes left from the garden."

Harry groaned

Of course, Harry couldn't sleep that night. He'd already had his rest, and going to bed seemed impossible. Though Snape wouldn't approve of him leaving the room, he had to walk around.

So he closed the door as softly as he could, still wearing the slippers, and after a small trip to the loo, Harry was wandering aimlessly around the house. He didn't enter any rooms, just walked up and down the corridor of the second floor, wishing he had a candle to read one of the books Malfoy had given him.

At night, the Manor took on a brand new atmosphere. Without the light of day pouring into the grand building's passages, the rain and dark added an eerie touch.

Harry stopped at the staircase, hand on the rails. The stairs reached towards the stone floor, their marble steps like a forbidden path in the twisting woods. So of course Harry stepped down, ignoring the tightness of nerves in his stomach for the excitement in his chest that grew with each step, finally overtaking the nerves altogether.

Harry didn't know why a small thing like climbing down the stairs had made him feel so accomplished. Then again, he didn't know what was so terrifying of going down the stairs either. He turned around, ready to climb up the stairs when something caught his eye.

The door of the drawing room was ajar, and the light of a fire had painted the carpet in its dim colour. Harry immediately panicked, his excitement abandoning him for the voice of reason that screamed at him to return to his room.

But no sound was coming from within the room.

Harry took a hesitant step. Then another. His shaking feet carried him through the narrow corridor, the eyes of the pale-faced portraits seemingly stalking him. Reaching the door, he didn't immediately pull it open, taking caution to listen and peek inside to make sure the room was empty.

It was. So of course Harry, who hadn't gotten a chance to look around with Mr Malfoy a possible threat, entered the room.

Illumination came from a roaring fire beneath a handsome marble mantelpiece with a gilded mirror. On the purple walls, there were even more portraits, making Harry wonder how much family the Malfoys had to fill the house with. Above him, two chandeliers were suspended from the ceiling, wide and looming, their ornate jewels glimmering in the firelight. In the corner, behind a long, sleek table was a pipe organ that looked like it hadn't been played in years. But one thing that stood out in the room was the brass candle stand on the table, alive with three small flames.

Harry took a step back. This was a bad idea. Forget Snape, Mr Malfoy, or even White, would definitely butcher him if they found him in a room he was not supposed to be in.

Turning around, he started towards the door, taking small steps, not daring to even disturb the dust. That's when he heard a sound coming from under the floor, and at that moment he chose to dive into the small space under the sofa, somewhat obscured with the elegant silks sprawled over it.

Big mistake, Harry's head kept repeating over and over, eyes shifting from different parts of the floor to find the source of the sound, very very big mistake. Harry shifted his weight, hiding his face behind the long, silk throw.

A smooth creaking noise met Harry's ears. Peeking from behind the fabric, Harry's eyes went wide as a section of the floor opened, revealing Mr Malfoy. He walked up the parts of a staircase Harry could see, stepping over the ledge and closing the open section by pulling the trap-door down.

Harry shrunk behind the fabric once again, putting a hand over his mouth. He might not know what Mr Malfoy was doing exactly, underneath those stairs, but he couldn't push away the idea that if he were caught, Snape wouldn't be able to get him out of Mr Malfoy's wrath.

So he stayed very, very quiet, hand still over his mouth and eyes shut, desperately hoping Mr Malfoy left the room. His arm was starting to become numb, and the dust had brushed his nose, calling on a sneeze which Harry tried to stop by pinching his nose.

It took entirely too long, but Mr Malfoy eventually picked up the candelabra, the sound of his footsteps carrying towards the door.

Harry made the mistake of releasing his breath too soon, his body relaxing.

The light that was with Mr Malfoy cast sudden shadows over the walls as he turned, his

footsteps stopping suddenly.

Harry pressed his hand over his mouth once again, eyes wide. His heart was thumping uncomfortably under him. Mr Malfy made no move, undoubtedly inspecting the room. A few seconds later, he stepped forward, leg brushing the sofa.

Harry squeezed his eyes closed, his other hand latching onto his arm in a shaky grip. From what he could hear, Mr Malfoy was using a fire poker, spreading the embers, before scraping the ash and placing it over the wood, extinguishing the flames with the aid of sand.

The light in the room was slowly sucked away along with the heat, now left to the mercy of the candles. The poker clicked against metal, placed back into the stand. The footsteps once again carried out of the room, this time without return.

Harry waited. And waited, long after his breathing calmed. When it remained silent for what had to be the end of an hour, he rolled out from under the sofa, his hands trembling still. Hands balancing him, he walked out of the room, a falter to his step. The rails seemed colder; the portraits' eyes followed him down the hallway, and the door to his room never looked so unwelcome.

His eyes fell on Snape's door. Closed, probably cold. Still more appealing than Harry's. He debated it for a few minutes, walking between the two while biting his lip. Decided, he stepped into his room, grabbing his pillow and blanket and walking out again. Raising his hand, he knocked loosely twice. When no reply came, he knocked a little harder, thrice this time, not expecting a response.

He didn't get any. So sliding down the door, pillow on his back, he wrapped the blanket behind him, wanting to be as close as he could to another person. Even if it was Snape.

He was still surprised when instead of the door, Harry's back met air and the floor after a small click, Snape's body looming upside down on his vision.

"Po- Patel?" Snape said gruffly, his hair standing up in obscure shapes around his head, "What are you doing here?"

"I-" Harry scrambled to his feet lifting the pillow and blanket, hugging them to his chest and hiding his burning cheeks behind them, "-I just… You-You know- This was a bad idea," he turned around, crossing the doorframe. Of course this was a stupid idea. It was stupid he wanted to be with someone. It was stupid he wanted to be comforted by someone. Stupid he wanted to feel protected like a stupid child, and stupid that he expected it from Snape of all-

"Did you have a nightmare?"

Harry paused in the small space between his room and Snape's, hands freezing around the pillow. Snape stepped after him, stopping by the door frame, his voice more lucid by the word.

"I think… I'll go with that, for now," Harry admitted, blinking a few times and exhaling tensely, "I'm sorry to have bothered you, sir."

He continued to his room, reaching a hand to the door.

Snape's hand touched his shoulder above the blanket, "I don't think you'll be able to sleep, in this state."

"No," Harry admitted, voice thick, leaning his head on the door and shaking it, his shoulders tense, "No, I won't."

Without a word, Snape gently pulled him from the door, steering him to the opposite direction. He led him into the room, closing the door behind them. Harry continued after him towards the bed, pulling his blanket down from his shoulder. But when he started to lay it on the floor, Snape caught the end of the fabric.

"Patel, what are you doing?"

Harry looked up, the rain filling the silence he was meant to claim with his words. Between his fingers, the sheet rubbed smoothly against his skin, softer than the blankets back in his room at the apothecary, yet not holding the same comforting smell.

"I didn't think you'd want me on the bed."

"Having you become sick isn't appealing either," Snape said. Taking the unused pillow on the bed, he dropped it over the dresser, gesturing for Harry to put his pillow on the empty side.

Harry did, lying down and pulling his own blanket over him. The other side of the bed dipped, the ruffling of the sheets stopping when the weight on the other end settled down. The memory from the night at the inn came to mind, very similar to the moment they were sharing now. This time, though, it was warmer. The rain was more comforting than before, and he didn't mind Snape's presence as much as he thought he would.

"Are you willing to share what's bothering you?"

"Not yet," Harry mumbled, "Are you?"

Snape didn't speak. He turned around so he was facing Harry's back.

Harry turned around too, glad he couldn't see Snape's face "Will we ever be ready?"

No answer. Harry laughed dryly, turning back around, closing his eyes against the rain.

"Good night, Professor."

"Sleep safely, Ali."

Harry wanted to hit his head repeatedly on a wall.

A particularly hard and painful wall.

White might have not wanted Harry around at meal times, but by the start of breakfast, Harry knew he didn't want to be around any of the Malfoy Manor residents either.

Mr Malfoy constantly asked questions, interrupting Harry whenever he tried to eat. He asked about his family, his religion, his country, culture, food and everything Harry didn't know about Ali Patel. Hadn't Snape already answered such questions when he and Mr Malfoy were alone? He'd already told him Harry, well, Ali, was a relative of Professor Patel, doing an apprenticeship with Snape, what else was so fascinating with Ali that Mr Malfoy just had to know everything?

Malfoy was worse, staying silent at his part of the table, constantly playing with the ring around his finger, looking like he too was very interested in the subject.

So in the end, he half-heartedly nodded along to Snape's smooth lies.

Parents? Deceased. He'd been staying with the Patel siblings from a young age. Religion? Still learning more, you understand. Country? India. Culture? As Mr Malfoy should know, not every part of the country is the same, so of course it would be ignorant to ask about it as bluntly as he had.

Harry himself could answer for the food, saying how he was receiving cooking lessons from Mr Patel, since Professor Patel was a terrible cook.

Mr Malfoy didn't like hearing that.

"I've always told Professor Dumbledore he shouldn't employ women," he muttered, shaking his head, "Their hysteria makes it difficult, you see, and they end up failing at things they are meant to do."

Harry was prepared to argue otherwise, to claim that really wasn't the reason she was bad at cooking, but Snape pinched his arm lightly under the table, making Harry bite down his words in anger.

Thankfully, no further questions were brought up about Ali Patel, and the rest of the meal went smoothly with an exchange of conversation between the adults, mainly Sirius Black, politics, and people Harry had never heard of.

White stared at him from the corner throughout the meal. Harry waited for the man to leave him, and not change his expression to a disgusted one every time Harry took a bite from his food. Butlers, it seemed, enjoyed sneering at guests while they had nothing to do. So whenever he wasn't being watched by either Snape or Mr Malfoy, he would stare at the man long and hard, sometimes taking a few bites of bread as he did so. More often than not, the sour look on his face either grew worse, or he walked towards the table to pour some more milk or clear some dirty plates.

Harry wasn't having fun, but it was satisfying to see how much he could bother White by just ignoring the way he looked at him.

"The rain is coming to a stop," Malfoy said, looking at his father, "I'd like to show Patel around once it's ceased, father."

"Are your school assignments complete?" said Mr Malfoy without looking at his son.

"Yes."

"Your daily studies?"

Malfoy stopped playing with his ring, a frown on his lips, "Not yet."

"And why not?" Mr Malfoy said, turning to look at his son, who had turned his head to look at his unfinished plate, "Take care not to use an excuse such as not finding it amusing enough."

Harry could guess that was exactly what Malfoy was planning to say, from the way his eyes widened. Shaking his head, he lifted his cup to his lips, mumbling something Harry couldn't hear.

"You too have some work to complete, if I remember correctly," Snape said, putting his tea down, "How is the novel coming along?"

"It's hard to understand, some words," Harry said with a shrug, pushing his plate forward, "I mean, some words are hard to understand. And the book is very boring."

"I thought children enjoyed words of fiction," Snape said, lifting his brow.

Harry leaned back in his chair, "I'd rather have something… less mad."

"I'll take care to find chemistry formulas as future reading material."

Harry chuckled, covering his mouth with his hand, "I said something less mad, Professor."

Some ten minutes later they all rose from the table. Mr Malfoy left first, claiming he had some work to do in his office after the table was cleared.

Harry hadn't missed his stare.

Before he could follow Snape out the room, Malfoy caught him by the arm.

"What is it?" he asked, nodding for Snape to leave when he glanced over his shoulder, "Do you want your sweater back?"

"Oh, if you need it I don't mind," Malfoy said, as if he just remembered he had given Harry the sweater, "Nevermind that. I want you to come to my room with whatever work you have."

White was still in the room, so Harry drew Malfoy to the door, hissing into his ear, "I don't want to. Your butler caught me when I left, and accused me of stealing."

"Oh," Malfoy's shoulders dropped. Once they were out, he closed the door behind them, steering him under the staircase, "Well, I suppose that's alright. We'll meet at the library then. Less distractions then."

"Why do you want me to come with you? You seem like you can study without the help of someone that only just learned to read."

Malfoy blinked, "When did you learn how to read?"

"Much later than you, I think we can both agree," Harry said dryly, glancing at the door, "So answer me: Why do you want me to study with you?"

"Look at this house, Patel," Malfoy said, opening his arms and motioning around the room, "Do you see any source of entertainment? My head stopped functiıoning months ago."

"I think we can both agree," Harry mumbled, straightening his back, "I don't think your father wants me around you."

"Oh, he does. But not for reasons you think."

"For what reason then?"

Malfoy pulled away from where he was standing, clasping his arms behind him, a smirk on his face, "I don't know, Patel. Maybe a study session at the library might bring back some of my brain function."

And that, Harry knew he couldn't refuse.

"I agreed to study with Malfoy," Harry announced as he entered Snape's room, leaving the slippers on the made bed with relief, "But I don't want to."

"The senior Malfoy doesn't allow his son to have visitors during the summer," Snape said, grunting amidst dragging a trunk toward the door, spine arched dangerously back with the weight, "I fear you're the only summer visitor he's had since starting Hogwarts."

"Don't they have relatives, or rich family friends with children?" Harry asked, taking the other handle of the trunk and heaving it up, "I thought… Mr Malfoy would have… some."

Snape chuckled painfully, rubbing his back when they dropped the trunk beside the door, "He only has allies, some poor bribed souls along the way. Acquaintances."

"Like you? You're an acquaintance, right?" Harry asked, looking up from where he was sitting on the floor, one arm slung over the trunk.

Snape paused before answering, as if he had to choose from a very difficult list of words, "Yes," he finally said, sitting down on the trunk, "Like me."

The silence overtook their words, coated with comfort from the quiet drops of rain against the window.

"Does that come right before friendship?"

"Is that the only part of the conversation you're worried about."

"Yes," Harry said, meeting Snape's eye with more confidence he'd had in weeks, "That, and how unfortunate it is that Malfoy's got me as his only acquaintance."

"Draco's earned himself more friends at Hogwarts than we both have combined, Patel," Snape said, standing up, "I doubt your contribution is worth gloating."

"Oh, that reminds me, are you Malfoy's real uncle?"

Snape shook his head very eagerly, grimacing, "God forbid I be related to either the Malfoy or the Black bloodline."

"But you like Draco- Wait," Harry looked up at Snape and did a double take, cautiously rising to his feet, "What do you mean by Black?"

"I don't like Draco because he's Lucius' son. I like him because of the time and experience I've had with him. And to answer the second question, yes. Narcissa Malfoy née Black. I believe he is cousins with the convict. But none of that now, we both have places to be."

"I still don't want to study with him."

"I don't think Gryffindors should back away from their promises."

"What's a Gryffindor?"

"It's one of the four houses at-" Snape paused, hand still on the door. Harry considered touching his arm to see if he was breathing because of how deathly still his body had turned, rigid like stone.

Snape turned to look at Harry, watching him with odd fascination.

"Uh, why'd you call me that sir?" Harry asked, feeling unnerved under the stare. Snape parted his lips, then thought otherwise and asked him to leave the room, muttering as he did so.

"Why indeed."

A few drops remained falling from the sky, once their study session was over. Well, Harry would call it a study session only because he didn't know what else to call it.

While he studied, struggling through a chapter of Alice in Wonderland, Malfoy had provided great aid in making sure Harry lost his focus. Harry knew what is felt like to hate studying, or even to not have a friend for company, but Malfoy's words alone were enough to annoy him.

Malfoy was arrogant and for some reason gloated only about his lineage and not himself.

So when Harry finally finished his poorly-done exercises on division and multiplication, he slammed the books closed on the table, the noise echoing through the library.

Malfoy looked at him from the book he wasn't reading, watching Harry carefully.

Harry turned to face him, his rigid arms on the table supporting his weight, "I think we should take a walk."

The wood creaked under Malfoy's feet. Dropping the book eagerly on the sofa, Malfoy stretched his arms above his head, ruffling his hair loosely.

"Thought we'd never go," he said, placing his hands behind his head, "Come along, Patel. I'm going to give you the tour of your dreams."

Harry followed him out the library, closing the door behind them. Instead of walking out the back door like Harry assumed, Malfoy led them to the front door, pushing it open. The door slid smoothly, and for the first time Harry could see the grounds without rain obscuring his vision.

A long lane stretched before them to a point Harry could not make out, each side bordered with high, trimmed hedges. From either side of the hedges, vast grounds branched out into the horizon, decorated with too many things to name.

They took to the right, making sure to not step in any mud. Harry wiped some rain from his nose, keeping close to Malfoy as he guided them through the track between various kinds of flowers: some well known, some Harry recognised from the apothecary, and some entirely foreign.

"The gardens here are neatly kept for Father's guests," Malfoy said, his shoes sharp against the cobblestone next to Harry's soft steps, "Mother didn't like how the stone paths were lined with flowers, as it's meant to be the other way around."

Well, it was nothing like the one at the apothecary. There, Snape and Harry cared about its functionality, not aesthetic. Here, a long, stone lane was paved over the land, square patches with greenery dug into it.

"It's… neat."

"Very neat," Malfoy said, turning around with an amused smile, "Want to see something chaotic?"

"I have a feeling you'll force me, even if I say no," Harry shrugged, trailing his hand through the flowers as they walked, "I just don't know why you asked."

"Your eyes should enjoy some stability, before it comes."

"It comes?"

Draco gave him a final grin before quickening his pace, his Longer-Than-Harry's-Legs easily carrying him to the edge of the property before he could catch up.

"You can wait, you know!" Harry shouted after him, running to keep up with Malfoy. He didn't stop, of course, and turned a corner, disappearing from view. Harry sighed, pausing to take a breath and look at the building that stretched before him.

No vines, no breaks, nothing. Malfoy Manor looked eerie and Harry wasn't sure how he was meant to feel about it.

A final glance, and Harry continued down the path between the wall and manor, feeling an unseen pair of eyes following him.

"Malfoy?" he shouted, cupping a hand around his mouth, "Malfoy!"

No reply. Harry's frown deepened, biting his lip when he noticed a tree was arching above him where the building ended, a canopy of trees sprawling farther than he could see. Harry took a deep breath, turned the corner...

And gasped.

Specks of light filtered through the blanket of foliage overhead. A white structure stood right in the middle, circled by white and yellow flowers. Beside the trees and almost everywhere he looked, wild flowers grew in all directions, sprouting without care for the stone path or the table and chairs beside the fountain.

"This is what Mother likes," Malfoy said, standing up from the chair, "We had some peacocks around, but I don't know where they've gone."

"If your mother is sick, shouldn't she be here?" Harry asked without thinking, bending down to smell the lavenders, stepping back when he heard the buzz of a bee.

"Father doesn't allow it," Malfoy sighed, pulling out the chair and sitting down.

"Your father doesn't allow a lot of things," Harry mumbled, reaching for an unoccupied lavender and breaking some of them from the stem, "Oh, can I collect some?"

"Hm?" Malfoy lifted his head, nodding and gesturing loosely, "Oh, go ahead. No one but mother misses them anyway."

"Ah."

Harry started to walk around, smelling any flowers that caught his eye, and accumulating a decent bouquet. Malfoy watched him, head on the table, moving his eyes in sync with Harry's steps.

In the end, Harry had three bouquets at hand. A heavy one with all sorts of flowers, another with lavender, and a final one mixed with lilies and honeysuckle. He clasped the last one in a gentle hold, brushing his hands over the petals as though they would break. It wasn't a mystery why he had fondy collected the lilies, dressing them with the sweetest smelling flower in the garden.

He placed the lily bouquet on the table, handing the much larger one to Malfoy, who eyed the flowers with reluctance.

"Uh, Patel-"

"Your mother must be lonely, sick in her room all day," Harry said, narrowing his eyes when Malfoy's cheeks flushed, "She'll like them, I'm sure. Why are you blushing?"

"Don't ask me that!" Malfoy said, snatching the flowers from the table, cheeks blossoming into dark red, "I'm going to take these up to mother."

"So you like them, then," Harry said, grinning widely, picking up his own flowers.

"I do not."

"Yes, Malfoy."

The two then walked back, the afternoon sun slanting between the leaves, lining the ground and their clothes with messy shadows. They shared a silence somewhere between awkward and uncomfortable. When they were back inside, they bid farewell at the staircase.

Malfoy went left, disappearing behind the corner and Harry collected his books, and closed the door behind him, head occupied with questions about how Alice would survive the court.

No response came when he knocked on Snape's door, so he went back to his own, placing the books neatly on the bedside table. The flowers, still in his hand, lay neatly beside him, their colours earning a smile from Harry, pulling him deep into thought.

Lily Evans came to mind, her face a fog that wouldn't clear. Harry closed his eyes, trying to balance his breathing, urging the fog to clear for just a peek. It wouldn't, of course, and Harry furiously opened his eyes, wishing he, like Malfoy, could have a mother he could visit. Like Ron, a father that would ruffle his hair, and even an uncle like Snape that would pull him into a clumsy embrace.

He picked up the flowers, placed them above his nose and inhaled the smell that reminded him of a garden in a house that didn't welcome him.

It was, of course, ridiculous to cry for people you never knew, or to cry at all. Crying was for children like Marie, like people who were ill like Mrs Malfoy, not for boys like Harry who didn't have anything to cry about.

Why did Snape cry then?

Harry jerked up, gasping for air, running a hand through his hair as if to snatch the thought out of it. The thought sounded like it wasn't even his. His eyes searched around the room, looking for something he wouldn't find. Then his eyes landed on the books, and that's when he got an idea.

Taking the mathematics book, which he knew had empty pages at the back, Harry wrote in the date, and started recording everything that had happened since his arrival to the apothecary. Yes, his words were big and clumsy. Yes, he made mistakes and yes, he could barely finish the page without his hand hurting.

The script was ugly and messy, almost illegible, but was a flawless report of his first week. Important events, what he could remember from his interaction with Snape, and experiences worth noting.

He was halfway through the second week now, putting in even the unnecessary details, like the couple he had spoken with at the Leaky Cauldron, trying to copy the star he'd seen the woman wearing.

"What are you doing?"

The pencil flew out of his hand, and Harry hit his knees on the wood, making him shout out in pain. Behind him, Snape bent down to pick the pencil from the floor, placing it over the book he regarded with a raised brow.

"Should I be impressed you're working hard, or disappointed at the monstrosity you've brought into this world?"

"An apology for my knees would be appreciated," Harry gritted through his teeth, rubbing his palms against his bones, "Why do you always walk so quietly?"

Snape hummed, bending down with a hand on the table to support him. His eyes skimmed the pages at a speed Harry could not keep up.

"Congratulations, Patel."

His hand froze above the page. Harry lifted his eyes, feeling an inevitable wrath approaching, "S-sir?"

"Thirteen years, Patel," Snape said, idly tapping on the table with a finger, "Thirteen years I have been a teacher, and many more than that a researcher and student, yet you managed to baffle me."

"I don't understand, Professor," Harry muttered, losing his balance when Snape wrenched the book out of his hands, opening to the pages Harry really didn't want Snape to read.

"I have marked a mountain heap of essays, from eleven year olds to seventeen year olds, and never encountered an essay I couldn't read. My compliments, Patel," he placed the book back on the table, a smirk on his face, "You've managed to break the steady record I prided myself to have."

The book sat meekly on the table, the cover dull and worn. Harry looked between it and Snape, words frothing in his mouth.

"That's not fair! I just learnt to read!"

"I've taught countless students the same, Patel, at the age of eleven. They're not all perfect. However, if I am disappointed, it's due to the fact that I've expected more from you."

Harry was about to argue, finger jabbed into the air when the words sunk in, bringing his finger down with them. That's when he realised what Snape was saying, and that's when he felt his ears burn.

He hoped his hair would cover them enough.

Dropping back into his chair, he picked up the pencil, playing with it in his fingers, "Why are you talking like that all of a sudden?"

"I expect more of you."

"Yes, but you never complimented me."

"Did you take that as a compliment?"

Harry's ears burned further at the amusement on Snape's face. Turning around, he threw open the book, purposely writing each letter slowly.

"There's no shame if you took it as a compliment."

"I know."

"In fact, I encourage such things. I won't pretend I'm a kind man, so do take whatever you need to take to carry you through."

Harry turned around, a hand holding the back of the chair, "Did I do something?"

Snape smirked, his lips falling into a small smile when he saw the flowers on the bed, "Did you?"

"Professor," Harry said dryly, following his eyes to the flowers, picking them up, "Just tell me what I've done."

Snape sighed, running a hand through his hair, "I haven't seen either Mrs Malfoy or Draco happier in quite a while, even with Mrs Malfoy in her bed-ridden state."

Then he left, not giving Harry the opportunity to turn back around or offer a reply.

Leaning his head on the back of the chair, Harry dropped the pencil yet again, rubbing his hands over his face. The flowers stood out like candles in the night, lonely, away from the garden that had concealed its beauty. The room displayed it, now, for what it really was - colours you could rarely see in the city, seemingly dipped in the paint Mr Ollivander sold in his shop. Harry closed his book, stood up, and walked towards the armchair in front of the window. The cushion dipped under his weight, soft and comfortable.

Harry took out his shoes, pulling his knees to his chest. Bringing the flowers up to his nose, he took a deep breath, closing his eyes and breathing out.

"Hello, ma."

When he opened his eyes, he didn't see her. Of course he couldn't. Flowers wouldn't bring her back, dreams would not come true.

But Harry was good at pretending. So he pretended to see a woman there, looking very much like him with her dark skin and smile, a figure like smoke, moving in and out of shape. Harry was good at pretending, so he closed his eyes again and started to speak.

He told her about where he was, about his family in the orphanage, about Snape, about how he learnt her name. Diagon Alley, Malfoy, learning to read and just how much he wanted to see her and his father. Admittedly, he did get a few tears, the ones he didn't have enough time to wipe away, the ones that dropped over the petals that brushed his cheek. It wasn't what he wanted, not even close.

Harry was good at pretending, so he tempted himself to accept it either way, taking one petal with him as he walked down for dinner, hoping the redness of his eyes wouldn't be noticed and the burning on his arm would cease.

Snape and Mr Malfoy didn't join them for dinner, and Malfoy assured him they were having a conversation in his father's office. When Harry was about to leave, Malfoy once again cornered him and started to draw him to a part of the house Harry would rather not be caught in, even with Malfoy dragging him by the arm.

"Mafloy, I have some things to do," he said, groaning and trying to pull away. Malfoy had a firm hold on his wrist, however, fingers digging into the lines that Harry had drawn over his skin, "Are we going to do this everyday?"

"I don't see why not," Mafloy said, stopping in front of a door. He turned around, putting a finger over his lips. Harry raised a brow, trying to look above Malfoy to get a better look.

Inside the simply furnished room, on a large four poster bed, lay a woman looking remarkably like the picture Malfoy had drawn with a flower bouquet on the bedside drawer.

"Oh," Harry breathed, turning around at the sound of the door closing, "Malfoy, I don't think I should-"

Malfoy took him by the shoulders, steering him towards the bed, "I promised her I'd let you meet her."

"You promised-"

Malfoy grinned, stopping him right beside the bed, gesturing for him to stay put while he bent over the bed, whispering to his mother.

Mrs Malfoy's eyes opened slowly, a painful smile on her lips, "Hello, dear."

Harry looked around while they talked, trying his best not to listen to an intimate looking conversation. When Malfoy touched his shoulder, he turned back to the two, averting his gaze when he locked eyes with Mrs Mafloy.

"This is the friend?" Mrs Malfoy saidy airily, her voice hoarse and rough.

Malfoy nudged him on the side. Harry cleared his throat, rubbing his arm, "Nice- Pleased to meet you, Mrs Malfoy."

As Mrs Malfoy couldn't speak for extended periods, they stayed for only ten minutes where Mrs Malfoy thanked Harry for keeping Malfoy company during the summer. Harry nodded, rubbing the back of his neck and feeling uncomfortable until they left.

"That wasn't too bad, was it?" Malfoy told him, pulling the door closed behind him, "Mother was very happy I had a friend."

"You should have told me where we were going first," Harry said while they walked, glaring at the ground.

Malfoy shrugged, "You wouldn't have come if I did."

"Then you shouldn't have made promises without asking me."

Malfoy stopped at the end of the hallway, stepping in front of him, "I wanted to make my mother happy. Were you really going to refuse to come with me?"

Harry crossed his arms, feeling very small next to Malfoy with his towering height, "Yes, actually. I didn't want to come."

"That is heartless, Patel."

Harry's mouth dropped open, the words already forming in his mouth. Instead, he nudged him to the side, walking furiously down the corridor, "I didn't expect you to understand."

But Malfoy wasn't finished. He stepped in front of him again, stopping him with both arms extended to his side, "What don't I understand, Patel? That my mother is sick?"

Harry narrowed his eyes to match Malfoy's glare, "Shove off Malfoy-"

"That she might, how do I put it, die?"

"I said shove off!"

The two stared at each other for a long time, each with a glare of their own. Harry then sidestepped him, forcefully hitting Malfoy's shoulder and going down to the guest room without pause.

They didn't speak much, after that.

Much to Harry's relief, nothing important went wrong until the day they planned to leave.

Harry didn't think the shouting row he and Malfoy had in the afternoon in the library was anything important.

It was stupid, though. Harry refused to read the books Malfoy had got for him, Malfoy called him selfish and backed it up using the argument they had last night.

Harry shouted that he was being unfair.

Malfoy retorted, equally loud, that his mother was dying, stopping Harry from leaving by barricading the door with his body.

"Oh, really? Well my mother is dead so excuse me, your pompous prince-ness if I would rather not get reminded that I don't have any family left!"

Harry left Malfoy with a hard kick to his leg. Malfoy left Harry with a dark bruise to his cheek.

Nothing important. White and Snape, who had found them, were both exaggerating with their lectures on how it was 'unbecoming of a Malfoy heir.'

Nothing important.

Snape made some derogatory statements on Mr Malfoy's stubbornness when he felt the need to release his rage, and asked Harry and Malfoy both on why they were so intent on ignoring each other each day after dinner and retreated to his room without conviction when he only got excuses for why they had the argument.

Nothing important.

Until the day they planned to leave.

Harry hadn't gone back to the drawing room after the day he caught Mr Malfoy there. He had no reason to. However, since he had trouble sleeping, he stayed up through the night, sitting close to the door while he restarted to read Alice's beloved tales.

Like clockwork, every single night at midnight, a pair of fast, nervous feet slammed down the marble, continued by a silence of fifteen minutes before another much more relaxed pair of feet climbed back up the stairs.

Harry didn't want to ask what it was Mr Malfoy was doing down there on routine, lest Snape had questions on how Harry knew what Mr Malfoy was doing. So he responded by giving Mr Malfoy (or White) no opportunity to interact with him. No questions, no small talk, no catching him alone in any part of the house.

It all worked.

Of course, until the day they planned to leave.

Harry choked on the piece of bread, hitting his chest repeatedly and swallowing down the glass of water Snape pushed his way, beside the glass jar Snape had brought down with him for some reason and filled with water.

"Excited, Potter?" Malfoy said with a smirk, sipping his own water, "I might teach you a few things too, with me in your company."

Harry rubbed his throat, curling his hand into a fist to stop him from glaring, "Who wouldn't be at an opportunity to spend some time with their friend."

"I'm sure Mr Patel learns enough under Severus, Draco," Mr Malfoy added in an airy, obnoxious sort of way, watching Harry as he attempted to wipe his watering eye. So what if the prat was coming back to the apothecary with them? Harry didn't care. It was the twentieth of August today, leaving only 11 days until the end of the month. Malfoy would be gone, Snape would follow after him and Harry…

Well, Harry pretended he didn't care much about what was going to happen to him. It was easier, that way, and didn't feel like he was being abandoned.

After breakfast, as usual, Harry waited until an impatient Malfoy was ready to leave with Snape before stepping towards the door.

"And I suppose you'll be returning the borrowed books before you leave?"

Harry closed his eyes, the world disappearing. He turned around, meeting White's gaze, "That's right, Mr White."

"Borrowed books, I hear?"

Cursing his luck, Harry turned to look at Mr Malfoy, glancing up and down his length before squaring his shoulders. He hadn't seen Mrs Malfoy's height, but even if she wasn't tall, it was no question where Malfoy had gotten his height.

"Hasn't the young master told you, sire?" White asked, gesturing at Harry loosely, "Young Mr Malfoy requested some books on the boy's behalf."

"I say it must have slipped his mind to mention, as things often do."

Harry turned to face the two men, keeping his chin up, "They're in the room. I stacked them on the table."

Mr Malfoy ran a finger over his cane. Harry wondered if he always carried it with him, a ritual like the one that carried him down to the drawing room every night. The finger stopped right above the beak of the bird, tapping loosely as Mr Malfoy continued, "And were the books to your liking?"

No. Harry hadn't given himself the opportunity to read them, between working on his make-shift diary and procrastinating by rereading Alice.

"They all sounded very interesting, sir. I didn't know which one to pick."

"An avid reader, are you?" Mr Malfoy asked, putting a hand on his shoulder. Harry winced, trying to step back. The cane caught him by the arm, steering him back into the room.

"Not to worry," Mr Malfoy failed at assuring him, a bad interpretation of a smile on his lips, "I merely want to discuss a few, ah, delicate matters."

"I didn't break- I didn't rip any of your pages, Mr Malfoy," Harry said, then looking up into the eyes of White, "Or steal, if that's what you want to know."

White narrowed his eyes, but said nothing in reply, speaking only when Mr Malfoy turned his way, both brows raised in question, "I caught the boy exiting the young Master's room. I had his best interest in mind, as you know Master Malfoy."

The way White's voice could go from sour to sweet was sickening. Harry shook his arm free of Mr Malfoy's cane, rubbing the spot where the beak had dug in, "I don't steal, Mr Malfoy. I'd hate to break the trust Professor Snape has placed in me."

"Regardless, that is not what I wish to talk about."

"There's not much I can provide you with, Mr Malfoy."

"Then let's start with a simple one. Why have you fought with my son? Oh yes, Mr Patel. I know everything that happens under this roof. And while Draco's actions were unbecoming-" his eyes flickered to the bruise on Harry's cheek, "-I feel the need to know the reason."

Harry looked at White, "Haven't you learned the reason from your son and Mr White?"

"Unfortunately, he merely said it was a foolish argument, even at the end of my hand."

Harry shuddered, thinking of Malfoy with his cheeks red in the shape of a hand.

"What has Snape deemed as your punishment?"

Harry toed the carpet, "Cleaning medicine jars."

Harry heard an amused scoffed, eyes still pinned on his toes, shrugging when Mr Malfoy asked a second question.

"And do you believe that is sufficient punishment, Mr Patel? I can never understand that… man, nor can I understand why he brought you with him."

Harry furrowed his brows, "Hasn't Professor Snape explained this already?"

The tip of the cane touched the ground with unnecessary force. Harry dropped his eyes to the ground only to find Mr Malfoy bent over him, keen eyes pinned to his own when he looked up, "Try again."

"My-" Harry tried to remember if Snape had called Professor Patel or her mother Ali's aunt, the word getting lodged on his tongue, unmoving. When it was clear the memory wasn't fronting, Harry cleared his throat, and lifted his head, "-Aunt Aisha, I call her aunt because she's a lot older than me, and Uncle Ahmed were preoccupied. Professor Snape agreed to take me with him. I think he secretly thought it was a learning experience."

"Aren't you meant to be with him, if this is such a learning experience?"

Harry shrugged, a forced grin on his face, "I get enough lessons in the apothecary. For example, did you know there's a difference between, uh- Western and Eastern medicine, I think-"

Mr Malfoy scoffed, stepping back with both hands on the cane, "And what would that be, Mr Patel?"

"One is useful and the other is worthless."

Mr Malfoy frowned, "Do enlighten me on which is which."

"That's where Professor Snape fooled me," Harry said proudly, pleased where he was steering the conversation, "It depends on which side of the world you live in."

Mr Malfoy chuckled heartily, shaking his head. White, of course, didn't so much as smile, keeping his lips thin and his eyes unamused. That was alright with Harry. If Mr Malfoy was in a good enough mood, that might just-

"Are you intentionally distracting me, Mr Patel?" Mr Malfoy said, sharply cutting off his laugh.

Harry swallowed, "I don't think I'm smart enough to do that, sir."

"I didn't keep you behind just to hear Snape's petty jokes."

"You laughed, Mr Malfoy," Harry said, tilting his head to the side, "And so did I, the first time. Does that make us both petty?"

Mr Malofy was about to respond when his eyes looked above Harry's head, pinned to a spot. Harry didn't need to look to know who the thin fingered hand on his shoulder belonged to.

"Having fun, Ali?" Snape said while looking at Mr Malfoy, squeezing his shoulder each time he spoke, "If you wished to talk to my apprentice, Lucius, some warning in advance would be appreciated."

"Why, if I didn't know any better, I would have said you have some things to hide, Severus."

"I always have things to hide. However, climbing the whole staircase only to realise your apprentice has not followed you isn't very responsible of me."

Harry looked up. Snape's lips were curled into an amused smile to rival the irritation on Mr Malfoy's face, a single brow arched cleanly in question, "Or are we to pretend I'm the only one with secrets?"

Mr Malfoy suddenly became very red in the cheeks, which Harry always found amusing with pale faced people - how any change in colour was instantly recognizable.

At least, if that person wasn't Snape. Harry didn't remember ever seeing Snape show an emotion other than anger, humour or the always ill-timed desire to be an annoyance. This was a mixture of the latter two.

Snape looked like he was having too good a time.

"I can go on," he added, one hand behind his back, "Or I can tend to the lady one last time and assist my Godson in packing."

"You do that," Mr Malfoy said, the colour in his cheeks still not leaving, eyes dropping down to bore into Harry's, "You've always had a lean in with the mudbloods, Tobias."

The hand on Harry's shoulder dug in like sharp nails. Harry almost shouted out in pain, his eyes wrenched shut in a wince. Snape turned around, steering Harry with him, the response Harry was expecting to hear from Snape not coming out of his mouth.

Once out of the room, Snape instantly loosened his hold, though he still marched him up the steps. Harry would have preferred to talk with him before he left for Mrs Malfoy, at least to learn what the word mudblood meant, or why Mr Malfoy had called Snape Tobias.

But Snape didn't stick around. He just thrust the jar he had filled with water at breakfast into Harry's hands, muttering something about 'flowers dying' before he was gone once again.

Harry sighed. Was this going to be his life now? Ups and downs and people being a hindrance and refusing to be transparent in what they wanted and needed? Random increases and decreases in relationships Harry felt he had no say in?

Everyone and everything was slowly driving him mad.

Lifting up the flowers, which really were starting to wilt, he put them into the jar. Breaking off a petal, he carried it to his desk, where he opened to the middle of Alice in Wonderland, placed the flower on top of the page and closed it, pushing the book down so the flower would be truly flattened.

That brought comfort, somehow. Somewhat.

He spent the rest of the morning going through his diary, looking up when Snape entered the room and told him they would be leaving at noon. Harry went around the room and collected his things, folding them and carrying them to Snape's room where he piled them neatly in the shared luggage, mind wandering in and out through his notes.

Because Harry had noticed a pattern.

A few patterns, actually. The patterns occıpied his thoughts even after they were standing outside, bidding farewell to Mr Malfoy, sitting in the carriage and having to ignore the (one-sided) animated conversation between Snape and Malfoy.

That is why he didn't hear they were talking to him until Snape waved a hand in front of his face, pulling him back.

"What?" Harry asked hazily, looking between the two, "Have I missed something?"

"Only the whole conversation since we've left. I'm sure you'll be alright," Malfoy dismissed him with a hand, "Your water is spilling, by the way."

Harry tilted the jar up, looking down to see some water stains on his shirt, "Is that all?"

"I've asked Draco the reason you two fought. I'd like to hear your side of the story," Snape said, leaning back on the seat.

"And what was Malfoy's side of the story?"

"Silence, if I'm being generous."

"Good," Harry said, leaning his elbow on the window sill and placing his chin on his hand, "You won't find me being more charitable."

Then they left him alone. Harry knew Snape didn't enjoy being left in the dark, but also looked like he didn't want to push things between the two, as if he wanted Malfoy and Harry to get along, or at least talk to each other.

Odd. He'd have to write the last couple of days into the back of his book.

Speaking of.

"What does mudblood mean?"

Malfoy's words caught in his mouth, both his and Snape's eyes flicking to look at him. Harry frowned, furrowing his brows, "What?"

Snape with his wide eyes recovered first, possibly due to him hearing it for the second time that morning. Malfoy, however, didn't regain much of his composure after losing it, mouth still parted after doing a double take.

"It's a derogatory term," Snape explained, voice on edge, "Used by people like Lucius Malfoy."

"I think that is the given," Harry said loosely, like he was pointing out the obvious, "I just want to know what made Mr Malfoy use it with me."

"Because he has no regard for human life," it was Malfoy who spoke, running a hand down his face, avoiding Harry's eye, "To him, you have dirty blood. Everyone who is different does."

Harry stared between the two, a question springing to mind, "Don't take offence, Malfoy, but I don't know why you're surprised. You're his son."

"Just because I look like him I don't go around spitting racial terms do I, Patel?"

"The reason which I was curious about exactly."

Malfoy turned to face him. Harry lifted his chin, shrugging, "I've been called worse. I didn't exactly enjoy it, but I still was. I just want to know what made you so different from your father, when you talk so highly of him."

Snape placed a hand over Malfoy's arm when it looked like he was about to explode with a number of cruel, incomprehensible sentences.

Malfoy took a deep breath, "It's called acting, Patel. Heard of it? If my father found out I was friends with- well, close friends with. I consider Hermione and Ron close, but then again I wasn't-"

"You're confusing him, Draco," said Snape, brows lifted in amusement at the shock on Harry's face, "Too much information, too little contextual reference"

"You're friends with Ron Weasley?" Harry asked, balancing the jar between his thighs, "I don't believe it."

Malfoy looked pleased, his nose lifted up in pride, "Well, not everyone deserved to be my friend, so they are the lucky ones, really."

Snape hummed behind him sarcastically, igniting an argument which Snape participated in with a mere smirk.

"It's true!" Malfoy shouted while Snape nodded, "Sure, we had some arguments and all, but Mrs Weasley still sent me the sweater. It's not my fault I was obsessed with ferrets at the time."

"Wait wait wait," Harry waved his hands, still trying to make sense of the conversation, "Having two friends doesn't make you any better, Malfoy."

"No, Patel, you don't understand. It's because I am better that I have them as friends," Malfoy said, turning his whole body to face Harry, "Do you think I'm still not embarrassed about calling Hermione... that word in first year?"

"I'm sure you are," Harry said, backing away, planting both hands behind him as support.

"Yes, exactly!" Malfoy said, putting both hands on Harry's shoulder and shaking him, "I did some wrong things. But I listened! So everything turned out alright."

"Draco, mind the jar," Snape warned behind him, trying to pull him back from the shoulder, "I don't want to-

"Do you understand, now, Patel?" Malfoy asked, still shaking Harry, "Don't compare me to my father ever again because-"

"YES NOW GET OFF!" Harry shouted, trying to push Malfoy. When that didn't work, he attempted to break his balance with his foot, which only resulted in him, well, falling. As previously wanted, but without taking the water with him.

Malfoy fell down, hitting Harry's leg, shaking the water filled jar. Snape shouted, "Draco the jar!" at the same time Harry shouted, "MY FLOWERS!" but both their efforts weren't enough to stop Harry from toppling over Malfoy, the jar tilting in such a way that it splashed right above them, catching Harry down the head, continuing right below the torso.

Needless to say, Harry wasn't entirely pleased at having to change his clothes behind the bushes on the side of the road, grumply snatching Malfoy's sweater -as his coat was put up to dry for the second time that week- constantly pulling the sleeves of the fabric that pooled around his body.

Even Snape didn't find a reason to annoy him, careful in handing him a fresh pair from their bag.

"I'm sorry abıut the jar," Harry said under his breath, handing him the folded pile of wet clothes.

"I'll take you to purchase lily seeds, back in the city."

Harry looked up, trying to lock eyes with Snape, who was clearly trying to do the opposite, "You don't have to do that."

"Flowers in pots last remarkably longer than those placed in water," Snape muttered without a hint of snide, "Children need to take continuous responsibilities in their lives, and plants may be great enforcement in that regard.

"I'm drying one," Harry said, Snape ushering him forward with his hands brushing Harry's back, "In the memory of ma."

Snape paused when he opened the door, his lips parted. Harry nodded reluctantly for him to continue. Taking a deep breath, Snape motioned for him to get in, speaking as he followed after, "She would be honoured."

Snape sat between them the rest of the journey, squashed between two young boys and their irregular sleeping patterns, which often meant they used his bony body as a pillow, much to his disdain.

For once, it looked like he didn't have the heart to disturb them.

Harry hadn't known how much he'd missed the apothecary until they were inside, the smell of herbs a comforting blanket wrapping around him. Snape put them both to work at once, from cleaning and unpacking to starting the fireplace while he went out to run some errands.

"Do leave some fragments of the house habitable," he warned just as he left, holding up a finger and pointing at them both, "I don't want to treat you like small children."

"Then you should stop seeing us as small children, Uncle," Malfoy said, crossing his arms.

"I cannot avoid the impossible, Draco."

Malfoy chuckled after him, leaving Harry alone in the entrance to tend to his chores upstairs.

Other than cooking, the two did everything, Harry going a step beyond what was necessary to tending to the garden like he used to before leaving for Malfoy Manor. The windows were washed, the weeds were plucked and the water closet was in the exact condition they had left it in. The cutting of the grass took the most effort, but even that task was going well when Snape arrived -

With a man Harry didn't recognise.

Malfoy had called him mid-way into cutting the edges of the vegetable patch, claiming Snape asked for him. Harry washed his hands, drying them by rubbing them over his pants, not putting effort into looking presentable.

He wished he at least had a better shirt on when he stepped upstairs to see someone sitting with his back turned to Harry and in conversation with Snape. When Harry entered the room, he turned around, and Harry saw a man - tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice.

He was smiling. A smile which widened noticeably when his eyes found Harry, bones creaking when he stood up from his chair.

"And if my eyes don't deceive me, this is who I think it is."

"Draco, will you leave us? This is a delicate matter, and having outside contribution isn't necessary."

Judging from the way Malfoy looked at Snape, he really didn't want to leave. Regardless, he nodded, closing the door behind him as he left. When his footsteps could no longer be heard, the man walked towards him, extending a wrinkled hand.

"Albus Dumbledore."

Harry took it with a lopsided smile, his small hand lost in Dumbledore's grip, "Al- Harry Potter. Pleased to meet you sir."

Dumbledore took his hand back, but continued to look at him, smile not faltering. Harry looked around awkwardly, when he felt the staring had continued for far too long, his discomfort turning into panic when he noticed tears sliding down the old man's cheeks, getting lost in the hair of his beard.

"Um, sir, would you like a, um..."

Dumbledore shook his hand, pulling a very colorful looking handkerchief from his dark blue coat, dabbing his eyes. While he did that, Snape motioned for him to sit down, coming from the counter to help Dumbledore to the sofa as well.

"Would the Headmaster like some tea?" he asked, pulling his hand back.

Dumbledore chuckled, folding his handkerchief and sliding it back into his coat, "Come now, Severus. Surely after years of knowing each other, you can drop the formalities."

"You mention this every time. And no, I won't. It's my respect for you. Tea?"

"Would you happen to have some lemon?"

Snape stared at him without a word.

"Perhaps not. I'll have what you're having, my boy."

He nodded, and left for the counter to resume making a late breakfast and the tea.

"I apologise, Harry," Dumbledore said, turning to him, still smiling, "I had given up hope many years ago, and hearing the news of your existence came as a great shock, followed by joy."

"Thank...you?" Harry said hesitantly, rubbing his arm, "I, uh, I had some questions."

"I believe we both have a great deal of questions. But if you'd do an old man the courtesy, I'd like to go first, so that I can answer yours with better clarity."

Dumbledore did go first, with questions that often made Harry uncomfortable. Where his family currently lived, had he been aware of his history and what had brought him to Snape's door? Once Dumbledore had run out of questions and was sipping his tea, Harry waited until his body eased and his eyes fluttered closed to ask his question, and even then needing to force his words out.

"Um, Sir Dumbledore, sir..."

"Ah, yes," Dumbledore put down his cup, balancing the saucer on his lap, "Would you like to ask me questions now, or receive them after I explain what happened that night?"

Harry glanced at Snape for an answer, but he wasn't looking their way, occupied with aggressively cutting the carrots he'd bought that morning.

"I'd like to know what happened first," he said, turning to face Dumbledore, chin raised and chest puffed, before he thought that must have looked rude, and hunched in on himself with embarrassment, "...Please."

Dumbledore took another sip, a long one. Harry heard the clank of the glass meeting the saucer, and looked up to find the smile on Dumbledore's lips had sagged into a painful frown.

"I found Tom Marvolo Riddle in an orphanage. A terrible place, children covered in bruises and treated no better than objects to exploit. The ideal that could not be further from what I wanted to make Hogwarts one day: Safe, welcoming, unthreatening."

Behind them, the knife slammed down with a shocking amount of force. Harry peered around to see what had happened, but Snape wasn't looking at their direction, abandoning the cutting board and reaching for the cabinets.

"Severus?"

"Nicked my finger," Snape said, wrapping something around his hand, "Please continue, Headmaster."

Dumbledore nodded, facing Harry once again, "As you might have guessed, he changed."

"Changed?"

"My mission during my years as a professor was to make an environment where students could enjoy each other's presence, and get past their prejudices. This, mind you, was a time the former Headmaster didn't admit anyone other than the sons of prominent families, or at least those that promised greatness."

"I heard a girl called Hermione goes there, and a boy called Ron, who's poor. So something changed, didn't it?"

Dumbledore confirmed with a nod, "My influence in the community allowed me to accept students from all sorts of backgrounds when I became Headmaster. However, during my professor years, there was vile hatred among the students. Vile, Harry. That, in addition to the influence of Gel- Grindelwald, created an environment of dedicated, pure loathing for anyone they didn't consider a 'pure-blood'."

"Mudbloods," Harry asked, frowning at the flinch of Snape, "Mr Malfoy called me that."

Snape turned around, eyes wide and shaking his head. Harry's lips parted, averting his eyes from Snape to Dumbledore when the headmaster glanced behind him.

"Mr Malfoy?" Dumbledore asked with a genuine air of confusion and worry, looking at the back of Snape, "When on Earth did Lucius Malfoy call you that?"

"Uh," Harry dragged, diving around his head for an excuse, "I mean, Malfoy had to come here somehow, yes?"

"Lucius Malfoy wouldn't come to London just to leave his son here," Dumbledore said, the crinkle in his eyes disappearing when they opened wide, "Has the boy been taken to Malfoy Manor."

Snape's shoulder dropped in defeat, his head hanging down. A low mumble came from his direction. Harry interpreted it as a crushed, hopeless way of saying, "Yes, Headmaster."

"Severus!"

"I wasn't left with a choice, Headmaster!" Snape said, whirling around to face them, one hand clutching a handkerchief, "Professor Patel was occupied, and there wasn't anyone I could involve in the matter without the secret being exposed."

Harry shrunk away on the sofa when Dumbledore's back straightened, hoping this wouldn't turn into a shouting row.

Adults shouting at children, he could understand. Adults shouting at other adults rarely turned out to be good, he could remember from the many times Uncle V-

His hand clutched down his arm, digging into his skin.

Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about it!

"Remus Lupin lives close to Diagon Alley."

"Remus Lupin," Snape spat the word like venom, his brows crinkled and nose scrunched, "Lives in Diagon Alley. An ally of a convict. That man is homeless."

"No proof of his involvement. And not anymore, as you are well aware of."

Snape scoffed, crossing his arms, "Painfully."

Dumbledore sighed, "Severus-"

"I think Ali- Potter would appreciate it if you continued, Headmaster," Snape intervened, "I will leave once the broth is simmering."

Harry's heart caught in his throat, "Uh, Professor Snape?" Both men turned to face Harry when he spoke, expressions of curiosity very similar. Harry swallowed, scratching his wrist, "If you don't mind, that is if it's- I'd like you to stay. Please."

Snape paused, like he didn't want to believe what he was hearing, "You want me to stay?"

"Yes."

Dumbledore glanced back at Snape, eyes twinkling, "If our Professor would do us the favor."

Snape looked between the two, glaring in response to the twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes, "I suppose a reliable narrator to Potter's tale would do no harm."

"I completely agree, Severus."

The knife was picked up once more, and Snape continued to cut in a calmer, more rational manner. Dumbledore cleared his throat, "Now, where were we? Ah yes. During Tom's years at Hogwarts, he-"

A knock interrupted him, making Snape slam the knife down and Harry rub his face with both hands. Snape walked towards the door, rigid and terrifying, pulling the door open with enough force to rattle the walls.

"If it's a customer that doesn't know how to read-" Snape's rigid posture eased, his shoulders dropping, voice shifting from dangerous to the usual monotone drawl as he moved to the side, gesturing for the newcomer to enter, "Professor Patel. What do we owe the visit?"

"That would be my request, Severus."

"I apologise for interrupting, and being late, Headmaster," she said, eyes cast to the ground, voice a little shaken (Harry could guess why) while she entered, "Draco engaged me in conversation. Oh. Here you are-" she handed him a small brown bag, the paper crinkling in the exchange, "Three lemons, as you've requested earlier. Would you like me to take my leave?"

"Are you aware of the circumstances?" Dumbledore asked, weighing a lemon in his hands.

Professor Patel turned to face Harry, a smile on her face, earning a smile from Harry as well, "The scar isn't what I quite imagined."

"Quite. Please join us, so we may continue without further interruption. Oh, and please take this to the counter. Tea was delicious, Severus. Thank you."

Snape hummed in return, accepting the empty cup. Professor Patel then came back, sitting on one of the armchairs, straightening her skirt. Once she was comfortable, Dumbledore placed the lemons back in the bag, and looked Harry right in the eye.

"Where- Oh, yes. When Tom Riddle was a student at Hogwarts..."

"When Tom Riddle was at Hogwarts, he was a remarkable student. A great student who won the Headmaster's favor with his brilliant mind, and ranked high among the students with his looks and charm. However, he was under the influence of many, many minds similar to his own, but on the wrong path."

"The… Uh, Grindelwald you spoke off?"

"Among many," Dumbledore nodded, "I was, unfortunate to say, the only one that took notice of his declining state."

"You couldn't stop him?" Harry asked, prodding the fabric of the sofa.

Dumbledore was quiet, silent. The twinkle in his eyes had ceased, and the lines looked older for a moment, "Tom Riddle graduated at the same time Grindelwald was defeated. During his seven years of education he accomplished a great many things - things most men are unable to accomplish during their whole lives."

Harry looked up at Snape, maybe for comfort, maybe to see his reaction. He just throws the cut up vegetables into a pot, leaving Harry to look at Professor Patel, but she only offers a small smile.

Both aren't enough to mask the discomfort in his chest.

"Is that when he, well…"

"Not yet. Around two decades later, I became Headmaster of Hogwarts, slowly convincing the Board of Governors to accept more and more students into hadn't paused his mission, however convincing more people into the campaign he'd started during school, visiting the Ministry on a daily basis, writing books, speaking to authority figures, and attempting to collect support to pass his ideas and laws into the state."

"But he was unsuccessful?"

Dumbledore nodded, "I may have had a say in the matter, reminding the Minister about the chaos Grindlewald had caused with similar ideals. He, Tom Riddle, came to me after a year of me being Headmaster, requesting a job. I denied him, knowing what he planned to do to our students whom I was struggling to tempt away from his ideas. We had been accepting students -and teachers- of all backgrounds since 1850. I think you were among the first generation of new students, Professor Patel?"

Professor Patel nodded, her lips wide in a smile, "Yes Headmaster. I remember it vividly, as if it were yesterday."

Harry scoffed, "I don't think Tom Riddle was pleased with that."

Dumbledore nodded, but did not laugh, "Indeed. In 1851, one year later, he rose to power under the name of Lord Voldemort, marking his arrival with strange disappearances of innocents and terrorizing the masses."

"And is that when he started to-" Harry pointed at his forehead, pulling his bags apart, "-Do this?"

"Five years later, the Minister, unable to deal with the rising threat, was forced from office, Tom Riddle took a drastic, lethal step. He took on the job of 'cleansing the world of mudbloods' himself. He and his group of despicable followers, the Death Eaters, as they called themselves, raided homes, killing children, infants, their bodies found with a scar similar to your own on their foreheads. The families…" he sighed, rubbing his knees, "They were tied and left to suffocate in the flames the Death Eaters set on the house."

Harry touched his scar, biting his lip and clenching his fist, "All this because they were different?"

"Ignorant hatred."

Both Harry and Dumbledore turned to face Professor Patel when she spoke, and even Snape eyed her as he passed them to place the pot on the stove. Professor Patel looked up, her eyes widening in panic, holding both hands in front of her, "I didn't mean to interrupt, Headmaster."

"All in good intention, my dear. And you aren't wrong. I do not know what exactly drove Tom Riddle into such murder spree, but I do know he had a big weakness. Superstition."

Harry faced Dumbledore, "What does superstition mean, sir?"

"Belief void of human reason, and knowledge," Snape said, stirring the broth a final time and hitting the ladle on the brim of the pot before closing its lid.

"He killed those children because of a superstition?"

"No, my boy," Dumbledore said, a heavy, solemn air weighed on his shoulders, sinking them down. "He tried to kill you, because of a superstition."

Snape took the seat beside Harry, clasping his hands on his lap tightly, "Headmaster, if I may request."

"Too early, Severus?"

"Undeniably, on both sides."

Dumbledore nodded, clearing his throat and stroking his beard, "In 1861, I met with a woman under the name of Sybill Trelawney to interview her for a teaching position, during which I was disinclined to continue the subject at all. I had agreed to meet her solely because she claimed she was under threat due to her divination abilities."

"...Divination? Telling the future?"

"You're familiar with the word, I see."

"A friend taught me...but that's impossible! She can't tell the future!" Harry then paused, looking up, saying very quietly, "Can she?"

"Nonetheless, she made a prediction - a prediction that could very well be Tom Riddle's demise. A prediction that Tom Riddle used to mark you, Harry, as his end."

"I'm- I don't understand," Harry said, rubbing the side of his head, "How could she predict me? If this was in 1861, I must have been a baby."

"If we had the prophecy -as she called it- at hand," Dumbledore looked up, making Snape flinch behind Harry, "Perhaps we could shed some light on your confusion."

Momentarily, there was silence between them, occupied by the sound of the boiling broth, crackling fire, and Snape's deep sigh. Ten seconds passed. Twenty seconds. An awkward silence stretched between them.

"Severus-"

"Haven't you memorized it already, Headmaster?"

"Things often get lost in one's head, when filled as much as mine."

Snape sighed once again, running a hand through his curtain of hair, "Headmaster-"

"Severus," Snape looked up, one hand pulling back stray strands of hair. Dumbledore tilted his head to the side, "Please."

Another sigh, then:

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…"

"You really memorized it, sir?" said Harry half-jokingly, attempting to brighten the clearly dampened mood.

"I am very close to turning you into potion ingredients."

Harry blinked, scooting away from Snape, "Potions aren't real."

Snape scoffed, smirking through his fingers, "We're talking about a 'prophecy', are we not?"

Swallowing heavily, Harry turned around, "So, Ms. Trelwely said someone born at the end of the seventh month will kill the Dark Lord? But what is the power she's talking about?"

"Trelawney made an outlandish assumption, littering it with delicate literature she doesn't understand," said Snape, shaking his head, "Someone foolish enough to be there, foolish enough to listen and naive enough to not take seriously directed the message to the worst possible person."

Harry hung his head, "To Tom Riddle?"

Snape paused, leaning back, "To Tom Riddle."

"And Tom Riddle thought that I was going to kill him."

"Yes," said Dumbledore.

Harry scoffed, standing up, clenching his hands with the emotion that was brewing in his chest. An emotion called anger.

"And he decided that was enough to come into my- into their house and-" Harry clenched his eyes shut, biting his lip. When he spoke, it was in a whisper, because he didn't trust his voice not to crack like the logs in the fire behind him, casting heat against him, "and kill them?"

Dumbledore nodded very slowly, "Yes."

Harry didn't manage to stop from crying that time. He did try. He really did. Eyes closed, hands covering his face, he paced around the room, squeezing his wrist and scratching his arm when he felt tears rise.

"Harry?" Professor Patel stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, stepping his way, tilting her head to get a better look, "Harry."

Harry shook his head, looking up at her with blurry vision, "Why did it have to be me?" came out in a broken whisper.

Professor Patel opened her mouth to answer, but she closed it just as quick. The tears finally broke the barrier, sliding down his cheeks like delicate rain, like stranded snow. like drops of wax.

Then it was a storm, bawled into the Professor's chest, her arms circling around him and dropping with him to the floor, hands smoothing down the back of his head, rocking him gently from side to side. Too gentle, compared the boy in her arms.

"Why me!" was amongst the words muffled by the fabric of her dress, until those too turned into silent tears, and the occasional sniff between his trembling fingers.

The fire continued, and so did the hand cradling him, continuing to slide her fingers between his damp hair. Harry didn't know how long he lay sprawled on the floor with his head on Professor Patel's lap, his burning cheeks drying on her skirt.

"Harry?" Professor Patel spoke to his ear, pulling his hair back from his forehead, "Would you like to sit on the sofa? Or drink some water?"

Harry shook his head.

"I don't want you to get sick, Harry."

Harry shook his head, "Professor, please…"

Professor Patel nodded, rubbing the back of his head, "Of course. Only a few minutes more, alright?"

A nod, and Professor Patel's shoulders sagged forward, a sigh of relief escaping her lips, "Thank you, Harry."

Indeed, after a few moments, Harry swiped at his eyes and straightened his back. Without a word, Professor Patel led him to the sofa, and Harry wasn't surprised when he found both Dumbledore and Snape were gone.

"I asked them to leave," Professor Patel said, sitting him down, "I wanted you to have some privacy."

Harry nodded in thanks, and latched onto her sleeve when Professor Patel rose to leave.

"I'm just going to get you some water, Harry," she assured him, easing his hand off her sleeve, patting it when she placed it on the sofa, "Just going to bring you water. Would you like me to call Professor Snape and the Headmaster in the meantime?"

"Not yet."

Professor Patel nodded. Her footsteps disappeared towards the kitchen, followed by the sound of water being poured and the footsteps coming back. The glass was pushed into his hand, and the Professor drew circles on Harry's back as he gulped the water down.

"Better?"

A nod.

"May I call Professor Snape and the Headmaster back in? The broth shouldn't cook for much longer, either."

Hesitance.

"I will ask them to not mention anything."

A hesitant nod.

Professor Patel rubbed his back a final time, "Thank you. I'll be back."

The door to the staircase opened, and the noise carried down before disappearing entirely. Harry placed the cup down, leaning his head on the back of the sofa, hands covering his face. The emotion that had caused him to cry his heart out had passed, and he felt the inkling of shame circling his head.

He dropped his hands when he heard three sets of footsteps climbing the staircase. Not long after, all three adults entered, Dumbledore first and Professor Patel last. Dumbledore and Professor Patel both wore a smile, while Snape was stern as ever, though his eyes were creased with... something.

Harry wondered if it was a concern, before dismissing the thought entirely.

"I'm… I'm sorry, Dumbledore sir."

"Quite alright, Harry," Dumbledore assured him, sitting back down, "I understand if you wish to not hear anything further."

"No, I…" Harry rubbed his nose with his finger, twining his hands together, "I want to finish it. Please."

"Are you certain?"

Snape's eyes followed Harry while he carried the pot from above the fireplace to the kitchen. Harry nodded, straightening his back, "I want to listen."

"Of course. Well, when Tom Riddle learned of Professor Trelawney's prediction, he took it to mean your parents, who had thrice fought against him, and who had birthed a son, you, at the end of July. My spy, who was working in Tom Riddle's ranks, let me know of the situation. We asked James and Lily to hide, and they entrusted their location to a friend," Dumbledore paused, looking behind him, "Severus?"

Snape looked up from the bowls he was filling, raising a brow, before shaking his head. Dumbledore nodded, turning around, "The friend, tasked with alerting them of any news and providing food and necessary goods, betrayed them."

"Where was the Ministry when all this was happening, sir?"

"The Ministry had no evidence, or so they knowing there was a masked man under the name Voldemort claiming the lives of citizens, they denied any evidence was linked to Lord Tom Riddle, whom they saw as a strong, fundamental supporter of the state."

That wasn't surprising. Harry wiped his nose again, "So he attacked their home?"

"Yes. The rest I am about to tell you isn't known to the general population, so I must ask you to keep it secret. Do I have your oath?"

"Yes, sir."

Pleased, Dumbledore continued, his voice quieter, "Tom Riddle entered your home in Godric's Hollow, on October 31st, 1862, defeating James Potter-" Harry flinched, clasping his wrist, "-who bravely fought to protect his family. Next, he started to scavenge the house in search of you. What he didn't consider was the love your mother Lily has for you. We are unaware of the details, but Tom Riddle was caught in a fire set by either his followers or Lily Potter, obtaining great damage."

"But he survived?"

"With great damage, but yes. He did, while Lily Potter…" Harry nodded for him to continue, clutching his hands to his lap, "Lily Potter, too, was lost, at the door to your bedroom."

Snape took their silence to bring three bowls, handing one to each of them, excusing himself to take one down for Malfoy. Harry wrapped his hands around the bowl, finding it harder to concentrate on the comfortable, spicy aroma wafting from Snape's food.

"How did I survive?"

"Ah, well," Dumbledore put his spoon down, "Three people were there as well, that night. Hogwarts' gamekeeper, the friend who we discovered had betrayed them, and the Order's -the Order of the Phoenix, that is, who fought against Tom Riddle during the struggle- spy. The spy in question was the one that rescued you, going to great lengths to bring you to safety only to hand you over to Hagrid -the gamekeeper- at my order."

Dumbledore took a spoonful, humming, "I believe he'd have taken you with him personally, if I had not intervened."

The bowl was gradually burning his skin, so Harry readjusted it, turning his potatoes with his spoon. He wasn't the only one not eating, as Professor Patel seemed to be waiting for something, her bowl sitting on her lap. She did nod for him to continue, however, smiling in reassurance.

Lifting his spoon, Harry blew on the food, making sure it was cool enough to not burn his tongue, but warm enough to heat his stomach.

The meals at Malfoy Manor couldn't compare.

When Snape returned, Professor Patel stood up and asked him something about the ingredients, coming back to sit down with her eyes bright and a hand hiding her grin.

"Where have you stopped in your story, Headmaster?" Snape asked, taking a seat.

"Right when I was about to say Hagrid brought me young Harry -fear not, Severus, I have not- and I met with Professor McGonogall to leave him with his aunt and uncle."

Harry almost dropped his spoon, "My what?"

"You had no other family, Harry," Dumbledore said, wiping his mouth with his handkerchief, "I fear if we'd left you elsewhere-"

"They must have had friends," Harry argued, dropping his spoon in the bowl, "They couldn't have been the only ones."

"Harry-"

"What about the spy?" this time, Harry's voice had gained some strength and confidence, the words spat more aggressively than intended, "He sounded very eager to take me! Why wouldn't you let him?"

"If you would listen, Harry-"

"My aunt and uncle were the worst sort of people!" he stood up, the food splashing in the bowl, "Because of them-!"

Professor Patel put her bowl down, "Harry-"

"Potter."

Harry closed his mouth when Snape's hand wrapped around his arm, tugging him down, "Dwelling on the past won't fix it. Mistakes happened. Unfair mistakes. Mistakes people have paid for and are continuing to pay for, whether you were there to witness it or not. Sit."

Harry paused, swallowing thickly. He listened to the hand wrapped around his arm, sitting back down, hanging his head.

"I just want things to be different," Harry said, defeated, glancing at Snape, "Is that wrong?"

"No," Snape was quick to say, placing his spoon down, "However, it is wrong to judge the Headmaster's work by the outcome and not the intention. We cannot predict the future."

"Trelawney can, apparently," muttered Harry, stuffing his mouth with another bite.

"No, I don't think she can," Professor Patel said rubbing her hand, "It was because Tom Riddle took it to mean the truth, did it become a part of reality."

"Can you expound on that, Professor Patel?" Snape asked, bending forward, hands clasped in front of him.

Without looking at either adult in the eye, she continued, "We often forget we can be wrong. I think what Tom Riddle did, was to ignore any evidence that might have contradicted this assumption -which in itself cannot be found in reality- and instead managed to build a loop where he makes it a part of reality by acting on it. I don't have a word for it, but I have done some passive research. There's an extract from a work that is quite descriptive of the topic we're discussing."

"Do you remember parts of books you read?" Harry asked, eyes wide.

Professor Patel grinned, "I take pride in my ability to memorize and remember...things."

"The text in question, Professor?"

"In Ibni Khaldun's Muqaddimah, he has said regarding history, and this is my own rough translation from Arabic, there are various reasons that make untruth affecting history unavoidable," Professor Patel paused, looking like she was doing a lot of thinking, continuing with a much slower pace, " Partisanship is one of them, for opinions and schools. If the soul is infected with partisanship regarding an opinion or group- well, I think the right word is sect- it accepts the information agreeable to it without a moment's hesitation. Prejudice and partisanship obscure critical ability, and prevent critical investigation. The result is that falsehood is accepted, and… carried forward, would be a suitable word. Francis Bacon and Arthur Schopenhauer and even Dante observed the same effect in their works."

"How fascinating. Thank you, my dear. This is the reason we take pride in our school's faculty."

Professor Patel smiled, head still bowed.

"As I understand, we've put the explanations behind us. How do you wish to continue, Headmaster?"

"I must ask Harry, first," Dumbledore, moved closer to Harry, twinkling eyes meeting with his, "Harry, would you like to come to Hogwarts?"

Harry's lips parted, and he felt the words he wanted to say get sucked out of him, lost on his tongue. When repeatedly opening and closing them didn't bring them back, he took a deep breath and nodded, a wide grin on his face.

"Very well. We will have to discuss an education plan, as Harry hasn't been to school before."

"Harry has received lessons in reading, writing, and the basics of mathematics, Headmaster," Snape intervened, tapping Harry's bowl for him to eat, "With lessons throughout the year, I'm confident he will catch up to his peers."

Harry exchanged the warmth of pride for the spice in the broth, even if it had gone a little cold.

"I will make sure to discuss it with the teachers, and limit electives to only one class. It's just lucky the students his age are starting the harder classes this year," Dumbledore said, "And the final question. What house should Harry be in?"

At this, both Professor Patel and Snape glanced at each other before quickly turning, both speaking at the same time.

"Not Gryffindor," said Snape.

"Slytherin," said Professor Patel.

"Wonderful," Snape muttered sarcastically, tilting his head to face Professor Patel, "Do you wish me an early death, Professor Patel?"

Professor Aisha covered her mouth slightly, "All in good intention, Professor."

"What a lovely idea for my epitaph."

At this, Professor Patel masked her approaching chuckle with a cough, clearing her throat and looking away from the group.

"Are we not agreed on the matter?" Dumbledore asked, "I wish to hear your opinions at the end of the summer."

"What do you think, Headmaster?" Snape asked, "Surely nothing other than Gryiffondor."

"I do not wish for Harry's identity to be revealed yet, if ever," Dumbledore added solemnly, glancing at Harry, who had put his empty bowl next to Dumbledore's, "Though I fear that will be unavoidable."

"You don't want backlash from students, parents, and the ministry," Professor Patel said, "They will make unlawful assumptions, no matter where we place Harry."

"Why?" Harry asked, finally speaking up,"It is just a house, why does it matter where I'm put?"

"If everyone thought the same as you, Harry, we wouldn't have this discussion in the first place," Dumbledore said, "We will think about it then, correct?"

Both Snape and Professor Patel nodded.

"Anything else I should know about?"

"I would like to speak to you about a few things, Headmaster," said Snape, picking up the bowls and stacking them together, the metal clicking against one another, "Privately."

"Have Harry or Draco been to purchase their school supplies?" Professor Patel asked, handing her bowl to Snape, "If not, I can accompany them to Diagon Alley."

Snape faced Dumbledore, "Headmaster?"

Dumbledore looked up, and shook his head, "Not yet, I think. I have a few arrangements to make at the ministry, regarding Harry. Please wait for my short return before taking the boys anywhere," at Professor Patel's nod, Dumbledore lifted a finger, shaking it knowingly, "Where did you say your Aunt and Uncle resided, Harry?"

"4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, sir."

"Just as I predicted. They have moved after you were given under their care, that is the reason we couldn't find you, if you had any doubts. Severus, my boy, before we talk, allow me a few minutes with Professor Patel."

Snape froze, looking between the two, but eventually nodded, gesturing toward the door for Harry to follow, "Come along, Potter."

"One thing sir!"

Dumbledore indicated for Harry to continue. Harry took a deep breath, and looked right into Dumbledore's eye, "Did you try looking for me?"

A nod from Dumbledore relieved Harry's shoulders, and his chest glowed at the rest of Dumbledore's sentence.

"I've exhausted the search only very recently. Three years ago, I believe, when we did find your family, but not you with them."

"When… When I started working for Edwin."

"Yes. Anything else? No? Thank you for talking with me, Harry."

Harry stood up, returning Dumbledore's smile, and waited for Snape while he placed the empty bowls on the counter, leading Harry down the staircase with a touch to his back. The door closed behind them, leaving them momentarily in darkness until they reached the last step. Soft light was filtering through the window, lighting a stripe that led to the counter where Malfoy was seated, swinging his legs, tapping the spoon on the counter.

"Draco, you damage the counter, you'll have to answer to someone other than me.."

Immediately, Draco straightened his back, almost falling off the counter, "Don't scare me like that!"

"If you're bored," Snape pulled the spoon from his grip, dropping it in the bowl and putting that aside, "I have many tasks at hand. Jars need resorting."

"I don't want to store jars."

"Floors need sweeping."

Malfoy groaned, leaning back on the counter, "Tell the floors to sweep themselves."

"Draco."

Malfoy lifted his arm, peaking through, "Is Patel going to do anything?"

"I, for one-" he helped Malfoy from the counter, looking around the store. Harry, who instantly knew what he was looking for, pointed at the corner of the room beside the door that led down to the laboratory.

"The broom, sir," he then added, feeling a burning, foreign emotion tangling his heart, giving it an unfamiliar and dirty tug.

"You've heard your friend, dearest. Get sweeping, Draco. Ali?"

Harry glanced up.

"You know how to sort the jars?"

"Yes sir."

"Stay clear of any herbs beginning with the letter 'g'. My trunk is behind the counter-" the door upstairs opened, making him glance up. He lifted a finger, pointing it between the two, "-Do not fight, do not cause a ruckus, and do not embarrass yourselves. Am I understood? Good."

He exchanged a nod with Professor Patel, who'd just come down, and went upstairs.

"He gave you chores?"

"The worst."

"You just have to sweep, Malfoy," Harry said, rolling his eyes and walking around the counter, flipping the lid of the trunk off, "Start sorting jars, then you can complain."

"I didn't say I wouldn't do it," Malfoy hissed, purposefully bumping Harry as he snatched the broom, "You have the bigger task, why don't you own up to it?"

Harry stopped, his hand touching the lid of a jar. He turned to Draco, eyes narrowed, "Did you-"

"You know," Professor Patel cut in, touching Harry on the shoulder, "I used to resort jars when I was younger. Have I told you about the time I mislabeled two herbs, bringing down the wrath of both a customer and my mother?"

Professor Patel kept them busy until Dumbledore left, a promise to visit soon as a parting gift.

"And this out of your own, pure desire?" was Snape's question when Harry told him he wanted to see Professor Patel, his book clutched behind his back.

Harry's reply had been short, simple, and straight to the point, just like both of them wanted.

"I have some things I want to tell her. And if you want me to go and see her, I want it to be out of my own freewill."

Snape did allow it, and was less grumpy than usual while he led him to Professor Patel's, urging Harry to hurry forward as to not leave Malfoy alone, lest his impulses lead to uncomfortable situations.

"Happens often, does it?" Harry asked just as he entered the house, accepting Snape's pointed look as a response.

"So you wanted to talk to me?" Professor Patel led him down the hallway wafting with the scent of spice, the aroma getting stronger with every step they took to the kitchen, "I must say, I wasn't expecting you to come so soon after your visit. Has something happened?"

"Uh," Harry glanced at the jars littering the counter, pulling a chair, "I think so. Has Mr Patel been cooking?"

"Not… exactly," Professor Patel said with a grimace, exchanging the book Harry slid towards her for an oval, metal case, both eyes observing their new trade, and both asking at the same time what it was.

"You first," Professor Patel, rising from her chair to open a window then headed towards the counter, "I'm listening. I just need to clean this… mess, won't take long."

Harry turned the case around in his hands, shaking it to get a cluttering sound, "At Malfoy Manor, I started to make a record -is that how you would say it?- of events that have taken place since I arrived?"

"Why since you arrived?" Professor Patel asked, closing the lids of jars, glancing at Harry above her shoulder when he went quiet, "Harry? You don't have to answer, if you'd rather not."

"No, I-" the lid opened, and Harry's hands trembled at the sight of a pair of round spectacles, sitting neatly on the base, the glass catching the specs of light that dared to slither between the white lace curtains, "I… didn't want to…"

The rag in Professor Patel's hand swept over the counter, nearly avoiding the steaming pot. It didn't smell particularly good, or bad, and was the sort of meal you'd eat if served but wouldn't choose from a better selection. Harry followed it while he put on his new glasses, a grin etched on his face, "I didn't know the curtain had individual patterns."

"Oh, dear, it's easy to miss. Once-" she paused, making a rapid turn, with a smile of her own, "Enjoying the view?" she asked with a hint of amusement,

"Yes," Harry said brightly, forgetting his reason for visiting momentarily, his improved vision allowing him to read the title of the book without pulling it close to his face, which he grabbed and opened to the last pages, "I wrote them to keep track of… things. And I… There's something peculiar going on."

"Peculiar?" Professor Patel asked, dishing out from the pot, pulling the frown directed at the bowl of broth into a smile his way, "Tell me more."

"I had this…" he licked his lip, gesturing wildly at the page, "I don't know what it is. Can you read?"

Professor Patel sat down, plate wedged between her elbows and the book she'd turned around, stirring her spoon mindlessly through the bowl. Her eyes first skimmed across the lines, before they narrowed and then she pulled the book closer to her face.

Finally, the book stood between her and Harry, Professor Patel's lips pulled into a firm line, "Well, you know, I'm not a great reader myself-"

"But… You talked about that Muq-Muq... book yesterday, and about three other authors."

Professor Patel nodded stiffly, again taking up to stirring the bowl while her eyes darted around the room, a shaky chuckle on her lips, "What I mean to say is, well, sometimes some people are better at reading than others… less better people?"

"You're the best reader I know after S- Professor Snape," Harry argued, a little amused because he knew his writing wasn't good and a little hurt because… he still knew his writing wasn't good. Professor Patel pulled the book closer again, taking care not to spill any of the food she was eating. But to no avail, the book was slid across once more, Professor Patel offering a close-eyed smile.

"I think it would be more productive if you explained what is happening. From the first entry."

So Harry did. About how he fell, about how he woke up and the beginning of the many little moments that…

That he didn't trust himself to speak of in detail yet, along with the nightmares and the scratches on his arm that he was thinking of stopping. Really.

It wasn't that serious.

Only he'd started to think that now, because back at the apothecary, the idea of asking for medicine or a cure for the wars in his head was so very tempting. Perhaps even Snape had a remedy at hand, tucked behind a shelf, one for those rare situations only Harry seemed to be feeling.

The fatigue. The lack of joy. The hope that rose with those small details in life before they were crushed beneath the weight of how terrible everything was.

"I… don't think I can talk anymore," Harry said, closing the book, "So, uh, did you try cooking again?"

Dumbledore did come back a few days later, on the 25th of August with a bright smile and an inextinguishable twinkle in his eye. Snape regarded him with a sour look, and exited the room they talked in, beckoning Harry forward with a shaking hand.

"The Headmaster has some delightful news for us, Patel," Snape said, voice uncharacteristically wavy and light, scraping a chair shakily across the floor, "Sit, lest your excitement grace us with faint."

Harry gleaned at Dumbledore, frowning in confusion, "Sir?"

"Harry, unfortunately, because you've been regarded as dead by the general population, it would do no good to declare anything now. However, I have preserved your account, and would have continued to do so until you were of age," Dumbledore gestures towards Snape, "Professor Snape has your key."

"Key? It's not like I have a vault full of gold," said Harry jokingly, glancing at the two to gauge a reaction. Dumbledore's smile, extraordinarily wide, glowed like the sun next to the dire frown on Snape's lips, which only made him look disturbed and uncomfortable.

Harry's eyes widened.

"I do have a vault full of gold?"

"Not gold, but I think you'll find a satisfying amount in the Potter vaults."

"But that means…" Harry trailed on, "That means I don't have to work or go to school. I can just buy a house and everything I need now!"

"That-" Dumbledore lifted a finger, eyes twinkling at Snape, who was pinching his nose and ready to strangle something, possibly Dumbledore, "-Is the second news I wished to enlighten you with. I have convinced the Dursleys to renounce their custody of you."

Harry blinked, "What?"

In all the hustle of yesterday, Harry had all but forgotten about… that. In fact, he'd gone for a few days, now, without thinking about that and them and all the things he'd rather keep well away from

"They will no longer be participating as your guardians."

"I don't understand, sir."

"And I have found a guardian, temporary, in the foreseeable future."

The words entered one ear and left from the other, leaving a brief touch from Dumbledore's explanation. Harry, of course, blinked again, looking more confused, "Professor Patel?"

"Ah, well you see Harry… In the event that your identity is revealed, there will be families that will apply to the Ministry to be your guardians, assuming there isn't anyone to look after you. Not all of them will be good. Professor Patel is…" Dumbledore clasped his hands, "A lady."

Harry nodded, "I know."

"A lady without a husband."

"She has to look after her brother, I'm sure that's why she isn't married. And I-I won't be any trouble," breathed Harry, voice desperate, ignoring the odd look on Snape's face.

"What the Headmaster means," Snape said from between his fingers, glancing at Harry sideways, voice still airy, "In the circumstance that the Ministry attempts to take over your custody, as a woman of no social standing, she would not be able to protect you."

"Oh," Harry said, defeated, "Who will… Who's my guardian then?" he continued, voice rising, excitement cracking like the smile on his lips, "When can I meet him?"

"I think-" Dumbledore faced Snape, brows creased in concern, "-You may have already met them."

Both Harry and Snape explained nothing about the frown on their lips, when they left for Diagon Alley, both lost in thought.

Snape in God alone knew what.

And Harry loitering around the broken remains of hope, having lost the chance at a parent.

Of course Harry wasn't able to concentrate on shopping, despite it being for the school he was looking forward to attending. Dumbledore had explained practically nothing, only that he trusted Snape with more than his life and with Dumbledore on their side, Snape was the one person the Ministry -or anyone- wouldn't be able to take him from.

Harry didn't know what to think about that, his murky mind following him into Madam Malkin's, Flourish and Blotts, and every shop in Diagon Alley imaginable.

It was when they were sitting in Florean Fortescue's Parlor that Harry remembered they hadn't withdrawn any money from any bank, Harry's expenses all paid from Snape's own pocket.

When he reminded him off this, though, Snape dismissed him with a wave of his hand, muttering that he'd take care of it, while asking Malfoy a little too harshly to stop tapping his finger on the table.

Malfoy was hurt by this -of course he was- and Snape pinched his nose as they left, stopping them with a hand on each shoulder, "If you want, I will take you both to a shop you want to visit?"

"Can we drop the bags somewhere?" Harry asked softly, adjusting the strap of his new school bag, "I don't think I can carry them for much longer."

Malfoy frowned at them, obviously put off by the way they were acting, "I'd like to visit the joke shop. I hear they have some delightful things. Fred and Goerge once…"

Harry just wanted to be back in his room with his pen and book, writing out how horrible things were going, and how close he felt to the time he was in Diagon Alley alone, miserable and afraid and feeling like he was drowning in his own blossoming darkness. So without looking where he was going, he bumped into someone, the force enough to knock him out if it weren't for Snape snatching him by the shoulder.

"I'm sorry, sir. I was. Oh."

"Patel, walking with your eyes on the road might be-"

Harry wasn't sure why Snape had stopped speaking, but the reason Harry had was because it was the same man in shriveled clothes who Harry briefly remembered from the Leaky Cauldron.

"I remember you. I bumped into him when I was in the Leaky Cauldron," Harry said, shrinking towards Snape at the wide eyes and open mouth expression of the man. The tall stranger was wearing an extremely shabby set of clothes that had been darned in several places. He looked ill and exhausted. Though quite young, his light brown hair was flecked with grey.

And he wasn't taking his eyes off Harry.

"Uh, Uncle Sev?" Malfoy pulled Snape's sleeve, whispering, "I don't think we should talk to him."

"Neither do I, even if he has anything to say," Snape said, keeping his narrow eyes on the man while wrapping an arm around Harry's shoulder, "Perhaps he will continue staring until we are gone."

"Severus?"

Snape closed his eyes, pulling both Harry and Malfoy behind him before turning to the man. "Or as luck would have it, he will not. Good day, Lupin. Do you have something to say?"

The man called Lupin extended a finger, pointing it behind Snape, "Is that-"

"None of your business? Precisely. Good day, Lupin, the Headmaster will have you for tea the first day of term, I don't doubt," he snapped, taking both Harry and Draco by the shoulder, steering them away from the Leaky Cauldron, "Do not linger, Draco, Ali."

Mr Lupin must have a lot to say, from the way he staggered after them a few steps, hand still extended. Harry continued to look behind his shoulder, all the while Malfoy pestered Snape on why they were heading the wrong way, and that his arms hurt too much.

When Mr Lupin turned around, hesitantly walking away, so did Harry, the questions ready on the tip of his tongue.

"At the shop," Snape said, just as Harry opened his mouth, his hand squeezing Harry's shoulder, "At the apothecary."

They did visit the joke shop, a place Harry would have rather come on a day he wasn't feeling in a damp mood, or damper than usual, running his hands over the merchandise and shaking his head no when Snape approached him, asking if anything had caught his eye.

The thoughts in his mind had caught his attention enough, because why had Snape become his guardian on such short notice anyway? Harry didn't know anything about law and guardianship, or how one person could give up their guardianship, and how another person could take over a child's guardianship.

So what did he know?

Harry turned to face Snape, who was looking at something in Malfoy's hand behind his shoulder, either very interested (in a Snape sort of way) or really good at pretending he was interested. That, for some reason, brought back the sour emotion of wanting to break something for his own convenience, stomping on it until every single piece was destroyed.

He didn't, of course, and placed the gadget in his hand back onto the shelf, stuffing his hands into his pockets and shuffling along the aisles, wanting to be as far as he could from Snape and Malfoy.

That, as luck would have it, didn't last long, and Harry followed Snape's voice out of the back shelves, shrugging when he asked him what he'd been doing there. Snape didn't pester, and ushered them outside, this time asking Harry if there was anywhere he'd like to go.

The refusal was almost out of his lips when Harry noticed a shop on the corner of his eye, worn out and seemingly invisible between the rows of shops squeezed together. Harry peered between the people (as he hadn't worn his glasses, planning to put them on the day they were meant to leave for Hogwarts to guarantee that no one could make him take them back), face brightening at least a little bit.

"Just one. I don't want to buy anything, I only want to talk to the man there."

"Which shop?" Snape said, looking at the wrong way.

"Ollivanders," Harry said without waiting for them, crossing to the other side. The shop was just as he'd remembered: Narrow, shabby. The peeling gold letters spelled the name of the shop, with a single brush laying on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window. Pushing open the ancient door with his palm, Harry swept some dust into the room already in need of a sweep.

Mr Ollivander was exactly where Harry had left him, like he hadn't moved, and was waiting for his arrival.

"Ah, yes I remember you. Evans, was it?"

"Yes, sir," Harry said, skimming the shelves, still filled with the narrow rectangular boxes, "I wanted to say hello, while we were in Diagon Alley."

Ollivander pressed backwards, pulling a hand ladder from under his counter and leaning it on the side of one shelf, "And you look much better, and, in a way, worse, than the last time I saw you."

Harry followed him on the other side of the counter, tilting his head, "How can I be better and worse?"

"Better, because you look certain of yourself," Ollivander filled him in, not lifting his head when the door's tinkling bell admitted Snape sans Malfoy, hand rummaging through the stack of boxes that looked like it would topple over any moment, "Worse, because you look like you have a lot on your mind. Ah, yes."

He stepped down from the ladder, carrying three boxes, dropping them all on the counter while Snape and Harry watched him without a word, "Well, I'm sure you'll like one of these. Good afternoon, Professor Snape."

"Mr Ollivander," Snape greeted with a nod, clasping his hands behind his back, "Have you two met?"

"I say we have," Mr Ollivander said, opening the lid of one of the boxes and examining it, picking up the brush and running a finger down its surface, "Here, young Evans. Hold it, give it a twirl."

Harry blinked, looking up at Snape who just shrugged, gesturing for him to continue. The brush was smooth to hold.

Feeling foolish, he waved it around a bit, but Mr. Ollivander snatched it out of his hand almost at once.

"Did I do something wrong?" Harry asked, his voice carrying through the shop. Mr Ollivander didn't respond, though, busy climbing a taller ladder, pushing the boxes from places he hadn't pulled them from, and humming as he did so.

Harry dropped his shoulders, placing a hand on the counter, "Did I do something wrong, Professor?"

"Better to let Ollivander do his work, than interfere," Snape said, leaning against the counter with a sigh, pinching his nose.

A pile of boxes fell in the corner, Mr Ollivander catching the heap just in time. Harry looked up, met Snape's eye and looked away, fingers leaving clean spots in the dust as he tapped them on the wood, "Sir?"

Snape hummed, dragging his hand down his face.

"You don't want to be my guardian, do you?"

Another pile of boxes fell on the other side, again caught with Mr Ollivander's questionable precision. Harry was still looking in front of him, though he felt Snape's eyes pinned on his face. He did try not to let it get to him. He really did, from the moment Dumbledore let him know of the news. Harry wasn't like Malfoy, who Snape had willingly taken into the apothecary, though he still gave awkward hugs and didn't know how to socialize, tripping over his words silently.

But Harry didn't need Snape's care. Snape didn't need Harry to be dropped into his life by Dumbledore, like the weight he was.

Harry scoffed, "I knew it."

"I didn't answer yet."

"You didn't answer at all," Harry snapped back, stopping his idle tapping, his hand folding into a fist, "I'm tired, alright? Tired of things falling into place just before it's wrenched away from me."

Snape glanced at Mr Ollivander, who waved and held up a finger to indicate one minute before disappearing behind the shelves. At the sound of shuffling, Snape turned around and crouched down to one knee. From this close, Harry could see the tired down-turn of his eyes, lined with creases and dark shadows. His skin looked unhealthily void of color, and despite not having smoken, he smelled of tobacco.

"I," he started in a whisper, closing his eyes, "I don't trust… myself. I don't trust myself with this."

Harry frowned, "That's not… That's not reassuring."

Snape matched a raised brow to the frustration on Harry's face, rubbing his eyes, "What would you prefer?"

"Not to speak of this here," Harry said, noticing Mr Ollivander approaching with a pile of boxes at hand, laying them on the counter, eyes bright.

"Right, then, shall we?"

Harry didn't remember agreeing to trying paintbrushes, or even buying one, but he dared not argue against the very happy looking Ollivander, who's joy only rose with each fruitless attempt.

"How do you know which brush I need?" Harry finally asked at the twenty-third brush, bored, "And I don't think I even have the money to buy a brush anyway."

Mr Ollivander shook his head, muttering under his breath, sliding open the box on his hands with three different paints and pushing it into his hands, "Yes, that would do, I think. Holly, nice and simple. Give it a try."

Harry held the wood in his hand, changing it to his right while he rubbed his other hand on his trousers. The wood had collected a fine layer of dust, staining Harry's fingers, making him cough.

"Am I holding it correctly?" he asked, pretending to twirl the brush over an invisible piece of paper.

"Absolutely. I believe we found the one," Mr Ollivander said, pushing the other boxes to the side, plucking the brush from Harry, and placing it back inside, right beside five small jars of paint: blue, red, yellow, white and black.

"One thing, Mr Ollivander," Harry said, eyeing him nervously while he packed the box, "I can't paint. And I don't have money."

"Young Evans," Mr Ollivander interrupted, sliding the bag across the counter, "I already have far too many boxes to sell, and already enough savings to live a comfortable life. Also-" he leaned forward, lifting a finger warningly, "-How could you know how to paint if you haven't before?"

"Because I'm-"

Stupid. Worthless. Arrogant. Arrogant. Foolish-

Harry shook his head, clutching his wrist, "Because I can't."

"I met a young, Dutch man in London's galleries," Mr Ollivander said, "Just last year. He seemed to admire the works greatly, though not an artist himself yet, only trained in art dealing. I believe his admiration and interest alone will get him to pick up the brush soon, and produce many great works worth admiring."

Harry pulled the bag back, the paper crinkling between his fingers, "What was his name."

Mr Ollivander rubbed his chin, narrowing his eyes, "Odd name, he had. Vincent van Gogh, I think, a very odd name."

"I've never heard of him," Harry said, glancing up briefly when Snape touched his shoulder.

Mr Ollivander waved them goodbye, as they walked out, saying under his breath, "I pray one day that we will."

The door closed behind them, Harry looking up, "Have you heard of him?"

"No," Snape said, nodding at Malfoy -who sighed in relief when they came out- and picking up some of the bags, continued, "I understand that Mr Ollivander is optimistic that we will. That is one judgement that wouldn't hurt to have."

The paper bag was still clutched in Harry's hand, the edge of the box touching his fingertips.

Snape caught Harry before he could excuse himself to his room to pack.

"You have no room, as I remember."

"I'd rather sleep on the sofa then hear Malfoy complain," Harry said, following Snape down to

the laboratory, their footsteps mismatched.

Snape, once down, seemed to relax, if his sagging shoulders and loose posture meant anything. He rid himself of the coat that made him look bulkier than he was, scratching his scalp while hanging the coat on the back of a chair.

"We're going to talk?" Harry said, not intending it to be a question. Snape's scoff wasn't patronizing, but sounded like a genuine reaction of humor, earning a dry smile from the man, "Not an ideal choice for someone such as myself, is it?"

Harry fidgeted in his chair, "You definitely are weird today."

"I'll be back to my sour self in no time, you rest assured Patel."

It was Harry's time to scoff, hunching forward with his elbows on his knees, palm supporting his cheek, "So, what rules am I to follow this time, sir? Or would you like me to call you something else?"

Snape narrowed his eyes, pulling his chair in front of Harry, "I would appreciate it, Potter, if you would return the patience I am offering you."

"It's not being very patient if you're expecting it in return," said Harry, clutching the seat of the chair with his hands.

Snape continued, either not hearing him or pretending not to hear him.

"This is an unaccustomed situation for both of us."

"I know."

"...And you have no complaints?" Snape said, raising a brow, "No expectations, no lines you wish to remain uncrossed?"

Harry crossed his arms, "I do. I just don't expect you to respect them, sir."

To some extent, Harry was being unagreeable on purpose. He had no intention of giving anyone an easy time, if it meant that he had to shut up about the things he didn't agree with, or go along with decisions that were being made for him. He knew Snape was aware of this tactic, though he was trying very hard to keep it behind his emotionless facade, itching to release his pent up emotions.

"Then," Snape bit out, closing his eyes for a moment, "I will start first. I do not want you to call me anything else other than Professor, or sir, while at school."

If he was being disagreeable on purpose, Harry wondered if Snape was being agreeable on purpose. Snape couldn't like the situation any more than Harry, given a child to practically look after until… well, until Harry grew up.

No. Snape was unbalanced, uncertain, and very easily annoyed.

He didn't like Harry, and he wouldn't accept Harry as his anything. And Harry was more than happy to return the sentiment.

"You know, sir, it's not like you to purposely put out loopholes," Harry said, arms still crossed, face scrunched up, "You're leaving me to choose what to call you when not at school? That's a dangerous move, Professor."

"Respect is still expected of you, Mr Potter. If I leave a loophole, as you so quaintly put it-" Snape leaned forward, his face as stoic as always, voice thin, "-It is a sign that I expect you to not exploit it."

"How are you sure I won't exploit it?"

"You had two chances to do so already," Snape explained like he had when teaching Harry to read, a hint of a grin on his face at Harry's expression, "I believe I've just heard you say Professor, insead of something you're too uncomfortable to say."

Trust Harry not to call Snape a paternal title, because he's too nervous to say it anyway.

Oh Harry wasn't letting Snape win this game.

He opened his mouth to answer, but Snape held out two fingers, "No one is to know of this arrangement, the exchange of guardianship, until the Dark Lord's death is announced to us by the Headmaster."

"What?"

"That is to say, no Professor Patel-" he counted on his hand, "-No Draco, no students, and no teachers."

I have no one to talk about it anyway.

"Do we need to revisit why you had been staying in the apothecary during the summer?"

"Malfoy thinks I'm an apprentice, so does Ron Weasley. Is that going to convince anyone?"

"Enough to not ask complicated questions," Snape said, running a hand down his face, "Keep the words simple. You're an apprantice under my care."

Harry scoffed, "I don't think Malfoy's convinced."

"If Draco was in fact suspicious enough, he would come forward with questions. Ask him to steer any complicated questions to me, as the last resort."

"Is that all?" Harry asked, wanting to get out of the room.

"Almost. There is the matter of- Oh I'm sorry Mr Potter, am I boring you? Would you like some tea and biscuits while we oh so idly chat? Sit up you're not sitting in front of your-"

"No, I'm sitting in front of my father aren't I?"

An odd expression took over Snape's face. Where Harry prepared for the shouting, he found silence. Where he expected anger or even hatred, he received an odd frown on Snape's lips that looked like genuine sadness, and a crease in his brow of true concern.

Harry didn't like the way it appeared, and it was quick to leave as well.

"You've had this on your mind since this morning."

"Are you playing Professor Patel's role? Because don't mind me, sir, but I'd appreciate it if you'd stop," Harry spat, dropping his hands beside him and squeezing them, grinding his teeth, "I think I liked you more when you were upfront about how you felt."

No movement, no noise. Harry's heavy breathing was the only disturbance in the room, while Snape's composure was the oddest. The chair creaked as Snape stood up, hand on the chair, "I believe this conversation is over for today."

"Not until I speak."

"Excuse me?" Snape turned around, for once anger edging his expression. Good. Harry liked it when people didn't hide things from him.

"I also have boundaries, like you said," Harry too stood up, lifting his chin, "And I want you to listen to them."

"It's not a successful attempt when you refuse to do the same to the other party."

Harry threw up his arms, "Well go on then! If you have things to say-"

"Respect."

The words willed Harry to stagger back, the back of his legs hitting the seat of the chair. Out of all the possibilities, Harry really wasn't expecting this to be the final condition on this unacknowledged peace treaty of theirs.

"Respect when I ask you to do something. Respect when I speak to you, and you speak to me. Respect for an adult, who will attempt to do what is best for you. And what is your contribution to this mutual agreement?"

The words that were ready to be spat out drowned in his thoughts, sinking out of sight. So Harry swallowed, once again raising his chin and puffed out his cheek and said:

"Honesty."

Snape nodded, "Very well. If that's all, you have a trunk to pack and-"

"So tell me, are you enjoying this? Are you really bothered by being my guardian, or is this something you actually look forward to?"

This time, the irritation on Snape's face was unmistakable, "You're trying to imply something."

"Nothing against you, Professor," Harry said, walking in front of him with a glare of his own, "I expected you to put up a fight with Dumbledore. So my only condition: Be honest with me. Do you really not mind being in this situation?"

Snape didn't say no. He didn't say yes, either, but just as Harry asked, he told the truth.

"Is it really lying when you have no answer to give, Mr Potter?"

Snape woke Harry on the morning of August 30th, tapping him on the shoulder when he refused to get up. He hadn't got any sleep last night, consumed by a nightmare and the usual hyper alertness his body needed to be in every second of every day when he was slightly reminded of… that.

And was he reminded of that often. More often than recently, with a scar -a real scar- on his upper arm was the fruit of his attempts at calming down and getting enough sleep for the important day.

The day was still too early, and Harry and Malfoy, both obviously desperate to go back to bed, walked from chore to chore throughout the apothecary: folding sheets, sweeping floors, making sure everything was packed, clearing the table, making sure everything was packed, and, of course, making sure everything was packed.

Surprisingly, the Patel siblings greeted them when they had finally gotten outside.

"Good morning," Harry said sleepily. Professor Patel smiled lopsidedly, her eyes on the verge of closing, while Mr Patel looked like he'd been awake for a few hours, face bright, hands hanging on the bag on his lap, "Good morning, Harry. Very clear morning for a while now, yes?

Harry looked up. No sun shone from behind a clutter of clouds, and the morning chill made Malfoy pull his coat around him tightly, grimacing.

"Uh," he rubbed the back of his neck, "I think?"

Mr Patel looked back with an amused smile, leaning his right elbow on the arm rest. Balancing his chin on his palm, he glanced towards Professor Patel and Snape, stretching a finger to tap beside his eye.

Harry's mouth fell open in understanding. He nodded, smiling, with Mr Patel winking at him before Snape turned around.

Ten minutes later, he was in a carriage to King's Cross Station with Professor Patel, the apothecary getting smaller and smaller, Mr Patel still waving them next to the hired assistant he would have as company until July. Harry pulled his head from the window, leaning back on the seat, the sound of the horse drowning most of the sound of the rising city.

"You haven't worn your glasses," Professor Patel said, putting a finger between the old book she was reading, touching his foot with hers, "Has Professor Snape said something?" she paused, a smile cracking her lips, "That's a fine sentence."

Beside them, the carriage carrying Snape and Malfoy sped up and overtook them. Harry scoffed at the carriage, because of course he would be cast out, the unwanted load he was.

"Harry?"

"I'm going to try them on the train, in case Snape tries to make me take them back," he mumbled into his hand, "What are you reading, Professor?"

The change of subject, not exactly subtle, got Professor Patel's attention. She watched him carefully, her almost-black eyes seemingly diving into his own. And eventually, like Harry expected, she let it go, not even mentioning it.

"I don't think you'd understand, however," she slid the book open, the pages lined with text Harry had never seen in his life.

"What is that?" Harry asked, eyes following line after line of curves and odd letters, "Is this another language."

"Arabic," Professor Patel said, pressing a stamp between the pages she was reading, skimming through the pages that all looked very familiar.

"Yes but what is it about?" Harry asked, just a little curious, because he didn't know how long it would take to get to King's Cross, and felt in no state of mind to share his thoughts.

Professor Patel seemed like she wasn't sure on where to start, so she turned the cover, pointing at the top, "Do you know what the Bible is? Well, you can imagine this book -the Quran- as almost an Islamic equivalent of the Bible."

"Almost?"

"Well, if they were completely similar Christianity and Islam wouldn't be different, would they?"

"So what's the similarities and differences?" Harry asked, eyes trailing out the window, more and more carriages and horses joining the road, while the streets were filling up with people.

"Among the first, we both believe in a single God, or Allah, in Arabic. Do you know anything about Christianity?"

Harry paused, squeezing his fingers together, "Not really. Could you explain it to me?"

King's Cross, surrounded by carriages and horses and people took more of a hustle to get into than Harry has anticipated. When they finally did reach the Hogwarts Express, Harry had lost both professors and Malfoy, stranded in the middle of Platform 9 with his trunk at hand.

The excitement he'd felt leading up to this day now just made him want to hide somewhere, his heart drumming cruelly against his chest, like a bird desperate to get out of its cage.

Some people pushed around him, shoving their shoulders into his -unintentionally or otherwise- often without an apology, or just snapping at him to get moving.

Harry, of course, not knowing where to go, moved to the back of the station. Like little ants, the people rushed to and fro, loud conversation buzzing around him, his nerves blaring at every possible potential danger.

"Are you also not prone to noise?"

The airy voice had spoken so suddenly that Harry jumped, almost tripping over his trunk. Beside him, was a girl. She had straggly, waist-length, dirty blonde hair, very pale eyebrows, and protuberant eyes that gave her a permanently surprised look.

"Uh," Harry looked around to see if anyone had seen the girl as well. No one stopped by, "I don't think I am?"

"Wrackspurts float into a person's ear, see," the girl said, watching him above a magazine she was holding upside down, "Causes confusion and unfocus. Most people don't even realise it."

"Is that why you're here?" Harry asked, narrowing his eyes at the cork necklace wrapped around her neck and the radish earrings hanging from her ears, "Wait, Wrack-what?"

The girl lowered the newspaper, a hazy smile on her lips, eyes following Harry's every movement, "People can't see them," Luna whispered, as though anyone could hear her with the noise in the Platform, "But I think they're stronger when there's a lot of noise. More victims, see?"

"Right," said Harry turning to the platform, the brick wall scraping his hands, "What was your name again?"

The girl lowered her newspaper, staring intensely into Harry's eyes, "Luna Lovegood," she said excitedly, taking Harry's hand into a long-lasting shake, "You haven't told me yours."

"Ali Patel," he said, Luna letting go of his hand when he had finished.

"What house are you in, Ali? If you were in second year, I would remember, or perhaps the Wrackspurts have been busier than usual," she said to no one in particular, eyes focusing on a spot momentarily, before growing wide. She lifted a hand, digging between strands of hair, and to Harry's surprise, pulled out a pencil and began writing on the back of the magazine, "Research," she told him, leaning on the wall as well, showing the page to him.

"On Wrackspurts?" Harry said, looking at the handwriting, the one below Luna's name written in a mirroring way.

"Their effects are quite extraordinary," she closed the magazine, the upside down cover reading something Harry couldn't decipher until he tilted his head, mouthing the words a few times.

"Quibbler?"

He lifted his head at the sound of paper ruffling and rubbing together, finding a small stack of magazines on Luna's arms, "I think you'd want one, Ali Patel."

"You know," he followed Luna's eyes while picking up a magazine to find Snape walking towards him, eyes not pleased, "I think I will. Thank you for talking to me, Luna."

Snape's black shoes skid to a stop in front of them, "Ms Lovegood, Mr Patel, the train is set to leave in twenty minutes."

"Exactly, Professor Snape," Luna said, again with the seemingly forced eye contact, "The road should be clear at exactly seven minutes to eleven."

Where Harry expected Snape to belittle Luna, he nodded along to her claims, gesturing for Harry to follow him, "The same cannot be said for Mr Patel. Come along."

She waved after him after Harry had dropped his hand, looking down at her magazine.

"And where were you?" Snape said, looking around them as they walked back to the train, the large white clock with jagged black hands showing numbers Harry's couldn't read.

"With Luna. I thought you were the one that found me, sir." Harry asked innocently, keeping his expression blank when Snape glared over his shoulder, hand still on his shoulder.

"This sort of behaviour will not continue into Hogwarts, Mr Patel."

"No, sir."

Heaving his trunk after Snape, he handed it over to one of the train workers. The man glanced at the tag with his name and grade, and looked up at the ticket he was holding, "You haven't written your house on this, boy."

"Special occasion," Snape assured the man in the uniform, "New student, not yet sorted."

The man looked at Snape one last time before shrugging, scribbling something down on the ticket and handing it back, pulling the trunk beside a heap of others that were yet to be put onto the train, "Safe travels."

Snape snatched the ticket before Harry could claim it, dodging the people in the crowd and pulling Harry behind him, nodding to any students or parents that greeted him. The crowd soon started to disperse, though, with more and more students entering the train, and Harry and Snape stood in line with other students that looked Harry's age to get inside.

"Have Professor Patel and Malfoy entered the train already?"

"Just Draco," Snape said, looking around the station, his eyes catching something in the crowd and making him grimace. But whoever or whatever it was, Harry couldn't find them.

The line got smaller and smaller until it was their turn, the train humming under his feet as Harry grabbed the rails, stepping in and, on Snape's word, turning right. The narrow hallway was filled with students, flitting in and out of compartments, chatting with each other or occupying themselves with other means. And though difficult, they did find a compartment which was empty save for some bags, and Snape steered him inside, looking around like it was a dusty, spider-infested room.

"I can stay by myself," Harry said, sitting down and placing his bag on the seat, "Are professors allowed in these compartments?"

"Don't be daft," said Snape, looking into the compartment," Of course they are."

"And are parents?"

The way Snape's head whirled around and his eyes turned livid gave Harry enough reason to believe he had stepped on the wrong nerve. Snape lifted a finger, pointing at Harry warningly, "You take one foot out of the carriage, Patel, and on your condition, I swear my patience won't be spent on you."

The carriage door was slid closed, thudding loudly, rattling the glass pane. Harry swallowed thickly, from the window watching Snape retreat without even looking back.

Granted, it took a few precious moments to calm down, hands inside his pockets. Was he being too harsh? No. He couldn't be. He'd been patient with Snape for so long, so what if the man couldn't take a bit of his own medicine.

And granted, his arm burned by the time he was calm enough to stand up and walk around, but that also wasn't his fault. He didn't want his heart to pound in his ears and his breaths felt like small knives cutting his supply of oxygen.

The door sliding open made Harry turn.

"Ron?"

"Harry?" Ron said, a grin growing on his face, "You really came to Hogwarts!"

Harry grinned as well, standing up, "Some things happened, I guess," he said, then looking at the girl beside him, "Uh, hullo."

"Hello," the girl said. She had a bossy sort of voice, lots of bushy dark hair, rather large front teeth and skin matching the color of her hair, "Hermione Granger."

"Oh. Hello Hermione," Harry said, looking at the door when the train jostled, the first whistle cutting through the air.

"And you are?" Hermione asked, sitting down on one side, while Ron and Harry sat on the opposite end.

Harry opened his mouth to answer when he remembered that he had already introduced himself to Ron as Harry, not Ali. The train gave another whistle, the thin sound jabbing his ears. They all watched the door until the whistle stopped, and the train finally started to move, the doors slamming shut.

Harry noticed Hermione sharing a glance with Ron. When Ron opened his mouth to answer, so did Harry, but both were interrupted when the door was slammed open, a dishevelled Malfoy entering the compartment.

"Honestly, Weasley," Malfoy started, struggling to close the door, almost falling on the seats when the door gave and slid closed, "I almost missed the train saying farewell to your mother-," he stopped when he turned around, eyes landing on Harry. Immediately, he crossed his arms, leaning on one foot and narrowing his eyes at Harry.

"I see you've met Pot-"

For a horrible second, both Harry and Malfoy locked gazes, eyes wide and a horrible feeling of dread spreading like spilt water through them. Harry almost sprang to his feet, alarms blaring in his head, and Malfoy losing the little color he had in his cheeks.

Hermione cleared her throat, "Draco?"

"Potiful," Malfoy said, clearing his throat and straightening his back, digging a hand into his pocket while walking in, rolling his eyes at the look on Hermione's face, "Pointless and pitiful, two things Patel over here is great at being-"

"Hey!"

"Honestly, Granger. Do I have to explain everything to you?"

"Not if you use an actual word," Hermione argued, accepting the book Draco offered him, turning it over in her hand while Ron took the paper from Malfoy with some hesitance, "Did you say Patel?"

"Oh, he didn't tell you? Ali here is Professor Patel's nephew of sorts."

"Nephew?" Ron cried, then turning to look at Harry, "Ali? I thought your name was Harry."

Malfoy turned around very elegantly, a hand on his hip, "I thought your name was Ali."

The train wavered, the scenery passing them in blurry lines, with the trains puffing steam mingling with the sound of the wheels running over the trains and machinery. Harry licked his lip, looked at Ron and bowed his head.

"Sorry, Ron. I lied," he said, rubbing the back of his head, "I was... embarrassed."

"Embarrassed? Why were you embarrassed? Really, Ali, ma always says-"

"Ronald," Hermione said, a little warningly, tapping her fingers on the book, "This is a really great book, Draco. Was it any trouble?"

"Not that," Malfoy said, dropping on the seat beside Hermione, pointing at the paper in Ron's hand, "Do you know how difficult it usually is to convince Uncle Sev to take me to the joke shop?" he said while glancing at Harry, not continuing with his words until Hermione urged him forward, waving a hand while he went on about how he tried his best to write out the things he saw, hoping it helped Fred and George, who were Ron's twin older brothers.

"And what are they going to do with it?" Harry asked, looking at the paper from above Ron's shoulder, a little pride blossoming in his chest when he saw that Malfoy's handwriting wasn't exactly neat either.

"Build their own."

"They can do that?"

Ron shrugged, "Haven't yet. But they reckon they're close, anyway."

At noon, Malfoy finally left the carriage, claiming he had other friends to sit with as well. So did Hermione. And Ron. Both with promises to come back soon, very curious to ask him questions now that Malfoy was out of the compartment. Harry waved them off, alone in the little compartment at the end of the train.

Not half an hour later, they did come back, Harry's ears burning when he showed a little too much enthusiasm at their return. Hermione and Ron weren't extraordinary. In fact, they looked like any other student but for some reason, he felt he could get really close to them.

If only Malfoy wasn't in the middle.

"So you really are Professor Patel's nephew? Why are you starting school now?" was Hermione's first questions, which only opened the floodgates to many more. His parents, dead. He'd been living with the Patels, this term taking up an apprenticeship with Snape (which Hermione reacted with wonder in her eyes), which allowed him the opportunity to study at Hogwarts.

The rain thickened as the train sped yet farther north; the windows were now a solid, shimmering gray, which gradually darkened until the workers started to light the lanterns along the corridors and over the luggage racks. The train rattled, the rain hammered, the wind roared, but still, they talked.

During their conversation, though, Harry remembered a few things that made him jump from his seat and almost run down the length of the corridor to find Snape.

"You good, mate?" Ron asked, taking a sandwich out of the tin box he'd opened between them.

"Just-" he poked his head out into the corridor, wanting to slam his head against the door. How could he have forgotten Oliver and the others? He had a vault of money! A vault of money that surely had to hold a sum worth protecting, if Dumbledore's word was to be trusted. He could help his family, even get them to school! With a reminder to ask Snape about it later, he shut the door with some difficulty, "Remembered something."

The words hardly left him when the train started to slow down.

"Great," said Ron, getting up and walking to try and see outside, "I'm starving. I want to get to the feast…"

"We can't be there yet," said Hermione, checking her pocket watch, "So why're we stopping?"

The train was getting slower and slower. As the noise of the pistons fell away, the wind and rain sounded louder than ever against the windows. Harry, who was nearest the door, got up to look into the corridor. All along the carriage, heads were sticking curiously out of their compartments. The train came to a stop with a jolt, and distant thuds and bangs told them that luggage had fallen out of the racks.

"What's going on?" said Ron's voice from behind Harry.

Harry felt his way back to his seat.

"D'you think we've broken down?"

"Don't know…"

There was a squeaking sound, and Harry saw the dim black outline of Ron, wiping a patch clean on the window and peering out. "There's something moving out there," Ron said. "I think people are coming aboard…"

The compartment door suddenly opened and someone fell painfully over Harry's legs.

"Sorry!" squeaked the boy who had fallen over Harry's legs, trying to push himself up before tripping on his legs and falling again, needing Ron and Harry to help him up.

"Hello, Neville," said Hermione, who had stood up and was helping the boy, Neville, brush the dust from his clothes. She craned her neck to look at the door, she too struggled to slide it closed, "What's happening?"

"Don't know," breathed Neville, round-faced, chubby and blond haired, "I came to ask you- Oh, hello," he stopped brushing his arm when he saw Harry, "Don't think I've seen you before."

"Long story," said Ron, pulling Neville in after Harry offered a small wave, "Look, I saw something outside mate and-"

Harry heard the door slide open again, this time a girl that looked remarkably like Ron entered the compartment.

"Ron-"

But before she could finish her sentence, the whole carriage fell quiet.

The group in the compartment all turned to face the corridor, where a couple of heavy footsteps were slowly approaching. The ragged image of Sirius Black sprang to mind, and Harry's hands started to shake, making him press them against the cold glass at the cries that followed with every step closer, every harshly opened door.

Until finally, it was their turn.

Standing in the doorway, illuminated by the shivering flames of the corridor, was a cloaked figure that towered to the ceiling. His face was completely hidden beneath its hood. Harry's eyes darted downward, and what he saw made his stomach contract. There was a hand protruding from the cloak and it was glistening, grayish, slimy-looking, and scabbed, like something dead that had decayed in water… But it was visible only for a split second. As though the person -could he be called a person ?- beneath the cloak sensed Harry's gaze, the hand was suddenly withdrawn into the folds of its black cloak.

And then the thing beneath the hood, whatever it was, drew a long, slow, rattling breath, as though it were trying to suck something more than air from its surroundings.

The same things happened. Just like before. And it didn't matter that the person was asking them for their names, because though Harry could hear him, a hot flash of anxiety swept over him. He broke into a cold sweat, his heart-rate spiking as every little sound grew louder and louder.

The man behind the hood demanding his name only made the sick feeling in his stomach worsen, the nausea rising. He looked up as the man approached, gazing at the others in the carriage with pleading eyes.

"I said what's your name, boy," said a hoarse, raspy voice, like the man hadn't drunk any water in days.

"Ali Patel," Ron said, voice rising, "I said this before! Can't you see he's-he's-"

"If he don' have nothin to hide, no reason to be nervous," the man said behind his cloak, turning the pages in his hand, "I said what's your name, boy!"

The thoughts screaming at him to run hadn't left. But Harry pushed his sleeve up, arm against his chest, nail curling down his skin, "H- Ali Patel."

The papers in his hands ruffled, and the whole compartment held their breath. The man closed the papers with a satisfied click of his tongue, stashing them inside the folds of his cloak, "Right. Not registered, as I reckoned. You're coming with me."

"What?"

The protests from the compartment weren't enough to stop the man from grabbing Harry's now bleeding arm, starting to drag him into the corridor.

Harry's breath was pulled from his chest. Really pulled from his chest. The carriage was becoming smaller, the faces stranger and the ensuing storm consuming his whole body was burning him, drowning him, suffocating him and burying all at once.

Malfoy made a brief entrance in the distance, as Harry was struggling to get his arm free, trying to tell the man he hadn't done anything. But if it really was Malfoy, he left soon enough, running into the other carriage, becoming a small dot in the distance. Each compartment they passed was witness to Harry being humiliatingly dragged through the corridor, the man's vice grip allowing the blood to slide down his arm, staining the carpet in red.

The only thing Harry relied on was that the group from the carriage hadn't stopped following them, the man grunting in response to each question, turning to glare at Hermione once her persistent questions had stepped on a nerve.

That, and the approaching group of adults that were stepping hastily towards them when they reached the wide, empty corridor of the dining cart.

Snape was among them.

Harry had never Snape so absolutely, absolutely livid.

"Sir," he spoke, breaths heaving, hardly gaining any oxygen before he took another, "I didn't leave, really I didn't mean please-"

In a swift movement, the man's hand was wrenched from Harry's arm, leaving behind a burning scratch. Harry felt the air around him bear him down. The pair of hands that took him from the man left him to tilt his head up, Snape's fingers pushing his hair down, although Harry still had the balm on, and lifting up his arm, narrowing his eyes at it before displaying it for the rest of the adults to see.

Snape himself led him to the back of the diner carriage, sitting him down and glancing occasionally to the group of men, eyes like slits narrowing on the man that had dragged Harry. Letting go of his arm, he stood up, once more glancing at the adults.

"Stay here," he said in a low voice before moving to the group. Even from behind, his stance was sharp and angry.

Harry scoffed into his hands

"This is a student of Hogwarts!"shouted Snape the minute he had entered the circle, pointing his finger at the man that looked to be in charge, "When the Headmaster agreed for an in depth search, he specifically conditioned you to stay away from the students!"

"Now, Professor Snape, I'm sure this man, uh-"

"Demeter."

"Oh, yes. I'm sure Demeter here had some-"

The rest of the conversation flew past Harry, with Snape shouting. And shouting. And shouting some more. Sirius Black was mentioned a few times, with Snape claiming it was absolutely unreasonable to do this to a student, who was clearly, to even the mind with but a sprinkle of rationale, still a child.

When the shouts and clamor of voices finally ceased, the adults disbanded and the group of people Snape had threatened to report to Dumbledore left to the right of the carriage, while the men who had backed Snape in his argument left through the other side, each glancing at Harry as they left.

All but Snape, and surprisingly, the man they had run into in Diagon Alley.

The train's whistle sounded through the rain. Harry made to stand up, to join the friends he'd just made, but Snape put a hand on his chest, urging him back down, "I need to clean your arm. Lupin, if you're going to be kind enough to stay, do be useful and get some water and clean rags."

Lupin looked to both sides, like he expected the rags and water to appear suddenly midair.

Pressure lifted from Harry's arm when Snape removed his fingers, turning the arm to look at the other side, sighing, "Just water then, Lupin. Be quick about it."

As Snape couldn't do anything about Harry's arm, he stressfully paced the length of the corridor, offering Harry a pleasant headache to match the exhaustion settling in his bones. Ten minutes later, when Mr Lupin still hadn't arrived, Snape pulled open a window, hands twitching at his sides.

"You can smoke if you want to," Harry muttered, leaning his head on the table, arms limp beside his head, the rattling of the train tilting his body from side to side.

He didn't. Pulling the window closed when Mr Lupin came back with a small bowl, the water splashing around the brim when Snape snatched it from his hands, placing it on the table.

"Arm," Snape said, removing a handkerchief from his coat -one of many, apparently- and waving it open. The fabric sunk into the bowl, the remaining water splashing back down when Snape twisted it. He pressed Harry's arm down on the table, dabbing the handkerchief on the wound.

Coldness crept up his arm. Harry flinched at the contact, trying to pull away. When Snape didn't let go, Mr Lupin stepped forward. At the creak of the floorboards, Snape wrenched his head back, with what Harry guessed to be a glare on his face, and actually made Lupin step back, hands clenched at his sides.

The rag touched his arm again, the blood lapping up by white handkerchief. Snape ran a hand down Harry's arm, frowning at the marks, "Did he do this?"

Harry shrugged, pulling his knees towards him. He heard Snape click his tongue, then flop the rag back into the water, "Do you have one?"

"What?" Mr Lupin asked.

"A handkerchief. Clean, if possible."

From his coat, Mr Lupin pulled out a handkerchief, which Snape inspected in the light before tying it around Harry's arm, pulling his sleeve down and even buttoning it.

"Thank you, sir," Harry mumbled, eyes cast down, tapping his fingers on the seat. The train had sped up, rain rattling against the glass and the rumbling of thunder getting closer and closer.

A loud snap made Harry and Snape jump. Professor Lupin was breaking a small slab of chocolate into pieces. "Here," he said to Harry, handing him a particularly large piece. "Eat it. It'll help."

Harry took the chocolate but didn't eat it.

Snape and Lupin shared a glance.

"Should I ask if you want some?"

At Snape's silence, Mr Lupin crumpled up the chocolate wrapper and put it in his pocket.

"Who were those people?" Harry asked, looking between the two of them.

Snape motioned for Harry to move in the seat and sat down beside him, rubbing his face tiredly, like a mother who had worked all day, "Ministry officials looking for Sirius Black. That delirious man took the absence of your name from the school register to mean something suspicious," the words were spat like venom, making Harry think that only the law was stopping Snape from throttling the man.

Mr Lupin cleared his throat, "Speaking of which-"

"-Shall not be talked here. Good day, Lupin," Snape said, opening one eye. Lighting flashed behind them, Harry flinching when the thunder followed. He had no idea what these two men were competing in, but Mr Lupin straightened up in the end, adjusting his collar.

"Eat," he repeated. "It'll help. I need to speak to the driver, in anycase, excuse me…"

He strolled past Harry and disappeared into the corridor.

Harry looked after him, lifting the chocolate to his mouth - the first time he would be eating it in his life. But more important things bothered him at the moment.

He didn't understand. He felt weak and shivery, as though he were recovering from a bad bout of flu; he also felt the beginnings of shame. Why did he keep going to incidents like that, when no one else did? Harry took a bite and to his great surprise felt warmth spread suddenly to the tips of his fingers and toes.

"We'll be at Hogwarts in ten minutes," said Professor Snape. "Are you better?"

"Fine," he muttered, embarrassed. They didn't talk much during the remainder of the journey. At long last, the train stopped at Hogsmeade station, and there was a great scramble to get outside; people shouted, carts rolled, and the adults called for order through the crowd. It was freezing on the tiny platform; rain was driving down in icy sheets.

Snape made sure he didn't leave his sight.

"Firs' years this way!" called an unfamiliar voice. Harry turned and saw the gigantic outline of a man at the other end of the platform, beckoning the terrified-looking new students forward.

He didn't see anyone he knew until they reached the gates which paved the road up to Hogwarts, students scrambling to hurry up to the school. Hermione, Ron and even Malfoy were waiting at the iron gates.

"Are you alright, Ali?" asked Hermione fervently, her coat above her head.

"You shouldn't have waited," Harry said, taking his bag from Ron with a weak smile, tugging it under his arm and eyes flicking towards his sleeve, "Not bad, thank you."

Malfoy didn't say anything, leaving the group to join his Slytherin friends when Harry finished talking. Harry felt better since the chocolate, but still weak. Ron and Hermione kept looking at him sideways, as though frightened something might happen again, but Snape urged them to continue up the road.

As everyone was wet upon entering the large castle that was Hogwarts, the students were told to go to their dormitories and change into the dry clothes in their bags, uniform or otherwise.

Harry just shuffled in the hallway, the first years being led by teachers to the bathrooms to change their clothes.

"Where am I going to change, sir?" Harry asked, water dripping from his hair. Snape, who also had water dripping from his sagging hair and clothes shook his head, telling him to come along.

Instead of going up like the rest of the school, Snape led him downstairs, the noise of the castle getting softer and softer, only a buzz in the background while they walked down the dark corridors. Silk flames shed light into the corridor; slabs of rock formed the walls.

They stepped in front of a set of doors. In the dark, Harry heard the jingle of keys, three locks sliding open before the handle could turn.

Light crept into the cold room. Snape entered first, leaving Harry outside. How he maneuvered in the dark, Harry didn't know, but he came back with a lantern either way, lighting it with the candles in the corridor and then letting him in.

"I won't come out," Snape said, placing the candle on the table, "Call for me when you are dressed."

He then disappeared into a room, retreating into the dark. Ten minutes later, Harry called for Snape, hair wet and uniform damp. Snape, no different, handed Harry a towel, waiting until he dried his hair before walking towards the door.

"Come along, Patel."

The door closed behind them, a gentle thud in the silence of the corridor.

Snape had left him in the hallway which was collecting more and more students as time went on (with very clear instructions to not move). At the end of half an hour, the teachers instructed all students, except first years, to enter the Hall. The door into the Great Hall stood open at the right; Harry followed the crowd toward it, but had barely glimpsed the candle lit ceiling when a voice called, "Patel!"

A few students turned with him to look up as well, though soon adjusted their glances and continued their conversations. Harry dived through the crowd, walking towards Professor Snape.

"Sir?"

"As you don't have a house yet," Professor Snape took him by the shoulder, often stealing glances at the crowd, "Sit towards the back of the hall with any familiar, or friendly, faces. If questioned, tell them I told you to sit there. Understood?"

Professor Snape nodded for him to continue, Harry hesitantly mingling into the groups of people. No familiar faces poked out from the crowd, and Harry took a spot at the end of the table closest to the door, awkwardly smiling at the older student that scooted to the left when he sat down. Fortunately, some members of the red-themed house seemed to notice him upon their entrance, and took the seats opposite and around Harry.

Harry pretended he hadn't seen Hermione pointing his way and whispering to Ron.

"So you're a Gryffindor now?" Ron asked, eyeing the plate in front of him. Harry had to admit, it looked better than most things he had eaten in his life, though he doubted anything could compare to Snape's culinary skills.

"I don't think so," he said, grinning tiredly when Hermione scoffed at Ron for tearing a piece of bread from the loaf, "How do they sort you into houses anyway?"

Ron shugged, glaring at Hermione when she slapped his hand, though made no grab for the bread again. Hermione shook her head, and turned to Harry, an occasional glimpse sending Ron's hand retreating, "First years come to Hogwarts at the beginning of the summer holidays for two months, so the teacher can catch them up on basic mathematics and reading, if they're not caught up already. From your behavior over the summer, and the Professor's evaluations, you get sorted into a house."

"Oh. What's the difference between them?" Harry asked, watching a few professors sitting down at the teachers' table, including Dumbledore.

Hermione opened her mouth to explain, but the hall fell into silence. Harry looked up to find Dumbledore lowering his hand as, through the double doors, children filed into the hall with a stern looking woman who wore her hair in a tight bun, her sharp eyes framed with square spectacles.

Harry soon found out this was the sorting ceremony.

The children stood in front of the hall, while the stern looking woman read out the names of the children, and the houses they had been sorted into. Harry found it very boring, with the rain and soft candle flames tempting him to sleep.

The stern professor strode off toward her empty seat at the staff table, and Harry placed his head down, closing his eyes, until Ron elbowed him in the side at the end of the clapping that had exploded through the hall.

Great old Dumledore stood from his seat easily. Extending his arms, he began to speak into the silence.

"Welcome!" said Dumbledore, the candlelight shimmering on his beard. "Welcome to another year at Hogwarts! I have a few things to say to you all, and as one of them is very serious, I think it best to get it out of the way before you become befuddled by our excellent feast…"

Dumbledore cleared his throat and continued, "As you will all be aware after their search of the Hogwarts Express-" his eyes flicked towards the crowd, searching, "-our school is presently playing host to some of the guards of Azkaban, who are here on Ministry

business."

He paused, and Harry remembered the guard on the train. He shuddered and clasped a hand over his arm.

"They are stationed at every entrance to the grounds," Dumbledore continued, "and while they are with us, I must make it plain that nobody is to leave school without permission. I look to the prefects, and our new Head Boy and Girl, to make sure that no student runs afoul of the officials," he said.

Dumbledore paused again; he looked very seriously around the hall, and nobody moved or made a sound. "On a happier note," he continued, "I am pleased to welcome a new teacher to our ranks this year.

"Professor Lupin, who has kindly consented to fill the post of the English teacher."

There was some scattered, rather unenthusiastic applause.

"Look at Snape!" Ron hissed in Harry's ear.

Professor Snape was staring along the staff table at Professor Lupin. Even Harry, who had some idea of the animosity between them, was startled at the expression twisting his thin, sallow face. It was beyond anger: it was loathing.

As the lukewarm applause for Professor Lupin died away, Professor Dumbledore started speaking again.

"Well, I think that's everything of importance," said Dumbledore. "Let the feast begin!"

It was a delicious meal; the hall echoed with talk, laughter, and the clatter of knives and forks. At long last, when the last morsels of food had melted from the platters, Dumbledore gave the word that it was time for them all to go to bed. Hermione and Ron stood up, waving goodbye to Harry as they joined their other friends out the door.

Harry got some stares as he had continued to sit down, wanting to sleep in a bed more than ever with the exhaustion on his shoulders.

But with Harry Potter, it couldn't be that easy, could it?

Even from across the hall and without glasses, Harry could tell he needed to be seated. When the last person had left the hall, almost every professor started walking towards Harry, tightening the knot of anxiety in the pit of his stomach.

He waited for them standing up, though Dumbledore's smile eased the tension of his shoulders, "A troubling train ride, I hear."

Harry smiled, not finding it funny, "Yes, sir."

"Well, come along, Mr Patel," Dumbledore said, eyes on Professor Snape and Patel, "There's a warm fire in the staffroom, I hear."

There was, and there was also the shocked expressions on all of the professors' faces as Dumbledore explained who Harry actually was. Harry felt like a child who had gotten into trouble, with Professor Patel and Snape on both his sides, their heads also bowed and the tea in their hands cooling.

Professor McGonogall -the physics teacher- actually wiped some tears from her eyes, making Harry feel guilty for some reason, while Professor Lupin who was standing furthest away from Harry actually stepped forward, staring at his face.

"So, he is Ali Patel during Hogwarts, yes?" squeaked the tiny little Professor Flitwick with a shock of white hair, the cup in his hand shaking and spilling tea on Professor Sprout's dress, a squat little woman with short, grey, wavy hair and a patched battered hat.

"I finally have some family other than my brother," joked Professor Patel nervously, her tea only a quarter finished. Professor Snape only stood silent, aggressively sipping his tea.

"Is there anything else you wish to ask?" said Madam Prompfrey, the school matron, who hadn't taken her eyes off of Harry since they had entered the staffroom and was told of the 'audacity of cheap, dunderheaded workers' (Snape's commentary).

"Yes," Dumbledore said, on his fourth cup of tea, "The sorting of Ali Patel."

Understandably, there was an argument.

Harry's parents were brought up for some reason by Professor McGonogall and Lupin both, arguing for him to be in Gryffindor. Flitwick, for Ravenclaw, and Sprout and Madam Prompfrey for Hufflepuff. Only Dumbledore, Professor Patel and Snape hadn't said anything, Harry downing the little drops of tea at the bottom of his cup.

Dumbledore intervened when the debate rose louder, holding up a hand, "Perhaps," he began, his robes brushing the ground while he walked towards the window, hands behind his back, " The Professors who have both spent time with him can assist us in deciding."

Both Professors Patel and Snape (the poor souls) straightened. Professor Patel, who already didn't make much eye contact, almost dropped the cold tea, and Professor Snape went rigid like a frightened animal. The glass still rattling in her hands, Professor Patel took a forced sip from the drink , and Professor Snape glared at his hands.

"Severus? My dear?"

Professor Patel swallowed her tea, grimacing, and cleared her throat, gesturing towards Professor Snape, "Professor."

"Ladies first, Professor," Snape said, not looking at her.

"Oh, I insist," Professor Patel said, tilting her head, "As the superior one in experience."

"You've sorted many more students than I have, Professor," Snape said, still not looking.

"You've taught many more students than I have, Professor," said Patel, also not looking.

Then, at the same time, "I insist."

They actually did look at one another over Harry's head once, before averting their eyes, each mumbling to themselves: Professor Patel to her cup, and Professor Snape into the air.

"Uh," Harry looked at them, smiling awkwardly, "At the same time?"

And, at the same time, where Professor Snape said Slytherin (which was a shock to everyone in the room), Professor Patel said a longer answer, which was a house in which the most prejudiced students (Snape did glare at her, for that) would have a harder time discriminating against him when his real identity was discovered.

"That is to mean no Gryffindor?" said Professor McGonogall dryly, which Professor Patel responded by taking another sip of her tea, which had to be freezing by now.

"My boy, earlier you said no to Gryffindor, and now claiming Slytherin would be a better choice," Dumbledore stepped between Professor McGonogall and Professor Patel, "What drove your change of heart?"

The sofa dipped further down. Beside him, Professor Snape had turned in his seat to look at him, eyes flicking down Harry's arm before rising to meet Dumbledore's, "Sirius Black has escaped, the Ministry has infiltrated the school and the closer I am to Potter, the more I trust myself to intervene with the bad luck that seems to attach itself to him."

"Are you saying we wouldn't be able to protect him, Severus?" the silent Professor Lupin said from behind Professor McGonogall, cup and saucer in his hands. The hand of Professor Snape clenched into a fist, but he raised a brow, lifting his chin, "I'd rather not have him in a house where one would assume him to be, sorely based on his lineage. In fact, I'd rather not have him anywhere near a place or a person-" then, there was silence in the room, and a cold touch to Professor Snape's voice, "-which, or whom, is known to have affiliations with a murderous convict."

Professor Lupin opened his mouth to answer, but dropped his words before he began.

"Don't tell me you just tried to defend him to me, Lupin."

"If this is about-"

Professor Patel clapped her hands, silencing the two men, looking around the room in curious wonder, "Oh, I do wish it would have been more simple. Don't you, Ali?"

"Oh, uh," Harry looked around the room, nodding at the touch on his back from Professor Patel, "Yes, yes. Every house seems very, uh, interesting, doesn't it. If only I knew what made every house unique."

"I think someone wrote a song about that once," Professor Patel said, scratching her chin, "Must have read it in a library book, though I don't remember which one. However, in gross simplification-" she gestured towards the teachers, smiling crookedly, "-Professors?"

"Ravenclaw values intelligence, creativity and logic, Harry," said Professor Flitwick, pulling off his glasses, "The knowledge you have and gain, and who or what you choose to help with it."

"Loyalty, tolerance and patience isn't to be overlooked, either," Professor Sprout said with a warm smile, "You'll do well in Hufflepuff with kindness and understanding. "

Neither of them sounded bad, actually. Harry was curious enough, and having a house full of loyal, tolerant people was, perhaps, exactly what he needed.

Professor McGonogall cleared her throat, refusing an offer of tea, her stern lips lifting in a smile Harry was sure she didn't display often, "Bravery and confidence, chivalry and daring. Your parents took pride in being valiant, courageous people, Harry. I see you're not far behind."

Harry nodded awkwardly, "Thank you. And, uh," he looked up at Professor Patel, "What about Slytherin?"

All eyes turned to face Snape, who, again like a tired mother, pinched the bridge of his nose under their stares, "Slytherin is what you make out of who you are. Of your goals. Of the many times you've fallen to your knees, and of the times in turn that you've risen back up.

"Ambition is a good word. Determination, talent," Professor Snape looked down at Harry and the rest of the group before averting his gaze entirely, his messy hair veiling his face.

Harry frowned, scratching the sides of his forehead, "You think I'm Slytherin?"

"Well, nephew," Professor Patel chimed brightly, slinging a hand around Harry's shoulder, "If I'm Slytherin, there's no reason for you not to be."

The reality of Professor Patel having been in Slytherin aside, Harry looked down at his hands, the frustration building up, "Can't I just be in none at all?"

"Houses will help you build friendships," Professor Lupin said, putting his tea cup on the table and walking around the sofa to stand closer to Harry, "Close friendships. You've already met some students in Gryffindor, staying in the same house helps grow that friendship further."

Harry wrapped his arms around his torso, "I don't know. I wish I could be in all of them at once."

The arm around his shoulder coiled back, and Professor Patel scratched her chin, glaring at her shoes. The rest of the Professors were also talking amongst each other, discussing the best house to place the Boy-Who-Lived.

"Uh, Headmaster?" Professor Patel lifted her chin, hands on her lap. Dumbledore allowed her to continue with a nod of his head, "I mean no offence to any faculty member, but what if we left the choice to Harry, by allowing him to stay in every house throughout the year?"

"In every house?" Professor McGonogal asked, also looking up at Dumbledore, "Would the Board accept such a thing, Albus?"

"They may not, but we haven't given Ha- Ali the opportunity presented to the first year students," Professor Patel continued, the almost empty cup finally set down on a stable surface, "The goal is to keep his identity hidden for as long as possible. It won't be forever, no doubt, but if we can get Ali Patel to stay in every single house, give students from every single house to interact with him, when Harry Potter is finally discovered, wouldn't it be harder for there to be discrimination?"

Beside Harry, Professor Snape straightened his back, "There'd be less accusations concerning favoritism directed to the staff and school."

"Won't this be tricking the students?" Flitwick asked.

"It would be more than tricking the students," Professor Lupin answered.

"We already take two months to assess every student before making a decision," Professor Patel's tone held a hint of desperation, which she seemed to have noticed, and cleared her throat to relieve it of the tone, "Fifteen days for each house, that's not too bad. I think."

"Are all the professors in agreement on this?" asked Dumbledore the room.

There was a mumble of approval, confirmed by a nod from Dumbledore.

"Very well. Then Hufflepuff first, I think-" Professor Sprout's back straightened, "-Would that be fine with you, Professor Sprout? Very well. Though I must admit moving houses every two weeks might be troublesome."

"I can do it," cut in Harry, shrinking when the heads of the adults turned to him instead, "I mean, my trunk isn't very heavy, I think I can carry it with some help."

Harry didn't contribute to the rest of the conversation, because it was about the lessons Harry was supposed to take after school each day: Mathematics, reading, writing, history and geography. One hour a day after school, save for Thursday, which Professor Patel requested to be taken off, and Sunday. When that was finished, Dumbledore dismissed every teacher except Professor Snape and Professor Lupin.

Before Professor Patel left, she had something to say to Harry, however.

"I asked Thursdays to be free of any lessons, because I wish you to come talk with me once a week. Just an hour, is that alright?"

Harry nodded.

"In the meantime, try writing the things you notice. But if you have no empty notebooks, I will give you a journal. Alright?"

Harry smiled, averting his eyes shyly when Professor Pattel ruffled his hair, "Thank you, si- Professor Patel."

Finally, when it was just the two professors and the Headmaster in the room, Harry sighed, leaning back on the sofa, tiredly rubbing his eyes.

"Where is Potter going to sleep tonight?" Professor Snape asked, tapping Harry's arm to get him to straighten his back when Dumbledore took the seat in front of them, asking Professor Lupin to take the spot next to him.

"I will ask Argus to arrange for bedding," Dumbledore said, watching the empty teapot as though if he looked at it long enough, it would be steaming with a fresh batch of tea, "In the meantime, I leave the arrangements to you."

"Yes, Headmaster."

The rest of Snape's words had come out in a lazy haze, like a sheet of water draped over Harry's ears. The sofa, soft, embraced him like a warm bed and the crackling fire brushed over his skin, a cozy blanket. The eyes he had desperately tried to keep open now weighed stronger than his will, and he couldn't be bothered stifling the yawn escaping his lips.

"Potter."

"I'm awake," Harry mumbled, lifting his head and rubbing his eyes, "Very awake."

"Remus," Dumbledore said, "Thank you for being patient this evening. But while you wish to explain everything I must ask…"

The words once more blended into the background, as senseless as the rain and the fire. This time, when Harry's head dropped, it met with not the sofa, but the shoulder of a professor who stiffened at the touch before easing, his body rising and falling with his breaths.

The rest of the conversation Harry didn't comprehend, switching between sleep and awake and trying to get comfortable, pulling his legs up and leaning his whole weight against the soft fabric beside him.

A hand on his shoulder shook him to the point of at least understanding simple words, urging him to a stand while still keeping both hands on his shoulder and arm. A deep voice mumbled something behind him, and started to steer Harry somewhere, the still firm lest he trip.

Harry didn't know where or how he slept that night - vague memories of a rough blanket, fabric wrapping around his arm and a faint touch pulling his hair back forgotten, come morning.

Hogwarts on September first was an absolute nightmare.

School wasn't on schedule, chores and timetables were being distributed and who could even keep in mind the amount of hallways you had to take to find your way around from one classroom to the next?

Harry couldn't. And he felt as confused as the first year student that broke down crying, claiming he didn't remember anything from the summer.

When Professor Snape had woken him up this morning, telling him to get ready for the exhausting day, he'd assumed he was teasing, as he often did, and dismissed it with nervous laughter while Professor Snape watched him above his mug, the steam clouding the humour in his eyes.

He hadn't been lying, or teasing, or any of the things he did to get under Harry's skin.

Harry's trunk was officially lost, and so was he.

Even the first years, who actually got sorted during the summer, had their trunks safely in their dormitories, looking over their timetables and the chores they would be responsible for throughout the term, while Harry had his head down on the end of the Hufflepuff table, ignoring the stolen glances the students kept sending his way.

"So you're a Hufflepuff now?"

Harry shut his eyes to keep himself from groaning, lifting his head and glaring at the wall before he composed himself enough to turn around, face neutral.

"You know, Malfoy," he said airly, turning around in his seat, rolling his eyes at the very new and clean school uniform, "These days I'm not much of anything, so it would be very beneficial if you left me out of your jibes."

Some students turned around to look at them, both him and Malfoy shrinking under the glances. Harry cleared his throat, straightening his back and purposely raising his voice to say.

"No, I'm not a Hufflepuff. Since I only came to Hogwarts for the third year, the teachers agreed to have me stay in each house for two weeks until they know where to sort me," he tilted his head, picking up a spoon from the table, "Happy?

Instead of turning away, even more Hufflepuffs turned to look at him, including the older student sitting beside Harry, ceasing the conversation he was having with his friend.

"Oh, you've certainly made my day," Malfoy said, waving a hand, making the person sitting on Harry's other side scoot over so he could take the spot instead, "Does that mean you'll come to Slytherin as well?"

The oatmeal wasn't very pleasant. It was hard and dry, but it was a small enough excuse for Harry to stay silent.

"You probably won't be in Hufflepuff."

"Wath?" Harry said, hitting his chest to help him swallow the food, "Why?"

"Call it a gut feeling, Patel. And before you say anything, you're not a Ravenclaw either."

"We just met two weeks ago," Harry argued, scoffing when Malfoy just shrugged, pointing out the bit of oatmeal he had dropped over his trousers before walking away, a smirk on his face.

"Trust me, Patel," he practically shouted, "Ravenclaw is the last thing you're going to be."

Harry used a bit of water to wipe away the oatmeal off his trousers, fuming while doing so, feeling the tips of his ears burn. What did Malfoy know about being a Hufflepuff or a Ravenclaw anyway? Not more than Harry, who was actually going to have a chance to be in all of them. Oh, he'd show Malfoy that-

"Is that really true?"

The bowl shook dangerously on the edge of the table from where Harry hit in in surprise, both his hands and the stranger's hand wrapping around it to stop it from falling.

"Uh-" Harry snatched his hand back, opening and closing them uncertainly, "-Thank you?"

"No, uh, I'm sorry for scaring you," the tall student next to him said, scratching his face and running a hand through his dark hair. Harry was about to argue that he wasn't surprised, but the boy spoke before he could get the point across.

"Cedric Diggory," the chiseled boy said, his bright grey eyes crinkling in a smile while he said, "Prefect. Professor Sprout didn't tell us you were coming."

"Recent decision," Harry said under his breath, taking Diggory's burly hand, "H- You can call me Ali."

"I didn't interfere when Malfoy sat down because you seemed to know each other," Cedric said, folding his arms on the table, "He did call you Patel though. Are you by any chance related to Professor Patel?"

Well, that was what everyone just had to ask, wasn't it?"

Yes, Professor Patel was his aunt. Yes, he just started Hogwarts now because of financial problems and yes, he really wasn't sorted yet.

And yes. He really was lost.

"Well, if you're done, let me introduce you to the third years," Diggory said, wiping his hands on his trousers.

"Oh, I'd rather find my trunk-" he lifted a finger, then dropped it with a frown, "And you're gone," he finished by hitting his head on the table a final time before standing up, tagging after Diggory. As they were sitting near the end of the table, they had to walk up towards the front, where more younger students were situated. Curious eyes followed them, both Diggory and Harry, with some girls even blushing and turning around in giggles.

The third years, only five students in comparison to the rest, were not averse to staring either, one girl having followed them with her eyes since they had started walking towards them.

On approach, Diggory put his hands on his hips, all five students stopping mid-conversation, ears perked.

"Everyone," he placed a hand on Harry's shoulder, a smile as bright as his eyes on his face, "This is Ali Patel. He'll be a Hufflepuff for the next fortnight. No, Finch-Fletchley, I haven't yet been told exactly why. Ali?" Harry hummed in response, frowning and leaning back when Diggory took him by both shoulders, "If you have any questions, any at all, you come to me. Understand?"

Harry nodded desperately, returning Diggory's wide grin with a forced, small one, rubbing his arm when Diggory left him awkwardly standing there, the staring students all averting their eyes when he cleared his throat.

"That's a very threatening way of telling someone you'll help them," he mumbled, earning a chuckle from a boy with curly hair and an almost Malfoy-exclusive pride to his face.

"Prefects," the boy with curly hair said, widening the space between him and the stout boy with blond hair, "So, Patel, are you-"

"Professor Patel's relative? Absolutely," he nodded, ripping a piece of bread, "So are you all the only third years?"

"Unfortunately," the curly haired boy said, his long sleeve covering his extended hand, "Justin Finch-Fletchly. Welcome to Hufflepuff."

"Thank you, I-"

Harry had extended his hand, expecting to hold a hand in return, with five fingers wrapping around his own.

Instead, he snatched it back with a cry of surprise, almost falling over the bench and hiding his face in embarrassment at the burst of laughter from the people around him.

"Mate," Justin lifted his hand, flexing his two fingers, "I think you took my other fingers in your surprise."

"I did not need that," Harry groaned into his hand, rubbing his eyes.

"He does that to everyone," the blonde boy said, patting him on the back, causing him to turn around, "Ernest Macmillian. Just call me Ernie."

"Right," Harry said, "Any more pranks I need to be warned off?"

The girl sitting on a wooden wheelchair leaned forward, tugging her long braid above her shoulder, "Even if there were, we wouldn't tell you, would we? Susan bones."

The girl beside her with curly hair and red ribbons to her frills was next, called Megan Jones, wearing a deep frown. The last one of the group was Hannah Abbot, pink-faced and blonde, who tried to extend a hand before pulling it back when she didn't quite make it, face flustered.

"You get your schedules yet, Patel?" Justin said when breakfast was over, sweeping his very clean shirt of invisible dust.

"I'll be lucky enough to find my trunk," Harry sighed, smirking when Justin offered to kindly lend a hand.

"Seriously," Justin and Ernie followed him down the space between the tables, the girls following them on the other side, "Do you need help?"

"Well, I reckon you know this place better than me," Harry shrugged, the chatter dying away as they left the hall.

Susan rearranged the blanket over her leg, "We have an hour before we have to start with the chores, Justin."

"How long can it actually take? We'll start with the first year piles. Come along."

In the end, the trunk was still, truly, missing.

Professor Patel appeared at the common room of the Hufflepuff dormitories later that evening, claiming she had looked for him everywhere to let him know his trunk was with her, and had given up trying to find him when she couldn't.

"I suppose they left it with me because of the surname in the tag," she said, closing the door to her office, and gesturing at the trunk

"Who are 'they'?" Harry asked, kneeling down and looking through his trunk for his spectacles, sliding them on and blinking. The foggy room turned bright and clear, the chapped sides of the cabinets at the back of the room as clear as the lines of his palm.

She counted on her hand, her voice rising and falling as she rummaged through the drawers on the table, appearing and disappearing out of view, "The groundskeeper, caretaker, some volunteers from the village-" there came a bump from the other side of the table, "-Ya Sabar Estagfirullah. Anyway, the seventh and sixth year boys. The occasional male teacher."

He continued to look around, even when he sat down and Professor Patel spoke, the world no longer fuzzy uncertain shapes, "I still can't believe these exist," he said, taking the paper Professor Patel slid into his hand, "What is this?"

The paper crinkled under Professor Patel's finger, "Your schedule, Monday through Sunday. I wanted to go through them with you. Anything you don't understand?"

Harry glanced down at the paper. In order for his after school classes, he had geography, writing, arithmancy, Professor Patel -he chuckled-, history, free day, and reading on a Sunday.

"Is this all?" he shook the paper in his hand, placing it down on the table.

"Almost. Students take up chores at Hogwarts, from cleaning dishes to working in the greenhouses. You're paired with-" she turned the paper in her hands, tilting her head when she couldn't read the name, "-Hufflepuff third years are small in number, aren't they? Ernest Macmillian is your partner these two weeks, but you'll still be grouped with the third years, I think. Other than that, after some discussion with a, uh, teachers, we just gave you one elective subject, Art, but if you think you can manage two electives, I recommend riding lessons."

"Riding?"

"The Groundskeeper, Hagrid, gives riding lessons to male students," she said, eyes downcast, "If you'd like, I can add it to your schedule. I fear arithmetics and French would be too advanced for you at the moment."

"I think I would like that, riding," Harry said, handing the paper back to her. Professor Patel held it between her fingers, lifting her pen and pointing towards him, "However, if you feel you'd do better without it, I want you to come to me to take you off the lessons. Alright? You can always go back once you feel better. Good."

After consulting a few more papers, Professor Patel dipped her pen into the ink, and in a very neat script, wrote 'riding' under Friday, the last period.

"Compared to last year, the class has more students." She pointed out, clasping her hands together, "Anything else you want to ask me?"

That night, Professor Sprout pulled him aside for a small talk, reminding him that he could ask the Prefects anything, as they were now aware of the situation. Or, if it was something that needed more authority,

"You know where to come," she led him down the corridor of the dormitories, ushering the rest of the students still lingering in the common room to go to bed.

Harry slept with nerves of excitement buzzing inside his stomach, smiling into the pillow of his four-poster bed, just before his eyes finally closed for the night.

Hogwarts the next morning was as chaotic as Harry had imagined.

Though thanks to his habit of waking up early, rising at forty minutes past six proved less difficult than the barrier Ernie and Justin seem to be dragging themselves through, not even commenting on Harry's spectacles. Leaving the dormitory in an appropriate state, Harry and Ernie parted ways with Justin, walking to the Hospital Wing, where they would be working with Megan Jones for the next two weeks.

"At least we don't have much work to do," Megan said, absentmindedly sweeping the floor while Ernie and Harry heaved a box full of glass jars to a cabinet under the watchful eye of Madam Pomfrey, "There won't be any injured students for a while."

"Oh, just you wait until the cricket matches," Madam Pomfrey said, sweeping past her with her nose dug into record books barely holding their shape, "I say we're lucky no one has broken their neck yet."

"She's jinxed it," Ernie said at the end of the hour, hissing into his ear as they left the Hospital Wing, "Won't be surprised if she has to patch someone with a broken bone next November."

Then, until half past eight, was breakfast. This time, instead of immediately sitting down with the third years, Harry spotted Hermione and Ron in the crowd, and decided to talk to them, but stopped when he realised the blond haired student beside them was Draco. So Harry made a smooth dodge around a student, walking to the Hufflepuff table, a sick rage piercing his stomach.

Of course the only people he saw himself getting close to had to be friends with the person he had sworn not to get closed to.

Oh, he really wasn't a Hufflepuff was he?

As none of his temporary housemates had art, (something Susan Bones didn't look very happy to admit as she and Megan left the breakfast table early) Harry packed his bag in the twenty minute interval between breakfast and classes for the morning lessons.

His hand occasionally fell to brush the paint set, the clean roll of rough paper a comfort to touch.

Ten minutes to class, he stood by the stairs that led up to the classrooms, he nervously shifted from foot to foot, wishing he knew who was climbing the stairs to go to the art classroom.

So when he scouted the trio from earlier along with a girl he didn't recognise, he adjusted his back, lifted his chin and swallowed the sick feeling long enough to ask them how to get to art class.

"Ali!" Hermione said in surprise when he approached them, pausing her conversation with the girl beside her, "I didn't know you wore spectacles, and is what Draco told about the houses true?"

"Funny thing," Malfoy said, a snobby look to his smile, "I didn't know about the glasses either."

"Good thing about having an aunt," he tapped the metal handles, sliding his hand down the brim, "She can be full of surprises, and yeah — " he looked right into Malfoy's eyes, " — It is true."

"Talking about Professor Patel," Hermione took the girl beside her by the arm, "This is Parvati Patil. Your surnames sound alike, don't they?"

"Oh, yeah," Harry said, taking the time to grin at Ron when he patted his shoulder before facing Parvati, "Uh, hullo."

"Hello."

The conversation, unfortunately, didn't go beyond a few words, as they both had difficulty carrying the conversation beyond small talk, which Harry had very little to contribute to.

The journey through the castle to North Tower was a long one. Despite the castle being only four floors, the stairs were an exhausting climb, and Harry had an idea why Susan had frowned when she left the table that morning.

"There's — got — to — be — a — short — cut," Ron panted, as they climbed the fourth long staircase and emerged on an unfamiliar landing, where there was nothing but a large painting of a bare stretch of grass hanging on the stone wall.

"I think it's this way," said Hermione, peering down the empty passage to the right.

"Can't be," said Ron. "That's south. Look, you can see a bit of the lake outside the window…"

Harry was watching the painting. A fat, dapple-gray pony was drawn onto the grass and was grazing nonchalantly. Harry, who's experience in portraits was the Malfoy lineage, enjoyed watching this simple painting, hand brushing over the short, squat knight in the painting. By the look of the grass stains on his metal knees, he had just fallen off, with a finger pointing at the pony.

Pointing at the pony?

Harry ignored the small debate behind him in favor of the painting. And the next. And the next. All three of them had a painted subject pointing at a certain direction. But the real surprise came when he found the signature of the collective paintings.

Sybill Trelawney and a smudged name he could not read.

"I think I have an idea," Harry said, starting to follow the paintings, calling after them with a wide grin, "Follow me."

They hurried after him along the corridor, Malfoy and Hermione shouting after him that he didn't know the castle, with Ron entering a mock race with him over a destination that wasn't yet in sight.

Puffing loudly, they climbed the tightly spiraling steps, getting dizzier and dizzier, until at last they heard the murmur of voices above them and knew they had reached the classroom.

"How'd you-" Malfoy panted, trying very hard not to bend down on his knees, "How'd you- How'd you know?"

"Maybe I'm- I'm- more Ravenclaw," Harry managed between breaths, still not able to lift his head, "Than you thought."

Malfoy laughed weakly, wiping his forehead, "Impossible."

"Sod off, Malfoy."

They climbed the last few steps and emerged onto a tiny landing, where most of the class was already assembled. There were no doors off this landing, but Ron nudged Harry and pointed at the ceiling, where there was a circular trapdoor with a brass plaque on it.

"'Sybill Trelawney, Art teacher,'" Harry read. "How're we supposed to get up there?"

As though in answer to his question, the trapdoor suddenly opened, and a silvery ladder descended right at Harry's feet. Everyone got quiet.

"After you," said Ron, grinning, so Harry climbed the ladder first.

He emerged into the strangest-looking classroom he had ever seen. In fact, it didn't look like a classroom at all, more like a cross between someone's attic and an old-fashioned tea shop. At least twenty small, circular tables were crammed inside it, all surrounded by chintz armchairs and fat little poufs. Everything was lit with a dim, crimson light; the curtains at the windows were all closed, and the many lamps were draped with dark red scarves. It was stiflingly warm, and the fire that was burning under the crowded mantelpiece was giving off a heavy, sickly sort of perfume as it heated a large copper kettle. The shelves running around the circular walls were crammed with dusty-looking feathers, stubs of candles, many packs of tattered playing cards, countless silvery crystal balls, and a huge array of teacups.

"Is this an art class," Malfoy said not-so quietly, climbing in last, "Or the apothecary?"

"Snape actually cleans the apothecary," Ron said, lifting his foot when he stepped on a poof."

"I clean the apothecary," corrected Harry, gaining unanimous laughter, even from Malfoy.

Ron appeared at Harry's shoulder as the class assembled around them, all talking in whispers.

"Where is she?" Ron said.

A voice came suddenly out of the shadows, a soft, misty sort of voice.

"Welcome," it said. "How nice to see you in the physical world at last."

Harry's immediate impression was of a large, glittering insect. Professor Trelawney moved into the firelight, and they saw that she was very thin; her large glasses magnified her eyes to several times their natural size, and she was draped in a gauzy spangled shawl. Innumerable chains and beads hung around her spindly neck, and her arms and hands were encrusted with bangles and rings.

"Sit, my children, sit," she said, and they all climbed awkwardly into armchairs or sank onto poufs.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat themselves around the same round table, Malfoy having to scout the table beside them with surprisingly no complaint.

"Welcome to art," said Professor Trelawney, who had seated herself in a winged armchair in front of the fire. "My name is Professor Trelawney. You may not have seen me before. I find that descending too often into the hustle and bustle of the main school clouds my Inner Eye."

Nobody said anything to this extraordinary pronouncement. Professor Trelawney delicately rearranged her shawl and continued, "So you have chosen to study art, the most difficult of all electives. I must warn you at the outset that if you do not have the Sight, there is very little I will be able to teach you… Books can take you only so far in this field…"

At these words, both Malfoy and Ron glanced, grinning, at Hermione, who looked startled at the news that books wouldn't be much help in this subject.

"Many students, talented though they are in the area of uncommonly spoken language, missing history and delicate liquids, are yet unable to penetrate the veiled mysteries of inspiration," Professor Trelawney went on, her enormous, gleaming eyes moving from face to nervous face.

"It is a Gift granted to few. You, boy," she said suddenly to Neville, who almost toppled off his pouf. "Is your grandmother well?"

"I think so," said Neville tremulously, though confused.

"I wouldn't be so sure if I were you, dear," said Professor Trelawney, the firelight glinting on her long emerald earrings. Neville gulped. Professor Trelawney continued placidly. "We will be covering the basic methods of sketching and painting this year, perhaps some sculpting, yes. The first term will be devoted to reading art. Next term we shall progress to compositions in pieces. By the way, my dear," she shot suddenly at Parvati Patil, "beware a red-haired man."

Parvati gave a startled look at Ron, who was right behind her and edged her chair away from him.

"In the second term," Professor Trelawney went on, "we shall progress to perspective — if we have finished with symbolism, that is. Unfortunately, classes will be disrupted in February by a nasty bout of flu. I myself will lose my voice. And around Easter, one of our numbers will leave us forever."

A very tense silence followed this pronouncement, but Professor Trelawney seemed unaware of it.

"I wonder, dear," she said to a girl, who was nearest and shrank back in her chair, sitting beside a girl that looked awfully like Parvati "if you could pass me the largest silver teapot?"

The girl, looking relieved, stood up, took an enormous teapot from the shelf, and put it down on the table in front of Professor Trelawney. "Thank you, my dear. Incidentally, that thing you are dreading — it will happen on Friday the sixteenth of October."

The girl trembled.

"Now, I want you all to divide into pairs. Collect a teacup from the shelf, come to me, and I will fill it. Then sit down and drink, drink until only the dregs remain. I've always found working with tea helped soothe the nerves, yes.

"Oh, and dear-" she caught Neville by the arm as he made to stand up, "after you've broken your first cup, would you be so kind as to select one of the blue patterned ones? I'm rather attached to the pink."

Sure enough, Neville had no sooner reached the shelf of teacups when there was a tinkle of breaking china. Professor Trelawney swept over to him holding a dustpan and brush and said, "One of the blue ones, then, dear, if you wouldn't mind… thank you…"

When Harry and Ron had had their teacups filled, they went back to their table and tried to drink the scalding tea quickly, careful not to spill anything with clumsy elbows while pulling out their materials from their bags.

"Used books are at the back of the class, if you need them, child," she told a boy with a blue tie, who uncomfortably rose from his seat, trudging to the back of the class with a few other students, including Ron.

"Broaden your minds, my dears, and allow your eyes to see past the mundane!" Professor Trelawney cried through the gloom, looming over the students' cup while they tried to sketch as she had instructed, while the students tried to get their drawings to resemble something real.

"Right," said Ron after how long Harry didn't know, pushing their books open at pages five and six (on drawing shapes and simplification) towards the middle of the table, "What can you see in mine?"

"A load of soggy brown stuff," said Harry. The heavily perfumed smoke in the room was making him feel sleepy and stupid.

"I meant the drawings, Ali."

"Oh," Harry pulled Ron's page closer to him, squinting, trying to pull himself together, "A load of unsoggy black stuff."

Hermione had to shush their snickering, which they had to further stifle when Professor Trelawney warned Malfoy of 'a dark silhouette, bound to come with tribulations' after peaking at his drawing, which Harry thought resembled the apothecary, and Snape.

Needless to say, it didn't help to keep in the laughter.

"Right, you've got a crooked sort of cross…" Harry said, consulting his 'inspiration', "That means you're going to have, uh…. trials and suffering — sorry about that — but there's a thing that could be the sun. Hang on… that means… great, uh, happiness? That's right. Happiness. So... you're going to suffer... but be very happy… ?"

"You need your Inner Eye tested, if you ask me," said Ron, and they both had to stifle their laughs as Professor Trelawney gazed in their direction.

"I actually tried to draw our house, at least the outside," Ron said, brushing a pencil above the squares around his page, "Doesn't look like it, though," he said, peaking at Hermione's, eyes going wide, "Or, somewhat does, anyway. Now, my turn," he pulled Harry's drawing towards him, forehead wrinkled with effort.

"There's a blob a bit like a bowler hat," he said. "Maybe you're going to work for the Ministry…"

"It is a hat. My… A man's wearing it," Harry pointed at the mock sketch on the paper.

He turned the paper the other way.

"But this way it looks more like an acorn… what's that?" He scanned the drawing further "And there's a thing here," he turned the cup again, "that looks like an animal… yeah, if that was its head… it looks like a hippo… no, a sheep…"

"I didn't put any mind to drawing that, actually. Wonder what it is,," Harry said, hand in his palm, wishing he could get out and try his new paints. Professor Trelawney whirled around as Harry let out a snort of laughter at the look of defeat on Ron's face.

"Let me see that, my dear," she said approvingly to Ron, sweeping over and snatching Harry's drawing and cup. Everyone went quiet to watch. Professor Trelawney was staring into the teacup, rotating it counterclockwise. "The falcon… my dear, you have a deadly enemy."

Hermione scoffed, and Ron looked at her in amazement.

Professor Trelawney chose not to reply. She lowered her huge eyes to Harry's cup again and continued to turn it, before peering at the drawing.

"The club… an attack. Dear, dear, this is not a happy drawing..."

"I thought that was a bowler hat," said Ron sheepishly.

"It is a hat, though," argued Harry.

"The skull… danger in your path, my dear…"

Everyone was staring, transfixed, at Professor Trelawney, who gave the cup a final turn, gasped, and then screamed.

There was another tinkle of breaking china; Neville had smashed his second cup. Professor Trelawney sank into a vacant armchair, her glittering hand at her heart and her eyes closed.

"My dear boy — my poor dear boy — no — it is kinder not to say — no — don't ask me…"

"What is it, Professor?" said Malfoy at once, looking very curious and fed up both at once.

Everyone had got to their feet, and slowly they crowded around Harry and Ron's table, pressing close to Professor Trelawney's chair to get a good look at Harry's cup and drawing.

"My dear," Professor Trelawney's huge eyes opened dramatically, "you have the Grim."

"The what?" said Harry.

He could tell that he wasn't the only one who didn't understand.

"The Grim, my dear, the Grim!" cried Professor Trelawney, who looked shocked that Harry hadn't understood. "The giant, spectral shadow that haunts churchyards! My dear boy, it is an omen — the worst omen — of death!"

Harry's stomach lurched. He thought he had a faint memory of a shadow, somewhere in the depths of his mind. But the biggest shadows that crept to his mind was Demeter, the cupboard, and-

Hermione, who had gotten up and moved around to the back of Professor Trelawney's chair, flatly said "I don't think it looks like a Grim, and if it did, I say it has little relevance to the upcoming future."

Professor Trelawney surveyed Hermione with mounting dislike.

"You'll forgive me for saying so, my dear, but I perceive very little aura around you. Very little receptivity to the resonances of the future, or the arts."

Malfoy almost laughed, hand masking his chuckles.

"It looks like a Grim if you do this," said a boy beside Malfoy, with his eyes almost shut, "but it looks more like a donkey from here," he said, leaning to the left.

"When you've all finished deciding whether I'm going to die or not!" said Harry, taking even himself by surprise. Now nobody seemed to want to look at him.

"I think we will leave the lesson here for today," said Professor Trelawney in her mistiest voice. "Yes… please pack away your things…"

Silently the class took their teacups back to Professor Trelawney, packed away their books, and closed their bags.

"Until we meet again," said Professor Trelawney faintly, "fair fortune be yours. Oh, and dear," — she pointed at Neville, "you'll be late next time, so mind you work extra-hard to catch up."

They descended Professor Trelawney's ladder and the winding stair in silence, separating from Malfoy who had biology, while Harry, Ron and Hermione had physics.

It took them so long to find her classroom that, early as they had left art , they were only just in time.

Harry chose a seat right at the back of the room, feeling as though he were sitting in a very bright spotlight; the rest of the class kept shooting furtive glances at him, as though he were about to drop dead at any moment. He hardly heard what Professor McGonagall was telling them about an introduction to physics and wasn't even watching when she placed some objects onto the table.

"Really, what has got into you all today?" Professor McGonagall asked the students that were in art class that morning, "Not that it matters, but most of you were looking forward to physics from last year."

Everybody's heads turned toward Harry again, but nobody spoke. Then Hermione raised her hand.

"Please, Professor, we've just had our first art class, and we were drinking tea, and —"

"Ah, of course," said Professor McGonagall, suddenly frowning. "There is no need to say any more, Miss Granger. Tell me, which of you will be dying this year?"

Everyone stared at her.

"Me," said Harry, finally.

"I see," said Professor McGonagall, fixing Harry with her beady eyes. "Then you should know, Patel, that Sybill Trelawney has predicted the death of one student a year since she arrived at this school. None of them has died yet. Seeing death omens is her favorite way of greeting a new class. If it were not for the fact that I never speak ill of my colleagues —" Professor McGonagall broke off, and they saw that her nostrils had gone white. She went on, more calmly, "Art is not a scientific branch of science. The future cannot be predicted. And Professor Trelawney…"

She stopped again, and then said, in a very matter-of-fact tone, "You look in excellent health to me, Patel, so you will excuse me if I don't let you off homework today. I assure you that if you die, you need not hand it in."

Hermione laughed. Harry felt a bit better. It was harder to feel scared of a lump of tea leaves away from the dim red light and befuddling perfume of Professor Trelawney's classroom. Not everyone was convinced, however. A girl from class still whispered, "But what about Neville's cup?"

When the physics class had finished, they joined the crowd thundering toward the Great Hall for lunch. "Ali, cheer up," said Susan, pushing some food towards him, which was just leftover breakfast, bread and some fruit if you got lucky, "You heard what Professor McGonagall said."

Harry smiled, though he didn't eat anything. Half an hour to the end of lunch, he excused himself, stopping by the dormitories to get his afternoon class books before deciding to take a walk in the courtyard.

Harry was pleased to get out of the castle after lunch. Yesterday's rain had cleared; the sky was a clear, pale gray, and the grass was springy and damp underfoot as he walked towards a bench, sitting down and leaning his head on the back. The concrete arch of the building took half of his vision, the sky almost as grey as the building. Harry closed his, releasing a heavy breath. The after smell of rain, swept with the autumn wind filled his lungs, dry leaves scraping under his feet.

A single drop of water dripping from the stone hit him on the nose, making him shoot up in surprise.

"You're not going to die, Patel."

Harry barely missed hitting his head on the concrete bench, though not saving the same luck for his foot and tripping over the stone ground, a hand caught around his elbow cutting his very fatal fall.

Snape made an odd noise before he cut off, shaking his head and pulling Harry by the arm to balance him, "Child do you have no sense of control?" he bit, picking up Harry's bag and handing it to him.

"Do you have no sense of sound?" Harry snapped, snatching the bag without thanks, "And I know I'm not going to die, thank you."

"Quiet. Your current dampened mood makes a very compelling point," Snape kneeled down again, lifting the book that had sprawled over the floor, brushing the dirt off the cover. He held it out towards Harry, but lifted it above his hand when Harry tried to grab it, "I implore you not to take that woman seriously."

"The one who indirectly caused my parents to die? No, never," Harry said, jumping to grab the book, cursing his own short height, "I'd rather read ten books —" he jumped "Than believe —" another jump, "Some tea!"

Professor Snape either got bored -or pitied him- because he lowered his hand low enough for Harry to grab it, shoving it into his bag before Snape could take it back, "Hey, what were you going to call me just now?"

"Now?"

"Before you scared the living hell out of me," Harry readjusted the strap of his bag, "You pronounced it funny. Like a mixture of… show and zoo."

Snape took one look at Harry, and to Harry's astonishment, he cracked a smile and a laugh. Of course, he tried to mask it with a hand above his lips, tilting his head so Harry couldn't see his face.

And equally astonishingly, when he turned around, his face showed no sign of a smile.

"It was Chinese, Beijing dialect, I assume."

"Chinese?" Harry paused, "Assume?"

"Something my...father used to call me," Snape said, hands behind his back.

"Wait, are you Chinese?" Harry asked, sitting down. He'd heard about China and Chinese people, mostly when he was in his cupboard and the complaints about 'them Chinese' hoarding the port was spat out like a bitter bite of food.

A leaf fell from an almost barren tree. Snape followed it with his eyes until it delicately swept the floor, before lifting up in the wind and disappearing out of sight, "On my father's side."

"And on your mother's?"

"Jewish lineage. She took pride in it, too" Snape said without heart, eyes lost in thought. Another leaf fell, but this time, there was no wind to lift it to the sky. Harry cleared his throat, toeing a small pebble on the ground.

"How many languages do you know?"

"English, Chinese, though I can't write it. The rest I know I don't consider myself versed enough to be a native speaker."

Harry paused, bending over and picking up the pebble. Turning it over in his hand, he looked into the courtyard, launching the pebble over his head and watching it hit the wall with a small thud.

"Where did you get the spectacles?"

"My aunt," Harry said, throwing another pebble, "Who was kind enough to fulfill her promise, unlike a person I know who's yet to get me lily seeds, and a pot."

He didn't need glasses to see the tension of Snape's shoulders.

"Ali-"

"It's fine," Harry said at the sound of the bell, readjusting the strap of his bag again, "I have a vault, now. Might as well use it to buy my family and myself some things, once you get bored of having me as a responsibility."

Snape followed him, the sound of the bell getting closer with every step, weighing over the sounds of their feet, "If you think this is something I've purposely neglected," he said, meaning the seeds, "Or wilfully haven't taken on with the intention of responsibility," he added, meaning the guardianship, "Believe me, Patel, you know very little of the person I am."

"I'm glad you finally figured it out, Professor," Harry said, pausing at the hallway, their voices muffled by the students pouring out of the Great Hall, "I know nothing, and to be very honest with you, that terrifies me. In every disturbing way."

Snape was a mere shape standing in the hall by the time Harry mingled into the crowd, spotting a struggling Justin and Ernie trying to carry Susan's wheelchair up the stairs, while Megan and Hannah supported Susan up the staircase. By the time he had joined the group and helped them carry both Susan and the wheelchair up the stairs, Snape was gone, leaving an unfamiliar feeling with Harry that stayed until the end of the day.

"Are any of you taking riding class?" Harry asked while they dressed for physical education, waving at the girls (Susan, Megan and Hannah), whom they had helped to get Susan and her wheelchair down to the dormitory.

"Almost everyone is, not counting the girls," Justin said as they made their way towards the green pitch, "Don't know how Hagrid manges to teach with just five horses, though."

"You can give Ernie some tips, Ali," Ernie said, dropping his bag near the stands (one of four that bordered the pitch), and walked towards the line of third year boys, "I've always been too nervous to ride."

"I thought you said everyone was joining the class."

"Almost everyone," Justin corrected, stretching his arms, "I already ride at home, Ernie is too scared and Susan might need help, so it's beneficial on all sides."

"I'm not scared," Ernie argued as their teacher, Madam Hooch, arrived. She had short, grey hair and sharp eyes like a hawk.

"Well what are you all waiting for?" she barked, "Five laps around the field. Come on, hurry up."

Once the five laps were completed and the boys (the ones that hadn't had an excuse, like the boy who used a cane to walk) were either sprawled on the grass or bent over with hands on their knees, Madam Hooch blew into her brass whistle, calling the boys to line up.

"Alright, we're playing cricket today. Teams of nine, given our number. I'll be dividing the teams."

Madam Hooch divided the seventeen students into teams as promised with, as luck would have it, Harry being in Malfoy's team without either Ernie or Justin.

"Played before?" Malfoy asked, nudging his way between him and a larger boy.

Looks simple enough, Harry crossed his arms, watching the other teams bowler throwing the red ball up and down in his hand, just need to hit the hindrance standing next to-

"No," Harry said as Madam Hooch put Ernie behind the wickets as wicket keeper, with Ravenclaw and Slytherin as their batters for this round, "You seem to have, though, Malfoy. Why don't you enlighten me?"

"Really, Patel, all you had to do was ask," Malfoy said matter-of-factly, pulling Harry down by the arm, almost toppling him. He raised an arm to the Slytherin batter, who was shuffling the bat from hand to hand as the other team's players dispensed into the field, "See Zabini over there? He's going to bat with Boot on the other side. When one hits the ball, and no one catches it without it bouncing, they're going to run the length between Finnigan and Goldstein."

"Let me guess, the ones on the field are going to try to get the batter-"

"Out? Maybe you have some Ravenclaw in you after all — if you hit my hair I will bat you instead, Patel — there are a few ways to get the batters out," he started to count on his fingers as Ron took the spot next to Harry, extending his long legs in front of him, "Caught out, run out, when the ball hits the leg before the wicket — "

Ron winced, rubbing his leg.

" — stumped out, when you accidentally hit the wicket... I think that's about it."

"Did you remember getting bowled out?" Ron asked, a hint of wickedness to his voice.

Malfoy's face went positively sour, and refused to answer. Madam Hooch's whistle jarred the air. The boy beside Finnigan told him something and angled his arm. Finnigan lifted his arm, and with incomprehensible speed, bowled the ball above his head. Madam Hooch blew her whistle, and the ball was returned to Finnigan, who had apparently bowled too high. He tried again, and this time, Zabini caught the ball, sending it running over the ground to the boundary. Boot and Zabini scored three runs, and since the ball had reached the boundary, that had scored them four runs in itself.

As they watched, there were a few things Harry learned about cricket. The most important? He was a horrible batter, proven strongly by the fact that with his first batting, he was caught out, the member of the opposing team waving the ball in his hand while Malfoy, his batting partner, promptly had a laughing fit, later claiming it was because of the look of utter loss plastered on his face.

"I think I know what to bat next," Harry muttered darkly, sitting down beside Ron and picking at the grass, "Big, yellow balls do just as well, I reckon."

Ron placed his hands behind his head. He had been the batter before Harry, caught out with a moderate amaount of six runs, "I would have joined you, had it been in first year."

"What made you friends with him in the first place?" Harry asked, also extending his legs and rocking them mindlessly, "You don't really look like you get along."

"You won't believe me even if I tell you."

"No, really," Harry turned around, looking him in the eye, "I'll believe you."

Ron eyed him carefully, before both he and Harry turned their heads to the field at the cry of excitement from Malfoy as he just barely made it to the wicket, "How are you so sure?"

The ball rolled past them after Goldtstein hit it, Neville running in his steas as he couldn't himself, "I have an unbelievable tale of my own, I guess."

"If you promise not to tell anyone," Ron said, extending a hand. Harry took it, giving it a firm shake.

"Well," Ron pulled his legs in, hunching forward and placing his elbow on his knee, "In first year, we had this English teacher, yeah? We have a new one every year - we think the position's cursed. Anyway, we hated each other that year: me, Draco and 'Mione. At least I did. Then for some stupid reason, me and Draco agreed to fight it out. He didn't arrive, of course, the ferret — " as though he'd heard them, Malfoy's head whipped in their direction before he turned around as he was called into the game, starting to sprint, " — He told Flich where I was, where we were, actually. Hermione tried to stop me from going out when she was studying in the common room, and somehow we ended up in the third corridor — where we were forbidden to enter — and got stuck in a room with some guard dogs."

"Guard dogs?" Harry said, pulling his knees forward.

"We didn't know what they were guarding, mind. Just a second," Ron cupped his hands around his mouth, shouting, "Bowled out, Malfoy! What was I- Oh right. We didn't want to either. But come October, someone let a deer into the school and —"

Harry's eyes went wide, "A what?"

"I think Hermione said it was a red deer, I don't know," he shrugged.

"But who let the deer in?"

"Are you really telling him about what happened, Weasley?" Malfoy said as soon as he arrived beside them, hair sticking to his forehead and usually pale face flushed red, "You're refereeing the wicket next, after Zabini, thought you ought to know."

"I promised not to tell anyone," Harry said, shrugging his shoulder away from Malfoy, rolling his eyes when he sat beside him, "No other place to sit, Malfoy?"

"Nowhere I'd rather be. But if you tell anyone, Patel, I won't hesitate to chase you down the field and into the lake in the middle of winter. I'm sure you'll have a lovely time with the fish."

"Oh for God's sake I get it, don't run your mouth," Harry said, rolling his eyes and pushing Malfoy by the arm, "Now let Ron continue."

"I can do a much better job-"

Both Harry and Malfoy were rubbing their shoulders when Ron was finally able to continue, sitting between them and nervously glancing between the two, "What is up with you two?"

"Just continue," they said at once, and Ron shrugged again while Malfoy continued bouncing his leg and playing with his hair.

"Uh, anyway. Deer got into school. Draco and Hermione were in the same study group. I couldn't find her, so I had no choice but to ask him. We found out she was in the bathroom with the deer, can you believe that? At the end we did end up saving her, but, uh, Draco here…"

Malfoy physically shivered, "Uncle Sev skinned me alive. With his words. The detentions can never be worse than the 'dressing down' I got. "

"Then what happened?"

Too late. Madam Hooch had called Ron, and he left without a word, staring awkwardly at Zabini when he clapped Ron on the shoulder. Malfoy shrugged, and Ron took position behind the wicket.

Harry opened his mouth, but - "Oh I'd rather Weaesley tell the story," Malfoy interrupted, standing up, stretching his arms above his head, rubbing his shoulder while making direct eye contact with Harry, "Afterall, he is the superior storyteller. I'll see you when we field, Potiful. Oi, Zabini! Good refereeing there, think you might…"

Harry glared after him, ripping strands of grass from the floor with both hands. Soon enough, the game ended with 54 runs for their team, and Madam Hooch made them exchange places, so now they were fielding and bowling.

And this time, surprisingly, with a few tips from Madam Hooch on how to capture the ball, Harry was quick to learn, quick to run, catch and throw. He'd caught out two runners thanks to his speed, and threw the ball with precision to the wicket keeper, getting out two more runners.

"I think it's best if we kept him on the field," Zabini said laughing, exchanging bowling positions with Harry.

And after gaining the opposite team three points in six bowls, Harry agreed he either become wicket keeper, or fielder in any future games, especially since he gained the other team the winning point of 55-54.

"Very good, very good," Madam Hooch said after blowing her whistle, "Those taking riding lessons, stay behind. The rest can go back. Have a good weekend, boys."

Out of the seventeen students, eleven stayed behind, with an additional ten joining them in the field soon enough. As soon as Harry spotted Ron, though, he didn't stick around long enough to talk to anyone else, only wanting to hear the rest of the story Ron had yet to tell.

"Sorry we had to lose that game," Harry said as a greeting, standing beside Ron and running his hands down his arms at the spike of wind that had picked up midgame.

"As long as it's not a real match. Just keep in the field next time, yeah?" Ron said, pulling on his coat.

Harry silently agreed, looking around the field to see if the teacher had arrived, "Is the teacher any good?"

Ron looked up, confused, "You're staying?"

"You're not?" Harry asked, just as confused.

"I mean, aren't you going to, you know… We're already late. I can't believe I forgot!"

Harry paused, waiting for Ron to continue. When he didn't, Harry cleared his throat, "...Know what?"

A violent shade of pink dusted Ron's cheeks, and he waved his hands madly, "Nothing! Nothing at all. Just, uh, I'll see you later, yea? Bye, Ali!"

Then he ran, out and away from the field, only a dot in the distance, leaving Harry to look after him in confusion.

"You're not going to leave?" Malfoy asked, joining him out of nowhere, "I thought you'd go with Weasley."

"Can one of you speak clearly and tell me where I'm meant to go?" Harry asked, voice raising, grabbing the attention of some of the older boys that had later joined them. Instead of answering, Malfoy took a few seconds to regard him, raising a brow before shrugging both shoulders, "Well, each to their own I suppose."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I can't help with what you don't know, you Hufflepuff," Malfoy said, leaving Harry with an even more confused state of mind. He had no time to ask questions, however, as a few loud noises started to approach them on the other side of the field.

Harry peered over the shoulders of the boys, or tried to, before huffing and peaking through the spaces between them, then finally moving to the end of the line to get a clear look.

If Harry thought Uncle Vernon was big, this teacher was the very definition of huge.

A giant of a man was leading a small herd of horses towards them, one of them looking very, very angry and hard to manage. His face was almost completely hidden by a long, shaggy mane of hair and a wild, tangled beard, but as he approached, you could make out his eyes, glinting like black beetles. Those very eyes swept through the line of boys, finding Harry at the end of it, earning a wide smile from the man.

And yet, he didn't acknowledge him.

"Gee up, there!" said the teacher, shaking the ends of their bridles, and urging the creatures toward where the class sood.

"Horses!" Hagrid roared happily, waving a hand at them. "Beau'iful, aren' they?"

Harry could sort of see what the teacher meant. Once you got over the initial shock of seeing the large animals, you started appreciating their gleaming coats, each of them a different color: stormy gray, bronze, roan, gleaming chestnut, and inky black.

"So," said Hagrid, rubbing his hands together and beaming around, "if yeh wan' ter come a bit nearer…"

The older students, as well as some third years (including Malfoy) came forward, albeit cautiously. The remaining students exchanged worried looks, some shyly rubbing their arms while some shuflfled forward. When all of them were at a reasonable distance, the teacher cleared his throat, placing a hand on one of the horse's mane.

"Noble animals, horses. 'Fore we start ridin', you'll need to learn abou' them equipment," the teacher said, continuing to instruct the class on how various equipment worked and were put on. Harry already knew the saddle and the reins, but admittedly never learnt how to harness or adjust them. So they went around from one horse to the other, with the teacher, Hagrid (Harry caught the name after a few questions from the students) asking some students to harness and adjust pads and girths and any other equipment.

That's when it happened.

"Uh, Hagrid," Malfoy said, staying behind, loud enough for the group to hear him. "I think there's something hurting this one," he said to the inky black one, the one Hagrid had trouble managing, pointing down. Sure enough, the animal was scraping his foot on the ground repeatedly, "Under the hoove. I think if we just — "

It happened in a flash of hooves; Malfoy let out a high pitched scream and the next moment, Hagrid was wrestling the horse back as he strained to get at Malfoy, who lay curled in the grass, blood blossoming over his clothes.

"I'm dying!" Malfoy yelled as the class panicked. "I'm dying, look at me! It's killed me!"

"Yer not dyin'!" said Hagrid, who had gone very white. "Someone help me — gotta get him outta here —"

The older boys hung onto the horses' reins, pulling them to the stands to tie them down as Hagrid picked up Malfoy easily. As they passed, Harry saw that there was a long, deep gash on Malfoy's arm; blood splattered the grass as Hagrid ran with him, up the slope toward the castle.

Very shaken, the class followed at a walk. The Slytherins were all shouting about Hagrid.

"Who doesn't check over beasts before bringing them into the class!" a fourth year shouted, throwing his arms into the air.

"It was Malfoy's fault!" snapped a non-Slytherin.

"He was just trying to help the animal!"

"Maybe he should focus on what's in front of him, then - not wonder about nonsense details!" added another.

They all climbed the stone steps into the deserted entrance hall.

The Slytherins separated from the group, muttering darkly. The students from the other houses left for the other direction, also muttering darkly, leaving Harry stranded in the middle of the hall with no idea where to go.

So he went back to the dormitories, aiming to finish his homework before the weekend.

"You think he'll be alright?" said Hermione nervously.

"'Course he will," Harry said, feigning confidence while fiddling with his fingers. For some reason, the bustle of the great hall was making him feel nervous; the many noises collecting together like an accumulating cloud ready to come down with a storm.

"That was a really bad thing to happen in Hagrid's first class, though, wasn't it?" said Ron, looking worried.

"Should we visit him?"

"Only after the Slytherins have, but I bet Parkinson already has," Ron said, patting the spot next to him for Harry to sit, "Why you still looking worried, Hermione?"

"They wouldn't fire him, would they?" said Hermione anxiously, not touching her food.

"They'd better not," said Ron, who wasn't eating either. Harry was watching the Slytherin table. A large group, including the two large boys, was huddled together, deep in conversation. Harry wondered if they were cooking up their own version of how Malfoy had been injured.

"Well, you can't say it wasn't an interesting first week back," said Ron gloomily.

To be clear, Harry only visited the infirmary because 1. Hermione and Ron were, along with a hoard of Slytherins he hadn't seen before, 2. He had work to do and 3. It was frankly hilarious to see Malfoy bedridden because of a small exaggeration, which Madam Prompfrey also dismissed and kicked her only patient out so he could eat breakfast.

He was faking it, obviously. But what irritated Harry the most was that he seemed to be the only one who knew it as such.

Even Professor Patel - Professor Patel. Honestly! - wished him a speedy recovery at breakfast the next day.

It was the second biggest thing on his mind that weekend, the anger and the unfairness of it all, occupying his mind and keeping him from socializing with his fellow Hufflepuffs, not that it was the sole reason he kept away from the common room, no. His current house was warm, social and everything you've wanted in a friend, which is exactly why Harry always found himself in a swirl of guilt whenever he couldn't give back what was offered to him: loyalty, understanding. Harry was so wound up in his own head, he was starting to find it harder and harder to open up to new people, or talk about himself without dampening his mood (and more often than not, the other person's). It was just too obvious.

Harry was terrible at making friends.

Which is why he wandered the halls that weekend, away from everyone, getting lost in classrooms and taking refuge in places that seemed to be collecting layers of dust.

It didn't help, only gave his thoughts time to catch up with his head, leading him in all the wrong parts, leaving him confused. It did have a silver lining though.

He could wait out the burns on his arms, venturing down to the hall, the skin raw to the touch hidden beneath his school shirt.

"Would you finish what happened?" Harry caught up with Ron just before he left the Great Hall, smiling innocently at Hermione as she walked by with Lavender Brown and Ginny Weasley.

"It's not that interesting," Ron said, though started to lead them in the direction of the library, away from most students who just wanted to get to their common rooms, "I wish you were Gryffindor, so we could stay in the common room."

"Give it a few weeks. I'll be there soon."

"Do you at least know if you'll be Hufflepuff?"

No, Harry didn't know, and it wasn't something he wished to discuss either, letting Ron know with a stiff shrug of his shoulder.

In the library, the two chose the furthest corner of the room to talk, where Ron resumed the tale. After the deer incident, both Ron and Malfoy were working with Hagrid, when they caught him in conversation with Snape, who was asking -or rather, interrogating- Hagrid on whether he was sure the 'thing' guarded on the third floor was safe. Hagrid, being Hagrid and prone to sharing too much information, had given away the name Nicholas Flamel, allowing Ron the opportunity to ask Hermione whether he knew anything about it.

"I don't know who found out he was an alchemist first, between Draco and Hermione," Ron said, whispering as they sat huddled in the corner, "I think Hermione, after reading some book, but we found out what alchemy and the Philosopher's Stone is and what it could do, we -me and Hermione. Immortality and gold."

"There's a stone that Stone gives you gold and immortality?"

"Turns things into gold, but that's a close second. Anyway, Draco didn't believe us, saying it didn't exist. I guess he was right, because, remember Professor Quirrell? He stole the stone at the end of the year, and then he died!"

"What?"

"Nicholas Flamel didn't find the Philosopher's Stone, he was just working on it and asked to keep the experiment at Hogwarts, I guess. I guess Professor Quirrel drank the incomplete thing, and, well, died?"

Harry stretched his legs, frowning, "Why did Snape ask Hagrid if it was secure, then?"

"I think he had the idea that Quirrel would try something. Dumbledore didn't explain anything, at the end, other than he had died. But even that can't compare to second year. My sister was almost convicted as a criminal."

"... She was what?"

"Did you ever hear of Deadly Nightshade? I don't know why she let a stranger threaten her like that, but last year, she almost killed so many students! It's only thanks to her bad maths that they didn't die…"

When Harry finally fell asleep that night, the night cold and late, it was to nightmares of Aunt Petunia screaming at him for dropping the Philosopher's Stone; getting locked in his cupboard with a little girl with ginger hair offering black berries, her limbs tied like puppet strings to a man with a thin, cheshire smile in the dark, and Harry falling through the rabbit hole, hitting furniture while Uncle Vernon's screams exploded around him.

It was no wonder Harry woke up exhausted, an hour before he was meant to.

The second week, Harry was considering going back to cleaning chimneys. No, it wasn't because he didn't like learning, but as the week slipped on and the days became identical, he was having a harder time managing his mood. It didn't help that he was avoiding Snape after the disaster which was chemistry class, during which he dropped two jars and tried to put out a 'chemical fire' with water (the audacity, Patel!).

It was only an introductory lesson to chemicals, something meant to be fun while they learned about Mendeelev's table, but Harry was sure Snape wouldn't be letting them interact with any actual chemicals anytime soon.

Harry only hoped this would be the last of his stressors until the end of the year.

After breakfast on the 9th, he and the rest of the Hufflepuffs climbed the stairs to the English classroom. Professor Lupin wasn't there when they arrived at his first lesson, which was surprising as they were late. They all sat down, took out their books, pencils, and paper, and were talking when he finally entered the room. Lupin smiled vaguely and placed his tatty old briefcase on the teacher's desk. He was as shabby as ever but looked healthier than he had on the train, as though he had had a few square meals.

"Good afternoon," he said. "Would you please put all your books back in your bags. Today's will be a practical lesson."

A few curious looks were exchanged as the class put away their books. Harry had never had a practical English class before, unless you counted the late night readings and, well, the chaos that was Malfoy Manor.

"Right then," said Professor Lupin, when everyone was ready. "As I know none of you, why not have an introduction first? Let's start from the left corner."

Professor Lupin listened to what every student had to say. Some introductions were long winded, and some took just a few words. But if there was an introduction both Professor Lupin and the class was looking forward to, it was Harry's. He stood up nervously when it was his turn, trying to keep his words from cracking, "Uh, hello. I'm Hali- Ali Patel. I come from, uh, London and, uh-" he shrunk under the careful eye of Professor Lupin, wishing he had some of that chocolate to help calm him down again, "- I… like art?"

When he made to sit down, Professor Lupin stopped him with a question.

"How many siblings do you have, Ali?"

Now what did he say to that? A handful of brothers and a sister that didn't really count anymore?

"Just me, sir," he said, sitting down before he could be interrupted with another question. Why was Professor Lupin asking him questions he knew the answer to anyway? Better question.

Why did Professor Lupin look very interested in Harry anyway?

When all introductions were over, Professor Lupin opened his suitcase, took out some paper and a pen, and walked around his desk to lean against it, "As to remember the lessons from last year, and to evaluate your performance, I have a very fun task for you," he lifted the paper into the air, "I want you to write out a fear. Doesn't have to be your worst. Something that has been bothering you, or causing you discomfort. Then, I want you to come up with a story where you, in a sense, 'defeat' that fear."

A boy from Ravenclaw raised his hand, "Like killing it with a sword?"

"If that's how you defeat your fear," Professor Lupin said, scratching his moustache, "For example, if your fear is darkness, you can write about trapping the sun in a jar, and putting it in your room, so it would never be dark again."

That got a few chuckles from the class, some students even picking up their pencils and starting to scribble onto the page.

"Any questions?"

Susan raised a hand, "Does the writing have to be legible and have punctution?"

"It's punctuation," Megan hissed into her ear, and Susan argued otherwise.

"Yes, Ms-" Professor Lupin paused, and Susan finished the sentence for him, "Yes, Ms Bones. Every rule you remember should be implemented."

That didn't help. When the whole class had begun to write, Harry lifted his hand, and Professor Lupin walked towards him, hands behind his back, "Yes, Ali?"

"Uh, sir, uh-" he glanced around the classroom. As if on cue, Professor stepped closer, kneeling to Harry's height, "Is there something wrong?"

"No, well, yes, but…" he sighed, rubbing his back and scooting closer, before saying in a whisper, "I don't know punct- uh, all the punctuation. Or how to write good."

Professor Lupin smiled, pulling Harry's paper forward, and offering the pencil to him, "Try your best, Ali. I won't hold you accountable for the things you don't know. Just remember to write your name on the top," he whispered back, standing up and ruffling his hair before walking to another student.

In the classroom, filled with the sound of pencil on paper, Harry spent fifteen minutes thinking about what to write. What did he fear? He didn't think he feared anything. Sure, there were a few moments - and people - he'd rather not encounter again. But did that count as fear?

Harry took a deep breath, and after writing his name on the top of the page, out in the heading to the best of his spelling abilities.

Demeter

It wasn't the worst fear. As he couldn't defeat Dumbledore, who had assigned him to Snape as his current biggest discomfort, Harry decided to go with the man from the train. Harry thought about the menacing manner in which the man had moved, the seeming decay in his hand and the rough way he spoke. He then thought of what Professor - should he call her a professor? - Trelawney said about a shadow.

Just how many shadows were there in his life?

As more and more students began to finish and read each other's' works, Harry was still staring at a blank page. Beside him, Hannah was reading Susan's work, trying to stifle her laughter while behind him, Susan exchanged pages with Megan.

Thirty minutes to the end of class, when Professor Lupin was going around looking at the student's works, did Harry finally manage to put something down. The forest lining the border of Hogwarts' ground had given him an idea, and he imagined commanding animals to scare Demeter off, his hands wrapped around his head to protect him from the cloud of bats. Though what other animal would live in a forest? Lions? Tigers? Deer?

Deer were good. He picked up the pencil, writing about riding a deer, its antlers sharp, carrying with it light strong enough to scare Demeter into jumping into the lake, where giant fish - fish? No - where a giant squid would wrap a tentacle around Demeter, shooting him into the sky and far, far away from Hogwarts. Maybe China. Was China far? He'd have to ask Snape.

When he lifted his head at the end of class, he just had a few sentences down, his best effort yet at writing neatly. Professor Lupin started collecting the papers soon after, skimming his eyes down Harry's paper and eyes lifting with a smile.

"We didn't get to read yours, Harry," said Susan when they left the class, heaving while pushing herself forward, "What did you write?"

"Nothing important," Harry said, then, at the same time as Megan, said, "Want me to push you?"

Megan and Harry shared a glance, before Harry gestured towards Susan and stepped back. Out of all the Hufflepuffs in his class, he considered himself furthest from Megan, who spoke little, frowned a lot and only sat with Susan in a group.

"Do you have a lesson again today, Ali?" Justin asked, catching up to him.

"No, but my aunt wants to talk to me," he said, heaving his bag when the strap dug painfully on his shoulder, "Why?"

"Last Friday, you said you enjoyed cricket, even though it was your first time playing."

Harry thought about the way Draco had fallen, "Oh, yes. I'd say I enjoyed that Friday."

"The tryouts are next month. I'm trying to make the team, so I need to practise. We're going to meet today, and start practising once a week. Want to join?"

Harry thought for a moment, "I'm leaving Hufflepuff next week, though"

"We don't have just Hufflepuffs practising," Justin said, walking around Harry to stand next to Ernie so he could take out paper and pencil from his bag as they walked, "Ravenclaws, Griffyndors. Even Slytherins would have joined, if it hadn't been for their pride."

"Do they not like the other houses?" Harry asked, taking the piece of paper with the time and place written on it. His class was after dinner, but the students were meeting beforehand. Lowering his voice, he pocketed the paper. His next class was with Slytherins, and he didn't have any intention of getting on their nerves, especially when they were severely outnumbered.

"I think it's got more to do with decorum than 'like'. Some just bought the idea that they have to be the incarnation of perfection, and would rather be friends with their kind, I suppose," he nudged Harry when they stepped into the line outside the classroom, whispering with a smirk, "So good luck when it's time for Slytherin."

Harry looked up, met the eye of a Slytherin girl, and looked back down, shuffling on his feet.

What good would Slytherin be if he wouldn't even be welcomed in there? So far, Hufflepuff hasn't been bad. Their common room was comfortable, a homey den with plants scattered around the room and suspended from the air, and soft light filtering through colored windows. And the students' loyalty as well as hard-work ethic was admirable. The relationships they shared with one another were truly close-knit.

But for some reason, he couldn't quite let go of the nagging thought that, no. He was just a sheep in, uh, badger's clothing.

He would rather experience all houses before making a permanent decision. A decision which only got more and more blurry each passing day.

The practise meeting went well, with even Cedric Diggory -captain of the Hufflepuff team- complimenting him on his speed when he joined them to oversee their practise.

"I'm a wicket, or well, batter-" he pointed at his chest, eyes following the batter, a Gryffindor fourth year, running from one wicket to the other, "-But I know a good runner when I see one. Are you good at catching?"

"Never really tried it," Harry lied, tugging at the grass.

Diggory stood up and lifted a spare ball in his hand, getting ready to throw it, "One way to find out. Run, Patel, run!"

And so he ran, drenched in sweat by the time he and Justin made it back to dinner.

"You two look like you enjoyed yourselves an awful lot," Megan said, her voice monotone, sliding a plate towards her and Susan, "Any hopes of making the team?"

"Diggory had some doubts about me bowling," Justin said tiredly, thanking Ernie for the third cup of water, "Was very pleased when I got it through, wasn't he, Ali?"

"Isn't he always pleased?" said Harry over his plate, chuckling when Justin hit him on the arm.

"And what about the diary?" Professor Patel asked during their 'talk' after dinner, sliding the empty journal back towards her, "Aren't you going to continue it?"

"I think I found the problem, Professor Patel," Harry said, rummaging in his backpack for the book, "I wasn't busy enough. The more busy I am, the less I remember and the less… weird I become."

"These 'weird events, in your words…" she slid a finger between the journal, ruffling the pages, "How much distress do they cause you? On a scale?"

Harry slid open his own book, wincing at the horrible writing that met him, "There are a few. The biggest one feels like… like war. Like I'm burning at first... And I can't do anything about it."

"And do they happen randomly?"

"I think so…" Harry mumbled, flipping the pages, "I tried to remember the times they happened, but they make no sense. They aren't even similar."

Professor Patel stood up. She walked around the table, standing beside Harry with a hand on his shoulder, "When was the last time it happened?"

Harry stopped flipping the pages, "On the train."

"Then let's start with that one. If we understand what's caused it-"

"But I don't want to talk about it," Harry stopped her, shrugging her arm off, "I don't want to talk about it, because it won't help."

"Because you think it will cause another one?"

No words were spoken, the clock's ticking interrupting Harry's thoughts.

"Ali, I won't push you to talk if you don't want to."

"But?"

She sighed, kneeling in front of him, making eye contact and following him with her gaze, "I know for a fact keeping yourself busy isn't a working strategy. Are you caught up with school work?"

Harry nodded.

"Homework?"

Another nod.

"After school lessons?"

With hesitance, another nod, "I'm making a lot of progress, especially with Professor Lupin."

"...And are you still studying?"

Professor Patel's hand brushed his hair at Harry's silence, "It won't work forever."

"I don't need it to work forever," Harry mumbled, wiping his almost dry eyes, "I just want a solution. A medicine. Snape has so many herbs in his store, will none of them help me?"

She turned to look at him, with an odd expression on her face, "I don't wish to scare you, but I haven't read a book about your experiences."

Harry's stomach plummeted.

"But I have seen people who have experienced similar things, and on first account know what happens when you settle for short term solutions. Ali-" this time, she met his eyes with a strong gaze, "- I don't want that for you. There are options, difficult options, but with small steps will carry further than temporary solutions will take you. Won't you give it a try, one step at a time?"

Harry looked down.

"You won't be alone."

Warmth spread to Harry's cheeks like a candle in the cold. Harry nodded, trying to match the soft smile on Professor Patel's lips as she leaned back, "We won't talk about anything else. So what exactly made you feel like a 'war' is happening in your head?"

Harry left the office with an empty journal in hand and a promise to use it.

So, he didn't end up using it very much. His overall emotions were on a steady decline, and the diary helped him remember, whereas even the exhaustingly boring lessons with Professor Binns were enough to make him tired enough to ignore the thoughts occupying his head. The thoughts intruded out of his control, triggering a reaction from someone casually mentioning their uncle and aunt. It was a wonder how a careless string of words could connect itself to a memory, to a negative emotion all the way up to sleeping troubles, and the constant imaginary threat looming above his shoulder.

So Harry studied, forced himself to stay with people whenever he felt the need to be occupied - as a new strategy - and answered when Professor Lupin attempted to make small talk before their lessons twice a week, though he still couldn't understand why he was attempting to do so.

And on Sunday, he still didn't have an answer.

"So, Harry," Professor Lupin asked, pouring him a cup of tea Harry had agreed to out of politeness, "What do you think of Moby Dick so far?"

"Not much," Harry said, accepting tea, hoping Lupin wasn't one to put ginger in it, "I didn't know someone could love the ocean that much. I think it sounds terrifying. I asked Professor Sinistra about it, and she told me it stretched miles and miles away from the shore," he blew on the tea cup, taking a small sip, "I don't think I know how to swim, either."

"Not many places to learn to swim, in London," Professor Lupin sat down with his own tea, picking up their book and turning to the page Harry had left off, "Nonetheless, are you understanding the text, I must ask. Any particular problems you're experiencing?"

"I would have preferred to have more full stops."

Professor Lupin laughed, moving his chair closer to Harry's and handing him the book, "I find that's the aesthetic of the novel, long and speaking to the soul."

Harry picked up the book, brushing a hand over the page, "How does a book speak to the soul?"

"Do you have an idea?"

"Only that it must feel… comfortable and safe, if I had to give it a word."

"Curious choice of words," Professor Lupin said, taking another sip. He tapped the book with a finger, and leaned closer, "Now, lets see what Ishmael has to say this time, about the sea that touches his soul."

On Monday the next day, Hufflepuff had chemistry with Slytherin, which Harry would rather not participate in at all. He had been successfully avoiding Snape after his previous performance of 'almost blowing up the class', and being in close proximity with him and Malfoy both sounded no more appealing than taking a dive in the rapidly cooling water of the lake.

After breakfast (where he ate little and talked even less) and History he and the rest of the third years helped Susan and her wheelchair down as usual, cursing the amount of stairs in the castle and walking down the dungeon corridor, the perfect place for a classroom to be in. Little light, little sound.

The collective sound of shuffling feet came not much later, the group of Slytherins - with the injured Malfoy in the center - filed beside them outside of the classroom, talking in hushed voices. But at exactly nine, the classroom door was thrown open, and Snape stepped wordlessly aside, cutting short any conversation the Slytherins were having with his appearance alone. When every student entered, the door was closed behind them, and Snape swept towards the front of the classroom, turning the blackboard for the class to see.

"After valuable experience from last week, where not one, not two but three students managed to break something or other in class — " Snape put down the registry, clasping his hands behind his back. Harry, knowing exactly who was among the list, sank into his seat ignoring Susan who patted his arm awkwardly, " — almost causing a health hazard, I have brought together a list of safety rules, which I have regrettably discovered cannot be concluded by logic alone in the masses. Rules which, for my peace of mind, I will be quizzing you on."

Ignoring the collective groaning, Snape stepped closer to the blackboard, pointing at the first of the list, written in small, sharp handwriting, "Mr Zabini, explain to me why exactly it is not appropriate to bring into the classroom any form of edibles or water."

The rest of the class, Snape walked them through the rules, and then used the second period to revise what they had previously learned of chemistry without relying on any equipment from the storage room, which from now on would be locked at all times.

"For homework, I am expecting an extensive essay on putting out fires caused by chemicals by the second lesson. Mr Patel — " Harry paused mid-packing, slowly lifting his eyes to meet Snape's cold, dark ones, " — Stay after class."

Susan again patted him awkwardly on the arm, pushing herself forward. Harry watched her leave, wishing he could mingle in the group of students and escape as well. Snape was keeping a very close eye on him, however, and beckoned him forward when all the students left the classroom.

"How are your classes faring?" Snape asked, stacking the papers on his desk and taking a seat behind it, "Any difficulties?"

Blinking, Harry mutely shook his head, rubbing his arm, "No, sir."

"And the after school sessions?"

"The teachers are very helpful. I don't think I'm enjoying history a lot though."

"You misunderstood me," Snape said, motioning him to sit down, but not insisting when Harry shook his head, "The sessions with Professor Patel. Have you made any progress?"

"I fail to see how that, or anything about my classes, are of business to you, Professor," Harry answered, a sudden spike of anger piercing him, "What's between Professor Patel and I is nothing I want to share with others."

Snape raised a brow, but again, didn't insist, "I won't pry, but do let me remind you of the position I stand in."

"As you involuntarily stand in."

"You're making this more difficult for the both of us, Patel," Snape said, picking up some more papers.

Harry clenched his fists, "I never asked for you to become my guardian."

No answer. Harry tilted his head, frowning, "Well?"

"Well what?" Snape said, glancing at him from above his papers.

"Aren't you going to answer with how you never asked to be my guardian, either?"

A long moment, in which doubt settled in Harry's chest faster than fear, passed between them. Snape, for once, looked mildly conflicted, before he scoffed, dropping his papers and his gaze, "You won't bait me into arguing with you anymore, Patel."

"I'm not trying to bait you."

"Tut tut, I've seen enough," Snape said, stacking the final heap of papers, then pushing his seat back and rifling through the drawers of the table. When he lifted his head, a small paper packet stood between him and Harry, sitting neatly on top of the oak.

"What is that?" Harry asked without taking it, pushing his glasses up.

"I had a promise to fulfill, Professor Sprout was kind enough to lend me the means."

Harry bit down on his lip, the brown paper sitting peacefully on the table like, looking like an unachievable dream, "I can't plant them without a pot, Professor."

"Hagrid, or even Professor Sprout can equip you with one."

"Professor."

"Responsibility, Potter," Snape said, rising from his seat, picking up the packet and holding it up for him, "Better get to it before winter settles, and take this before lunch ends."

Harry took the packet, thanking him with a subtle nod, adjusting his bag strap and leaving the classroom, the door getting smaller and smaller with each step he took in the dungeon corridor.

The next day, fifteenth of September, the seeds still sat snugly in his bag, which he brought to cricket practise with him. As the Gryffindor team was practising on the one side of the field, Cedric had decided not to join for this practice, not wanting to incite hostility between the teams. That wasn't an issue for Harry, as he watched two very strong batters from the team while he waited for his turn — twins, by the look of things with mighty red hair — clap their hands each time they crossed each other while they ran, driving Wood (the captain) mad each time.

"This is our last chance —my last chance — to win the Cup," he shouted loud enough for Harry to hear, striding up and down in front of them. "I'll be leaving at the end of this year. I'll never get another shot at it.

"Gryffindor hasn't won for seven years now. Okay, so we've had the worst luck in the world — injuries — then the tournament getting called off last year." Wood swallowed, as though the memory still brought a lump to his throat. "But we also know we've got the best — ruddy — team — in — the — school," he said, punching a fist into his other hand, the old manic glint back in his eye, "We've got three superb fielders. Unbeatable batters — "

"Stop it, Oliver, you're embarrassing us," said the twins together, pretending to blush.

"And me," Wood added as an afterthought.

"We think you're very good too, Oliver," said one twin

"Spanking good bowler," said the other.

"The point is," Wood went on, resuming his pacing, "the Cup should have had our name on it these last two years. Ever since I've always thought the thing was in the bag. But we haven't got it, and this year's the last chance we'll get to finally see our name on the thing…"

Wood spoke so dejectedly that even the twins looked sympathetic.

"Oliver, this year's our year," said the other twin

"We'll do it, Oliver!" said another player, this time a girl.

Full of determination, the team picked up their training sessions. Wood had just bowled mighty fast, giving the batter a hard time hitting it, the ball skewing off course and coming towards the direction of Harry's group. Harry watched it without mind until he noticed how it would fall right into the middle of the group.

He jumped. His eyes were pinned to the fall. And so it fell. Fast and a blur. Whirling forward and meeting Harry's outstretched hands.

Harry only realised his hands burned when he let go of the ball, groaning while the rest of the people on the field stilled, watching him squeeze his bruised hands under his armpits.

"Oi!" he heard one of the twins shouting above him, "Did he catch that without gloves?"

"He caught that before it hit the ground!"

"Not the time, Oliver!"

Harry wrenched his hand back, standing up from where he was crouched and pushing his way out of the group encircling him, wishing he had some water to cool the burning in his hand, and something to wipe the watering in his eye.

"I think we should get him to the hospital wing," one twin said, while the other thankfully pushed a way through the crowd. Harry nodded for Ernie and Justin to stay behind, walking between the twins towards the school.

"You really shouldn't have caught that, Patel," one of them said, pushing the entrance door open, "Didn't anyone tell you about gloves?"

"I suppose not, considering," Harry bit out, squeezing his eyes, wishing the pain would subdue already, "You know my name?"

"I think most people do, at this point," said one twin, opening the door to the infirmary, "Not many teachers have families they talk about."

"Or bring to school. Hello Madam Pomfrey, we brought you the second patient of the year.

Madam Pomfrey, not pleased, smeared a bit too much balm for Harry's liking when she concluded nothing was broken, wrapping both hands — but especially his left — with a good amount of bandages, telling him to not strain both his hands

"Say," Harry said when they left the hospital wing, "are you two related to Ron Weasley?"

"That poor chap? Couldn't be, right, George?"

"Funny how you're the twentieth person to ask us that, eh, Fred?"

Harry chuckled, flexing the parts of his hands and fingers he could move, "Well, uh, thanks for, um, bringing me here. I'll just head to my dormitory, now," Harry waved nervously, walking in the direction of the dorms. The pain had finally started to subdue to the occasional throb or itch under the bandages. Once in the dorm, however, Harry quickly realised he wouldn't be able to hold a pencil to do homework, or pick up anything without a clumsy hold.

He sighed dramatically, shaking his hands. Trouble always found a way to keep it's hold on him, didn't it?

Collecting his bag to the best of his abilities, Harry stuffed it with any reading materials he had, going through his books to make sure there wasn't any homework he was missing. That's when his eye caught the packet of lily seeds, the paper crumpled, a small rip on the side. He picked it up, almost dropping it, sighing as he turned it over in his hand.

So what if he had them now? He put it back inside of his trunk, closing it shut forcefully, angrily heaving his bag on his shoulder.

And yet, he still paused at the door, eyeing the trunk in his peripheral. He almost took a step towards it, too, that lonely trunk at the foot of the bed, a name that wasn't his written black and large on the side.

That lonely trunk, still lonely when he walked out the dormitory, dead set on making it towards the library which held few students, one of which was Hermione studying by herself. Seeing no one else he knew, Harry tread lightly on the floor towards her, nodding when Madam Prince gave the usual warning of a finger against her lips.

Hermione looked up when Harry pulled out a chair from her table, her eyes opened wide.

"What happened?" she whispered in surprise, her finger caught between the pages she was reading.

"Caught a ball, I'll explain later. Can you open my books for me, if you don't mind?"

Books now in front of him, Harry pulled his chair forward, skidding the foot on the floor by accident, ducking when the other students and Madam Prince lifted their heads. He had history today, and Professor Binns had asked him to read through a chapter to quiz him on, and Professor Lupin was expecting him to read over the first chapter by himself as well.

Until dinner, he and Hermione both stayed like this. Sometimes Harry asked her a question, and sometimes Hermione pointed out a word he was pronouncing wrong. Unlike the dreaded hours spent in Professor Trelawney's stifling tower room with heavy smells, making him too sleepy to concentrate on the lecture or the art he was meant to be drawing, Harry enjoyed this silence far more. Who wouldn't, given the way Professor Trelawney's enormous eyes filled with tears every time she looked at him? He couldn't like Professor Trelawney, even though she was treated with respect bordering on reverence by some of the class. Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown had taken to haunting Professor Trelawney's tower room at lunch times, and always returned with annoyingly superior looks on their faces, as though they knew things the others didn't. They had also started using hushed voices whenever they spoke to Harry, as though he were on his deathbed.

Harry just didn't understand what art had to do with telling his future, and he was very close to quitting the class soon.

"It's dinner time, Ali," Hermione interrupted his thoughts, closing her books. Harry stood up, successfully managing to place his bookmark in the middle of chapter one, and closing the books without giving it a crease. Hermione helped him stuff the books inside the bag, the two walking out the library together.

"Do you study in the library a lot?"

"Just the hours before dinner," she said, readjusting her heavy bag, "There are less people about, then."

"So no study groups, then?"

Hermione shrugged, entering the hall first, "I used to, but they fell apart quickly after the… after last year."

Harry didn't press, and waved her off when they were inside. Hermione caught him by the shoulder, though, startling Harry enough to send him into a jump.

Hermione retracted her hand like it had been burned.

"Oh, uh, sorry," Harry dropped his gaze, ears burning, "W-were you going to say something?"

"Just that you can join me anytime, b-before dinner," she said, the last of her sentence added as an afterthought, "We can, ah, help each other study."

"You mean you can help me study," Harry said, chuckling, "I don't think you need my help."

"I'm sure you have things you can share, with an aunt like Professor Patel," she said the last part rather dreamily, glancing at the teacher's table, "Oh, how I wish I had a relative on the staff. Such wonderful, knowledgeable women. Inspirational. Oh how I wish I could learn everything they know."

"Oh, yes," Harry said, understanding very little, "Yes. Yes. Uh, did Ron tell you anything about me and Professor Snape, by any chance?"

"He did!" she clapped her hands, her unruly hair flying around her, "I need to know everything about what you've learnt while studying under him. Tomorrow, alright?"

Without giving Harry a chance to argue, she left, a skip to her step. Defeated, Harry approached the Hufflepuff table, putting his bag down and taking the empty spot.

He hadn't even pulled a plate forward, though, when he felt a pair of hands turn him around. A pair of strong hands belonging to a very worried, very concerned, borderline frantic, Cedric Diggory.

"Why would you catch a ball without gloves?" he shouted, shaking Harry while he did so, spreading a surge of alarm through Harry, "You could have broken a hand!"

"Diggory, let go, please!" Harry shouted back, pulling himself from his hands, heaving over and trying to get some air into his lungs. A few gulps of air later, he lifted his head to find the whole Hufflepuff table looking at him, some students pausing on the way to their respective seats.

Harry's ears burned for the third time that day.

"I'm fine, Di- Cedric. Just hurt my hands," he lifted up for him to see, regretting it when it gained a gasp from him, "Madam Pomfrey said I just shouldn't strain them — No I don't need a hug — Diggory no — "

Harry hid his face the more Diggory pulled him closer to his chest, feeling like a child as he soothed him like one would with a toddler. Some laughed, but Justin was quick to shut them up with a nasty collection of words, which cost him a few points from Professor Flitwick as he passed the table.

The stares weren't why he was embarrassed, though.

It was because he actually liked the small comfort, the warm affection that was Diggory's arms around him, speaking in a warmer voice.

"I think you can let him go, now. The teachers are looking," said Megan, and Diggory slid his arms off, a shimmer of a tear on the corner of his eye.

"Don't do that again."

"I won't. Oh, yes I promise Cedric," Harry assured him, and he finally left, stealing glances above his shoulder warningly, as though Harry would pick up a knife and jab his hand with it. Rolling his eyes, he turned around to face the others.

"Yeah, so…" he pulled his hands up again, "I think I'll be needing gloves next time we play."

"Get well soon, Harry," Susan said, leaning her elbows on the table, "I caught my hand in a trap once, I still have the mark, see?" and she delightfully showed her hand with jagged marks running around its length like one would with a prized artifact.

Harry would have loved to spend the second last day with the Hufflepuffs, huddled in the common room and chatting idly. Malfoy had to ruin it though, pulling him by the arm as he was walking out the hall, making Harry jump in surprise.

"Why is everyone in the habit of scaring me?"

"Might be because you scare easily, only a guess," Malfoy said, waving at Ron and Hermione, "Did you hear?"

"Hear what?"

"Oh, so you didn't. It must be because you share little lessons with us, Slytherin, or Gryffindor. Though I did take you to be the kind of person that — "

"Malfoy," Harry lifted both hands, distracting Malfoy enough for him to stop fiddling with his hair, "Get to it."

"If you're so very sure," he took him by the arm, and Harry, given up, followed; frowning in question and nodding towards Malfoy when Ron and Hermione started to follow them, "Hufflepuffs don't gossip much?"

"Malfoy, I can still use my hands," Harry said through his teeth, trying to shake his arm free from Malfoy's iron grip, "Can you just tell me what happened?"

"I'll tell you what happened, and I'll make it better. That Lupin, the teacher everyone seems to love, you know what he did? He humiliated Uncle Sev in front of the whole class, and now the whole school will know!"

Harry turned to look at Hermione and Ron, "I don't understand."

"Malfoy's exaggerating, a little," Ron said, crossing his arms and glaring, "Just because Neville — "

"He only chose him after a single lesson!" Malfoy shouted, his tone vindictive, hand tightening around Harry, "He had no right to share with a class the sick way he assumed another Professor lived, giving Longbottom the idea of dressing him in women's clothes. Women's clothes, honestly! Do you two have no issue with that?"

"I'm sure it had more to do with Professor Snape wearing lengthy, loose robes than an effort to humiliate him. They're both Professors," Hermione said, sounding on the edge of desperation, "They're on the same staff."

"Does asking — " Malfoy looked around, leaning closer and then hissing the rest of his words, "Does asking a student to imagine a teacher they're intimidated by in their grandmother's clothes emulate any sort of positive attribution to you, Granger? How about you, Weasley? And don't tell me you don't think there's nothing wrong with that, Patel."

Even Ron looked like he was questioning it. But he still shook his head a second later, standing his ground, "I still think you're exaggerating."

Malfoy went pink in the face.

Hermione cleared his throat, "Maybe if we give it some time — "

"Even I managed to get passed the house rivalry, are you really considering taking Lupin's side because he's so blatantly a Gryffindor? He even favors you!"

"Who's to say you won't because Snape is Slytherin?" Ron argued back, and the two shared a glare, "And don't tell me Snape doesn't favor you!"

"He does what no other teacher in the school ever will!" Malfoy shouted, his voice rising and rising, "I shouldn't have come here. Even though you're the ones that preached about how house discrimination is wrong, you won't take a page out of your own book."

"That's not fair, Draco," Hermione said harshly but Malfoy had already left, fuming. The remaining three exchanged a glance, and then they too separated, Ron and Hermione in one direction, while Harry awkwardly walked up to Professor Binns class, hoping he wouldn't

involuntary nap and not be able to fall asleep later that night.

The quiz did keep him from slipping off, and as soon as it was done, Harry took off, yawning as he walked down the corridor. The sun had long set, and a chill had settled into the castle. Harry reminded himself to get a coat next time as he entered the dormitory, almost empty except for Susan, who was reading by herself with a single candle.

"How was the lesson?" she asked after the turn of the lock, the ruffling pages shaking the candle light, "Did you fall asleep again?"

"Not this time," Harry yawned, crumpling down onto a cushion beside Susan, leaning against the wheelchair after she nodded in permission, sighing, "I'm so tired."

"You didn't sleep again last night?"

"I wish I could," Harry said, stiffening when Susan's fingers brushed his hair, dropping his shoulder after she started to gently play with it.

"What kept you up this time? Other than snoring," she asked, chuckling, putting the book on the table beside her.

"I don't know," Harry said tiredly, squaring his shoulders when Susan's hand got too close to his nape, "I wish I did."

"Have you talked to your aunt?"

"I have, but all she's doing is to write what I observe. How is that going to help?"

"If you're writing what you're just looking for — or looking at — though, I don't think that will help."

Harry turned around, "What do you mean?"

Susan placed her hands on her lap, the light bouncing off her skin, casting a shadow over a portion of her face, "You're looking for a reason, yes? For the things you are feeling. But I think you're not very happy with the answers."

"Can you… explain more?"

"I think it's like the time when I didn't want my father to build a wheelchair for me," she said, a hand settling on the armrest, "When he asked me why, I told him that I don't know. If you just write that down without anything else, you'll be frustrated and confused."

"But I hate writing it down," Harry said, looking down at his hand, "I have to write every single day, and during after school lessons. And homework, and assignments. I'm already slow and need more time to catch up - so slow that by the time I finish my work, my wrist hurts too much to write."

"And let me guess, you haven't told this to your aunt?"

Harry opened his mouth to argue, but closed it soon after, defeated. Point made, Susan picked up her book again, keeping it on her lap.

"And you won't talk either, will you."

The fire flickered, and outside, the wind blew. Harry suddenly wished he had read more books to describe how he felt, and how many more words should have existed that defined who he was. So instead, he looked down, dropping his head and mumbling.

"I'm scared, Susan. Of everything. I'm scared of- of my… past, and who I am and how I feel, and I'm terrified of what's going to happen with each passing day, when all I can see is…"

"...Is?"

He shook his head, "I'm so tired, you know? Of having so many thoughts and ideas and memories speaking at once…"

"I'm not a teacher, Ali. I probably won't be able to, either. And I know little of the world besides school and the people I've met. But in this small amount of years I lived — " she leaned back, tilting her head, a smile to her voice when she spoke, " — I did know why I didn't want a wheelchair. I didn't want it, because I was afraid as well. Afraid of change, how I would manage."

"You're not afraid anymore?"

"Oh, I'm not afraid of anything," she said bluntly, shrugging, "Only rarely. My father says I ought to, whenever he finds me doing anything that would scare any normal folk. That's how I almost lost a hand to foxes when I was seven."

Harry let out a stiff laugh, the smile staying on his face when the laugh was over.

"Or how I had to cut my hair after I fell in the swamp while looking for frogs when I was nine."

"Next thing I know you're going to tell me you used to clean chimneys," Harry said, laıghing harder at the confusion on Susan's face, "Thanks, Susan. I feel a bit better."

"You'll speak to your aunt about what we talked about, though, yes?"

"Agreed," Harry said, yawning again while he stood up, "You coming?"

"I'll be here a bit more," she said, opening her book again. Sleep well, Ali."

"Good night, Susan," he picked up his bag, heading towards the boys' dormitories. But then, he paused, looking over his shoulder, "Uh, Susan?"

Susan glanced up.

"Thank you. For being a friend."

And though he slept late once again, it was with an ease he hadn't felt in a long time.

Harry's first night in Ravenclaw was spent sleepless. He had received his key from cheerful Professor Flitwick earlier the same day, carrying his trunk and sheets towards the Ravenclaw dormitories with the help of Ernie and Justin, the latter coming up with (fruitless) jokes to cheer Harry up.

"Chin up, Ali," he dropped the sheets and pillow onto the trunk outside the dormitory door, "If you liked Hufflepuff so much, I'm sure we'll meet again.

Harry smiled, rubbing the spot where Justin clapped him, watching them leave and disappear into a corridor illuminated by weak light. The footsteps settled, and silence flooded the corridor.

Silence couldn't mask his thoughts, though, and Harry couldn't let go of a particular one that warned him he wasn't sad about leaving Hufflepuff, but rather having to meet new people, adjust to a new schedule…

He really didn't want change.

The door, simple oak, opened easily, shedding light onto the floor and his feet, curving over his shoes. Lifting his sheets first, he entered the common room, expecting no more than a few students to actually be in the room.

At least half of the whole house were present, including Professor Flitwick, with the loudest welcome he had gotten, and the most questions he was - and he hoped he would ever be- dumped with.

Yes, the first night had gone sleepless.

And he had a suspicion that so would the rest.

Professor Lupin had already made a comment about a drop in Harry's 'academic performance', and Harry had no desire for the rest to do the same. So come morning, one hour before it was time to wake up, Harry trudged out of bed, wanting nothing more than to occupy his thoughts and chase away the effects of the nightmare.

He'd have to ask to change books, as the nightmare of getting locked in Ishmael's ship while the ship sank and the cabin filled with water wasn't the most… pleasant.

Tiredly, Harry pulled out his books, art for the first period -he grimaced- then English, with maths and biology after lunch.

But as he walked out the dormitory, dressed and ready and debating what subject he would waste away his morning with first, surprise and annoyance greeted him upon entering the common room - almost a quarter of the tables were occupied with students that had to have been there for a while now.

Harry looked around, then growled, and made his mind to get back to bed. Just before he left the room, though, a familiar voice drifted into his ear, keeping him from taking another step.

"Hello, Ali Patel," Luna said, monotone as usual, greeting him with strong, almost forceful eye contact, "You're very angry, and frustrated."

"Hello, Luna," Harry said, shoulders drooping as he gradually relaxed, "Wrackspurts clouding my head again?"

"You won't have it any other way. Are you quite sure you wouldn't like to see them?"

"I think I'd rather not, if it's as clouded as you say," Harry said, lifting a hand to his hair before dropping it, remembering he had to conceal the scar soon, "Well, I should leave, I guess. Maybe we'll talk later."

"Would you rather not sit with me?" Luna asked, gesturing towards a table sprawled with papers, open books and uncorked bottles of ink, "You come to study, have you not?"

"How did you know that?"

"You're a Ravenclaw now," she said, turning around on her heel, her hair fluttering around her with the skips she took towards the table, her finger bushing the paper. She sat down, and the chair wobbled under her. Harry watched her with interest, with the way her intense gaze moved up and down the pages, fixed, unmoving, though her body rocked back and forth.

No one around the room bat an eye, and Harry didn't either. Nervously lifting his bag and placing it on the table, alert for anyone who could be glancing at them.

The chair didn't so much as scratch the wood, and Harry slowly unwrapped the bandages around his hand, opening and closing his fingers. They didn't hurt as much, only small bruises to remind him of the injury, and Harry removed the second one as well, stuffing them into his bag and taking out his books. His eye caught Mr Ollivander's paint set, then. The box was worn and breaking on the sides.

An odd yearning fell about, and lifted just as fast. So quick he couldn't tell it was there. He offered the paints a final look, and turned back to Ishmael's -dare he say it- not so fun adventure.

At least Alice had seen some curious wonders. In Harry's opinion, Ishmael only came up with infuriatingly long speeches that were hard to read and hard to keep in mind.

"You ought to sail soon," Harry muttered angrily at the book, imagining the ruffled chap Ishmael glaring back, poking it with a finger, "Or I'll drown you at sea myself."

He cleared his throat, pushed up his glasses, and read.

"If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me..."

"Fought, you say?" Fred said, rubbing his chin, "Funny, won't be the first."

"They fight often?" Harry asked as beside him the students started to leave the Great Hall. Harry himself had, just moments earlier, excused himself from the crowded Ravenclaw table after meeting everyone and forgetting all their names. He gave a small wave when the Hufflepuffs passed, as this was their last day together.

"Every month or so."

"Make a big deal out of it, too."

"Then they make up, shedding tears," Fred said, sighing and leaning back on George before springing back to his feet upright, "Come to think of it, why did they fight anyway?"

It didn't take more explanation than saying the word 'Snape', which made the twins wince.

The news had spread across the school like fire, catching Snape in a very, very bad way. He was worse than usual, in a particular vindictive mood no student wanted to be a victim of, with even the twins admitting to causing less ruckus in class.

"Good thing no rumor was spread," said Fred.

"Hogwarts has a very fun yet inconvenient ability to blow things out of proportion," whispered George, "We would know."

"We're usually the ones who spread it."

"That's all and well," Harry said, following the stairs, "But, uh, they make up, you said."

"Wasn't an issue until now. Why -" Fred grinned, stepping in front of Harry and leaning down, " - Planning on bringing them together?"

Harry chuckled, walking around him and taking the higher step, "I won't ask you two for help, I reckon you would make it worse."

"Us? Never," they said together, waving their arms at Harry, who rolled his eyes, starting the journey towards Professor Trelawney's class.

Trelawney, as always, taught very little and spoke too much. This time she had a crystal ball she delightfully wanted to share with the class to defog their future (namely Harry's) who was becoming desensitized to the death predictions, wishing he hadn't sat with Lavender Brown, a student in the habit of taking everything Trelawney said to heart. Even things that had no relation to art.

Hermione, who Harry left alone with Ron as to not take sides, looked just as angry. Trelawney seemed to sprout from all directions and had every critism to present Hermione with, most of which still had no relation to art.

Really, why had Harry agreed to art class if he wasn't going to paint at all?

When class was over, he noticed Hermione, Ron and Malfoy in close pursuit. Which is exactly why he bolted towards the first student who wore a blue tie, stirring up a lousy conversation long enough to get them distracted, losing them in the hallways leading up to class.

That strategy proved ineffective, as lunch was one period away, and the three of them would surely want to use him as a mediator or referee between the argument. So he spent the rest of the class tapping his toe nervously on the ground, smiling crookedly as Anthony asked him if everything was alright.

"Harry, — " Anthony caught up to him outside once the lesson was over, " — Don't want to trouble you, but your station in the greenhouse has some fertilizers that need to be moved, would you get to those after lunch?"

"I'm not very hungry either way," Harry said, eyeing the Great Hall, specifically Ron and Malfoy pausing at the door amidst a heated staring contest.

Anthony followed his gaze, and chuckled, "Guess I know who won't be going to Hogsmeade together."

"Hogsmeade?"

"The village," Anthony said, nodding towards the window, "Third years and up start visiting it. Malfoy declared a few plans, before the end of second year, loud enough for the others to hear."

"I'm guessing Hermione and Ron were one of them," Harry said, pausing on one side of the door, "Say, can we go to this Hogsmeade whenever we want?"

"On certain weekends. Oh, and you need a guardian's permission."

"Thanks, Anthony," Harry said, peeking inside the Great Hall, a grin growing on his lips when he saw that Professor Patel wasn't inside, "I think I'll pay my aunt a visit."

As everyone had gone to lunch by then, the hallways that lead up to Professor Patel's office were empty.

Harry climbed the stairs that lead to the second floor, weak light filtering crookedly through the windows. Professor Patel's office was the one at the end of the hallway, and from where he was standing, Harry could hear collective laughter through the door, not just Professor Patel's. Harry squared his shoulders, raised his chin, and lifted his hand to knock on the door

"Who is it?" Professor Patel called through the door, her voice heavy from the aftermath of laughter.

"It's me, Professor Patel," Harry said. At this she fell silent and Harry frowned at the sound of a chair's rushed scraping, and feet shuffling before Professor Patel peaked around the doorframe, closing the door behind her.

Harry saw a brief look of two Professors.

"Is everything alright?" she asked, crossing her arms and leaning on the door, her dark plum scarf moving with the draft from the window.

"Yes, absolutely, I just wanted to ask you, well — " Harry rubbed his hands together, then pointed towards Professor Patel, " — You know about the Hogsmeade weekends."

Professor Patel's eyes flickered towards the door, very briefly and for a second, very concerned, before turning back to Harry, "Indeed I am."

"And well, you're my aunt, and…"

"You want me to give you permission to go."

Harry nodded, not meeting her eye, "I know there is still time, but uh you know, it would be a good opportunity to, well, get to know students and — "

"I'm aware of how great of an opportunity it is, Harry," said Professor Patel, "But it is really, really early for it. Were you aware it's in December?"

Harry didn't have to say anything for Professor Patel to know he wasn't.

"I shouldn't have come so early, should I have?"

"Perhaps," she agreed, tilting her head from side to side, "That wasn't entirely the point I was trying to make. The Hogsmeade weekends — "

Professor Patel's eyes flickered above Harry's shoulder, and then her back straightened, her eyes dropping to the ground as it always did when talking to any adult, "Professor."

Harry turned around, and saw that in the worst possible moment, the worst possible person had walked up to him, not at all pleased.

"P-Professor Snape?" Harry couldn't help but stutter, hands dropping to his sides.

Professor Patel, not pleased at the interruption, retreated closer to the wall.

"I believe you're visiting the wrong individual to discuss the matter with, Mr Patel," Snape said in a hushed voice, when Professor Patel lifted a finger over her lips and then pointed at the looked down at Harry by the length of his nose, tilting his head when Harry tried to come up with a response, stumbling over his words, "Didn't think you were the only individual paying attention to who's participating in lunch?"

"Would you allow me to handle this, Professor Snape?" Professor Patel interjected.

"I'm afraid not. Each student ought to know abuse of authority's tolerance, patience and generosity is not, and will not, be permitted," Snape said, and Harry would have laughed at the offended reaction on Professor Patel's face if he wasn't as nervous as he was , "What were you hoping to achieve, Mr Patel?"

"Permission to go, seeing I didn't come to you," Harry said under his breath, lifting his chin to match Snape's, "I think that was obvious, sir."

"Thought you'd smuggle in promises did you, Potter? Getting to know other students. Manipulation is Slytherin, but you are yet a Ravenclaw, and I need not remind you of who the adult is."

"No," Harry said, looking down and shuffling his feet, then lifting his head up again and staring right into Snape's dark eyes, "Which is why I chose to come to Professor Patel, sir."

Snape opened his mouth to answer right back, but Professor Patel cleared her throat nervously, pulling her hands together, "If you're not willing to come to a mutual agreement, I would like to ask both of you take this conversation elsewhere," she said, more authoritarian than she looked, and with a stance that meant she wouldn't accept 'no' as an answer.

"Astonishing idea. Patel — " he whirled his head, hair flying around his head, the tips brushing his shoulders, "— You are not to come to Professor Patel, or anyone, with questions requiring a guardian."

"But — "

"We will continue this conversation later today, once you've thought of exactly why your actions were indecorous, and what you should have done instead. I don't want to hear any questions about

"If you would just tell me why I can't go — "

"Good day, Mr Patel. Do hurry up to your next class."

Harry was left staring after him, the skirt of his robes seemingly sweeping above the floor and through the dull light. Beside him, Professor Patel sighed, shaking her head, but keeping the words she looked like she wanted to say sealed behind her mouth.

"Were you… were you going to say yes?" Harry asked meekly, looking up. Professor Patel averted her eyes, running both hands down her skirt, "I'll have to ask you to trust Professor Snape with this matter."

"Why though?"

"There are matters which are beyond me, matters I wish were not."

"I knew he would have said no if I went to him," Harry said, biting the words through clenched teeth, curling his hands to fists, "I knew he would. He never listens, and he always has something to say and I hate it."

"... You know I cannot offer much other than help you talk it out."

Harry scoffed, adjusting his bag, "And talking does wonders, does it?"

"Of course it doesn't," Professor Patel sighed, and for a flicker of a moment, Harry thought he saw a crack in a wall; a single moment where she was small, weak and confused, sagging forward with a hand rubbing her forehead, "If it did, why would I be here? If it were as simple as an exchange of words, some of us would take our woes to trees and flowers."

"So why does talking help?"

"Talking helps, because I don't just listen," Professor Patel said, looking up at Harry, leaning her head to the side, the light reflecting in her eyes, "I help you roll the yarn you've muddled inside your head and your heart."

"To make sense of it all…" Harry said, remembering what Susan had said, "So my head is just a tangled yarn?"

"I think you're many yarns, lost within the stretches of string. But some…" she looked down the corridor, then down to her hands, and then to Harry back again, "Some can always be a little more."

"I wish you wouldn't speak in riddles."

"Perhaps you'll look forward to Thursdays, if I leave enough mysteries to be unraveled."

"Is that all I am, then?" Harry asked, voice gaining some strength, "Is that all you see me as? A mystery?"

"Of course not," she said, laughing softly, "You're human, and you're lost. Just like me, and just like everyone else. Only your path is different from others, and you have yet to find a map."

"And what's the map?"

"That — " she stood up, placing a hand on the door handle, " — Is exactly what we will find out."

"All good, Ali?" Justin asked, leaving through the entrance door at the same time as the group of Ravenclaw students, "Settled in?"

"Didn't take you for a considerate fellow, Finch," Michael Conner said, grinning.

"It's Finch-Fletchley, Conner," Justin corrected, taking the spot between Harry and Terry Boot, "A Ravenclaw such as yourself ought to remember."

"Your name isn't the easiest to keep in mind," Harry said, glancing behind his shoulder to wave at the girls.

The two classes formed two lines outside the greenhouse, waiting for the current class to be over. The door opened not long after, and Harry ducked his head, not paying attention. Harry kept his face hidden, eyes fixed on the lake, in firm mind that if he didn't look at Hermione, Ron and Malfoy, they wouldn't try to involve him as a mediator.

The Gryffindor-Slytherin class poured out the greenhouse door, and to Harry's surprise, both sides (not just the trio) looked very hostile. Many grumblings and snipes followed, sharp jabs from Slytherins meeting the aggressive threats of Gryffindors.

"You've known them for less than a month," a Slytherin girl hissed to Lavender, "We've known Professor Snape for two years. How dare you assume he deserved what happened?"

"I says it just some mindless teasing," Seamus said, waving his hand and not looking in their direction, "No harm."

"Once again, running up and down to the Astronomy Tower proves to be less tedious than making a Gryffindır see sense," Malfoy said, patting Goyle's arm sadly, "What would old Godric say if he saw you?"

"I don't know, Malfoy," said Dean Thomas, folding his arms, "What would Salazar say if he saw you?"

"Respectful critique? Opportunity to grow? Decorum, something none of you are familiar with, one can note," Malfoy suggested, counting in his hand, ignoring the rest of the class as he started to mumble to himself, lost to thought.

"What was all that commotion?" Professor Sprout asked from behind them. Most Slytherins and Gryffindors had walked a fair distance, and Professor Sprout took Ernie's shug as an answer, ushering them in. Once everyone had settled on chairs or cushions, she began to teach, picking up from the last class they had. Harry missed some, if not all, of the notes. The Hufflepuffs would let him copy theirs later, but Harry had no acquaintance with his new classmates, other than Luna and maybe Anthony. This concern accompanied him until the end of class, which saw him gloomily packing his bag.

"One more thing!" Professor Sprout said, clapping her hands to gain their attention, "Is there a student who's responsible for the greenhouses that hasn't cleaned their station?"

Harry's very audible facepalm gained a wheeze from Terry and a mixture of a choking and chugging sound from Micheal. Harry lifted his hand, fingers twitching from anger at himself, "Sorry, Professor Sprout. I'll clean it at once."

Once everyone had left, Harry placed his bag down on the stack of cushions. Pulling his sleeves up and unbuttoning his cloak, he took a deep breath and started to move the fertilizer buckets, touching it as little as possible.

It took ten minutes, and Harry admired his small accomplishment, wiping his forehead with his forearm.

Unbuttoning his sleeves, he lifted his bag, locking the door, and walked to the second greenhouse to deliver the keys. Professor Sprout, behind some tall variant of plants, didn't see him, head ducked and busy writing something. Harry would have called out to get her attention, but instead, he ducked - diving out of sight behind a thick bush of flowers.

Of course Snape would be here, consulting Professor Sprout about some herbs he needed in stock. Harry gumbled, trying to get comfortable without disturbing the precious botanic, his hair getting tangled in the branches of a small tree. Thankfully though, not for much longer. Snape pocketed a square piece of paper, said his goodbyes, and left the greenhouse.

Harry would need to leave as well, if he wanted to make it on time to Snape's classroom and not suffer his wrath.

His legs creaked as he clumsily stood up, flailing his arms to keep balance. Once his feet were firm on the ground and no threat of falling was present, Harry took the brick path to the exit. His bag had suffered a good scraping, the dirt persistent against Harry's attempts at wiping it away. In fact, he was so focused, he didn't hear Professor Sprout until she had cried his name.

"Mr Patel!"

"Yes!" Harry shouted as he jumped, his bag slamming against the door. Professor Sprout blinked. Harry blinked as well, ears burning. He then held out the key, Professor Sprout took it and that would have been the end of the exchange, had Professor Sprout not spoken.

"Was there a reason you were waiting?"

"Excuse me, Professor?"

"Students can hang keys on the wall," Professor Sprout gestured behind the table towards the row of keys, "Were you… I must have misunderstood, but you weren't eavesdropping? In the bushry?"

Harry frantically shook his head, "Yes, well I mean no I meant no as in I wasn't I, uh…" his eyes traveled down the side of the table and on a set of empty, barren pots. Harry glared. And then he hung his head, his shoulders sagging forward in defeat, "Can I use a pot to plant some flowers? I've been… looking for one, for my..." he asked in a wavering voice, hanging his head, "Lily seeds. I thought I'd save you the trouble of finding one."

Professor Sprout, understandably delighted, asked him to visit tomorrow. Winter was close, and he best plant them in the greenhouses, or wait for spring. She saw him off with a wide, cheerful smile and an overenthusiastic wave. Harry just dragged himself to the castle, adjusting his buttons on the way to the dungeons.

The knock on Snape's office door was answered quickly, and Harry hesitantly pushed the door open.

Behind his chair, Snape watched Harry come in. He sat straight, unnervingly clasping his hands together, and what Malfoy said about Snape's 'dressing down' sounded to be no fun on the receiving end.

"Sit," he said, gesturing to the chair.

Harry did.

"Can I trust you, Mr Patel?"

"I don't think you do, Professor Snape."

"For the sake of rhetoric."

"What's a rhetoric?"

Snape chuckled darkly..

"You haven't told anyone of your current circumstances?" Snape asked, expecting a satisfactory answer. Harry nodded, and the lines about Snape's lips eased, "Then you would not mind being entrusted with a portion of a secret."

"Just a portion?" Harry said, groaning.

"Only a potion," Snape said, his emphasis with a raised finger, "I will not repeat myself again. You will not ask again, nor will you try to dig for any unnecessary answers. The sole purpose of me telling you this, is that without due reason, you will exhaust every means to get to Hogsmeade."

Harry fiddled with the side of the chair, palm down. He'd seen Snape's reaction to him getting hurt. If he'd find out about this one, who knew how little he would trust Harry then.

"What if I let it out on accident?"

"By accident, I have considered," Snape said, leaning back on the chair, running a hand down his tired eyes, "I'm profoundly impressed to hear you have as well."

Harry pressed down on the chair, skin stretching over his knuckles, "I think I'll leave now, Professor."

"Understandable," Snape said, somehow relieved. He picked up his pen, took the paper on top of a stack of others, and began to write.

It was the only sound in the dungeon classroom.

Blinking, Harry turned to the door. Then back at Snape, brows creasing, "What?"

"The door is at the end of the room, pity those glasses of yours do little to help," Snape said without lifting his head, face close to the paper, his nose a breath away from touching it, "You cannot attend Hogsmeade, as luck would have it."

"What does Dumbledore have to say about that, sir?" Harry said, his nails (in need of a good trim) digging into his skin inside of his fist, "You can't prevent me from going without a proper reason!"

"If you don't trust yourself to keep a secret," came Snape's quick, low and insufferable reply, the tilt of his head further infuriating Harry, "I do not trust you to attend classes either. Furthermore, the Headmaster can do little to contradict me."

Harry grinded his teeth, stuffing his hands through his hair, "I didn't say I couldn't hold a secret."

"Then you are confident?"

"What does that even mean?" Harry said, growning, feeling like landing a kick to Snape's chin. He came very close to, when Snape stood up, walked around the desk and with only a subtle expression on his face used as consent, lifted Harry's bangs for a better look at his scar.

"Needs more of the concealer."

"Is that what you're calling it now?"

"If you'd prefer 'a mixture of henna, expensive and rare cocoa powder' — " he looked down, raising a brow, face perfectly amused, "— Not to your liking?"

"I can hold my secrets," Harry said each word slowly and with great emphasis, keeping his stance, "I don't need you to doubt me."

"Then, you will not share with anyone that Sirius Black is a convict who has worked for the Dark Lord, and had direct involvement in exposing a threatened family to him."

"What does that have to do with me?"

Snape bent down. Harry had the impression that Snape would take him by the shoulders, but when he winced, he took them back, keeping them both on the table behind him.

"He is your enemy, Mr Potter."

Oh…

"... Not a soul knows I'm alive, though," Harry said, shaking his head, "How would he?"

"It would take little for him to recognise you," Snape said, pointing at the scar but looking directly into his eyes, "Very little. You're not the only one who'll catch his wrath, in Hogwarts, but you may be the most unfortunate to do so."

"But the mixture — "

"I do not take risks unless absolutely necessary, and you, Ali," he kept the eye contact firm, as if to make sure each of his words were being sewn to Harry's soul, "You are not a risk, no, you are not a risk we are willing to take. Do you understand?"

Harry nodded.

"I asked you a question, Mr Patel."

"Yes, sir," he hung his head, rubbing the back of his neck, "Loud and clear."

"Very well," Snape walked around his desk, taking out the jar of mixture from one of the drawers, "Pull your hair back."

Exhausted and defeated, Harry walked up to the Ravenclaw dormitories, hands stuffed into his pockets. Even Professor Lupin had noticed his lack of interest in class, and had some prying questions. Harry only shrugged, continuing to read in a monotone voice, dragging his words.

Harry took a walk around the castle to clear his mind, his anger rising occasionally. He'd probably be the only third year staying behind, the only student at Hogwarts who couldn't go because he had a scar keeping him from it.

He stopped by a window, peering through the panes. Not much light, tonight. A waxing crescent in the corner of the sky, dim light reflecting on the lake. Not just from the moon, however. Like every night, small specks of orange light shone on the grounds, held by ministry officials. Harry pressed his head, shuddering at the initial cold. Lifting a hand, he placed it palm down on the wall.

Another thought, another wave of anger, and Harry pulled his hand into a fist.

Curse Tom Riddle! -thud went his fist hitting the wall - curse Sirius Black! -thud- Curse Dumbledore! -thud- And most of all, curse those wretched Dursleys!

He stopped, closing his eyes. Even now, an immeasurable distance from them, still they didn't leave him alone. Still he was angry. Still he had nightmares and still something kept him from truly living like others.

His arm hurt more than his hand, by the time he got back to the dormitory, taking out the key hung around his neck. As expected, there were still many students with open books, with only Luna's table unoccupied in the room.

Harry took the seat across from her, and placed his bag on the table.

"Wrackspurts?" Harry asked before Luna could say anything, dropping his head on the table, "I think I see what you mean now."

"You're late to come back today, Ali," Luna said, holding a magazine upside down, her earrings rattling as she lifted her head, "I wonder what will help you calm down."

"I think I have an idea," Harry said under his breath, grimacing as he ran a hand over his left arm and hand, nose wrinkled, "What do you do to calm down?"

"Searching for my shoes often proves helpful," she said eagerly, sliding a pencil from her tied hair. She chuckled when Harry looked around the table and down at her feet, frowning at the fascinating pair of blue shoes, "They often go missing. The efforts of the students are truly admirable. They get better at it every day."

"Why didn't you report it?"

"I'm quite tired of being found guilty of losing them," Luna said, opening to the first page of the magazine, where her name was written in a mirroring manner, "And as I've said, there are many fascinating places around the castle, ones I've found while searching for them."

"You haven't actually said that."

"I have now," Luna put the magazine down, peering at the spilled contents of Harry's bag, "I haven't visited Ollivander's before."

"What? Oh, yeah," Harry pulled the box and rolls of paper towards him, skimming down it's length, "I haven't got the opportunity to use them yet?"

"Wrackspurts?"

"Professor Trewaney's art class. Might as well call it divination, with the amount of… unartful stuff we've been doing."

Luna watched Harry unroll the paper, tilting her head and raising her brows. Her face fell when the paper was unrolled completely. Empty, unused.

"You can use them outside of class, yes?"

Harry nodded. Luna touched the corner of one of the pages, and Harry nodded to show approval for her to lift it up, inspecting it in the small light, "They why haven't you, Ali?"

"Well, I'm not exactly good at it."

"Why else?"

"I mean — " Harry rubbed his nape, "— It's nerve wracking, thinking of drawing on an empty page. Open to so many mistakes."

That's when Luna did the unthinkable. Before Harry could stop her, she had dipped her pen into the ink, a nice blotch stain sitting in the middle of the paper.

"Luna!" Harry hissed, not able to stop himself from snatching back the paper, running a hand angrily through his hair, "That paper was expensive! Why did you have to do that?"

"You said you're scared of an empty paper," Luna said, corking her ink bottle.

"So what?" Harry said without looking, frantically searching for something to absorb the ink.

"It's not empty anymore."

Harry stopped. Turning around, he eyed the paper in his hands, a stain the size of his palm splattered down on the smooth page. He looked at Luna. Luna looked back, smiled, and sat down, continuing to read from where she left off, "Please show me what you've done soon, Ali Patel."

He did visit Professor Sprout, more out of courtesy for his new chore rather than planting seeds in a pot. The small grains shuffled inside the bag in his back pocket, reminding him of his promise between pulling out weeds and carrying other gardening equipment from one part of the garden to the other.

The boys engaged him in idle conversation, sometimes in cut off sentences, due to the general ruckus of Greenhouse One. They managed some among themselves. Harry did not, answering with faint replies and awkward laughter. With every second thickening the embarrassing tension in the air, Harry was less hesitant when Professor Sprout called him, asking him to wait in Greenhouse Three for her while she helped a student.

The door of Greenhouse Three opened with a rusty groan. Compared with the chilly autumn wind, inside was warm and humid.

It also smelled familiar.

The apothecary came to mind, as did the laboratory, and with it a tug on a string of his heart. It was a pang in his chest he hadn't read enough books to name, or smelt enough of the wafting greenery to comprehend.

In one corner of the room, something bright caught his eye.

Harry took the cracked-stone path with moss life budding in between, to the tree bearing small, round fruit.

"There aren't no trees like this, back in London," Harry mumbled to himself, inspecting the bright fruit from afar. Cold, morning light touched the curve of the fruit, casting drops of shadow from where light curled above dark green leaves.

The Greenhouse kept it's silence. Harry looked up at the tree, then the closed door and then the fruit closest to him. He wouldn't be able to reach it, even if Professor Sprout took a day to come to the Greenhouse.

She wouldn't make it in time to stop Harry picking a fruit from the ground, though.

Two of them had rot spreading from where the light did not touch, but Harry sorted through them to find a relatively fresh one.

The skin gave down when he pressed with his thumb, and some juice escaped from the torn spot. Harry threw the fruit down with mild disgust, scrunching his nose and trying to wave his hand free of the juice. He didn't want to rub it on his clothes, but the liquid kept sliding down his fingers, sticking on his skin.

"No wonder London has no trees like this," Harry said in disgust, sighing and glaring at the tree. Harry didn't need a biology course from Professor Sprout to tell him the tree wouldn't glare back. Turning around, Harry gave his hand one last shake, bringing it up to smell whether it was still on his skin.

Very suddenly, the odor traveled up his nose, resulting in a hot flash.

It was the same hot flash as the one on the train, after Demeter hurt his arm. The same one he felt when Malfoy hid him in the cupboard, when Snape locked him in that dark, dark room and when he heard the crash of breaking jars.

The hot flash spread into pain in his back and arm, so strong Harry touched the back of his head to make sure nothing had dropped on it. Fear climbed up from the pit of his stomach to his chest, a talon around his heart, before finally crashing down on his head. Humid air climbed into his throat, and in the corner of his mind, Harry felt the threat of something approaching.

The door was left wide open behind him as he scrambled to get out, this time the cold biting at exposed parts of his skin.

A jumble of whispers and jabs hissed into his head with each rapid step, and Harry refused to hear them, the autumn wind driving its fangs into his skin, causing a small tear to escape from the corner of his eye, trailing down his cheek. The mud gave away twice, and Harry stumbled twice before finally falling down near the lake, his shoes digging into the soil as he pulled his arm into the water, sleeve and all.

The wind had nothing on the lake's waters - small bites punching into his skin. Harry kept his hand submerged, though, until he could be sure the smell was off him. For good measure, he rolled his other sleeve off, pushing it under the water to run his jagged nails down his arm to calm down.

The school bell rang in the distance, for breakfast, and today, it was easier to ignore the hunger in his stomach. He already ate little, and could remember days he wouldn't eat at all. Under him, the scent of wet soil wafted into his nose, as it smudged his clothes and glasses. He could feel the frames stretching against his nose, putting pressure on the metal.

For the next ten minutes, he lay perfectly still, save for occasionally moving his numb arms under the water, and glancing above his school blazer for a look at his now red arm. He grimaced at the thin, raw lines prickling with dots of blood. His nails weren't better, jagged from where Harry bit down and rusted red on the edges.

Five minutes later, both arms terribly numb and motionless, Harry heard a shuffle behind him, and with speed he didn't know he had, snatched his arms from the water, jumping to his feet with a small cry and splashing water around him. In the scuffle, his foot slid on the layer of mud, leaving him off balance.

The water got closer, the sensation of falling replaced by his plummeting heart, forcing the logic out of him and-

The person barely caught him, their hand wrapped around the arm with the wet sleeve. In the span of a second, Harry met the wide, frightened eyes of Draco Malfoy, and the idea of falling into the lake paled in comparison to what would happen if Malfoy saw his arm.

"I think you can let go of me now," Harry said barely above a whisper. Malfoy, very stiffly and carefully, pulled him closer, making Harry stumble on the mud, this time face-down.

Malfoy caught him again.

Very briefly, Harry felt Malfoy's long limbs wrap around him to stop him from falling. Warm. So very warm against the cold that harshly enveloped him today. The warmth didn't stay though, and before Harry could close his tired eyes, Malfoy pulled him forward, shaking him while he screamed, "You are mad! Utterly mad!"

In the corner of his vision, above the soil stain on his glasses, a Ravenclaw, one older than them. Harry pulled his other sleeve down, glad the water had washed away the blood, wiping his nose on his sleeve, "I dropped something."

"You dropped something? What could you drop in the lake? Your sanity?"

"More like your dignity," Harry bit back roughly, shrugging off Malfoy's arm, "What are you doing here anyway?"

"Looking for the smart lad that left the door of Greenhouse Three open, worrying Professor Sprout half to death. Is skipping your responsibility a common feat for you, or is it exclusively to prove you're not a Ravenclaw?"

"Maybe it's because I don't want to hear your annoying voice!" Harry shouted, slinging his arm out of Malfoy's grip and starting to walk towards the Greenhouses, nodding nervously at the extremely pretty Ravenclaw girl with a freckled nose, a head taller than Harry himself.

"Where are you going?" Malfoy called after him, trying to grab Harry's arm. Harry wrenched it back, and this time, Malfoy was the one to stumble forward, knees hitting the stone steps that led up to the school.

"Why are you following me?" Harry said through his teeth. Malfoy stood up, wobbling, touching his knees and wincing, making Harry press his lips together in remorse. Feeling somewhat guilty for Malfoy's fall while his arm was still bandaged, Harry lifted his hand for him to hold on to while he brushed the dust from his knees.

He did, hesitantly, and Harry trembled for a moment under Malfoy's weight.

Malfoy straightened up, "Professor Sprout was looking for you."

Harry felt himself pale.

"Why didn't you finish your chore?"

"I did," said Harry, sighing. He rubbed the back of his neck, his wet sleeve brushing his nape. His other hand twitched behind him, entwined with his shirt. Why did Malfoy have to find him so soon? He still felt his nerves jolting under his skin, making him want to scratch his arm to calm down, or stuff it down into the lake. The cold had helped take his mind off things, even now keeping him grounded.

"Then come on," he said, again attempting to grab him by the arm, going pink in the face when Harry, once again, snatched his hand back, "She sent us to look for you. If Chang hadn't noticed you in the distance, we wouldn't have found you until classes started."

"Thank Chang for me, then," Harry hissed under his breath, bumping into Malfoy's shoulder to move past him, "I don't need someone to make sure I work."

"I bet you didn't even see that one Minister official eyeing you, in the distance. And not in a good way either! You need someone to make sure you don't die!" came Malfoys shout behind him, and Harry shrunk in on himself, breaking into a sprint to Greenhouse 3. Professor Sprout was waiting by the entrance, and Harry hid his arms behind his back, dropping his head.

"Mr Patel -"

"Professor, I really... I can't. I know for..." he rubbed his eye with his palm, glasses lifting on one side, "Two days now, I haven't been very responsible. But-" he put a hand into his pocket, taking out the trampled paper bag and holding it out for her, "I'm sorry. But I can't enter the- this Greenhouse. Can we do it elsewhere?"

Harry didn't know what convinced Professor Sprout, his stance or expression or the dirt on his clothes and face, or maybe the water dripping from his arm. Greenhouse two was alright, she assured him, but also made it quite clear that he lost Ravenclaw seven points as they entered through the door.

All Harry could do was mutely agree, barely listening, only hearing the part of needing to water the lilies every other day. The bell rang, and Harry rubbed his eyes tiredly, reassuring he would be fine and would definitely see his aunt after classes. Somehow, after the humid air had settled around him, the walk to the castle seemed longer. Having not eaten breakfast, he sluggishly climbed the stairs, stifling a yawn every few steps.

Barely any students were in the halls, the ones that were unfortunate enough to be late for class glancing towards him before rushing past, occupied with their own troubles. Outside the English classroom, Harry took a deep breath, tidied himself as much as possible and knocked on the door. Immediately, Professor Lupin's lecture died down. Harry heard him clear his throat before calling for him to enter, eyes falling when it was Harry who entered the classroom.

"You're rather late today, Ali."

"I know, sir," Harry said quietly, squeezing his arm behind his back and hanging his head, "It won't happen again."

Professor Lupin nodded, gesturing for him to sit down, "See me after class, please."

Harry took the seat at the back of the class, wanting to press his head down on the table and sleep, or find some other means of calming down. Would anyone notice if he rolled his sleeves just a bit? He could excuse it by saying it was itchy, or his arm touched a nasty plant in the Greenhouse. Eyeing the class and Professor Lupin, Harry propped up his book, skimming the poem they were discussing while under the table he started to scratch.

And, to his relief, the pain grounded him enough to pay attention, even answering a question correctly when Professor Lupin called on him.

After class, Harry packed his books away and watched the rest of the class leave, stiffly buttoning and unbuttoning his bag. When it was only Professor Lupin and him who remained, Harry didn't stand until he was asked to, nervously fiddling with his thumb.

"You look rather ill, Harry," Professor Lupin said, leaning against his table and crossing his arms, "Would you like me to write to Madam Pomfrey, so you can rest?"

Harry grimaced. The last thing he needed was to get stuck in the hospital wing all day with nothing to distract him, "No, sir. I'm not ill."

"Has something happened that kept you late?" Professor Lupin asked with a small smile, lifting a hand to brush his shoulder. But Harry pulled back, hiding his arm behind his back.

Their eyes met, Professor Lupin's hand closing and slowly falling down.

"Harry-"

"No, sir," said Harry, swallowing thickly and scratching his cheek, "Just... I didn't hear the bell."

"If there are... You can tell me anything, Harry. You know that, I hope."

Harry squared his shoulders, and breathed, "Sure."

"My office is always open."

"I know."

"And if there are things you're too afraid to ask, I'm sure-"

"I said I know!" Harry shouted, hands clasped beside him, "I don't need anyone's pity! I-"

Immediately, Harry felt himself flush, the reality of what he just screamed at his own Professor settling rather uncomfortably into his head. He shrunk in on himself further, once more rubbing his eyes, "I'm... I understand if you take points, or give detention, sir. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that."

"Ah, no," Professor Lupin said lightly, clearing his throat. Harry knew he was trying to regain some composure, but behind his shaky smile, he could see some reluctance as he spoke, "I should not have pushed you further. If you'd like, you may leave."

"No... no points taken? Or detention?"

"I think you've shown enough remorse," Professor Lupin said. Harry agreed silently. He turned around to leave, and Professor Lupin stood up to accompany him to the door. A few steps ahead, however, Harry stopped and turned around.

"Have I done something to you Professor?"

Professor Lupin blinked, "Would you be kind enough to explain?"

"You act like… I don't know how to put it, but I feel like you know something about me that I don't," Harry said, sighing in relief. The thought had been bothering him since the first day in class, from being called by his first name to feeling as though he was receiving special attention. In response, Professor Lupin's lips parted, before being pressed into a firm line. He ran a hand through his shaggy hair, sighing, "I'm afraid that is a conversation that requires more time.

"No reading on Sunday?" Harry asked hopefully.

"Perhaps not the whole hour," Professor Lupin said, opening the door, "I would still like to make sure there isn't anything bothering you, however."

"I think I'll take it up with my aunt, sir," Harry said, turning around and meeting his eyes, "There isn't anything, though. You don't have to worry."

Professor Lupin couldn't hide his disbelief with a smile. Harry didn't comment on it, nodding and walking past him to his next class, sleep slowly boring down on his shoulders.

After school, Harry visited the library to study with Hermione, and without giving her the chance to say anything about the fight, kept her occupied with stories Professor Patel had told him and the things he learnt from the apothecary, particularly the (almost) lie about the ginger incident.

"Is that why you don't like ginger?" Hermione whispered above her book, "Because you inhaled a bit too much?"

"I mean," Harry rubbed the back of his neck, "My aunt couldn't have known I would hate it, when she gave the jar to me, right?"

Then there was comfortable silence, and the two parted in the Great Hall.

After dinner, before leaving the dormitories, Harry caught up with Cedric Diggory.

"How're your hands, Ali?" he asked, a hand on his shoulder, "Practise not giving you any trouble?"

"Not really," Harry said, moving his fingers on his lap, "Um, listen. I was wondering… well you look like you know how to… talk to people, and, uh… talk good... To people. ."

"I do?" Cedric said, beaming a little..

"Oh, yes. And, out of curiosity, I was wondering if you could give me some advice on —" Harry looked around to make sure Hermione, Ron and especially Malfoy weren't in sight. They weren't. Harry leaned closer either way, dropping his voice to a whisper, "— Some advice on bringing people together, after they fought."

He asked the same question to the Hufflepuffs. And to Luna, and the Ravenclaw (he still needed those notes, and the more he got to know them, the easier it would be to ask) after asking the friend Cedric recommended. Satisfied with the answers he'd got, and a plan formulating in his head for Wednesday morning, Harry smugly exited the Ravenclaw common room. The corridor's dim lighting and the pattering of rain against the window made him even more sleepy, with only the cold keeping him lucid.

He'd have to remember to wear his coat next time.

In Professor Patel's office, before she could say anything, Harry pulled the chair forward, plopped down on it and leaned his head on the table, "I'm so tired, Professor…"

"Ah, well, you're not accustomed to studying and conforming to a schedule. In due time —"

"No," Harry mumbled, tapping his finger against the table's side in rhythm to the rain, "I'm tired of feeling. I wish I wouldn't feel at all. I wish I could go numb."

Professor Patel's chair creaked. Harry didn't look up. He still felt her eyes on the back of his head, though, and could imagine the worried crease of her eyebrows and the frown on the corner of her lips, "That isn't what you told me last time we saw each other. I'm coming to the conclusion that this thought is something that has accumulated in your mind for a while, and a recent tipping point caused you to express it."

"I burned again today, Professor," Harry said in a coarse whisper, closing his eyes in a grimace, "I don't know what's happening to me. It's the same thing, over and over and over again and I'm so tired."

"The one on the train?"

Harry straightened, meeting her eye. Professor Patel only kept a single lantern in her office, and just a few candles, which Harry only saw when the sky was wrought darker due to the rain, the thick clouds hiding the stars and the moon. Like this rare occasion, where funny shadows danced on the table and on their skin, there was enough light for them to see, yet not enough for Harry to decipher what Professor Patel was thinking through her expression.

"The one that's everywhere."

"You've never mentioned that it happens quite as often. Only a few occasions, and never described such detail."

"I said I was burning," Harry snapped, the need for sleep slowly clouding his head, even though he knew he wouldn't be able to fall asleep.

"You have," Professor Patel said, lifting a hand around her candle, lowering it when her skin came too close, "A candle burns. So does a house. A forest, and Rome has once, as well. From the way you're describing it, that's not a candle."

"Are you asking me if I'm Rome?"

"I'm asking you what set you on fire. May that be a candle," she dropped her hand, "Or firewood for winter."

Harry pulled his knees up, hiding his head between his arms, "I don't want to talk about it."

"Do you really not?" Professor Patel asked quietly. Harry peered between his arms. The light from the candle caught on Professor Patel's dark eyes.

And Harry could see something more than worry in them.

"Profesor, I…" Harry sniffed, hating himself for feeling tears burn the corner of his eyes, "I'm just. I'm sick of…"

The rain hammered harder against the glass. Harry sniffed again, furiously rubbing his eyes, hoping the shadows hid his face. Was it meant to be this hard? Talking? Uttering the words he'd kept in his heart, bound to burst under the weight that came with keeping them hidden?

How long could he hide a storm?

And how long did he want to?

"Harry?"

Professor Patel's voice was too soft, too close. The rain muted any other sound of the castle, and under the light of a flickering candle there was no-one to see the single drops of that storm, coming down his chin like the water down the glass pane. He didn't manage to look up, the shame rushing to his ears and spreading over his cheeks.

"I don't — " his voice was thick, and yet silent - lost like a small pebble thrown out at sea. The light of the candle grew dimmer the longer he looked at it. The words lost value the more he kept them on the tip of his tongue.

He peeked above his arm, just once, to meet her eyes, and with a shaking voice finally said the words no child should have to burden, no life should have to use.

"I don't want to be hurt anymore."

A lot of things looked like it crossed Professor Patel's mind at that second. And it probably did. She took a deep breath, glanced at the candle light, and back to Harry again.

"Right now, at this moment in time, what words should I say to bring you the most comfort?"

"That —" Harry heaved, rubbing his cheek on his dirty sleeve, "— That I won't be hurt. That I don't have to be scared. That tomorrow, I will wake up and everything will be normal."

"There exists no immunity against hardship, Harry," Professor Patel said, barely above the sound of the rain, "Life is hardship. It's the forest I've talked to you about. You don't choose what comes your way, Harry. And sometimes," her frown lifted into a sad smile, and her gaze fell towards the rain, "Sometimes you can't stop it."

"Then I'm not going to ever find my way out."

"You don't find your way out. As long as you're breathing —" she touched a hand to her chest, and took a heavy breath, "— As long as I have this heart beating inside of me, I'm still on that road, finding new maps, using old ones. Meeting new people, leaving some behind."

"And what's your forest look like? Sunny and with roses?" Harry asked, harsher than intended, burying his face in his arms, "Mines probably snowy and twisting and turning, and every single time I see something that… bothers me, the storm only gets worse."

A moment of silence later, Professor Patel spoke, "If you had to spend your life as miserable as possible, what would the things you do be?"

"What does that have to do with this?"

"For one night, will you not trust me? There is not much light, no soul wandering this part of the school."

Harry held her gaze, then released a shaky breath. No footsteps, barely enough light. Trust, however, he couldn't comprehend. What made trust, and what made you give it to another person? Years of knowing each other, shared experiences and news towards the world. More importantly, though, how could one share themselves, little pieces of glass, easily broken by the wrong touch, with the wrong person?

It took too much, perhaps, being vulnerable.

Barely enough light, enough darkness to hide their secrets.

"Never work, lie around all day," Harry said, counting without paying mind, "Never change my clothes, never wash. Keep hurting myself. Refuse to speak to others —" Harry's breath hitched, voice cutting where the next sentence was to begin. In front of him, Professor Patel leaned on her chair, gesturing at him to continue. Harry didn't think he needed to.

He did either way, throat dry and shaky laughter accompanying his words, " — Not eat, not drink. Keep every part of myself locked away — right here, in my chest — and…"

"And?

Harry licked his dry lips, wiping his cheek, "Stop living."

"You'd stop being human," Professor Patel confirmed, and all Harry could do was nod, wincing when Professor Patel pressed salt to the wound.

"And you realised some of these things you are doing, they're in the list. Things you do, things you want to do."

"Things I wish I didn't," the flame shuddered with his breath, "I don't see what it has to do with the road, still."

"Then tell me, Harry," Professor Patel leaned closer, seemingly about to reveal a great secret, "Would you take unnecessary packages with you, on a long trip?"

"Of course not."

"And yet, humans keep insisting on picking up the wrong luggage," she lifted an ink bottle from the table, turning it around her fingers, "We humans, whether the road be in a storm or a curvy path, are so focused on the ugly nicknacks on the side of the road, insisting on carrying them with us, we neglect collecting the useful - the ones that will help us with the inevitable obstacles on our way.

"In a way," she placed the ink bottle back on the table, ruffling some of the papers, "We pick up the rock, instead of an umbrella."

"I can't help pick it up, though," Harry argued, straightening his back, "I can't help pick it up."

"Then why won't you try letting it go?"

Harry's words caught in his mouth, and he took a few moments to compose himself before coming with an answer, "I can't. I don't know how."

Profesor Patel shrugged, "You didn't know how to read either."

"No, you don't understand," Harry shook his hands, standing up, "This is different! I don't know how. I can't do this."

"And what you don't understand is, I'm here. The school is here," she opened her arms, pointing towards the window, "The whole world is still here, still moving and each day is half a step you can take towards learning. You won't be abandoned. You will live, and you will learn to live. You will find your map."

"And when it expires?" he saidi voice rising, placing his hands on the desk, "When I can't use it anymore? Am I going to try and find a new map every single time? I don't want any of that."

"Harry, love," Professor Patel didn't stand up, but joined her hands on the table, voice steady and firm, "Why worry about the map you're supposed to find at the moment?"

Harry squeezed his fist together, grinding his teeth. He turned around, jolting the chair, watching it tumble and tip and then regain balance. With a cry, he took the chair by the handle, pushing it so that it collapsed on the floor with a thud that echoed through the room.

Professor Patel said nothing behind her weak flames.

"Are you feeling better?"

"I hate it when you push me into corners," Harry said under his breath, hands over his eyes, fingers digging into his hair, "I hate it."

"You don't like being pushed into a corner," Professor Patel said. Lighting snaked across the great void outside, casting menacing light into the room. Yet Professor Patel's smile was just as normal, soft as always, , "And I'll push you into one more."

The light was pulled back. Harry waited for the rumbling of thunder to continue, "I don't want you to."

"I will, either way. Because, don't forget Harry —" she touched the cork of the ink bottle, " — Gaze upon the walls of this ancient castle, and observe. You'll find them masterpieces. Perfection. The only thing I want you to keep in mind?

Even black paint is used to create art."

The session ended soon after, and Harry dragged himself back to the dormitories. Too tired to talk to anyone, he greeted anyone in his way with a dismissive wave, dodging the students lingering around to get to his room, and hopefully put on a coat. His trunk was pushed into the corner, unlike the rest of the trunks pushed against the foot of the beds. Because Harry didn't have a proper bed, he had two mattresses piled on top of each other because Hogwarts dormitories only held 5 four-posters each room.

No matter.

Harry dug into his trunk, making sure delicate objects were taken out first before starting to empty his trunk, concern increasing with each article he spread out onto the floor. He didn't have much, a small bag of clothes, his school books making up most of the trunk.

Yet no coat.

Harry went through the contents again, the air getting harder to breath with each passing second. He knew it was a small thing, the loss of a coat. He had no reason to forget to breathe over it, his hands shaking with each thing he packed into his trunk.

No coat. Stolen, taken, lost. No matter. Today, yesterday, the day the trunk went missing, it made no difference.

The coat was gone, and so were the remaining steady thoughts he still had.

The map could die and the world with it.

Harry stuffed the books from his school bag back into his trunk, keeping only his paints, brush and paper. Locking the trunk angrily, the clasp snapping against his skin, Harry left the dormitory, knocking the door into the wall.

Some stared at him, as he passed the hall. Everyone stared at him as he passed the common room, some whispering among themselves and the prefects calling out his name.

"It's almost curfew!" someone shouted after him, but Harry was already by the door, throwing it open and just before he left, slamming the door after him, shouted with a cracking voice, "You ought to sleep then!"

The castle, dark and empty, grew colder as he ran. Now empty and abandoned, it took no effort for Harry to grab one of the torches on the walls and find himself an empty room.

The castle was full of them, after all.

He slid the torch into the holder, then took a desk and slid it against the door, making sure the handle couldn't be turned. He had heard Filch would make his rounds in the castle, as did other teachers.

Sometimes, this moment included, he felt too wound up in his own frustration to care. So he laid out the paper with the ink stains, rolling it backwards beside the unboxed paints.

"They want me to paint?" Harry sniffed, rubbing his eye with the back of his hand, his whole body in a surge of panic, anger and dread, "I'll paint, then."

And he did.

No teachers came to the classroom that night.

And Harry was awake through it all to know.

On a day the sun was a bother beyond anything else, Harry woke up aching. This was not unusual. He often found a chill settled into his bones in the early hours of the morning, when the city slept and the sun wasn't ready to greet their soot smeared faces.

Harry had left that life, however.

He turned around to escape the light; the world a lazy blur if he chose to peek. Like his hands, the lens of his glasses were smeared with paint, lying motionless on the floor.

Wednesday morning, his last day in Ravenclaw, the world was as it always would be. Since the day he'd lost his coat, he'd spent his afterschool time in any place that wasn't the Ravenclaw dormitories, for a few obvious reasons. Apologies had been made and accepted after his first night out of the dorms, but his dormmates kept their distance from the weird student who seldom joined the group and preferred spending time with the other 'outcast'

Harry had already come across two groups talking behind him, one in the library after he'd lost ten points for the terrible scrawl that was his homework, the second time Professor McGonogall had warned him after weeks of considerate reproach. She wasn't the only one. Teachers who originally did not mind his messy assignments, unfinished homework and other things he'd forgotten or neglected to do in his already busy schedule had grown more impatient by the day.

He wrote slowly. He wasn't trusted enough for them to lend a notebook. He needed more time to read in class and stumbled over his words when he was called to answer.

He wasn't smart.

And now, he wasn't safe from the laughter and angry muttering that followed him.

"I can't believe we're losing points because of a temporary student," hissed a Ravenclaw girl after class, when she thought he wasn't close enough to hear, "If he's bound to leave, then why are we responsible for him?"

"Did you hear how he read?" said another student, chuckling with his friends, "Worse than my brother. And he's in his first year!"

"Ridiculous."

"Did Professor Patel not teach him English?"

"His accent is a bit… off. Probably learnt Arabic first. Or Indian."

"He should just leave already."

And Harry found it in his heart to agree, pursuing the other outcast of Ravenclaw house if he felt the need to be in someone's company.

"You've been…" Luna said last Sunday, a searching look on her. It was no mystery what Harry was doing. He left the dorms after curfew (once he was sure everyone was asleep), seeking the refuge of complete detachment from the world in the forgotten, dusty classroom on the third floor or Greenhouse Two (he felt his stomach churn at the sight of Greenhouse Three ), to water his lilies, which he only continued because every day Professor Sprout made it a habit to remind him indirectly about it.

Right, Luna.

The only one in the castle who had caught a glimpse of the thoughts he was painting. She made no comment on it, which both terrified Harry and came as a relief, brushing her fingers down the page of chaotic splashes of colour.

"You're not going to say anything?" Harry asked, wondering if he ought to show some to Professor Patel as well. He'd made a promise to her after all, to try. To take small steps. This helped. It really, truly helped. With nightmares, with the burning. Keeping the Monster (the thought made him chuckle weakly) out of his head, or whatever mystery that kept happening to him.

Still, life was as it should be. Professor Lupin was as incomprehensible as ever, Snape stayed true to his annoying nature, Professor Patel gave him a strained smile whenever he felt the need to be rebellious, the trio slowly started to talk to each other thanks to Harry's lies (which weren't really lies), because of course Hermione would feel sorry about the situation. So would Ron. Maybe even Dra- Malfoy if he was lucky; and on the topic of practise, he caught no cricket balls diving through the air with bare hands, if the twins or Cedric had anything to say about it.

Today he would try to change it all, though, or at least do something while the lucid effect of the painting was still preserved. One period. That's all he needed. One period, and he'd be able to make amends with the Ravenclaws, and get the hostility between Gryffindor and Slytherin settled for good. This was especially important as Harry would be doing his best to avoid death-by-Slytherin for the next two weeks when he joined them. He'd just have to come up with an excuse to speak in art class, get the students to listen to him and explain what exactly they were doing wrong, in a roundabout way.

The door opened easily, once Harry managed to drag himself to it. His papers and paints stuffed clumsily into his bag, Harry buttoned it as he walked down the hallway, hearing the bell sound louder and louder. Closer and closer he came to the Great Hall, dodging the students with their full stomachs, ready for class after a good-night's sleep, homework complete.

In essence, everything Harry currently wasn't.

To make matters worse — he glanced up the staircases, biting his lip when his stomach growled — the stairs ahead stood no more merciful than they had on the first day.

"Last time," Harry said out loud, ignoring the dry rasp of his throat, "Last time, and I won't have to take this class again."

And for a final time, drenched in sweat, Harry lifted the trapdoor to Professor Trelawney's classroom, collapsing at the desk in the middle of the class. Immediately, the wafting mix of herbs and something that shouldn't be burnt indoors travelled up his nose. His head settled on the table. Sleepy. Slowly numb. Professor Trelawney was making her rounds around the classroom, discussing the many wonders that predicted Harry's many gruesome deaths with any student willing to listen. He closed his eyes, until he heard the unmistakable voice of Malfoy, followed by the disgruntled noises Hermione was making at the sight of their teacher.

Malfoy took the table on his right, Ron and Hermione on his left - some improvement from the unspoken rule they had of keeping at least six feet apart from each other a few days earlier. As long as they could hear Harry, they could sit in the middle of the lake for all he'd care. The second bell rang, and Professor Trelawney sprang towards the front of the class, eyes wide behind her glasses.

"Today, my dears," she said, as always sounding very surprised, "We will explore the meaning behind art, the depth you create with your materials. Half an hour, please begin."

Harry, alone at his table, took out the last of his papers, smoothing them out on the table. Perspective, depth. They'd gone over it last week, and it had given Harry the spark he needed to fix the situation. Of course, he didn't have to care. Hufflepuff was still an option, if nothing else worked. They hadn't commented much on Snape, at least outwardly - neither defending him nor Professor Lupin, which was the strategy Ravenclaws had picked up along the way.

Only Harry was already on their bad side, and the inkling thought that their ties wouldn't improve, even if his plan worked, bothered him until the end of thirty minutes.

"Papers down, now!" Professor Trelawney clapped her hands, her colorful skirt dusting the floor in a twirl, "Come, who would like to begin?"

Lavender and Parvaiti's hands sprang up into the air.

And to everyone's surprise, so did Harry's.

"Oh Mr Patel!" Professor Trelawney stooped over his head, insect like eyes scanning his page, "Do tell us about yours."

"Right, well," Harry cleared his throat, looking around the room. Now that it was actually time to speak... all reason left his mind, panic rising up his throat and catching his words, "Uh. Well, I see... I see there's a dark shadow —" he indicated the deliberate smudge he'd made, "— Looming over, oh dear. It seems to be the top most tower."

"The top most tower?" said Professor Trelawneyl, very intrigued. Hermione huffed, while Malfoy and a few others narrowed their eyes, looking concerned about his head, "Let me see, dear —"

But Harry snatched it from her hands, holding out a stalling hand.

"The point I'm trying to make —"

"What are you on, Patel?" laughed Michael Conner, the rest of the class laughing with him. Almost all of them. Harry watched their faces with a sinking heart, pushing his shaking hands behind his back; cheeks warming the more Professor Trelawney tried to silence the class.

He didn't notice Malfoy until he stood to take the paper from him, slipping a hand around his arm and sitting him down at his desk, taking his own bag to drop it beside the cushion adjacent to Harry. And though his head was down for the rest of the class, Harry felt Malfoy glaring, presumably, over him toward the back of the class.

He'd failed. The thought wasn't as uncomfortable as the occasional chuckle behind his back, prompting him to further bury his head inside his arms and not look up until the end of class.

"Shadow, eh, Patel?" someone said as they walked by, and still Harry couldn't bring himself to look up. Only when Malfoy shook his arm — the class silent — was he able to lift his eyes.

Malfoy watched him dully.

"Don't say anything," Harry muttered, wanting to knock his head on the table when he noticed that Hermione and Ron were in the classroom as well, "Just…"

"I wasn't planning to," Malfoy said , gaze flicking towards Professor Trelawney nervously pacing the front of her classroom with the occasional glance towards their group, "However, if you're quite eager…"

"I'm not."

"I have time to spare."

"I don't," Harry stuffed the paper into his bag, almost falling when he was kept back by the hand still around his arm, "I really don't, Malfoy. The trouble I'll be in if I'm late! And I don't mean the teachers."

At that, the three shared a look, and Malfoy let go. Harry stumbled. Ron caught him. Hermione called after him to meet them in the library after school, huffing when Professor Trelawney tried to catch up to Harry, which he ignored with a clumsy climb down the stairs, almost breaking his leg.

Library…

As if he could be anywhere else, now.

And as promised, he did show up. Hungry, but barely noticing it, fiddling with his hands and itching to scratch his arm to calm down, "Don't know if the library is a good place to talk," he whispered, glancing at the prying Madam Prince who heard too much and said too little.

"Any ideas?" Malfoy said, fiddling with the spine of a book despite how many times Hermione had slapped his hand for it.

Harry did, and the rest didn't mind when he led them to Greenhouse Two. He'd have to water the lilies anyway, and Professor Sprout had made her stance clear — rather excitedly — on how he was always welcome. What were three students more?

"That was a little embarrassing," Harry said after the flowers were watered, the pot sitting between them on the floor. Harry ran a hand through his hair, hanging his head, and covering both eyes, "Actually, I don't want to go to school anymore."

"Don't exaggerate, Ali," said Hermione.

"Do you think he's exaggerating, Hermione?" asked Ron, and all four of them fell silent. Hermione nudged Malfoy when the silence turned awkward, and Malfoy twitched in surprise, rubbing the spot where Hermione touched him, "What?"

Hermione nodded towards Harry, and Malfoy glanced back at him, narrowing his eyes in confusion, "What, I don't understand what you're trying to say. I told you already, when you're talking to me —"

" — Talk clearly," mimicked Ron.

" — Because I don't understand, and sometimes — "

"Lose focus," echoed Ron and Hermione. For a moment, a very brief moment, they held their gazes, and to Harry's relief, a smile cracked each of their lips, their stances far less tense.

"Well, if I had known it would take this little for you to make up — " Harry pulled his knees forward, curling his arms around them and resting his chin on his arms, " — I wouldn't have gone through all that."

"Is that what it was? To get us to make up?" asked Hermione. At Harry's small shrug, Malfoy stopped fiddling with his shirt buttons, an amused smile pulling his lips, "Maybe leave the thinking to the Ravenclaws, Patel."

He successfully dodged the water remaining in the watering can, laughing until he noticed the dirt now running down his sleeve.

"It's only Wednesday!" he shouted while angrily brushing a hand down his sleeve, "I can't wait for the weekend until I wash this."

"Don't you have a trunk full of shirts?" Ron asked, stretching his long arms above his head, "Malfoy?"

Malfoy didn't look.

"Draco!"

Malfoy looked up, confused, "What?"

"I said — Well, nevermind. So if that's settled —"

"I suppose we can just talk to the other Gryffindors, if it's bothering you that much, Ali," Hermione said, on his shoulder.

"It's not the whole school I'm worried about," Harry played with the leaf of a plant beside him, running a hand down the thin branch, "I just… I don't want anyone to keep me as a jury."

"You can think more diverse than that," Hermione said. When Harry furrowed his brows, she continued, "I suppose we'd been thinking… black and white, too. It was wrong of us to defend ourselves so strongly, just because Professor Snape isn't the most…"

"Approachable?" Malfoy suggested, still brushing his shirt.

"Well, yes. He isn't very much like the other teachers."

"I wouldn't have an issue with it, if he took points from all houses," Ron said, offering a puzzled look when Malfoy stopped brushing his shirt, a narrow glare directed at him, "What?"

Still looking like he was dying to say something, Malfoy simply unfolded the jersey hanging from his other arm; putting it on and making sure the now almost gone stain didn't show, "He doesn't give points to us, either. And I suppose I'll do something about it, too. But in truth?" he shrugged, both hands on his hips, "You are exaggerating. It'll die down in a month."

"Weren't you the one that argued the most — " Malfoy lowered Harry's hand, brushing some soil from his shoulder, "I'll come with you to collect your things."

Harry scoffed, "I'll be fine."

"With those arms?" Malfoy asked, nodding towards his hands, "You can barely carry your books."

This time, he couldn't dodge the glove Harry threw at his head.

The goodbyes back in the Ravenclaw dorms were brief, as Harry just thanked Professor Flitwick privately in his office, handing over the key for the fourth time that week, assuring him he was fine. After two rounds of carrying his things out, he said a quıick thank you to his dorm mates, waving at Luna with a small smile before walking out the room.

"Right, you take one end, and I'll take the other," Malfoy said, heaving the metal handle, "Ready? One, two, three."

Grumbling, sweaty, tired, and realising mid-way they should have asked someone else considering the staircases, they almost fell with the trunk outside the Slytherin enterance, rubbing their aching backs and wiping the sweat from their foreheads.

"Let me just — " Malfoy huffed, voice thin. He unlocked the door and left it wide open, slipping the chain holding the key around his neck before turning to help Harry with his trunk.

A final few steps, and finally, they were in, sprawling on the cold dungeon floor to cool their skin, "And you said —" Malfoy gasped out, hand over his stomach and chuckling weakly, "And you said you'd be fine."

"Shut it," Harry managed, raising his head. The few people that were in the common room turned their heads when Harry looked up, going back to talking amongst each other. Straightening up, trunk still on the floor, Harry's first impression of the common room wasn't half bad. Lake-water lapped the bottom of the tall windows, and the flames of the fireplace added a soothing warmth to the grey and silver of the furnishings. After bright yellows and blues, Harry had to admit it was a good change.

"Right, well, let's get this to our dorm and I'll take you to Professor Snape," Malfoy said, standing up, though some red still remained on his cheeks.

"Professor Snape?"

"To get your key. Maybe have a talk. Didn't the other teachers do the same?"

They had. But Professor Snape wasn't only a teacher, was he?"

This time, someone — Zabini — was kind enough to lend them a hand, even dragging the whole thing himself at the last few steps. Malfoy patted his arm in thanks, wordlessly taking Harry by the arm to lead him towards the inevitable meeting with Snape.

"Just through here," he motioned the door of the potions classroom, "He has an office in the common room, but he rarely uses it and even then only after curfew."

Without waiting for a response, Malfoy went back the way he came, his silhouette slowly blending into the dark.

Harry knocked on the door. The sound echoed through the corridor, and Snape's voice followed. Eager to get out of the dark, Harry quickly entered, pushing the door with his whole body. Inside, instead of behind his desk where he expected him to be, Snape was by the window, peering into the darkness.

"Sir?"

"Have a seat," Snape said without looking, voice far more quiet than usual, "Or don't, however you're comfortable."

Harry took the seat, eyes following Snape. It wasn't unusual for Snaoe to look like he was thinking — Harry would bet that Snape was thinking every minute of every day, many thoughts in his head, with the little amount he spoke — but right now, Harry found himself… worried. Snape's expressions were fluid enough, usually morphing between anger, irritation and amusement, but the current crease of worry was unusual.

"Are, er, is everything alright, sir?"

"I wonder," Snape said, sitting back down, "Nothing to concern yourself. Now — " he dug a hand into his breast pocket, retrieving a key and sliding it across the table, " — Your key, for Slytherin."

"Does everyone have spare keys?" Harry asked, slipping out the chain he used for all the others and hanging the key on the end of it before wearing it around his head.

"At least five, in my case," Snape said, an irritated frown pulling his lips, "First years can be rather bothersome in the regard of losing their keys. Which is to say — " he leaned forward, pointing at the key with a long finger, " — Do not lose it."

"I have bigger things to worry about — Of course I won't lose it. I'm afraid they won't let me in if I did, the Slytherins."

"Don't be senseless. Now, regarding other matters," he sat down, leaning back in his seat with a plain look on his face, "What is this I hear about you being behind in other classes as well? I asked you to pay more attention to the class and your assignments, though I thought it stemmed from your… dislike of me. It applies for all other classes, does it not?"

Harry's heart dropped, and the chain around his neck suddenly felt very, very cold against his skin, "No I'll… I'll catch up soon, I always do… Things were just busy, s'all."

"For two weeks?"

"I think It'll be worse, the longer I stay here chatting about it," Harry said, close to snapping, "I said I'll catch up. I keep my promises."

"So do I," Snape said, and lifting a page from between many more, "I spoke with the staff, as well as the one is charge of students' affairs — "

"Students' affairs?"

"Your dear aunt. We've agreed it best to take you out of elective courses for the time being, until you've caught up," Snape put the page down, pointing at the blank spaces on his schedule which usually held the art and riding classes. Picking up his pen, Snape turned the paper around, wrote something down, and handed it back to him, "You'll continue with the after school lessons for the time being, but instead, the focus will be around catching you up to the current classes, and not about the subjects you've missed in the last two years.

"Those will be handled in the winter and summer holidays, except for English and Mathematics, which you will still study. On this —" he tapped his finger on Wednesday morning "— And this day," and again on Friday afternoon, "I will ask for two seventh years to aid you, and if you're still having trouble while studying on your own on the weekend, there are Slytherin study groups you can participate in. Do you understand?"

Harry stared, blinked, and continued to stare.

Snape furrowed his eyebrows, "Close your mouth, Patel, you look ridiculous."

"Why are you trying to catch me up on school work?"

This time, it was Snape's turn to look confused, in the sort of frustrated manner only he would be able to manage, "Don't tell me the answer is too difficult for you to comprehend. I'm the head of Slytherin house, a teacher in this school, and your issued guardian. As impossible as it is to imagine, I do take care of my responsibilities, whatever those may be."

"Even if…" Harry swallowed, taking the paper from Snape's outstretched hand, "Even if it's me? The real me?"

Snape arched his brow cleanly, "Especially if it's you."

He felt a warm glow.

A glow that wasn't easy to ignore.

"You'll meet the rest of your year tomorrow," Snape stood up, hands behind his back, "For now, the only rule I'm issuing you is that no student is to remain in the common room after half past ten. A prefect will catch you up to the rest tomorrow."

"Yes, sir," Harry said, standing up as well and turning to walk towards the door. He paused on the first step, though, and turned back around, "Uh, sir. Would it be possible to get more paper?"

"Have you already exhausted your supply?"

Harry caught where the conversation was going easily by the look on Snape's face, "Yes, but not because I was busy with them when I should be working. I promise. They help me… feel my best."

Snape eyed him carefully, "See me tomorrow, and we'll discuss it again. Oh, and Potter —" Harry looked up, hand on the door handle, " — No night time wanderings."

For a moment, Harry had the idea that Snape knew about what he was doing. Panic rose up his throat.

"I do not want to hear about you angrily storming from the common room and not coming back the whole night, though I should thank you for losing all those points and keeping Slytherin in first place."

Harry dropped his hand, "Are you scolding me or thanking me?"

Snape's smirked, "Both. No night time wanderings. And do make use of the coat you have. I'd rather see you wearing a coat too big than dressing thinly."

Heat rushed to Harry's ears, "Of course, sir."

"And a final word of advice," Snape opened the door for him, darkness pooling into the room, "Always be on your guard, and keep someone in your company while out on the grounds."

"Because of Sirius Black?"

"So that troublesome misfortune you have causes no harm to you," Professor Snape muttered bitterly, "The troubles we seem to find you in. Good night, Ali."

A weak smile on his lips, Harry nodded, "Good night, Professor Snape."

The door closed, and Harry found himself in the darkness. With every step back to the common room, and as he lay on his new bed, the thought — oddly in Snape's voice — echoed in his head.

Welcome to Slytherin, Harry Potter.

His first morning in Slytherin was extraordinarily like any other day.

"October, huh?" Harry mumbled while straightening his hair, lifting his bag from the top of his made bed. Without waiting for the others, he walked out the door, waving at one of the third year girls waiting in the common room, and left the dormitories.

His footsteps echoed in the empty dungeon corridor. He held up a hand to shield his eyes from the bright light of the exit. Cedric and his group of friends were entering through the door, which reminded Harry that it was Tuesday, which also reminded him that he hadn't been able to join practise on Tuesday because of his appointment with Snape.

"Cedric!" Harry shouted after him, before he could enter the hall, diminishing the little confidence Harry now had in front of large crowds. Thankfully, Cedric stopped with a foot hovering above the line, patting his friends' arms to get them moving.

"How can I help you, Patel?"

"Just wanted to, uh, apologise, because I couldn't make it last time."

"... You'll come next time though, right?"

Harry blinked, "Do you not want me to?"

"Of course I do! It's just…" he shuffled on his feet, rubbing the back of his neck, "I didn't think that you'd want to."

Harry blinked away. Loud laughter emanating from the Hall met them in the corridor, providing a welcome distraction, "Because of Ravenclaw?"

"Slytherin keeps to themselves, usually," he said, more like an offering than a statement, pulling him aside so more people could enter the Hall easily, "You're Slytherin now, I thought you'd act more like them."

"I was also Ravenclaw for two weeks," he muttered, hands inside of his pockets, "But I didn't — nevermind."

"Oh come on," he bumped his arm, grin on his face, "You can tell me."

"Cedric — "

"Please?" he tilted his head to the side, grin widening when Harry sighed.

"You heard, right? Of what happened in Ravenclaw. With other Ravenclaws."

"Ah, yes," he rubbed his nape, straightening up, "Look, Patel. Don't take it personally. It's got more to do with how you didn't lose points when in Hufflepuff and that you lost them while at Ravenclaw, nothing more. They also have a reputation for being, well, intelligent, and it gave them a reason to excuse their anger."

"Did your Ravenclaw friend tell you that?"

Red dusted Cedric's face, which he unsuccessfully dismissed with a wave of his hand, and leading them both inside said, "She might have mentioned it, off-handley."

Harry chuckled weaky, leaving for the Slytherin table, "I'll make it. Next time."

"Next time, then."

Harry took a seat which didn't have any students in close proximity, and pulled a bowl close, eating in silence until Dr- Malfoy sat down beside him a short while later. He spoke loudly and excitedly, introducing everyone to Harry and vice versa, starting a long rant Harry tuned out, too focused on breakfast.

After the whole… event that was Ravenclaw, he knew it was quite normal for him to feel nervous around the students, but it still came as a surprise when he was unable to look anyone in the eye, afraid he would do something wrong to offend them. Slytherin, everyone said, was the 'evil' house. The ones that you didn't talk to; the ones that didn't socialize, stuck in their little house in the dungeons, away from sight.

Harry wondered if Tom Riddle had been in this house - was once like these students chatting amongst each other, looking nothing like what Harry imagined when he was in Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff.

It was a different view, on this side of the Great Hall. And besides - Snape wouldn't let him die, would he?

Harry frowned. Would he? He was very adamant — adamant, the word lifted the corner of his lips into a smile — about caring about him. If he hadn't, he wouldn't have gone out of his way to get Harry a proper schedule.

Harry stood up from the table, his bowl empty, "I'm… going to visit the library. I won't be late for class," he told Malfoy, picking up his bag and starting a slow walk out the Hall, somehow the chatter dying away and picking up again when he stepped into the corridor.

Madam Pince was helpful enough, and allowed him to borrow a book on Slytherin - not-so subtly reminding him of the rules of borrowing books and watching him like a hawk while he slid the book into his bag. She nodded firmly when the book sat snugly in his bag, turning her eyes away before she could see the nervous smile and wave Harry had offered.

The bell hadn't rang yet. Harry started his leisure walk up the stairs to the English classroom, wondering where he would start his duty. The prefects had asked him to help clean the common room until they got back to him on Monday.

He turned into the corridor, hands in his pockets as he walked down the hall. Finally outside the classroom, Harry slid down the stone wall, taking out the book. The first page had the Hogwarts' seal, with darker ink for the Slytherin emblem. Turning to the table of contents, he skimmed down the page. There was historical information, a chapter dedicated to the founder, what Slytherin meant and what was expected of the students, and then a list of famous Slytherin students.

Harry glanced at the page number, and started to turn to his destination. He missed the mark, however, landing on the end of the list instead. Any other person would turn back to the beginning, yet Harry was caught up with one particular name, written in with a fresh touch of ink and a distinct font.

Lord Tom Morvolo Riddle (see Voldemort)

"Huh," Harry pressed a finger down on the name, then closed the book and leaned his head on the stone, "I think I might join Slytherin, just to spite you."

"Ha- Ali?"

Harry looked up, then scrambled to stand, holding the book loosely in one hand, "Good morning, Professor Lupin."

"What are you doing here so early?" Lupin asked, leaning on the doorframe. His eyes caught the book in his hands, and a smile stretched on his lips, "Though I'm pleased to know you're reading, I don't want you to do so at the expense of missing meals."

"I've eaten, and this?" he showed him the cover, "I think I should know some things, if I'm going to be Slytherin."

"I admire your resolve for the - er - time visiting Slytherin," he eyed the book, his eyes downturned. Harry was about to bring it up, about how he didn't look very pleased, but Lupin held the door open before he could do so, "Won't you come in? We have some time before class starts, and I have some tea."

"Uh," he glanced inside the classroom, pressing his lips into an uncertain smile and nodded. Sliding the book back into his bag, he sat down on the seat Lupin pulled for him.

"I'll be only a second," Lupin said, disappearing into his office and coming back with a spare mug. A small teapot hung above the hearth of a dying fire. Pouring the remaining tea, Lupin brought the mug to the table, placing it on the desk for Harry to drink, "I hope you'll like it," he said, crossing his arms on the table almost expectedly.

Harry nodded in thanks. Lifting the mug to his lips, he blew on it a few times, only noticing his mistake of not smelling it beforehand soon after the first sip.

The tea had a questionable taste, as though the ginger was uncertain of itself, caught between strong and weak, sweet and bitter.

"It's not to your taste, is my guess," Lupin said when Harry tried to hide his wrinkled nose, dismissing him when Harry tried to apologize, "No need, Harry. People's tastes are seldom the same."

Harry put the mug back on the table, folding his hands on his lap, "Can I… I want to tell you something, Professor."

Lupin leaned forward in his seat, "Of course."

Eyes pinned on his hands, Harry took a deep breath, "I… I don't know what really happened in your class with Neville and your… suggestion to him, but I wanted to make you aware of something."

Lupin took a sharp breath, "Harry — "

"It's Ali, Professor. And please listen. I'm not… I'm not angry at you. Or maybe not anymore… But I feel I have to say this," he looked up, then flattened his bangs, "I just got to know Sn — Professor Snape this summer, not long… We never got along at first," Harry's lips lifted slightly, remembering the day he fell down the chimney, rubbing his hand down his back, "I didn't like him, he didn't like me. But out of everyone in this school, I… know him the most, and he knows me the most. We both have our bad sides, but Professor Snape was there when I had no one, so I felt that I would be doing something unfair if I didn't let you know this, a-about Professor Snape..."

Time - that was the only thing they exchanged. Empty, silent seconds spent not meeting each other's gaze. The tea on the table cooled, and the first bell rang, bringing their attention to the door. Professor Lupin cleared his throat and lifted the mug from the table, "Thank you for being honest with me, Harry," he said with a smile, gesturing to the classroom. Harry heard the dismissive underlying tone, "Any questions for class?"

Can I change books?

Harry smiled politely, shook his head, and headed to the back of the classroom, "Thank you, Professor."

They didn't speak, not even after the students started entering the classroom. Malfoy took a seat beside Nott, and Daphne Greengrass took the seat next to Harry. Resting his forehead on the table, he listened to Lupin's lecture, something about continuing adjectives and adverbs from where they left off. Harry took out his notebook, opening to a clean page and frowned when, in the corner of his eye, saw the perfect script of Daphne.

"We've gone over the types," Lupin tapped his chalk on the blackboard, underlining the list, "In today's lesson, we'll find the adjectives in the provided text. Take out your pencils, please!"

Harry groaned at those oh so sweet words. Lupin turned the board around, a short paragraph labeled Oliver Twist taking up most of the space.

"The author, Charles Dickens, has passed only recently. Four years ago, I think," Lupin told the class, who had already started copying down what was on the board, the steady sound of pencil on paper occupying the room.

Well, most of them did. Harry gripped his pencil tightly, looking up at least twice for each word, carving big black letters down on the page. He stole a glance to his side, again, only to press his lips together in a firm line when he saw that Daphne was done with a good portion of her work.

"How do you write so fast?" he hissed, occasionally glancing towards the front of the classroom, copying the lines off of Daphne's page, "I'm not even halfway done."

Daphne glanced at his page, her lips curled into a wince, "Well, you'll do better, the more you write."

Except, the more Harry wrote, the more he was behind. Chewing his lip, he moved onto the next sentence, hating how long it took to write it down when Daphne — or anyone else, really — got it down with a graceful curve of a pencil, moving onto word after word smoothly.

"... What did you do in the other classes?" Daphne asked very quietly, tapping his hand with her pencil and continuing to write, "If you wrote like the way you do now."

"Hufflepuff gave me their notes," Harry said, leaning his chin on his palm, adjusting his grip on the pencil, "I was too scared to ask anyone in Ravenclaw," he added with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. Daphne nodded along with a smile of her own, only one side of her lips lifting. They didn't speak until the end of the lesson, the only interaction they had being when Daphne offered to share her own notebook when the time for both writing the passage and working on it was done.

The silent gesture meant so much more to Harry than he wanted it to.

Before he walked out the door, he glanced above his shoulder to see if Professor Lupin was doing the same for him. He wasn't, stacking his books and papers instead. That was alright with Harry, and he left without a word, enduring a long, boring class of physics before walking down the stairs for chemistry immediately after, his brain barely functioning.

"Don't fall," said Parkinson when he almost tripped by the stairs leading down, the point where the corridor plunged into the darkness, and Harry couldn't keep himself from rolling his eyes. As his vision started to adapt to the dark, the hallway began to familiarize and soon enough they were outside Snape's classroom, in a straight line with the Ravenclaws slowly filling in beside them. Harry leaned his head on the stone wall, trying to tune out any noise from the other line.

"Settle down," said Snape the second he stepped out of the classroom, holding the door open for them to enter, Slytherin first. Harry took the seat that was the furthest from the front, on the side next to the wall. After each of them had found a seat, Snape swept forward, the material already written on the board.

"In the past eight weeks, we've discussed safety rules, which we had to pull forward in the curriculum —" surprisingly, he didn't look at Harry's direction, " — The discipline of chemistry and its uses, important historical context and lastly, the important difference between the science of chemistry and alchemy," he paused, sweeping a glance above the students' heads, "Any questions before we advance to a more difficult level?"

No one raised a hand or voice.

"Hm. Very well," Snape pointed at the board, then clasped his hands behind his back and started to walk around the classroom with careful, precise steps, "The symbolic language of chemistry. Abbreviations used in chemistry for chemical elements, functional groups and compounds. Take note that the symbols for chemical elements usually consist of one or two letters from the Latin alphabet. The first of which is always always capitalized."

He stepped towards the board again, and Harry leaned back in his chair, idly playing with the pencil in his hands.

"You're already familiar with Mendeleev's table of elements," Snape tapped the board, and then turned it around, a not so hidden smile on his lips that filled Harry with dread, "Sixty six of them. More than enough for each one of you. Mr Malfoy!"

The sound of his knees hitting the table in surprise brought a smile to Harry's lips, "Yes, Professor."

"The symbol for Calcium," Snape stepped in front of his table, tapping the wood, glancing sideways at a groan of complaint from the Ravenclaw side, "And the symbol for Iron from the Ravenclaw who does not wish to lose his house points. Mr Malfoy?"

"Ca, with a capital c," said Malfoy proudly. Snape nodded, and was at the Ravenclaw side in a quick stride, tilting his head expectedly.

A boy Harry had already forgotten the name of raised his hand, "Fe with a capital f."

Less amused, Snape left the Ravenclaw side to stand in front of the whole classroom, calling out names and assigning them elements. Some got it correct. Most of them got it wrong.

Harry didn't raise his hand, silently muttering the symbols to himself whether or not someone got it correctly, truly silent until a certain little element.

"Silver," Snape told the class, and the class chose to keep their silence, exchanging glances and fiddling with the sides of their closed chemistry textbooks, "Anyone? Someone who hasn't raised their hand. Mr Patel!"

Harry jumped, his chair rattling dangerously on its legs as he shot up to stand, "Ag, capital A!" shouted Harry without thinking, hanging his head as each of the heads in the room turned to face him, "Uh, yes. Ag with a capital A…"

Snape strode through the space between the Ravenclaw and Slytherin tables, hands still behind his back, "Very well. Hg?"

Under the attention of the whole class, Harry turned his head in the other direction, rubbing the back of his head, "Mercury."

"Mercury, with a 'k' sound, not c," said Snape, harsher than necessary in response to the stifled laughter in the room. Gold?"

Harry blinked, sneaking a glance at Snape, "Au, capital A?"

This exchange continued fairly well until Harry came across an element he had forgotten the name off, shrugging when Snape pressed him to remember.

"Then tell me, Mr Patel, how you came to memorize these symbols. I confess this performance from you isn't along the lines of what I'm accustomed to, these past few weeks," Snape said, arching a brow when Harry's lips parted and then closed, "Well?"

"It's nothing important," Harry coughed into his hand, very keen on keeping his eyes pinned on his shoes, "I just… thought they were funny?"

"The assumption that they amused you drove you to memorize them? Fascinating," Snape said, nodding along, "I'm expecting the same level of work from now on, Mr Patel."

"But that was different!" he said, clasping a hand over his mouth, ears burning when Snape turned his head to look at him, waiting for a response. Harry gulped, gesturing wildly with his hands, "I mean, uh, I don't think I can do that sir."

Snape tilted his head expectedly, "Do humor me on why."

As he kept his eyes on the floor, he had little idea what the rest of the class was thinking, though he had a few guesses. Sneaking a brief glance at the Ravenclaw table, he averted his gaze to Snape's eyes, "When I was, er, learning to read this year… It was funny how the symbols didn't match the words, like how knight with a 'k' is read like night with a 'n', so it was... fun to learn."

"A plethora of similar opportunities will present itself, if you insist on finding them," Snape said, and swept towards the front of the classroom, turning the blackboard so they could see said Periodic table drawn with sharp lines of chalk, "The more curious among you will have already discovered the elements, if arranged according to their atomic weight, exhibit an apparent periodicity of properties…."

That night, in bed and under the covers, Harry already had a 'plethora' of thoughts to occupy him. The rest of his dorm mates, to his knowledge, were already asleep, light snores whiltering around the room.

Slytherin wasn't exactly… warm.

It wasn't cold, either.

Like the cool wall you pressed your forehead when the world got too hot. It matched the relief of quitting art and riding class both, and painting on old newspapers the teachers discarded after reading until Professor Snape got him spare paper.

Unexpectedly, however, Malfoy didn't push him into anything for now, more occupied with his own affairs. Getting work handed in on time, for example, while he was doing homework which seemed to take almost as long as Harry, and exhausting himself throughout the day so he'd fall asleep easily - not much different from Harry, who now had even more classes to regularly occupy his thoughts starting tomorrow.

And the other students? Harry wasn't under the impression that they'd care about what he did, as long as it didn't cost them any points, and didn't affect them directly. Slytherin worked as a hive mind, Harry came to the conclusion the next morning as he looked into the mirror, his plain tie caught between his fingers. He lifted his eyes, gaze flicking around the dorm. Nott was out of the room, but the rest were either in front of their mirrors getting ready (Zabini and Malfoy), or talking to each other in not-so hushed voices (Crabbe and Goyle). Harry sighed, lifting a part of his hair and reminding himself to ask for more concealer before flattening it back down.

Waiting for a group to walk out of the dorm, he lingered after them, dropping inside the Great Hall to pick up a bruised fruit or otherwise some quick bread, keeping his head down to ignore the group of Ravenclaw third years as he passed them. Pocketing the apple, he briefly took notice of the four blackboards noting the points — Slytherin in the lead — and made for the door, back hunched.

A hand wrapped around his arm, and Harry almost jumped, words cut from his throat.

"Can I help you, Conner?" he asked with intended strain to his voice, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

Conner's words seemed to be lost as well, his lips parting, then pressed into a thin line, "I didn't know you knew them."

"Them?"

He tossed him a bored look, "Chemistry?"

"Ah," Harry's nerves turned a little stale, the initial panic subsiding and rebounding as awkward laughter, "I'm not utterly useless, y'know?"

"Incidentally," Goldstein intruded on their argument, the pause enough for Harry to remember what the word meant, "It also made me curious… why didn't you do well before? You seem to learn fairly well when you put your mind to it."

Harry let his gaze drop to his shoes, "Is this the conversation you want to have over breakfast?"

The silence spoke volumes.

Harry sighed again, rubbing his nape, "I don't know, well I mean I do know, but I didn't know how to read. It's not because… it doesn't have to do anything with my family," he mustered up enough strength to look at the two boys, shrugging his arm from Conner's grip. If he could no longer preserve his dignity, might as well defend someone else's.

He might have read that in one of Lupin's books.

And he might be a little uncertain of whose honor he was really defending.

"Then what does it have to do with?"

"Do you want the uncomfortable answer, or the one that will satisfy you?"

Conner chuckled dryly, "I don't think I want either one."

"Me either," said Harry, and with a final nod, left the hall, biting into the apple with the first step he took out of the doors.

Still wishing he had a coat, Harry made for the Greenhouses, sighing in relief when he caught sight of them.

But he also caught sight of a lonely, dark figure very close to Greenhouse Two, his disheveled hair under a tattered hood hiding a very familiar face.

Harry stopped in his steps, and climbed back to the castle, Snape's warning echoing in his mind.

Don't travel the grounds alone.

Somehow, those words were easier to follow than most of his instructions.

Sitting on the steps, Harry lifted his book to revise for the lesson, occasionally stealing a glance down the length of the hill and towards the man.

Harry closed the book at the sound of shuffling behind him, readjusting his strap. Slytherin was the first to appear out the door, of course, and Harry easily mingled after them, lifting a brow at the grin on Malfoy's face, "What?"

"Couldn't do without waiting for your house?"

"If I leave, it's on your hands," he bumped his arm, light-hearted albeit slightly fuming. He still lingered behind them, listening to any group conversations and laughing at some remarks.

However, when they were passing by Greenhouse Two, Malfoy stopped, taking hold of Harry's strap to keep him from moving.

"Huh?" Harry looked above his shoulder.

"Your flower is growing."

"What?"

The crowd of students walked around him, not minding Malfoy who peered through the clearing he made on the dusty pane using his hand, fingers resting on the dirty glass.

Harry stopped on Malfoy's right, looking both ways, "So?"

"You're not going to water it today?"

"Won't we be late?"

"How fast can you run?" Mafloy asked, pulling the door handle down. He pushed the door open with an arm above Harry's head, sending a spike of annoyance through the shorter boy, "And you? I don't think you're a world renowned runner either."

Malfoy took a few moments to register the words, then broke into a grin, "World renowned? You're finally catching up! And it's not whether I can run fast or not. Can you keep up?"

Harry huffed, "You're a git."

Malfoy smirked, "You're short."

Their chase on the grounds — Harry called it a chase, Malfoy called it a one-sided attempt — was cut short when it was time for class, Malfoy not breaking a sweat while Harry gasped for air, cheeks burning. Malfoy must have taken pity on him, though, and said he'd let him use his notebook to take the notes he couldn't catch up with in return for Harry to remind him to pay attention to class when he looked like he was doing anything else.

Not a bad day, either. He'd choose today over any of the days he spent in Ravenclaw, even when Harry, purely by having been forced to his wits end, threw one of the cricket balls in Malfoy's direction, haphazardly causing it to disturb the rotting leaves of the tree it was currently stuck in.

"You know," Malfoy said the next day, tilting his head and rubbing his chin, "I'm starting to think you're really bad at this."

"And I'm starting to think you're doing this just to annoy me," Harry bit back, glaring at the red ball stuck up a tree.

"Finally caught on, have you? Well done."

"I will kick you."

"You did that once. Did Ravenclaw teach you nothing about creativity?"

Behind them, the silence of the grounds continued. There was the occasional Ministry worker, who eyed them as he passed by, and the knowledge that somewhere in the field the other students were playing already.

They weren't the ones that needed to get the ball out of the tree, after all.

"It's simple," Malfoy dropped his hands from his hips, pointing at the ball, "The branch is not too high."

"You can't climb a tree with no branches on the bottom, though," Harry said, knocking on the bark and then jumping once, hand not even close to reaching the ball. Looking around, he circled the tree, coming back to the same spot with a disappointed frown, "No sticks."

"I have an idea."

"No."

"You didn't even hear it!"

"I don't think I want to."

"Well — " Malfoy began to shout, but stopped abruptly, closing his mouth. Straightening up, he dusted his clothes and turned around, walking back towards the game, "Well, if you're so sure."

Harry hit his head against the tree — gently, afraid it would hurt — and turned back around, cupping his hands around his mouth, "Fine, but I'm not climbing on your shoulders!"

Climbing on Malfoy's shoulders was no easy task, and God knew they would never be able to manage it again. Hands latched onto Malfoy's shirt, Harry swallowed thickly, the ground now much farther than he would have liked.

"I don't like this," he said, nervously shifting his hands on Malfoy's shoulders, "I'm going to fall!"

"Don't give yourself too much credit, Patel. You're as light as a child," Malfoy said, huffing and taking a step closer to the tree, hitting Harry's leg when Harry pinched his shoulder, "Come on! If you reach up now, you'll get the ball."

Lifting his head, Harry saw the ball right above him, a hand stretch away, true to Malfoy's words. Harry licked his dry lips, craning his neck to get a better look at the castle behind him.

"I meant today, Patel. Not next week."

Harry whipped his head around, muttering a weak apology under his breath. He uncurled his fist from Malfoy's shirt, clasping them back as soon as his hand left his shoulder until he touched the bark of the tree with his palm flat. Malfoy shuffled from one foot to the next, silent. Looking up at the ball a final time, Harry released a shaky breath, one hand curling around the branch, while the other one reached for the ball.

"Almost — " grunted Harry, licking his lips, heaving himself up with a hold on the branch, hand finally catching the ball, " — Got it!"

The words were short lived, however. In just a few seconds, Harry felt the support under him drop; his legs dangling in the air.

"Malfoy!" he shouted, scrambling to get a better grip, his feet rushing to find leverage. He did succeeded, thanks to sheer dumb luck, using the momentum to get himself up on the branch.

The ball fell down beside Malfoy's sprawled form, very very gently.

"You know," laughed Harry, voice edging closer to frustration, as he craned his head to look down at Malfoy from where he was hugging the tree branch, "I don't know what made me listen to you."

Malfoy groaned, rubbing his head. He then lifted his free hand to take a look at the small branch in his hands, rubbing the small leaves between his fingers, "Ow…"

"Did you — Don't tell me you were holding onto that branch while I was on your shoulders," Harry said, really laughing when Malfoy averted his gaze, cheeks red, "But why?"

"I just wanted to touch it," Malfoy grumbled, standing up and still rubbing his head, "Ow. I think I got more hurt than you."

"Ha," said Harry dryly, not having the energy to get angry. Leaning his head on the branch, Harry released a heavy breath, the grounds stretching beyond what the eye could see. This, this was good. Away from everyone else, outside, not having to be somewhere because Madam Hooch knew exactly why they were there and what they were doing.

Either Malfoy needed to stop talking, or he needed some tips from Professor Patel on how to keep one's patience while the other party was trying their hardest to be annoying.

This was nice, not having to think about anything except getting down.

"Want me to get you some pillows and a blanket," said Malfoy, still rubbing his head, "Some butter and cream?"

"What does butter and cream have to do — Oh nevermind, just get me someone tall. Or a ladder."

"Professor Snape?"

"Who's first instinct isn't to get angry at me."

Malfoy rubbed his chin thoughtfully. His eyes then widened, uncomfortably bright, and he broke into a sprint, calling above his shoulder, "Don't go anywhere!"

Harry watched him leave, and laughed again, "I'll be sure to not leave the tree I'm stuck in!"

Malfoy was too far away to hear him, however, and Harry dropped his head back on the branch, closing his eyes. He hadn't been able to sleep last night, tossing in bed until past midnight, and then waking up from a dream with Professor Lupin's book (the subject of which he'd suffered in his dream) propped on his chest.

Soon enough, Harry heard footsteps approaching. Heavy footsteps. Opening his eyes, Harry saw that the person accompanying Malfoy was none other than Hagrid, his heavy feet leaving marks on the grass with every step. He nervously lifted his head, rubbed the back of his neck and waved, "Hello Mr Hagrid."

"Alrigh' there 'a — Ali?" Hagrid asked, walking right underneath the branch Harry was sitting, "Caugh' yerself in trouble, eh?"

"Can you help me get down from it?" Harry asked, raising his voice and glancing at Malfoy, "And I don't think I'm the only one who was caught up in trouble. Why's your shoe like that?"

"I stepped in a pumpkin," said Malfoy, shaking his foot, the paste still tangled with it's bright color around the shoe, "An almost rotten pumpkin."

"Perfect for some pie, tha' is," said Hagrid, extending his arms forward, opening and closing his hands, "Come on then."

Harry blinked, "Sorry?"

"You wan' to come down, don' ya?"

"Without breaking my arm," said Harry, emphasizing each word, lifting his hand to hold the branch. Gaining some balance, he hung both legs down the branch, sucking in a breath when he caught sight of the distance between him and Hagrid's arms, "I don't want to come down, Mr Hagrid."

"'course ya do," he lifted his arms again with a hearty laugh, "Come on, your teacher won' wait for much longer."

"I didn't get rotting mush on my feet for nothing," said Malfoy in a berating manner, one hand cupping his mouth and the other accusingly pointing at him, "Just jump!"

Just jump sounded far too simple of a summary for a height this complicated, sugarcoating the way the ground churned when he looked at it for too long, or how Hagrid's arms seemed a little too fragile when he considered that he'd be falling from the sickening height

"I'm comfortable where I am."

"Oh for God's sake just come — "

Harry jumped. In other words, he fell. For a single moment. A single, fast moment. The air rushed through him. His heart plummeted, and then he was in Hagrid's arms. Rigid, swallowing thickly with his arms pulled close to his chest.

"Y-you know," he looked up at Hagrid, feeling heat slowly return tı his cheeks, "I've n-never seen a pumpkin. It has a very odd color."

"Firs' time seeing orange?" Hagrid asked with a thick chuckle, letting him on the ground with a large hand around Harry's thin arm to prevent him from falling.

"First time seeing a lot of things," Harry said, eyeing the ball on the ground. Arm still in Hagrid's grasp, he bent down and picked it up, then shoved it into Malfoy's arms when he stepped closer, earning a gasp of surprise from him.

"That hurt," Malfoy said, rubbing his stomach.

"You shouldn't try following your weird little thoughts, then," said Harry, very close to snapping the words, "Also, your shoe — "

He didn't get to finish his sentence, because Malfoy looked utterly detached, his face falling and his hold around the ball loosening, "What of my shoe?"

What of his shoe? Harry looked down, at the color orange smudging the leather, and lifted his lips to an easy smile, suppressing the ugly thoughts he wanted to spit out, "They look weird. A good weird."

"...A good weird."

"Weird is good. Sometimes I'm just too dumb to remember it."

"I have the feeling you were going to say something else," said Malfoy, waving at Hagrid with his hand holding the ball, "Bye, Hagrid."

"Thank you, Mr Hagrid," Harry waved as well, grinning wide.

"Come visit me sometime!" Hagrid shouted after them as Harry turned around, further and further away as Harry added a little speed to his walk to catch up with Malfoy, "And I didn't. Because it wasn't the truth."

Malfoy scoffed, "You called them 'your weird little thoughts'."

"I was wrong," said Harry, feeling worse than he ought. They were still weird little thoughts, but were they worth losing the only anchor he had in Slytherin, or potentially one of the few people he could call a...friend? Harry sighed again, walking around him to stop Malfoy in his tracks, "They also got me down, yeah? I'm… I'm sorry. I am," he repeated in defence and raising both hands when Malfoy raised his brows in question, "Look, thank you for getting me down from the tree. I probably would have fallen if you hadn't called Hagrid. Or would have Snape scolding me while watching me climb down a ladder. Then scold me some more."

This time, Malfoy chuckled, "And then some more again. I don't think you'd hear the end of it."

"Even worse if I had fallen," said Harry, looking over his shoulder at the tree, "Though that is one weird tree."

"Wonder why they haven't removed it," Malfoy said, throwing the ball up and down in his hands, "Or cut the bushes around it."

"Probably nothing important," shrugged Harry. He bumped his arm with Malfoy's, a grin on his lips, "I'll race you to the field."

And so they did, leaving the Willow as it had been - deathly still, leaves unwinding with the approaching winter.

Probably not important.

Adrian Paucey played for the Slytherin cricket team, Harry heard. He also heard that Adrian Paucey was to be his mathematics tutor until the ‘foreseeable future’.

Leaving right after Madam Hooch’s class, Harry trotted up the steps back to school, went down to the Slytherin dorms to change and grab his books, before going back to the common room to wait for Paucey. A short while later, Adrian Paucey walked into the room with a heavy bag pressed against his dark green sweater.

“Been waiting long?” he asked without waiting for an answer, and led them to the cornermost table in the common room, where some light managed to get through the crack of a window, “Right, let’s hear it then.”

Harry blinked, pulling his chair forward, “Er, hear what?”

Paucey pulled his chair forward, opened one of the books open between them, nodding knowingly at it, “Mathematics.”

Harry nodded awkwardly and echoed uncertainly, “Mathematics.”

He received a look from Paucey, one that wanted to both laugh and strangle him, “Professor Snape said you needed help.”

“I do.”

“Well,” he pulled the book closer between them, and hooked a hand behind Harry’s chair, pulling him closer as well. Harry’s ears burned, as he wondered if he was easily pulled because Paucey played cricket, or because, true to Malfoy’s words, Harry really was as light as a child.

“R-right! Uh, let me just — ” he swept through the pages of the book, then took out his own notebook, adjusting the angle so Paucey didn’t get a look at his messy handwriting, “ — uh…”

“You can be honest, you know,” Paucey tried to nudge the book out of Harry’s hands, but Harry pulled it away under the table. Paucey blinked, Harry blinked back and hung his head, rubbing the back of his neck with a hand, “Sorry, I just — ”

“Can I be honest with you Patel?”

The chair slid across the floor. Harry lifted his head slightly for a better angle, hair still concealing some of his face, falling across his eyes. Harry bit his lip. Then, he nodded stiffly, turning his chair as well, facing Paucey.

Paucey held both hands together, took a deep breath, and pointed them both at Harry, “I don’t need to be here. I’d rather be studying for university. I’ve worked hard to achieve that, but Professor Snape asked me to help if I thought I was capable. And I agreed. Rather late to disappoint him now, isn’t it?”

The paper crinkled under his fingers. A rush of foregin emotion grasped him. Hollow and strange, akin to fear. Something nervous, something dreadful. Harry’s eyes widened just a bit.

He didn’t want to disappoint Snape. Not now, when he out of all people thought him capable. Harry had wondered, still did sometimes, why he hadn’t been placed in a year below. Not that he would have enjoyed studying with students a year younger than him, but the thought lingered nonetheless - curiously so.

“I think I can agree,” he said dryly, dropping the book back on the table, “Alright, so you’ll help me until the end of the year?”

“Until you no longer need me,” Paucey shrugged, and lifted his own book, “You need help with the basics first, yeah? I won’t ask why — ” he eyed the notebook still wedged between Harry’s hands dimly “— but I will ask you to do your hardest if we’re going to be working together. Understood?”

Harry nodded mutely, and Paucey dropped his book between them to the open pages, “Now, addition?”

“I just need to get faster.”

“Homework, then,” Paucity made a note, then listed all the basics Harry had been working on since summer, issuing homework for each with emphasis on division and multiplication.

“Well, now, that’s not too bad, is it? The first and second years do little else other than arithmatic,” Paucey said, more to himself than Harry, stretching his arms above his head and opening to a new section of his notebook, “Now tell me how your current mathematics class is going, will you?”

And wasn’t that a conversation Harry had been looking forward to.

At the end, Paucey both relieved Harry by saying he’d be able to catch up soon with habitual studying of at least 1 hour a dayand sent spikes of adrenaline through his heart when he warned, eyes dark and finger raised, to do his best if he did not want to recompense him for putting Paucey’s efforts to waste.

“There are only the ambitious and those who don’t want to search within themselves to find it,” Paucey ended their session, sounding like one of the characters in Lupin’s books as he stacked his own, placing them into his bag, “Don’t let yourself become the latter.”

“It sounds like a Slytherin saying,” Harry collected his own materials, hand lingering on the pages.

“Not going to stop being ambitious when you leave, are you?” Paucey said snidely, and Harry caught a hint of humour in his voice; quirking up his own lips in response, “It’s very, uh, what’s the word…”

Paucey raised a brow, “... Complex?”, his expression seeming to say that he was just as bad as Harry when it came to vocabulary.

“No, uh, I forgot. But don’t worry —” he heaved his bag up, nodding with a stiff expression, “I… don’t want to give up. If not for me, then for... “

For?

Harry bit the inside of his cheek, “For others' sake.”

Shrugging, Paucey walked around him - tall and strong, making Harry feel especially small, patting him on the shoulder twice as he did.

Harry hoped he was able to contain his flinch.

More and more people started to fill the common room, and Harry stretched his arms above his head, preparing to visit his dorm to get his other books for homework, and maybe visit Hermione in the library and study with her. Adjusting the strap of his bag, he made for the stairs.

Just as he was passing by the desk Malfoy and his friends were sitting down on, though, suddenly and without warning the word he was trying to remember came to mind, and he let everyone in earshot know - embarrassingly - by shouting the word with a resonating clap following where he facepalmed.

“Tempting, ugh!”

He was rather tempted to kick the nearest, unfortunate thing into the lake; but if there was anything more tempting than that, it was running back to the dormitory after feeling the heads of more than half the room’s occupants turn to look at him. Some smirking, some chuckling or giggling behind their hands, and some not paying any mind. Perhaps the worst, though, were the ones who shot him with annoyed glares at the interruption, churning into anxiety in Harry’s gut.

“My looks, or my charm?” Malfoy said, smooth and sudden, with a grin Harry was tempted to kick instead.

“Letting a dictionary sink in the lake, actually.”

“Ah, well, might do the Giant Squid some good. Educational.”

Harry blinked, “The what now?”

“No, no,” muttered Blaise, waving a dismissive hand and not lifting his eyes from the book, “You’d need to feed it the whole library, to get it to manage basic communication,” then he finally lifted his eyes, and smirked, “Rather like Crabbe and Goyle.”

“There isn’t a Giant Squid in the lake,” Harry said to Malfoy, more to make a point to himself than to the rest, “And I don’t think it would be able to read, anyway.”

“Unlike you, hmm?” chimed Zabini, turning the page of his book, still not lifting his eyes from the book, “And I didn’t know you dived into the lake to make sure, Patel.”

“Have you?”

“No, but I’m not the one trying to prove it doesn’t exist,” Blaise responded without so much as an effort to hide his grin, “Look it up, I’m sure Madam Pince will offer you many sources on the subject.”

Harry considered. Truly did, embarrassingly. But he also considered the embarrassment of asking Madam Pince for books on a subject that was clearly fiction (that was a new word, fiction, and quite useful too), cheeks heating as the always composed, unsmiling librarian broke into ugly laughter.

Would he be kicked out of the library for stupid questions? Harry winced, agreeing that having a spot to study with Hermione wasn’t worth sacrificing for silly squids, and planned on asking Malfoy or Professor Patel later.

“Hmm, well, have fun studying you two,” he dismissed Zabini’s words, tempted to climb up to his room and not open another book until he had to attend an hour long session with Professor Lupin, “I’ll just -”

“You’re done already?” Malfoy jabbed after him, rocking on the back legs of the chair, just shy of toppling over, “Will it be enough?”

Harry turned around, “Will what be enough?”

“Studying.”

“I’ve been at it for more than an hour and a half. I even got my homework done-” and he opened his bag in emphasis, but paused just as his fingers brushed the paper of his maths notebook, pulling up his hand back out, “- I’ll leave the rest for tomorrow.”

Malfoy shrugged in a way that made Harry feel guilty. Zabini kept his eyes, stern and careful, on Harry’s bag, lifting them to stare into Harry’s eyes when Harry’s hand fell over his bag on instinct, “Did Professor Snape tell you to join the study groups?”

“He mentioned it, yes.”

“We like getting it done early in the morning,” Zabini turned to his book, “And fast.”

Harry didn’t miss the implication.

“I can keep up.”

“Oh, can you?”

Malfoy stopped rocking on his chair, ears strained in the conversation. His eyes flicked to Harry’s hand when he pressed his fingers into a fist, and shook his head in warning. A small one. Barely noticeable, so unlike the frustration swelling in his chest.

“Well,” he licked his lips, pulling out the empty chair and sitting down after all, bag balanced on his lap, hands out of sight, “What do you want me to do Zabini? I don’t want to tell you the reason. I’m embarrassed to -” and that was an almost lie. He was embarrassed. Just not for the reasons he allowed everyone else to know, “ - but if you’re still curious, Professor Patel’s door is always open, as I’ve been told.”

“For this topic specifically?” Malfoy said, still rocking in his chair, seemingly unaware of the atmosphere brewing thickly between him and Zabini, “What say you, Zabini?”

“I say I’d get the same reply I got from Patel over here,” Zabini shrugged, placed his book down, taking in Malfoy’s rocking form with a glint of anticipation in his eyes. As if he was dying for him to fall, “But that is not what I’m concerned about.”

Malfoy raised a brow. Harry leaned back in his chair, shoulders tense.

The common room was too quiet for his liking. Too…off-putting.. Harry was still a stranger here. Something of a guest, not invited and handed the key to the dormitories solely because he was, well, told to. What else did the students think about him, those in Slytherin? The ones he had to spend the new two weeks waking up with, studying with and eating with. Did they think Harry had the same mindset as them? That he was temporary, here just long enough until they knew he was meant for someplace else?

Harry would have liked to think that, had the other places been more inviting.

“I won’t drag you with me, if that’s what’s worrying you,” Harry said, slipping a finger under his sleeve, arm shuddering under the finger scratching down his skin - God it had been a while, “In Ravenclaw… I lost points. I know I did, but I found a way to… not do that? So you don’t have to be worried about me,” he grinned, a grin he so often wanted to punch out of Malfoy’s face, and took a page from Malfoy’s book as well, finishing the conversation by saying, “Though I’m flattered you are.”

The few seconds of pure satisfaction he got from the split-second fluster on Zabini’s face lasted until he reached the dormitories, showing itself in the form of a wide, toothy grin that left Goyle, who was inside the room, confused. Harry shrugged his gaze off, almost skipped to his bed, and sat down with a long, content sigh.

He wouldn’t let himself get beaten down this time. Not now.

Not ever if he could help it.

*

Professor Snape called him to his office after dinner. As expected, of course. Instructions to not be late muttered low enough for Harry to hear while sweeping past, just as Harry made to stand up.

“He called?” Malfoy asked when Harry lagged behind the group walking to the dorms, nodding mutely and placing a hand on the door.

“I won’t be long,” said Harry, and Malfoy disappeared down the hall, the knocking echoing down the stone walls, answered by the low hum of Snape’s voice muffled behind the door.

Closing the door behind him, Harry shuffled forward. Snape was characteristically sitting in his chair nursing a cup of tea, untouched yet still steaming. Harry took the chair in front of his desk, far less nervous than he had been last time, or even any time he had been here before.

“So,” Harry spoke first, leaning his bag on the chair, looking up with a polite smile.

“So,” echoed Snape, far more tired than he had seen him since coming to school. Or, well, since the first week of coming to school, where Snape was in a constant state of looking threatened. Ready to flinch. Expecting something.

Harry wondered if it had anything to do with him.

And just why knowing Snape was alert for his sake made him feel calm.

“How was the lesson with Paucey?” Snape asked, now nursing the cup in his hands. A cup kept between his fingers for the sake of holding something, rather than to drink it, Harry guessed.

“I understood everything, if that’s what you mean.”

“Not the meaning I was aiming for,” Snape said, lifting his cup for a sip at last. Harry found the gesture oddly common with Snape, although it came in many other forms during their unavoidable conversations. A cup here, a pen or report there; all used by Snape to press the silence further while he was deep in thought.

And Harry had no name to give to the thought of knowing something about Snape he could pretend others did not. Something along the name of pride. Accomplishment. Feeling special.

Something he wouldn’t tell Snape.

The cup was placed back on the table, ending the silence, “Did you find yourself improving?”

“I can’t improve with just one lesson, sir.”

“Then have you gained insight on whether you should continue?”

“Yes,” said Harry, without pause and without breaking eye contact.

Snape lifted his cup again. Harry caught the hint of a smile on his lips.

In the silence that continued, Harry toed the strap of his bag dangling on the floor, “... Should… should I leave?”

“Have I bored you again?”

“Of course not,” Harry said lightly, grinning, then dropping it when Snape gave him a pointed look that seemed to warn him to not get too comfortable. Harry averted his eyes to the bottles on the walls, caught between dust and the dying light of the day, “Uh, the lily is doing well, if you’re wondering…”

A hum, “That’s good to know. Be sure to keep tending to it,” Snape steepled his fingers on the table, words quiet and not disturbing his thin lips, “I’ve put forward a letter, for the materials you’ve requested-” Harry’s ears perked up, “- Though it should be a few weeks before anything arrives,” Snape then lifted his own gaze to look into Harry’s eyes, black boring into his own. Certain and steady, an eyebrow furrowing at the growing smile on Harry’s face, “Don’t let me catch you acting inappropriately until then, or until the end of your school career.”

“That’s an awful stretch of time, but - but ,” Harry said, voice raising, a bright grin soft like the last sunlight compared to the stiff frown on Snape’s lips, “I promise.”

“It’s not a comfort, witnessing you throw away the weight of a promise so carelessly.”

“You don’t need to be concerned, sir.”

A soulless smirk, “Oh, Patel, if only you knew.”

It was Harry’s turn to be confused. He tilted his head forward, “Uh, what does that mean sir?”

Snape leaned back just as much as Harry had leaned forward, now balancing the tea cup in one hand, drinking the rest of the liquid, “It means many things I cannot find it in me to say.”

“If you can’t say it, sir, I don’t think anyone else can.”

“Explain.”

Harry blinked, not due to the orange light fluttering down his face, “You’re the one that uses the most confusing words I know.”

Snape blinked. Then blinked again. Then, very uncharacteristically, he leaned forward, “Do you not understand me when I talk to you?”

“Well sometimes I understand, through the sentence-”
“But?”

Harry bit his lip, “Sometimes, uh, you use some, uh…”

Hearing Snape sigh instead of expressing any negative emotion was a welcome surprise, the following conversation even more unexpected.

“When will we drill into your head to be honest, Potter?” he said very, very quietly, some bite to his words.

“I am honest. I would have answered if you asked. See?” he motioned between them, then the room, “I did now. Be honest.”

Again, Snape let the words hang between them. Harry was starting to get the impression that the intent behind calling Harry to his office took a rapid change from Paucey’s teaching methods to revolving back around Harry and his current position.

It bothered Harry.

It bothered him for reasons he had yet to understand. Reasons he had yet to ask Snape, when he remembered.

The return of the topic of honesty brought back the first time they had handled the conversation.

“No, I’m standing in front of my father, aren’t I?”

Harry flinched. That wasn’t a memory he wanted to remember in Snape’s office. Not when he was in Slytherin.

He spoke at the same time that Snape did.

“I don’t want you to use easy language with me.”

“I’m afraid I won’t be making sure you understand every sentence that holds words beyond your current vocabulary expansion.”

A lock of eyes, a grin Harry couldn’t suppress, and another sigh from Snape, “I shall proceed as I currently am, then.”

Then another silence, and Harry was truly starting to get uncomfortable.

“Um, so should I leave…?”

Snape tapped the brim of the cup repeatedly, his frown appearing more and more apparent and brows knitted close.

Guess not.

“How has Slytthrin been?” Snape said very, very slowly; jaw tense and each pronounced word rigid.

Harry wanted to ask him if he had developed a sensitivity for tea like Professor Patel.

Harry also wanted to keep an amicable relationship with Professor Snape.

“I’m not dead. Yet..”

Snape narrowed his eyes, “Is that an attempt at humor?”

“It’s me being honest,” Harry nudged his bag, shoe digging into the fabric, “It’s better than Ravenclaw. I can’t say I don’t miss Hufflepuff, though.”

“And how is the relationship with Mr Malfoy?”

It was Harry’s turn to look like he was drunk on bitter tea, “He’s odd.”

“Ah. In what way?”

Wind curled through the seal between the window and the pane, a violent hum that caught Harry’s attention, stalling his thoughts, “Is there a way more than one?”

Snape’s frown eased into a light grimace, “It would be a foolish thought, the assumption that no inhabitant of Hogwarts is, in some way, peculiar.”

Harry blinked. Snape inhaled, “Odd. Out of the ordinary.”

Harry’s eyes widened in understanding.

“You have your quirks too, Mr Patel. Never be in doubt,” Snape nodded towards him, and Harry let his lips lift up into a smile.

“Even me me, sir?”

The raise of Snape’s brow hinted at amusement. Lips a touch laughing. And the honeyed display of his words were further proof of his delight, “Especially you you. A special student, in no manner that I favor.”

“I’m wounded, sir.”

“Spare me the feign. How does the rest of Slytherin fare?”

And so, Harry told him. Well, as far as cherry-picked honesty went. Snape didn’t need to know about how he had gotten stuck in a tree, or how he had yet to find his jacket, or how he didn’t have enough time in his race to catch up to the rest of his peers to think; to think about himself, about his arm - he missed it. By all honesty, he missed running his nails down his skin. The burn beneath his nails -, about the delicate fractures and thoughts that seemed to be rising under the lid of his suppressed emotions.

Harry was fine.

By all honesty that was not true.

Snape didn’t need to know that.

Harry pulled on a smile. He didn’t need to know that either. He’d believed enough, when he was younger and the soot was as bitter as Professor Patel’s tea, and words were even more so. He believed when the ground he slept on was as cold as Professor Snape, and living seemed colder. He believed when the chimneys were cruel, yet soft snow on a Christmas morning was cruler.

(Harry didn’t like Christmas. He didn’t want a reason to, either.)

So Harry spoke, and it was all honesty layered above the things he wouldn’t say.

“That took less than I assumed it would,” said Snape. Harry tilted his head in question, and Snape, in response, cleared his throat, hair curling around his face when he momentarily averted his gaze, “I assumed you would… complain.”

“... About?”

“Well, that is the question, isn’t it.”

Harry grimaced, “I can’t help but feel you’re trying to tell me something, Professor.”

Darkness crept inside the room. No, rather, Harry hadn’t noticed it until now. The silent approach of nightfall, a silk of black draped across the sky, sealing away the light of the world, and of the room.

With night came cold.

Perhaps that was why Snape chose to bring it up.

“I haven’t seen you wearing your coat.”

With cold would always come fear. Harry shuddered, perhaps not from the cold; but it served as a visible flinch, with it snatching away the excuse from Harry’s lips before he could use it.

I’m not cold.

“I didn’t see a reason to,” he looked up, hands clutched tight on each side of the chair, “Sir.”

“Was my request not enough reason, Potter?” Snape looked down, really looked. Eyes dark, darker than the sky.
Dark, and yet, for a second… If Harry chose to indulge in his delusion, drown in his assumption just for a second… darkness didn’t need to hold any cold. The bite of Snape’s words didn’t have to be bitter.

If he could dream, just for a second, maybe he would be brave enough to tell himself, his past self, that Harry didn’t have to be bitter either.

“No, I’m sitting in front of my father, aren’t I?”

He hadn’t been angry, then. Just as Snape wasn’t angry now, at least, he didn’t think so. At least not by much. Harry wasn’t stupid enough not to see some frustration in Snape’s voice. But this time… it felt rather nice, seeing him worried beneath the layers of visible anger.

Ah, Harry frowned, remembering a word he read, a shift.

“- and to say that it wasn’t necessary-”

“It’s lost,” Harry said, and when Snape stopped to raise a brow, Harry raised his voice, lifted his head and willed his words to not crack, “I-It’s gone, sir.”

Snape’s brows fell as quıickly as they had raised, but just as he opened his mouth, Harry continued, “I checked, believe me I did, but the minute I opened my trunk, it was gone. Gone before I even wore it.”

When the weight of Harry’s words had settled, like dust upon the jars dwelling on the shelves, Snape breathed. A sharp intake circling back to the rise of frustration. Frustration Harry prayed wasn’t directed towards him.

Wistful thinking.

“Gone before you even… wore it.”

“You don’t have to sound disgusted, sir.”

“Do I sound disgusted, Mr Patel,” he said, raising his voice, “Do I look disgusted.”

Harry swallowed, because no. Snape didn’t look disgusted. If anything-

“Why are you… concerned, sir?”

“Was there an instance where something… might have happened to the trunk?”

Harry shrugged. Snape sighed again, loud and impatient, and leaned forward, voice as meek as a mouse, “Think, Potter, think. What might have happened to your coat?”

Snape’s gaze wouldn’t budge this time. In response, Harry shut his eyes tight, grip equally strong on the edges of his seat. The silence stretched. Yet another sigh, and Harry opened his eyes.

“Though your silence is assuming, it’s no time to be lost for -”

When Harry shot up, the shock sent the chair rattling, the table shaking, and a panic stricken Snape holding the tea cup in a death grip inches above the ground, bent over the side of his chair in a position not at all comfortable.

“The trunk was missing for a day!” declared Harry, slamming both hands on the table with more force than necessary, leaning forward like Snape had earlier, though with excitement written on his face, “We found the trunk the next day! Professor Patel had it with her, and we all assumed that someone dropped it off with her because of the surname-”

“For my own ease of mind -” Snape let the cup down, uncharacteristically gentle, as if to make a point. No. To make a point, “- let me ask you again…Your trunk was unaccounted for one whole day?”

Harry shifted from one foot to the next, refusing to answer. Only, Snape twisted his face into a familiar expression in response. Harry knew where the conversation was headed now. So he spoke. Stuttering, voice light enough to suppress Snape, “W-well! If you mean it was lost, sir-”

Suppress him for now.

“And you didn’t feel the need to report a missing belonging-”

“I didn’t think it was-”

“It’s a missing article of clothing, in the aftermath of a missing school trunk, which so happens to be yours-”

“To be fair, it is Ali Patel’s-”

The cup rattled when Snape made a grab for it, shaking under Snape’s pale fingers. He stood up, slow and steady, and leaned forward again. Slow. Steady.

A little unhinged.

“Not. The point. Potter.”

Potter, in return, scowled and kicked the chair behind him lightly, watching Snape from the corner of his eye. He circled the room. Harry’s eyes accompanied him, and kept pinned on his back even when Snape started to glare out of the window, as if he could find the reason for Harry’s missing trunk solely by will-power.

The thought made Harry blink.

He wouldn’t put it past Snape to be capable of such a thing.

“Honesty!” Snape, well, snapped when it seemed like he had enough of window-gazing, moving onto the certainly more productive task of glaring at Harry instead, “How many times do I need to drill into that thick skull of yours that honesty-”

“I was honest!” the words left his mouth before he could stop them. And then, it was summer again. He was in the apothecary again. Anger consumed him, yet again. Again, “I just told you! I didn’t think it was that important-”

“-After an attack no less! Amidst the current climate of a missing convict. You have no regard for your safety, or your surroundings, and furthermore-”

“If you’re trying to tell me you care-” the words were spat slowly, deliberately slow; and they halted Snape’s expression right in the middle of an approaching stream of words. Harry relished in it. His open mouth. His lowered hand. An unfocused gaze. If Harry needed a calling to stop speaking, it wouldn’t be this. “You’re not making a good job out of it, Professor Snape.”

He took even more joy at the stiff hunch of Snape’s shoulder, a ghostly, almost faint wince, “This is behaviour faculty members need to be aware of.”

This is behaviour I need to be aware of.

If Harry could pretend.

And Harry would always pretend.

“I’m…” Harry said, swallowing his words. He cleared his throat, “I know that now.”

“And for Professor Patel to not take notice of such a thing...”

“She didn’t know my coat was missing.”

“Didn’t she tell you to put it on? Not once?”

Harry’s ears burned at the genuine surprise, perhaps even concern, if Harry listened closely, in Snape’s voice, “You’re the only one that did so, sir… ”

A sigh. A dragging silence. Then, “It’s getting late.”

“Sir?” Harry looked up when Snape walked over, picked up his bag for him, and placed it in his hands, “You still have an after-school lesson to attend. I will accompany you to the dormitories in the meantime.”

“I can walk myself,” Harry pulled on his bag, hanging it by one shoulder, “Do you not trust me enough for a few steps down the hallway, sir?” he said, only slightly joking.

“Do I trust you to walk by yourself? Of course not. Do I trust trouble to not find you, though the journey be small? ” he paused by the door, one hand on the handle and one hand on Harry’s shoulder, “I’d rather trust the Giant Squid.”

Harry was about to argue that, no, the Giant Squid wasn’t real, and he didn’t believe it, but Snape pulled him out through the door, closing it behind them with a heavy thud.

“Hurry it up, Patel. You’ll keep the spiders impatient.”

And then, they walked almost to the dormitories, the torchlight only dimly illuminating the corridor.

“We will need to get you a new coat, undoubtedly.”

“Sir-”

“Don’t argue with me further, Mr Patel. For both our sakes,” came the final verdict, and Harry did not open his mouth. Not once. He kept his lips pressed into a thin line until they were right outside the doors, ready to part ways.

Harry faced Snape, dropping his gaze, one hand on the door, “Good night, Professor.”

“No late night wanderings, Mr Patel.”

No late wanderings.

Harry didn’t need to walk around for his mind to do some very, very late night wanderings.