Harry Potter stared venomously at his current foe, temper and nerves greatly strained, his sense of security ever dwindling. To lose was unfathomable, too terrible a price would be paid. Victory however wasn't in a good mood, coquettishly wagging its eyes as it fluttered out of reach, tongue extended at an ever bittering twelve year old with black hair and green eyes.

For all of its inanimate characteristics, the spot of sordid green mold seemed to spitefully glare back, sullen mind made up to forever blight Aunt Petunia's white lounge chair cushion, an inexcusable stain upon her summer held soirees where women sipped tea or lemon water from ridiculously small cups and smiled wide nasty smiles while thinking horribly of the other women and speaking horribly in faux couth voices of women not present.

The little mold spot would ruin Aunt Petunia's favorite pastime. Harry could not let that happen, not because of some hidden desire to one day don his very own summer gown --a floral paisley, pink and yellow to be exact-- and engage in the vicious and bloodthirsty war, its timetable perpetuity, best known as gossip, but rather because his dinner depended on it.

A tawdry affair, yes, you guess right, but Harry had reconciled himself to these facts. Life was rather capricious, or entirely uneducated if one is being perfectly honest, when it came to the concept of fairness --Harry blamed the parents-- and he was forced to throw his glove down with mold spots and weeds. The worst part of it was that he was often in the losing section, prize belt being handed out to whatever tenacious weed or bit of dirt happened to be in the ring.

Harry sighed, shoulders slumping. He knew defeat when it rapped him on the head and began it's rather off key serenade. Eyeing the cushion with piteous thoughts of his ever shrinking stomach, Harry almost imagined a self-satisfied look settling over the smug little mold spot.

“Alright, alright, you won,” Harry muttered, throwing one last glare. “No need to rub it in.”

Flipping the cushion over, Harry hoped Aunt Petunia wouldn't notice. Hope however was feeble in this case. Harry knew Aunt Petunia would notice and of course a punishment would be put in place. Phantom pain scuttled over him and Harry rubbed a sympathetic palm against his head, he hoped she wasn't ironing, or cooking with the frying pan, when said punishment was doled.

Plumping the cushions, Harry turned to look at the garden, upset at the mold spot and wishing that the blemish didn't exist.

There was a high pitched whistle, the sound of a fast moving object. A flash of brilliant light blinded Harry and a moment later there was the roar of an impact. Harry felt the shockwave and fell to the ground, eyes clenched shut as the sound of shattering wood and the feel of dirt spraying him took over his senses. A moment later everything was as still as it had been before when the mold was the only thing worrying him.

Harry blinked his eyes, squinting up at the bright blue sky and realizing he was on his back. Harry sat up, adjusting his glasses and taking in the now non-existent garden shed and the half decimated row of Aunt Petunia's hybrid musk roses she so fawned over, with a distant sort of horror. Clods of dirt decorated the lawn and reached up to the patio Harry had just stepped off of. Standing up and brushing himself off, Harry stepped hesitantly toward the site of impact. There was a small crater where the garden shed had been and Harry wondered if, since wizards were real and all, aliens were too and an alien spaceship had landed in his backyard.

A hand appeared on the edge of the crater, pale and decorated with rings, fingers slender and in Harry's mind all too much like an alien. Whatever it was hoisted itself the rest of the way up. Harry gaped. It was a man, tall and thin, lank black hair pulled back in a ponytail and wearing bespoke slacks with a white button up and matching vest. Something was vaguely familiar about the figure.

They turned, calf high boots, tightly clinging, moving with ease out of the crater and now facing Harry. Harry stared, mouth dropping open in confusion and bewilderment. It was Snape. He had almost not recognized the man, dressed as he was in a sort of roguish fashion, hooked nose broken so he looked dashing, lank hair pulled back to come off as almost pirate like. He wore earrings and little manly trinkets, things Snape wouldn't be caught dead wearing, but the one thing that really hampered Harry's memory was the excitement in those coal black eyes and the cavalier smile adorning the man's face. The Snape Harry knew did not smile.

“Hello,” the man, who might be Snape, said.

Harry continued gaping, Snape sounded exactly like Snape, quality of voice still a silky tenor, but it was used with the ruthless intent of charm. Snape could win over armies if he used his voice like that, Harry thought idly.

“Where am I, little boy?” Snape, or super cool somehow new and improved Snape, said in a kind voice.

“I'm almost thirteen,” Harry corrected, indignation flashing at the erroneous title.

Snape didn't get mad though. Instead his grin broadened.

“I should think not, how wrong of me, a brave young lad, nearly a man,” he amended, stepping forward and looking around him.

“You're in Surrey,” Harry supplied, quite liking how this new Snape talked and looked.

The man frowned in confusion before a flash of remembrance went through his eyes.

“Ah, Surrey, yes, of course,” Snape said, suddenly looking at Harry with a keen, considering look which had Harry instinctively hunching.

“Is there anyone else around? Anyone in the house?” Snape asked, a touch of solemnity in his eyes which had Harry wondering what his Potions Professor, so greatly loathed, was doing in Surrey in the Dursley garden.

“No,” Harry replied. “It's just me.”

Aunt Petunia was at Mrs. Wickham’s for lunch, Dudley was out for the day with Piers and his parents, while Uncle Vernon was, of course, at work.

Snape's gaze came up, disappointment slipping into his expression. Harry cringed, for some reason feeling bad about it, he didn't want to disappoint this man. Snape's gaze refocused on Harry and immediately a smile was hiding any negative emotion Harry had perceived.

“Well, I don't suppose you like adventure?” Snape asked kindly, eyes again sparkling with that contagious excitement which thrilled Harry.

Harry gave a small nod.

“Of course you do,” Snape said. “A smart young man like yourself.”

Harry frowned, but banished his misgivings as Snape smiled brilliantly. Maybe the Professor had been pretty crummy to him the last two years at Hogwarts, but he seemed cool and interesting now, and most importantly very friendly.

“Well,” Snape said, peering down at Harry with a considering gaze, “I've never had a companion as young as yourself, but if the timepiece brought me here then it brought me here.”

He seemed to be speaking more to himself than Harry. Snape's deft hands turned to his breast pocket and removed a timepiece, a round pocket watch. His brow furrowed as he examined it, before he flicked the cover closed and was piercing Harry yet again with that considering look.

“I am Severus Tobias Snape, peacekeeper of the universe, explorer of dimensions, debonair dilettante of all fields and, of course, in most dire need of a companion for my adventure.”

Harry blinked, feeling rather out of place in his jeans rolled at the waist and held in place by a bit of gardening twine, shirt hanging like a grey piece of elephant skin all supported by a pair of trainers whose soles had been worn through and we're now kept together with wedges of cardboard.

Summer, though lightened by Aunt Marge's unfortunate injury --a broken leg-- and consequential absence from the regular Dursley family visit, had been dreary and here his most hated Professor, someone radically changed, was offering him a chance to escape.

“Well, sir, I have school in a few weeks,” Harry said hesitantly, worried that rescue now might mean absence from Hogwarts later.

“And attend you shall, my excursions are only as long as they should be, and please, “sir” is for stiff backed fools toting around sticks up their arses, you may call me Severus.”

Harry smiled at the phrasing his professor had used but withheld a giggle.

“Okay,” Harry replied.

Severus stepped past Harry, moving toward the house. Harry followed, puzzled by everything but more than that deeply intrigued. A part of him was concerned, Snape had never acted this way and the man seemed to be someone else entirely. After last year, Harry was a little wary of people who acted one way while being another, he’d never expected Tom Riddle to actually be Voldemort. This Snape might not be who Harry thought they were.

Harry watched the man step in through the glass door, eyes carefully taking in everything, Harry dumbly followed.

“Your parents, where are they?” Severus asked, stepping through the hallway and looking all about.

Harry peered in the direction Severus was currently looking, seeing the family portrait hanging on the wall, Harry conspicuously absent.

“They um, they passed, when I was a baby,” Harry explained, feeling uncomfortable talking about this, besides, didn’t Snape already know?

Maybe this was his way of making Harry feel bad.

“Yes, right,” Severus murmured absently, nodding his head.

His eyes turned to the cupboard under the stairs, gazing quizzically at it.

“My old room,” Harry blurted out, feeling rather self-conscious and hoping the answer would make his unfeeling potions professor move away.

Severus looked at Harry and Harry felt naked, those black eyes seemingly seeing past everything and judging him.

“They won’t miss you, I presume?” Severus said in a soft and kind voice.

Harry felt a sharp sensation in his gut, it hurt for some reason that Snape was completely right. The Dursleys never missed him. He gave a small nod, eyes unable to meet those piercing black ones.

“Well, adventure awaits,” Severus said, extending a hand and holding it out to Harry.

Harry smiled shyly, placing his hand in Severus’. He was pulled close, told to ‘hang on’ and then the world disappeared.







“He’s what?” Severus Tobias Snape, current professor of potions and wearer of black cloaks and devilishly cruel sneers, hissed.

Albus was perturbed.

“Yes, Mr. Shacklebolt just spoke with me. There was magic used on the premises, when the ministry representative they sent arrived they found no one. He said that it appeared as though a struggle occurred in the backyard.”

Harry Potter had been kidnapped. According to the Ministry of Magic it was Sirius Black. Who knew, but Severus wouldn't put it past either Potter or Black to make his life a living hell, something they'd been doing since Severus was eleven years old.

“Why tell me?” Severus snapped, just sure that Albus had some silly plan that involved him rescuing the annoying brat.

“Someone ought to know, you are best equipped to do something about it, other than myself,” Albus replied.

Severus narrowed his eyes, confounded. Him? The best equipped? Bloody hell he was!

“Please, Severus, I’ll be looking into it myself, but I’m afraid the ministry believes I’m involved. My movement is limited.”

Severus let out a frustrated snarl and stood up.

“Very well,” he snapped.