Harry, shy of sixteen by nearly a month, felt the back of his neck prickle as a drop of sweat slid from his hairline to disappear below the collar of his shirt. His shoulder twitched at the sensation and he blinked sluggishly.

Around him the dull roar of traffic had drifted into a monotonous roll of sound which raised and lowered periodically but never got above or below a certain decibel except when an errant pedestrian or motorist shouted some expletive or cry to gain someone's attention or when a sudden and temporary lull shocked the surroundings into near silence.

The bus stop bench had long ago stopped burning, the plastic now just uncomfortably warm through his clothes as he sweated under the early July sun.

Harry let out a sigh, letting his eyelids shut and the noise swamp him.

A day trip to London for holiday reasons was turning out to be a poorly made independent film of waiting for a bus that would never come, and one he would never board. His watch, Dudley's old one and the band some poorly sewn cloth of Harry's own design, read 12:37.

They'd arrived a little after nine, Uncle Vernon telling Harry to wait there while they did a few things he might interfere with.

Harry was on the verge of believing they had abandoned him, however he knew Aunt Petunia would never jeopardize her social standing by dropping her "womanly" and "christian" duty of caring for her misbegotten and criminal nephew, because, bless her soul (to her church friends at the least) someone had to look out for the woefully inadequate dredges of society.

The goodness of her heart had not afforded him a lunch or any water, but it had gotten him prime real estate on a bus bench which was a mere 20 meters from a public watering fountain and bathrooms. All in all it was more than Harry had come to expect from his relatives.

He was certain that, Merlin knew when, they would return for him and, if they were feeling generous, offer him the leftovers of some lunch or dinner item they hadn't finished; most likely Petunia's so it would invariably be free breadsticks and a rather sad salad which would be the cheapest menu item.

With only pocket lint and the empty space where his wand would normally be, Harry had no means to purchase anything. Meanwhile his current mood was a mixture between a long term depression from the spectacular dark comedy that was the end of his fifth year, and his own general apathy from an insufficient diet. Exploration was out of the picture and instead he was sprawled on the corner of the bench, occasionally looking at the riverside park or the pedestrian and motor traffic.

The clock gently ticked, the sun grew hotter as the apex of the day approached and the foot traffic increased. Harry wished for a pair of sunglasses to protect his eyes, lifted his head and glanced at his watch; it read 13:22.

When he looked up he was puzzled to see a darkly dressed figure.

A navy blue knit sweater vest pulled over a light blue button up, the sleeves logically -in this weather- rolled, and a pair of slacks and loafers made for what Harry could only expect was an uncomfortably warm outfit. The shoulder length black hair acted as a curtain, the man's head bent to a book in his hand, and for a moment Harry teetered on the awful feeling of knowing something but not being able to quite drag it from memory.

Blinking away the ponderous weight of warmth and an empty stomach, Harry realized that he recognized the quick, sharp yet fluid gait of a man whom he had little lost love for.

Professor Snape, no longer cloaked in his black robes, was more slender than Harry would have thought, and out in London like this he was just like a muggle. Maybe, maybe Harry was just seeing things.

But as the man drew closer and Harry could see his face, the hooked nose and intense black eyed gaze, though turned to the pages of a book, was unmistakable. He came up to, on the sidewalk, and started to pass the bench Harry sat on.

A woman, on the already very busy walkway, suddenly turned into his path, Harry watched him step off the curb and onto the pavement. A bicyclist, head turned, Snape with his attention distracted and not having eyes in the back of his head, met.

Harry watched his professor get thrown to the ground, the bicyclist go flying, and his professor's book arc before pathetically flopping on the ground a foot from the bench.

He sat there a moment, not really stunned, just languidly observing. As Snape didn't move, Harry's curiosity morbidly considered the possibility of his death. Standing, he stooped and picked up the book before walking over.

The crowd of passersby meanwhile were distracted by the bicyclist' plight, the man having found his way into traffic and, as a car swerved to avoid him, his unconscious figure became the center of an auto accident. The eyes of all were on this new excitement and Harry was able to approach his professor undisturbed.

The man was dazedly staring at the sky, blood leaking past his hairline, and strands of less than normally greasy hair streaked across his face.

Harry, too tired and too wrung out to feel much of anything, gazed down with something akin to indifferent curiosity.

He crouched down and waved a hand in front of Snape's face. The man's eyes tracked the movement but there was a slight delay.

"Snape?" Harry asked.

The man let out a disgruntled snort and raised himself to a sitting position. Harry figured that Snape was still discombobulated enough to not have noticed him.

Glancing around Harry saw that the drama had developed more, another car had crashed, drivers were shouting at each other and an ambulance was sounding in the distance.

He looked back to Snape and watched as the man jerked to the side and began to vomit. Harry moved forward, holding the man back from falling into it and supporting him so he could finish, one hand attempting to keep the man's hair out of the line of fire.

As he waited he spotted a miraculously intact stick of polished wood. When Snape was done he let out a groan and sank back against the pavement, eyes closed. Harry grabbed the wand and shoved it in his jeans pocket.

The ambulance had arrived, along with a fire truck and a police car. People were starting to notice more than just the auto accident.

"Hey, are you alright?"

Harry looked up from his crouched position to see a concerned police woman looking between him and Snape.

"Your dad get hurt?"

Harry nodded his head.

"Alright, how about I give you a ride to the hospital, we need to clear out some of these people anyways."

Harry gave another nod and looked over at Snape. The man was conscious, if not entirely there. Harry grabbed one of the man's arms and began to tug, the police woman circled them and grabbed Snape's oher arm and between the two they managed to get him standing.

"What's his name?"

"Severus Snape," the answer was given without much forethought by Harry.

"Yours?" she asked as they maneuvered their way through the crowd toward her police car.

"Harry, Harry," he hesitated, "Snape."

"Bit of bad luck," she replied, leaving Harry to support the weight of Snape as she opened the passenger door.

She ducked back under Snape's arm and helped Harry ease him into the back. Harry climbed in beside the man and she shut the door. It was quiet for a couple seconds, the car a cocoon which held Harry, for just a moment, in a suspended reality of peace.

Snape groaned, the door opened and the police woman got in, and the sensation was broken.

"I'm officer Liza Welch, Harry, don't worry about your dad, we'll have him to the hospital soon as we can."

Harry wanted to chuckle at the statement which was meant reassuringly. He didn't care all that much about if Snape got treatment or not. The morality of the situation had gotten him as far as helping the man this much, but his dead godfather and the accumulated pain of five years and constant short change didn't make Harry give a rat's ass about the wellbeing of the man currently spread out across the back seat of the police car.

"You from London or just visiting?"

Small talk wasn't his favorite, but it was a skill he'd watched Petunia employ for the better part of almost fifteen years.

"Visiting from Surrey."

"Oh, nice, a good neighborhood I hear."

With carbon copy houses, rows upon rows of stiffly standing well-manicured bushes and gardens, little disgusting post boxes which gleamed from daily polishing. Good was a term so loosely relative here that Harry could only dumbly nod.

"Don't you worry about your dad, I am sure there isn't much wrong with him."

She'd taken his silence for concern. Harry was happy to let her believe so, it allowed his slight lie to propagate some virtue to it. Doting, worried son, a role Harry had never had the luxury to play. He stifled a bitter chuckle.

"Oh don't cry dear, he'll be just fine."

Harey cleared his throat at her further misunderstanding.

"Where am I?" muttered Snape.

The man was attempting to sit up. His head turned and what was a pained expression turned to one of indignant anger.

"Potter?" he whispered, somewhere between horror and fury.

"Don't worry, sir, you were in a little mishap, your son here has been keeping you safe."

Snape's expression returned to one of nausea and pain. For a moment Harry wondered if the man would vomit in the car, a little bit of icing on this spectacularly miserable escapade.

However, he instead looked around, obviously gaining his bearings.

"We are almost there, just a minute you two."

Snape, still looking queasy, and not from the prospect of having spawned Harry, was struggling.

The car stopped. The officer came around and opened the door, Harry got out and stepped to the side, content to watch the well meaning officer Liza Welch manhandle a vituperative if discombobulated Snape. The man huffed at her sharply and the woman took a step back; she glanced questioningly at Harry as if asking if this was the man’s regular mood.

Harry held back a knowing smirk, opting for earnest ignorance.

“I can walk,” Snape sneered, and then promptly fell into the side of a car.

Harry held back a snigger. Coal black eyes snapped up to throw him a piercing glare, one underhanded by the man’s sudden vertigo.

“You got him from here?” the officer asked Harry.

He gave a nod, stepping forward and taking one of Snape’s arms across his shoulders. The man tried to jerk away but Harry held him fast.

“You’re gonna be just fine, sir, got your son to look after ya.”

The officer watched them walk toward the ER, but as soon as they’d rounded the corner, Snape was jerking Harry to a halt.

“Where’s my wand?” he hissed, pressing Harry up against the brick wall of the hospital.

Harry glanced around, no one was there, before he pulled it from his pocket. Snape’s eyes flashed angrily and he grabbed it, nearly fumbling for a second. He flourished it weakly -Harry flinched back- muttering the words for a notice-me-not charm. Harry felt the warm bubble of magic cascade over him.

Snape pulled away and sank against the brick wall, his eyes closing for a brief moment. They opened and Harry watched with disinterest as the man fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a magically shrunken trunk. Snape focused for a moment and then enlarged it.

Harry watched his professor kneel, opening the trunk, and then begin rummaging. He came up with a potion, downed it, and sat back on his heels. His eyes were closed and a shudder ran through him. When he opened his eyes they were clear, but pain was still present. Another potion came out, the process similar. Then Snape was standing, the trunk closing and being re-shrunk and placed back in his pocket.

This was the moment things changed. Harry was standing there, dressed in elephantine clothing of poor quality, Snape’s book in hand. His skin was taut with sunburn, his stomach empty except for water, and his state of mind like a slate that, rather than empty, was so full of angry meaningless scribbles that he had attained a numbness to it.

Snape meanwhile stood there, hair a little mussed, clothing slightly rumpled, but eyes clear and though generally inscrutable, the normal glower of hate shone just for Harry’s satisfaction.

Harry broke the silence first, stepping forward and offering the book out.

“You dropped this.”

Snape’s anger was muddled by incredulity and yet the man did nothing except to step forward and yank the proffered item out of Harry’s hand. He examined it carefully before finally it was deemed relatively unscathed from its time with Harry. His eyes lifted, a cautious, probing gaze roving over the teenager, and for once something less than spite in them. They were studying Harry.

Harry’s stomach let out a plaintive growl.

“Follow me, Potter.” the man said, sharply turning on his heel and stalking in a particular direction.

"Where are we going?" Harry asked.

"I'm hungry," Snape growled back.

The response made Harry nearly sigh with disappointment. Exhaustion had set in, his stomach still empty and the time going on 14:30. He didn't have the energy to argue. He had no doubt that Snape would take the same course of his relatives and make him wait outside whatever restaurant or dining place they found, or worse, make him sit and watch.

They arrived at a small, modest fish 'n chips place. Inside it was practically empty and Snape chose a booth in a corner which was poorly lighted.

A waitress came by and gave them menus. Harry didn't more than glance at his while Snape seemed to use it as a shield, his entire face covered by the large plastic sheet. The waitress returned with water and asked them what they would have.

"Grilled chicken," Snape said quietly.

The waitress, an older heavy set woman nodded and then smiled down at Harry, her bright pink manicured fingers holding the pad and pen expectantly.

"I won't be having anything."

Snape's menu dropped. He glared viciously at Harry before turning to the waitress.

"He'll have shepherd's pie, with a doubled serving."

The surprise which washed over him was the strongest emotion he'd experienced that day so far. The man, with his menu gone, eyed Harry with a bitterly recriminating look before pulling the book which Harry had salvaged out, and opening it. Used to being ignored, Harry leaned back in his booth seat and let his eyes close.

The minutes flew by, and Harry didn’t realize how close to sleeping he was until the waitress was loudly setting their food down, wishing them a good meal.

The food was sumptuous, and probably beyond Harry’s capacity at the moment. All the same he began eating quickly and without much thought to the man who had provided it.

“Hungry much?” Snape said with disgust.

Harry didn’t deign to respond, instead shoveling in another mouthful. Snape let out a soft noise of disapproval and began eating his own meal with a marked carefulness. Harry finished before his professor and proceeded to lean back and let his now uncomfortably full stomach give him a modicum of comfort.

“You look and act like a vagabond, Potter,” Snape spat out.

Harry kept his eyes closed, not particularly caring what his professor thought about him.

“I think the contemporary word would be “bum” or “domestically challenged”,” Harry replied.

Snape let out a snort and Harry’s eyes opened. Whatever possible amusement the man may have had was gone. The beetle black eyes were as impassive as usual, a small amount of loathing eking out which Harry had come to expect, yet this was more guarded than usual.

“We’re done,” he said, standing up abruptly and tossing a fair amount of muggle cash on the table.

His own meal was half eaten.

Following the potions master out, Harry glanced around, trying to get his bearings. He had no clue where they were at.

“I guess I’ll head back to my bench,” he said, picking a direction and starting to walk.

A hand on his shoulder pulled him back and spun him around. Harry was too tired now, stomach full, to want to have to argue with his professor.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Snape hissed.

“To my bench,” Harry replied.

Snape stared incredulously at him.

“How stupid are you?”

“Very,” Harry responded.

Snape’s face was thunderous.

“I can’t let the wonder boy just walk off, not in London where the Dark Lord has his network of spies and followers,” Snape sneered.

“Oh, well, my relatives expect me back there at some point.”

“You’re saying your relatives left you to wait on a bench?”

Harry was too tired for this amount of disdain, for one more person who seemed to reinforce the conclusion Harry was perpetually rocketing to: of his guilty character, riddled with fault, and the cause of suffering to all he came in contact with. He’d been fed that since he was old enough to understand what it meant, and unfortunately the reprieve Hogwarts and magic had offered was subducted under a string of unusual events and unfortunate deaths.

“Potter, answer me.”

“Yes, they left me on a bench,” Harry said lightly.

“And they expect you back there?” Snape said slowly.

Harry was dully surprised by Snape’s lack of blowing up.

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Where you got hit by the bicycle.”

Snape rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath, but all the same he said nothing directly to Harry that was derogatory.

“Very well,” Snape said, reaching a hand out and grasping Harry by his bicep.

The apparition was unexpected and when they reappeared in a small alleyway near the park bench, Harry was on the ground, feeling like he was going to throw up. He wanted to ask what had just happened, this bit of magic unknown to him outside of the use of portkeys, but his curiosity, in light of Snape, died.

“For Merlin’s sake,” Snape muttered, gazing out at the crowd of people.

The notice-me-not charm was recast, and Harry stood up and followed Snape out and back toward the bench.

“When will they return?” Snape asked, looking impatiently around them as if asking would conjure them.

Meanwhile Harry sat down on the corner of the bench.

“They didn’t say.”

“Are you lying to me Potter? Is this some stupid game? A day trip to London? Don’t waste my time!”

Harry stared. In his experience no amount of the truth ever seemed to do much convincing on the part of Professor Snape, same with his Aunt and Uncle. The similarity was funny and Harry felt a laugh erupt and burst out. Snape’s indignant face caused Harry’s laughter to continue, a desperate noise which bubbled up and came out more hysterical than amused.

He ended up bent over himself from where he was sitting on the bench, head in his lap and tears, ones he didn’t want to claim were not from laughter, on his face. He stayed there, the smell of cut grass and dirt seeming to have permanently seeped into his jeans from his constant yard work and soothing him. He could count the strands of faded blue woven together, and could see just the edge of a grey-white sneaker where a hole in the side was shadowed black.

Snape was silent.

Harry felt very vulnerable and small and sad for just a moment before he let his apathy and numbness take back over.

Then Snape did something wholly surprising, he sat down beside Harry and said nothing.

Harry considered the feeling in him of kinship. Snape was one of the few people he despised, and therefore one of the few people who he could view like himself, for he despised Harry doubly so. Maybe Snape saw the real Harry too, like a magical vision revealing intrinsic traits of cowardice and tragedy that had no merit. It hurt, and yet in this moment Snape was not reviling him. So maybe Snape could see something else, since he seemed to see Harry’s true nature, maybe something could be reconciled.

Or maybe Harry was just lonely, and it was better to sit on a park bench in the company of a hateful potions professor rather than to sit alone.

Another spell was cast and Harry felt his sunburn ease, the sensation of coolant running over him and of a shade being cast above. Harry didn’t move from his hunched position, but his shoulders relaxed a little.

Time passed slowly, and among the traffic -a faint murmur of noise having been dulled by another spell- he heard the rhythmic turn of pages every so many minutes. Harry felt his numbness leak away and with it his emotions smoothed over. He grew tired, his full stomach and his long term sleep deprivation, from a summer of nightmares and endless chores, kicked in. He fell asleep.

Harry woke up to a hand on his shoulder. Blinking, he realized he had been adjusted on the bench so that he was laying down, a cushion charm turning the hard plastic to a soft malleable substance. Glasses were held out to him, the frames dangling between long, pale fingers.

Looking up, he saw Snape watching him with closed off eyes, the man’s book still open in his other hand.

“I believe your relatives have arrived.”

Harry darted to a sitting position, hastily cramming his glasses on his face.

The Dursleys were indeed there, Aunt Petunia looking out her window with a vicious glare, no doubt believing Harry had left against their instructions. They were parked where the bus usually pulled up, and their position was tentative.

Harry glanced at Snape, unsure what he should say to the man for, babysitting him? keeping him company? He wasn’t sure what to think of it.

“Thank you,” he said, meaning it a moment after it was spoken as the gratitude for a full meal and a dreamless sleep settled in him.

Snape said nothing in response, merely watched him approach his family’s car and get smacked in the head by Petunia before climbing into the back.

The man disappeared quickly from the view of the back seat window, and Harry was left unable to comprehend what had happened. He was distracted by his Uncle’s angry diatribe.