"But why do I have to stay with him?”

Dumbledore sighed gently, and adjusted his glasses. “When Cornelius contacted me, he informed me that you had run away from home to the Leaky Cauldron. He assured me that you were fine, so I contacted your Aunt and asked her what had happened.”

Harry bit his lip at that. Aunt Petunia wouldn’t have given a good account of the incident, in all likelihood. She had probably made it out that he had purposely inflated Aunt Marge in a temper tantrum.

“She informed me firmly that they did not want to see you again this summer, after, ahem, such a traumatising experience. Although, by that point, the ministry obliviators had tended to her sister-in-law, she still felt that nothing good would come of having you in the same house as Miss Margery Dursley.”

Harry frowned at that. It was all Aunt Marge’s fault.

“So? That doesn’t mean I just have to run along and stay with him.”

The headmaster’s soft, chiding, “Harry,” made him falter in his convictions. Perhaps his tone had been a bit belligerent. Then again…

“Of course, that means that we needed to find you somewhere else to spend the rest of the summer. Cornelius’s suggestion was…” he made a moue of distaste.

“What?” Harry asked, curious.

Dumbledore looked Harry in the eyes. “It wasn’t entirely sensible. He suggested that you stay here at the Leaky Cauldron, by yourself, not venturing past Diagon Alley.”

What was wrong with that? “That’d be fine,” Harry said, relieved. “I can stay here, and I’ll be alright, and I can go to Tom if anything happens, but nothing will. I’ve got Hedwig, too.”

“Harry, I did say that the minister’s suggestion was not entirely practical, you realise.”

The boy shrugged.

“You cannot stay here without supervision.”

“But—”

Dumbledore shook his head. “No.”

Harry suppressed a sigh and said, “Alright, then.” He thought for a moment, then ventured, “I could stay with the Weasleys, if you think I need supervision.” Although he was trying not to show it, his tone clearly said that he didn’t think it was needed.

“The Weasleys are in Egypt, enjoying a much-earned holiday with their eldest son.”

Nearly smacking himself in the head for forgetting, Harry murmured, “Oh. Yeah, Ron told me.” He brightened up quickly though. “What about Hermione? I’m sure her parents wouldn’t mind.”

Dumbledore’s face seemed to say that he thought Harry was presuming a bit with that statement. “Harry, the Granger family is on holiday in France.”

“Right.” He sat there, thinking hard. “Would Neville mind having me over?”

Pushing his half-moon spectacles further up his nose, Dumbledore said, “I do not believe that would work, Harry. Before you ask, neither Mr Thomas or Mr Finnegan can take you, nor Miss Brown or Miss Patil.”

Harry scrunched up his face. “I wouldn’t want to stay with them!”

“Well, consider yourself lucky that you won’t be, then, if you must look at it in that manner. Harry, it isn’t exactly polite to foist yourself on a family with whom you aren’t actually acquainted, in any manner.”

Frustrated, Harry bit out a “Yes.” Then, quieter, “I know. But the alternative…”

“Mmm,” the old man uttered, pensively.

The pair sat in silence for a minute, Harry twiddling with a frayed thread at the cuff of his jacket.

“I considered taking you myself, you know. However, my role in the International Confederation would not allow me to pay sufficient attention to you. I will be travelling frequently, as well.”

At this point, Harry had nearly resigned himself to his fate. Nearly.

“Professor McGonagall might have considered it her duty, but she is visiting family in Guernsey, helping tend to a sick aunt.”

Harry wished that he had a sick aunt. Two sick aunts, actually, even if one wasn’t really related to him. Petunia and Marge would be much improved if they were coughing up phlegm and staying in bed all day.

“But, Professor,” he started, finally finding voice to what seemed a reasonable objection, “I don’t understand. Surely he can’t actually have offered to take me?”

“Actually, Harry, he—well, he owed me a favour, and once he heard of the alternative, he agreed.”

Harry rather doubted that he had agreed with any grace whatsoever. “Wait… Did you blackmail him?” he said incredulously.

“That you would suspect me of such a thing!” The headmaster shook his head sorrowfully. “Harry, do you really think that I would do that?”

Harry wasn’t certain, but he was pretty sure that Dumbledore might. And honestly, why else would this be happening?
Continuing, Dumbledore said, “Anyway, the point of the matter is that he offered, and you will be staying with him for the rest of the summer.”

With a scowl on his face, Harry slouched in his chair and said nothing.

Dumbledore peered over the top of his glasses at the boy and kept his silence. Picking up his wand, he conjured himself quill, ink, and paper, then settled down to his writing.

Harry’s head was churning with conflicting thoughts and emotions. He was angry, and annoyed with the headmaster, and perhaps slightly tired. It was a bit after nine-thirty at night, and the day had been a real horror. But that just made him feel more inclined to snap and growl at anything the headmaster would say. The overly reasonable tone that the man used just made him more irritable.

If Dumbledore could be stubborn and blackmailing and thoroughly unreasonable, why should Harry agree to anything the man said? And if Harry didn’t say anything, didn’t agree, then the headmaster couldn’t make him.

Could he?

Harry scratched an itch on his arm and scowled darkly at his feet. He wouldn’t give Dumbledore the satisfaction of looking at him. Ha! How would he take Harry ignoring him?

After a minute he couldn’t take it any longer and snuck a glance at the old man. Unfortunately, Dumbledore looked supremely unconcerned, as he dipped his quill in the inkpot and continued to write.

Harry fiercely kicked at the leg of the chair he was sitting in and hunched lower in the seat.

After what felt like a long time, Harry brought his hand up to his mouth, covering a yawn. It was boring, just sitting there while Dumbledore wrote. His anger had faded away, slowly but surely. Without Dumbledore paying any attention to him, after a minute or two he had started to feel rather ashamed of his behaviour. Dumbledore had been utterly unreasonable, but he himself had acted a bit like a sulking toddler.

It had been too much effort to maintain his scowl, after that thought popped into his head. Instead he pushed his chair out from the table a bit more and curled up, knees near his chin. He wrapped his arms around his knees and rested his chin on them.

Every now and then his head would bob down, and then jerk back up again when he realised he was falling asleep. His eyelids felt heavy, and he knew that if the wait went on too much longer, he would fall asleep. But when he looked at the clock over the mantel, it had only been ten minutes or so since Dumbledore had started writing.

The knock at the door jerked Harry out of his stupor. He looked blearily at Dumbledore, who was rolling up the parchment, after having used his wand to vanish the writing implements.

“Who’s that?” he asked rather sleepily.

Dumbledore stood up to answer the door and said brightly, “Why, the man we’ve been waiting for, of course!” He strode over and opened it while Harry rubbed his eyes and tried to puzzle out whether it would be Tom with some more tea. “Do come in, Severus.”

When Harry actually saw the figure in black, he realised that he hadn’t actually believed what Dumbledore had been saying. He swung his feet to the floor again, suddenly awake.

Severus Snape inclined his head to the headmaster and Harry said incoherently, “What—no— but I—”

Dumbledore, drawing up a chair for the other man, said, “You didn’t really think that I’d have you sitting in that chair all night, Harry?”

Harry rounded on him and bit out tightly, “I never—I didn’t actually agree—you can’t make me…” He trailed off, not finding the right words to express the turmoil of thought he was going through, and kicked the leg of the chair again angrily.

The headmaster’s gaze turned chilly, and Harry swallowed roughly.

“Harry, this arrangement does not need your agreement. I will inform you once again, as seemingly you were not listening. You will be staying with Professor Snape for the remainder of the holidays. None of your protests will change that.”

Harry lowered his eyes, faced with the inexorable force that was Albus Dumbledore in full steam. He suddenly felt very, very tired. Perhaps he would wake up and this all would be just a weird dream.

“However,” the old man continued, “your attitude towards your guardian will determine how well your holiday goes. If you continue to be defiant and rude, it will be a difficult one for you. If you cooperate, it shall go better for both of you. Do you understand?”

Harry flushed and gave a small nod. Even if he did cooperate, though, it was Snape. The potions professor wouldn’t make anything easy. When he looked at them, though, the headmaster looked as unmoving as steel, while Snape’s face was impassive. Harry would have no chance.

“Good.” Dumbledore then turned to Snape and said in a lower voice, “I suspect he is overtired.”

Harry’s hackles raised at that comment, but he forced himself to remain still.

“Indeed,” murmured Snape. Harry felt the man’s gaze on him for a tense minute before Snape turned back to speak with Dumbledore.

“I have the papers on the continental trials of Belby’s work that you lent me, Albus. All is going well on that front—I have completed several test runs. It should be ready for the start of term.”

“Wonderful. Thank you very much, Severus.”

Harry watched as Snape took a rather thick stack of papers out of his shoulder-bag and handed them to Dumbledore.

“Though I still cannot but feel that—”

“I know, Severus,” Dumbledore interrupted gently. “But please remember that I appointed him before anything happened on that front. In fact, I have been in negotiations with him about it since the Spring term last year.”

Harry fiddled with the cuff of his jacket and wondered what on Earth the two men were discussing. It probably was just potions. If it was potions then he didn’t want to know.

“—and I shall probably drop around each week, to check on how everything is going. Hopefully I will be able to give you a bit of a break, as well. Do not hesitate to contact me if there are any issues, though, of any kind.”

Snape nodded. “I will expect you, then.” He stood up, saying, “Owl me of any developments in the case. I’ve cancelled my subscription to the Prophet.”

“Why?” Dumbledore rose also, and gathered the papers that Snape had given him.

“The smoke kept making me cough, and I am tired of stamping out cinders. Up, Potter.”

Harry jerked his attention to Snape, who seemed to be making his way over to him. He stood up rather hurriedly and shoved his chair under the table.

The Headmaster was standing beside his chair, a bewildered look on his face. “Cinders? Smoke? Has your delivery owl been flying down your chimney?”

Snape barked out a harsh laugh. “Hardly. I simply feel compelled to incinerate anything that has a photo of that man.” He had reached Harry, now, and the boy shifted uncomfortably.

“Oh—I see.” Dumbledore said. Walking over to the pair of them, he said, “I have sent his trunk already.”

Harry glanced around, and it was indeed true that he could no longer see his school trunk. When had Dumbledore done that?

“Goodbye, Severus, Harry.” Dumbledore smiled at the boy, who looked away from the gaze. Why did Dumbledore seem so happy? Didn’t he know what he was condemning Harry to?

“The best of luck to both of you. Harry, mind Professor Snape.” The old man reached out and cupped Harry’s chin in his wrinkled hand, bringing Harry’s eyes up to meet his own. “Remember what I said before.”

Harry nodded uncomfortably. After a long moment the man released his chin.

“And Severus—try to be patient. With both Harry and your other activities.”

Harry snuck a glance at Snape, who was rolling his eyes. Though he did clasp Dumbledore’s hand briefly in farewell.

Ushered out the door, Harry nearly tripped on his own shoelace. He managed to recover, which was good because they would never have found all the pieces of him if he’d fallen onto Snape.

“Do it up.”

“Huh?” Harry said, eloquently, blinking a bit tiredly up at the dour-looking man.

“Your shoelace. Do it up. I have no desire to trip over you when you fall down the stairs.”

“Oh. Okay.” He bent down and did just so. It took a bit more effort than usual, as his fingers felt clumsy.

After they had made their way out of the Leaky Cauldron, Harry waving mournfully to Tom, Snape took hold of Harry’s arm and they disappeared with a loud crack.

Harry found himself on the pavement, having stumbled when landing. “What was that?” he asked dizzily, feeling a little sick. “That was awful.”

“Apparition,” Snape said curtly. He looked Harry up and down. It made Harry feel like a little beetle, about to be squashed under the judgement of a Potions master who thought Harry should have landed better and know what apparition was.

It must be some sort of teleportation, Harry reasoned. He hadn’t known wizards and witches could do that.

He scrambled off the ground, and in somewhat of a daze followed Snape down a dimly lit path to a terraced house. The streetlight in front of it was broken, and Harry fuzzily noticed the glint of smashed glass in the gutter.

Without really knowing how, Harry found himself inside.
Snape was there too, more’s the pity.

“Upstairs, first door on the left,” he was saying. “The loo is the next door over. Get up to bed, Potter, you’re swaying.”

“’M not,” Harry muttered. But the push on his back set him going, walking slowly up the stairs and opening the door. In one final moment of slight clarity he closed it, knowing almost subconsciously that he didn’t want Snape near.

The covers were extremely heavy, but he pulled them over him before falling fast asleep.