“Let the feast begin!”

Eleven year old Harry Potter could barely believe his eyes as an array of food appeared on the table in front of him.

But as the other children around him began tucking into their meals, the dark-haired boy turned his attention to the teacher’s table at the front of the Great Hall.

 “Say Percy?” he began, turning to Ron’s older brother on his left. “Who’s that teacher talking to Professor Quirrell?”

 “Oh, that’s Professor Snape – head of Slytherin House,” Percy told him.

 “What’s he teach?”

 “Potions. But everyone knows it’s the dark arts he fancies. He’s been after Quirrell’s job for years,” Percy said, glancing over at Harry again as the younger boy watched the Potions Master curiously.  “Why d’you ask?”

 “No reason,” Harry said.

He was pleased when the ghost of a man appeared straight through the platter of chicken legs in front of them, causing a commotion and diverting Percy’s interest elsewhere.

Because there was a reason he had asked, and it wasn’t something he was entirely comfortable talking to the other students about.

Harry stole another glance in the direction of the stern-looking professor.

He had seen this man before – several times, in fact – in his dreams.

As far back as Harry could remember, he had dreamed of a dark figure coming to his aid. It often happened when he was most unhappy – when he’d had a particularly bad time of it with Dudley, on the anniversary of his parent’s death, when he was sick…

The examples were countless, but each occasion had one thing in common - Harry would fall asleep and dream of that same dark figure. And the dreams had always seemed so real.

The figure – a tall man, dressed in black – always seemed to appear at the door of his cupboard. A warm hand would dry Harry’s tears, or administer some form of medicine to help him feel better. Sometimes, it would stroke back his hair in a soothing motion that sent the boy into a dream within a dream.

The man never spoke, and always smelt of the same, pleasant scent – a mixture of sandalwood and herbs.

Harry had never seen the man’s face but somehow, when he looked across at the Potions Master sitting at the teacher’s table, he knew. This was the man from his dreams.

Harry’s attention was turned back to the ghost, who had just caused another commotion by providing a visual explanation for the moniker of ‘Nearly Headless Nick.’

And so he returned to the merriments of the feast and his new friends, thoughts of the mysterious man forgotten. For then, at least.

OOOOOOO

Harry sat in the dingy dungeon classroom beside Hermione, waiting for his first potions lesson to begin.

The start of his time at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was, so far, even better than he could have imagined it to be, and although he had never had a particular penchant for chemistry, he was mildly interested in what the first year potions might entail.

The doors of the classroom were flung open just then and Professor Snape stalked into the room, his deep voice echoing off the cold stone walls.

 “There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class,” the man said, reaching the front of the room and turning swiftly on his heel to face them. “As such… I don’t expect many of you to appreciate the subtle science and exact art that is potion making. However, for those… select few who possess the predisposition… I can teach you how to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses…”

That sounded pretty cool. Harry whipped out his quill and began to write.

 “…I can tell you how to bottle fame, brew glory and even put a stopper in death….”

He wasn’t the best with a quill just yet, but his writing was definitely getting better.

 “…Then again, maybe some of you have come to Hogwarts in possession of abilities so formidable that you feel confident enough to not… pay… attention…” 

A sharp nudge from Hermione brought Harry to his senses and he placed down his quill sheepishly, realising the professor’s words were aimed at him.

The pregnant pause followed, before the man crossed the classroom into a more central position.

 “Mr Potter. Our new celebrity,” he began.

Harry frowned. Perhaps this wasn’t the man from his dreams after all. He had never been so unkind.

 “Tell me, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?” Snape asked.

Hermione’s hand shot up in the air, but Harry simply shook his head, clueless.

 “You don’t know? Well, let’s try again. Where, Mr Potter, would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?”

Hermione’s hand again, yet Harry was still none the wiser.

 “I… I don’t know sir,” he said quietly, ignoring the pitying glances from Ron, two seats down.

 “And what is the difference between monkshood and wolf’s bane?” the professor asked.

Hermione’s hand remained in the air.

 “I don’t know sir,” Harry admitted, feeling utterly miserable.

 “Pity,” said Snape, flatly. “Clearly, fame isn’t everything, is it Mr Potter?”

“Clearly, Hermione knows. Seems a pity not to ask her,” Harry shot back, incensed.

A hum of laughter filled the classroom.

Harry knew he shouldn’t have done it immediately, and he didn’t know what had possessed him. He was taking it personally. Had he expected something different from the potions master? He wasn’t entirely sure, though even he was old enough to know that dreams and reality were very, very different.

 “Silence,” Snape warned the other students.

And then he made his way over to the bench at which Harry sat, snatching a stool from the row in front and coming down to his level, ordering Hermione to put her hand down as he did.

 “For your information Potter, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of the Living Dead. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons. As for monkshood and wolf’s bane, they are the same plant which also goes by the name of aconite,” Snape told him.

Harry narrowed his eyes, but didn’t speak a word throughout the speech. He might have been impressed with the professor’s knowledge, had something else not distracted him.

It had hit his nostrils the moment Snape had come to sit in front of him – the faint scent of sandalwood, mixed with an aroma of other herbs and spices.

 “Well? Why aren’t you all copying this down?” Snape asked.

His classmates scrambled for their quills, and as he man stood back up, Harry up his own.

 “And Gryffindors, note that five points will be taken from your house, for your classmate’s cheek,” the teacher said, sitting at his own desk.

Hermione gave him a look, but Harry brushed it off.

He was going to stay behind after the class, and do a little questioning of his own.

OOOOOOO

Harry hung back as the rest of his classmates packed up their things at the end of the lesson, excited chatter filling the classroom as they readied themselves to move down to the Great Hall for lunch.

 “You coming mate? I’m starving,” Ron said, pushing his stool under the bench.

 “I’ll catch you up Ron,” Harry said quietly, watching as the rest of the class filtered out of the room.

 “Are you alright?” the redhead asked, evidently reluctant to leave his new friend alone in the dungeons with Snape.

Harry nodded reassuringly. “Fine. I just have to uh… I have a question about the homework assignment, that’s all.”

Ron nodded his head and headed out of the classroom at a jog, in an attempt to catch up with Seamus and Neville.

The classroom was silent then, and for a moment Harry thought his teacher hadn’t noticed him there, as the dour man didn’t so much as lift his head from the piece of parchment he was writing on.

But then;-

 “Run along, Potter. Your fans will be awaiting you.”

Ignoring the jibe, Harry made his way to the front of the classroom, hoping his face didn’t betray him in his attempt to act calm and confident.

Snape stopped writing and looked up at him.

 “What is it Potter? It may have escaped your notice, but this lesson has ended.”

 “I… I wanted to ask you something, sir,” he began, his voice wavering a little.

 “What is it?” the teacher asked impatiently. “Contrary to popular belief I do have better things to do with my time than spend it chatting with first years, you know?”

Harry exhaled. The man was being unnecessarily rude, and it lit something inside of him.

 “I was just wondering, why did you have to pick on me like that?”

Snape put down his quill. “I beg your pardon?”

 “I’m sure you know that I wouldn’t have the first clue about potions. I didn’t even know I was a wizard until a few days ago,” Harry said, hotly. “You knew I wouldn’t be able to answer those questions, and I just don’t think it was very fair, sir.”

A dangerous silence followed, before Snape stood up and moved towards him.

Subconsciously, Harry took a tentative step backwards, but the tall man stopped several paces in front of him.

 “As you grow, Mr Potter, I am sure you will find that life often isn’t fair. And I can assure you that your lack of knowledge regarding your abilities will not excuse you in this classroom. Students who are muggle-born – or in your case, muggle-raised – have no cause to be any less knowledgeable than their peers. The insufferable girl to your left proves that on a daily basis,” he said, silkily. “However, if you do not wish to be called upon like that in future, I suggest you consider paying attention.”

“I was paying attention. I just don’t know why you have to be so mean. You were never mean in… in…” Harry began.

Snape raised a brow. “Yes?”

Harry didn’t continue, realising how ridiculous his next sentence would have sounded.

 “What are you blathering about, Potter?” the teacher asked, looking confused.

 “Nothing, sir. It’s… nothing,” Harry sighed, picking up his bag and making his way towards the door.

 “Mr Potter?”

Harry turned back to look at the professor. “Yes sir?”

Snape watched him for a moment before he spoke again, his tone noticeably softer.

 “Perhaps a trip to the library? ‘A Young Wizard’s Guide to Potions’ makes excellent reading and should put you where you need to be to catch up. You may also find page 27 of interest, should you struggle with the homework assignment.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of Harry’s mouth. “Thank you, sir.”

With that, Harry left the classroom with a swing in his step, his faith restored. There was something about the potions master, and he intended to find out what.

It had been a busy week for Professor Snape. The start of a new school year always was, but this one had proven to be particularly trying.

His new group of Slytherin first years were, undoubtedly, some of the most troublesome students he had ever had the pleasure of in his house. There had been a record three explosive cauldrons that week, and he had already succeeded in making two first years and even a second year cry.

As he tidied away the last of the stray potions ingredients from his classroom that Friday evening, listening to the rain bouncing off the small windows, he wondered why he had ever become a teacher at all.

A quiet knock on the heavy oak door brought him from his thoughts.

 “Enter.”

He glanced up just in time to see a little bespectacled face appear around the door.

Severus Snape sighed. This was all he needed – weekends were the one time he was largely free from students, or at least those from the other houses.

 “Mr Potter. Are you lost?”

 “No sir. I’m sorry to disturb you, sir. I was just… wondering…” the boy began.

Snape gave him a longer look. The boy was standing there with ‘A Young Wizard’s Guide to Potions’ tucked under one arm, his first homework assignment hanging out from between the pages.

 “If you are here with a complaint about your grade, let me assure you that this will be a very short conversation, Potter,” he growled.

 “It’s not that, sir. I… actually got a better grade than I thought I might. But I think I could’ve done better, and there were just some comments you wrote in the margins that I wasn’t sure about,” the boy told him, somewhat nervously.

 “Very well,” Snape said, waving him into the room. “Don’t stand there dawdling.”

The little whelp actually smiled at him then, moving across the classroom to sit at one of the benches.

 “I will say, Potter, that for a first attempt your work was… adequate,” the professor said, sitting beside him. “Your handwriting was, for the most part, questionable. But your content was well balanced, and if anything, it felt as though you were holding back somewhat.”

The boy peered up at him, huge emerald eyes behind round glasses.

Those eyes…

  “Am I wrong, Potter?”

 “No sir,” the boy said, his voice barely above a whisper.

 “Might I ask why? One should always strive to produce their very best work,” the potions master told him.

 “I know, sir. It’s just… at my old school, I wasn’t s’posed to do better than my cousin Dudley,” Harry told him.

Snape rose an eyebrow. “What sort of ridiculous rule is that? Some sort of muggle rubbish?”

The boy shrugged his shoulders, shifting uncomfortably.

 “I’ll do my best next time sir, I promise,” he said – and it was clear he wasn’t comfortable in pursuing Snape’s line of questioning any further.

 “See to it that you do,” was all the professor said in response.

 “As for my handwriting… I’m not all that good with a quill yet. They didn’t have those in Little Whinging,” Harry told him, after a moment’s silence.

 “A skill which you will no doubt acquire with time,” Snape said. “Now show me which of these notes has confused you?”

 “This one sir,” Harry said, pointing at one of the comments the teacher had made on his essay.

  “Hmm. You simply didn’t provide a clear enough explanation as to how these four ingredients react within the potion in order to become effective, and what you would need to look out for in order to ensure that it has,” he explained. “You should consider how they react when added into the potion – the colour it becomes, the smell it omits and so on…”

He had become so wrapped up in his explanation that it took him a moment to realise Potter had pulled out a quill and was furiously writing down everything he was saying.

Professor Snape paused, reaching across to adjust the boy’s hand on the pen. 

 “Position your fingers in this manner, and soften your grip. You will find it makes for better penmanship,” he said, in sotto voce.

Harry began to write again, more carefully this time, and the results were instantaneous.

The brat smiled again. “Thank you sir.”

 “You are welcome. Now back to the reactivity of these four ingredients…”

OOOOOOO

The professor spent the next hour going over the finer points of his essay with him, and Harry learned a lot from talking it through with him.

The potions master certainly wasn’t the warm, protective figure he had dreamed about, but there was something comforting about his presence, and his demeanour had softened slightly since that first lesson earlier in the week.

Harry wasn’t sure exactly what it was that as drawing him to the man. All of his friends hated him, and Neville Longbottom was particularly terrified. And while he did find potions mildly interesting, he had to admit he was finding this whole topic a little boring.

But the professor had been in his dreams – or at least some version of him had – and that had to mean something, didn’t it? Harry wanted to find out what. He wanted to get closer to the dark man.

Despite the little hiccup during his first class, Harry thought the professor had been very kind. He’d given him a hint to help with the homework assignment, and now he’d given up his own time to help him out again. And he’d taught him how to properly hold a quill.

He’d been patient too, Harry thought, as he finished his last sentence. Not many adults had been patient with him before. Except maybe Hagrid, if he could even count as an adult at all.

 “I think that’s quite enough for one day, Potter. Any longer and you’ll miss dinner,” Snape said, bringing Harry out of his thoughts.

The boy nodded, closing his book. “Thank you sir, it was awfully kind of you to help me. I’ll do much better on my next assignment, you’ll see.”

 “Hmm. I shall await that day with baited breath,” the professor drawled.

Harry smiled. His teacher was sort of funny, once you got past his stern exterior.

 “Go on,” Snape encouraged him, gesturing at the door. “And make sure you put something green on your plate tonight, Potter.”

Green? Wasn’t that the sort of thing your mum was supposed to say to you?

Seeing the boy’s curious look, Snape made a point of ushering him towards the door. “Sugar is innately bad for you, and rots your teeth. Furthermore, it has a nasty habit of causing children like yourself to lose concentration in my classroom. Fruits and vegetables provide a slow release of energy and are generally better for you. See to it that you consume some.”

 “Yes, sir! Thanks again! Have a great weekend!” Harry called, as he trotted off in the direction of the Great Hall, smirking as he went.

It almost sounded like the Professor cared.

OOOOOOO

In the weeks that followed, Severus Snape saw rather more of the Potter spawn than he would have liked.

For some reason unbeknownst to the potions master, the boy had formed some sort of strange attachment to him. Whilst the other first years practically shook in his presence, Potter did not seem to in the least bit frightened of him. In fact, the child frequently sought his company.

Every Friday, as the professor was packing away and preparing for the weekend, the little brat appeared at his classroom door. Snape’s scholastic support, it would seem, had begun to stretch beyond that of the potion’s world, and he had somehow found himself helping with Transfiguration, Herbology and even Defence Against the Dark Arts assignments.

Those Friday evenings consisted of Severus’ guidance around whatever piece of work the boy had brought with him, followed by the scratching sound of the tip of Potter’s quill against the parchment. Aside from this, the two often found themselves sitting in comfortable silence, Severus attending to his own work whilst the young Gryffindor focused on his assignments, his handwriting much improved since the time he had first attended.

Often, the boy would be so engrossed in the latest assignment that time would slip away from them and dinner in the Great Hall would be missed. On such occasions, Severus found himself calling for one of the elves from Hogwarts kitchens, who would promptly see to it that the boy was fed, thus ensuring that he did not find himself in front of the school board on charges of starving the scrawny eleven year old.

Of course, the boy didn’t need much help when it came to getting into scrapes. He’d nearly killed himself during his first week, hopping aboard a broom he barely knew how to fly and chasing the Malfoy boy to the top of the castle. Such a feat would have gotten most first year students expelled and yet remarkably, it landed the brat a spot on the Gryffindor Quidditch team.  Just like his father.

That particular Friday evening, the 31st October, was of course one of the biggest celebrations in the wizarding calendar year. That hadn’t deterred Potter, however, and he had appeared right on time.

 “What is it this evening then, Potter?” Professor Snape asked when they were seated in their usual position on the front bench of the classroom.

 “Defence, sir. Boggarts,” Harry told him, taking out his text book.

The potions master rose a brow. “Boggarts? Surely that topic is better reserved for third year…”

 “Yeah, I think it is. But Professor Quirrell said it’s a Halloween special,” Harry said, sniggering a little.

It was all Severus could do not to smirk. So even this little whelp could see what a pathetic specimen his DADA professor really was.

He composed himself, however – it would not do for the boy to see anything but his sternest side.

 “What do you know about Boggarts, Potter?”

 “Not much, sir… I know they like to hang out in musty old wardrobes and stuff…” Harry began.

 “If by ‘hang out’, you mean reside, then you are correct Mr Potter – boggarts are nuisance creatures that tend to dwell in the lesser-frequented corners of one’s home,” Snape told him, evenly. “Tell me, how would you recognise one?”

 “Well… Quirrell said that they turn into whatever you’re most scared of.”

 “Professor Quirrell,” Snape reminded him. “Am I to assume that this assignment is to detail such things? Where one might find a boggart, how one might recognise it, how one might… put an end to it?”  

Harry shook his head now. “No, sir. The assignment is to write about the thing we’re most scared of.”

Snape frowned. What sort of blithering idiot gave such an assignment to a group of first years?

A pause.

 “Ron’s writing about spiders, and Seamus is writing about goblins. Weird, I know, but he said his parents took him to Gringotts once and he’s never recovered since,” Harry told him.

Severus Snape was just about to interject and tell the boy to stop babbling when the next question was fired.

 “What do you think I should write about sir?”

The professor glanced down at him. “What? I believe the instructions of the assignment are… clear.”

The boy nodded, watching him closely. “But, what do you think I should be most afraid of?”

Me! – Severus wanted to say – You should be very afraid of me if you do not desist at once with this ridiculous conversation!

But instead:-

 “I’m not sure I am best placed to answer that question, Mr Potter. Potions assignments and even Herbology I can do, but surely even your pea-sized brain can work out that the only person who knows what you are most afraid of, is you.”

Harry smiled faintly, shuffling his papers.

 “I don’t know, sir. Sometimes I think everyone else knows me better than I know myself.”  

Snape didn’t respond to that, purely because he wasn’t sure how to.

 “Malfoy was telling everyone that I was going to write about Voldemort,” the boy said, after a pause.

The professor winced. “Don’t say that name.”

 “Sorry, sir.”

Closing the book he was looking over and clearing his throat, Severus composed himself. “From the way you just spoke, am I to conclude that You-Know-Who is not your greatest fear?”

Harry shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t think so. I don’t remember anything. Everyone says I should be afraid of him but… I don’t know. Perhaps I could just make something up? I don’t know, snakes... or… or cockroaches, maybe?”

 “You cannot simply ‘make something up’, Potter. The assignment, despite being largely pointless, should be completed correctly,” Snape told him, standing up and moving to a darker corner of the room to put away the cauldrons. “I’m sure that if you put your mind to it, you will be able to come up with something. What is it that keeps you awake at night? That makes your blood run cold?”

 “It’s not that I don’t know, sir. I just think it might be easier to write about snakes or cockroaches,” Harry said.

 “As opposed to what?”

 “Being alone.”

Severus turned sharply to look at the boy, wondering if he had heard that last part incorrectly.

 “I think that’s what I’m most afraid of, sir. Of always being alone,” the boy said, softly.

The silence that followed felt heavy, and the boy’s comments only served to remind Severus of everything that was lost on this very night, eleven years earlier.

 “What about you, sir?” Harry broke the silence again.

 “What about me?”

 “What are you most afraid of?”

 “I’m not afraid of anything,” the potions master snapped, thoroughly put out by the brat’s attempted invasion of his privacy. “And it is with regret that I must inform you that this is all we have time for tonight. You have a Halloween celebration to attend and I will not allow you to miss it on account of this abomination dubbed a ‘homework assignment.’”

 Harry nodded eagerly, starting to pack his things away.

 “I can’t wait! It’s going to be great! I never got to celebrate Halloween before. Ron said there’ll be candy apples and chocolate frogs and sugared mice. Shame Hermione’s going to miss it but apparently she’s been in the toilets all day because Ron was doing impressions of her after Transfiguration–” Harry waffled.

 “Enough, Mr Potter. How about instead of talking about the feast, you run along and attend it?” he suggested, dourly.

 “Right,” the boy nodded, standing up. “Are you coming, sir?”

 “What?” Snape asked, thrown off guard by the child’s latest question.

 “To the feast? Are you coming to the feast?” he asked.

 “I shall be along shortly. Now don’t dawdle on the corridors, and as for the essay… I do not think it requires significant length, Mr Potter, simply write what comes to mind and pay it no more thought. It is, after all, not part of the standard Defence curriculum,” the professor said.

 “Thank you, sir. And thanks for your help, like always. I know it’s not a real assignment, but you’ve still helped me think of what to write,” Harry told him, heading for the door. “See you at the feast, sir!”

And with that the boy was gone, leaving Severus in his wake, several questions floating around in his mind. The reasons why Dumbledore had hired that nitwit Quirrell in the first place was close to the top of his list, followed swiftly by a faint curiosity as to why said nitwit was setting such ridiculous assignments for wizards that were barely out of nappies.

But as the potions master packed away his own things and prepared himself to part for the Great Hall, his biggest question of all remained unanswered. At what point had he come to the realisation that the thing he was most afraid of – his deepest, darkest fear – mirrored that of an eleven year old boy’s?

OOOOOOO

When the stuttering imbecile burst into the Great Hall and disturbed the Halloween frivolities, Severus Snape was secretly rather pleased.

He abhorred such celebrations, especially when they ate into his weekend and forced him to spend even more time with the brats he taught than usual.

 “TROLL!!! IN THE DUNGEONS!!!” Quirrell cried, hysterical. “TROLL IN THE DUNGEONS!!!”

Dumbledore stood up and for a moment nobody else moved – the hall was as silent as it had ever been.

 “T-thought you ought to know…” Quirrell mumbled, as he dropped to the floor.

Brilliant. A DADA teacher who was afraid of a troll.

The hall erupted into chaos, with students screaming and running here and there, panicked.

 “SILENCE!!!!!!!” Dumbledore bellowed.

As the headmaster began to provide calming instructions to the prefects, a nasty thought occurred to Severus Snape. Surely the troll was a diversion? Let in by somebody who planned to attempt to steal the most protected item in the history of Hogwarts: The Philosopher’s Stone.

As the other teachers began to organise their houses, he slipped out of one of the side doors – ready to face the thief, whosoever it might be.

OOOOOOO

Severus spent some time waiting on the third floor corridor, hidden from view as he lay in wait. He even went inside the locked room, to check that the trapdoor was not disturbed – that did not end too well, and he left with a large chunk of flesh missing from his lower leg.

Eventually, satisfied that whoever it was had been thrown off by the commotion in the Great Hall, the potions master left his post and made his way back towards the dungeons, wondering whether the headmaster and his colleagues had yet succeeded in dealing with their guest.

He stopped when a flustered-looking Percy Weasley barrelled past him.

 “Mr Weasley, while Gryffindors are renowned for lacking in brain cells, I would have thought that even you could point yourself in the correct direction for your own common room,” he said smoothly, gesturing back in the opposite direction.

 “I’m missing three firsties,” Percy panted, stopping to catch his breath. “Professor McGonagall is going to kill me. Never mind her! My mum will probably do it first!”  

 “Am I to deduce from your panic-filled monologue that one of those missing is the youngest Weasley boy?” Snape asked.

The boy nodded, and Snape resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

And then it occurred to him – if Weasley was missing, that meant Potter would be too. But where…?

 “Shame Hermione’s going to miss it but apparently she’s been in the toilets all day because Ron was doing impressions of her after Transfiguration…”

“Back to your common room, Mr Weasley. Leave those little dunderheads to me,” Snape called over his shoulder, heading in the direction of the girl’s bathroom.

As he neared the end of the long stone corridor, the professor could hear the commotion coming from the bathroom. He reached the end just in time to join the Gryffindor head of house and the DADA professor as they flew through the door.

McGonagall let out a gasp, stopping in her tracks. Severus flew past her before he managed to stop, taking in the scene in front of him: one very knocked-out troll, and three very small first year students.

 “Oh my goodness!” the witch cried. “Explain yourselves, both of you!”

And that was when it happened.

The Potter whelp ran at him.

For a moment, Severus Snape wondered if he was about to be attacked by the spawn of his childhood enemy. He was on the brink of drawing out his wand when–

The brat crashed against his torso, and Snape felt two skinny arms around his midriff.

He blinked.

The child was clinging to him. He wasn’t sure who was more shocked – him, or the boy’s head of house.

The Granger girl was babbling now, taking the blame for the whole sorry affair.

Whilst the others were distracted, Professor Snape stole a glance down at the little twerp, who was still stuck to him. Harry looked back, his huge, green eyes full of fear.

It occurred to Severus in that moment that less than two months ago, the child didn’t even know he was a wizard, and thus he could see why an encounter with a fully grown mountain troll might be cause for concern.

His first thoughts were to unpeel the boy from him and give him a hard shove into the corridor. But somehow the interfering old tabby distracted him, awarding points to the pair for their idiocy, and his arm came to rest on Harry’s shoulder instead.

The troll made a grunting noise and the boy flinched, burrowing further against the potions master.

 “The three of you, back to your dormitories at once!” McGonagall was telling them. “Mr Potter, kindly unstick yourself from Professor Snape, as this includes you. Quirinus, I’ll leave you to deal with our visitor if it’s all the same.”

The DADA professor nodded, omitting a nervous chuckle as the witch ushered Ron and Hermione out into the corridor.

 “Desist at once, Potter. You are quite alright,” Severus said, managing to pry the boy off him and giving him a gentle push to go after his friends.

 “No more detours! We’ll discuss this further in the morning!” McGonagall called after the three first years as they scurried off in the direction of the Gryffindor common room.

Once they had gone, she turned to look at him, questioningly.

 “It would seem you have a fan,” she said, stiffly. “What on earth was that about, Severus?”

 “Perhaps the boy simply confused me with somebody else, Minerva,” he said silkily, pulling his black cloak around him before he stalked away.

She watched him go, raising a brow.

 “Perhaps,” she murmured. “Perhaps not…”

OOOOOOO

It had been a long and trying week for Severus Snape, and he was looking forward to a quiet Saturday prior to the first Quidditch match of the year the following day.

His morning was pleasant enough – after a few experimental brews, he had settled in his quarters with his latest copy of Potions Monthly, enjoying the peace and quiet. And then…

Knock, knock, knock.

Severus exhaled deeply and ignored it – no doubt one of the other faculty members after one potion or another. If he stayed quiet, they’d soon go away.

A pause.

Had it worked?

Knock, knock, knock.

Severus closed his eyes, furious.

Knock, knock, knock.

Muttering under his breath, he stood up and swept across to the door, ready to give whoever it was a piece of his mind.

Flinging back the portrait that covered the entrance to his private quarters, Severus found himself having to look downwards to find the culprit.

He was not ready to see Harry Potter standing there.

The boy’s eyes were red and puffy, and he had something clutched tightly in his hand.

 “Potter? How did you…?” he began, wondering how on earth the little whelp had located his private quarters.

 “The portrait pointed me,” Potter sniffled, gesturing to a picture of a past potions master of Hogwarts, hanging on the wall just down the corridor from them.

Severus made a mental note to remove the picture later.

 “What is it Potter?” he asked impatiently, in no mood for whatever trivialities the child was bringing to his door.

Harry shuffled on the spot, choking back another sob.

Groaning inwardly, Severus moved to one side to let the boy in.

 “Come on then, Potter. And be quick about it.”

Showing the boy inside, Severus Snape sat back in his arm chair by the fire, and waited for some sort of explanation.

The brat just stood there, rubbing his eyes. 

Severus surveyed him. In this setting, the boy looked no more than 8 or 9 years old, and his pathetic snivelling threw serious doubt on whether this could really be the wizarding world’s ‘Chosen One.’

 “Well?” he asked. 

No response.

The potion’s master swallowed, trying to cling to the last ounces of patience he had inside of him.

 “Mr Potter, are you going to tell me who, or what, has reduced you into such a sorry state? What is that in your hand?”

 “M…my Defence assignment, sir…” Harry mumbled, holding up the crumpled piece of parchment, which appeared to have been torn in two.

Snape frowned. “Was there a problem with it, Potter?”

 “I… I wrote about what I was most afraid of…. J-just like we talked about…” Harry stammered. “And Professor Quirrell called us all to his office today to collect our g-grades…”

 “And what, pray, is the problem? You did not get the grade you had hoped for?” he asked.

 “He… he….” Harry began, looking at the two pieces of torn parchment in his hands.

Sensing there was more to this than met the eye, Severus gestured the boy closer to him.

 “Come here, Potter,” he urged, softening his voice somewhat.

Harry obeyed, moving to stand beside the professor’s chair.

 “Good. Now, take a deep breath, and try to explain to me what has upset you so,” Severus said.

Taking a shaky breath, Harry began.

 “I went to… to collect my assignment, with Ron and Seamus. S-some of the Slytherin lot were there too. Quirrell… He –”

 “– Professor Quirrell –”

 “–He gave out the other assignments first. And… and then when he got to me… he just changed, sir,” Harry said, his voice barely above a whisper.

 “How so?”

 “His face… sort of twisted. He looked so mad…” Harry said, his voice hitching again. “He started shouting at me. Saying that my… my assignment was l-lies… And he tore it up… He said… he said that being alone wasn’t a real fear, and that I should stop pretending and write a proper essay… about… about  V– You-Know-Who…”

For a moment, Severus Snape just stared at the child in front of him, lost for words.

He himself had pulled some stunts in his time, had even made children in his classes cry. But to belittle a child in front of his peers in this manner? To humiliate him about something so personal and make him feel as though the thing he was most afraid of was nothing? No, he could safely say he had never done such a thing.

Harry just stood there, his body wracked with sobs again, and Severus didn’t know what to do or say for the best.

Eventually, he leaned forward, preparing to give the brat a pep talk.

 “Potter–”

The boy, still distraught, clearly mistook the movement for something else, and before the potions master could do anything about it, Harry inched himself closer and buried his face in the crook of his neck.

Severus Snape froze.

Nobody looked to him for comfort in this way – least of all a child of eleven.

What to do?

Should he push the boy away, knowing that already today, one of his teachers had let him down so badly?

Knowing that this child has never known the comfort or care of an adult?

“Hush, Potter. It’s quite alright.”

 “I’m sorry…” Harry mumbled, between sobs.

 “There is no need to apologise. This is… not your fault,” Snape began, the words feeling alien on his lips.

Awkwardly, Severus put an arm around the boy and patted his back.

Harry leant in to the touch, sobbing harder.

Severus Snape grimaced. How was it that he, the evil dungeon bat, had somehow ended up as a human handkerchief for the pathetic, snivelling mess that was the offspring of James Potter?

He felt the boy’s hands clutching at his robes, burrowing in further, as if a silent plea for a response.

Lily’s child. This is Lily’s child, too.

In the time it had taken him to have that thought, Snape found that his own hand had gone to the back of the child’s head, smoothing down that unruly mop of dark hair.

 And then somehow, the child that was standing in front of him was in his lap.

OOOOOOO

Harry curled against the potion master’s strong chest, the sound of the man’s rhythmic heartbeat and the motion of a warm hand carding through his hair soothing his sobs down to whimpers.

His face buried in the soft, black fabric of the professor’s robes, Harry closed his eyes and took in the now-familiar scent of sandalwood and herbs. The dark man in his dreams had never allowed him to get this close.

For the longest time, Harry stayed there, until he was finally able to regain control of his emotions, at which point he became very aware of his surroundings and the fact he was sitting in his professor’s lap like a five year old.

Sitting up straight, Harry rubbed his eyes but remained in position, not quite ready to give up the adult-comfort that he had craved for so long.

 “’M-sorry sir…” he mumbled, a little embarrassed.

Professor Snape didn’t seem to mind however, and he handed Harry a handkerchief to dry his eyes.

 “It is… understandable that you are upset, Mr Potter. You have had a… difficult morning,” the man said.

Harry glanced down at the torn pieces of parchment, which had somehow ended up on the floor.

 “S-should I rewrite the essay, sir?” he asked softly, wondering whether he really should just write about Voldemort and forget the whole mortifying event.

 “You most certainly will not,” Professor Snape said, firmly.

And then he took out his wand and incendio’d the pieces of parchment.

 “You will think no more of this incident. And you will leave Quirrell to me.”

Cautiously, Harry looked up at him, the corner of his mouth turning up into a tentative, cheeky smile. “Don’t you mean Professor Quirrell, sir?”

Severus Snape sniffed. “No. I do not.”

OOOOOOO

Harry twirled a piece of bacon around on his fork, but made no move to put it into his mouth.

 “Take a bit of toast mate, go on,” Ron encouraged him.

 “Ron’s right, Harry,” Hermione agreed. “You’re going to need your strength today.”

 “I’m not hungry,” he told them both, flatly.

It had been a tumultuous few days thus far, what with Friday night’s troll incident and their encounter with the three headed dog earlier in the week.

Then there was everything that had happened yesterday.

Harry’s cheeks flushed as he thought back to how much of a baby he’d been – sitting on Professor Snape’s lap, for goodness sakes! What was he thinking? He was just pleased that none of his classmates had seen.

So far, neither Ron nor Hermione had said anything to him about the way he had clung to Professor Snape in the girl’s toilets, both likely presuming that fear had pushed him into it. He imagined they’d both have had something to say if they’d seen him yesterday.

Harry didn’t know exactly what the potions master had done following his visit to the man’s quarters, but sometime later he received a note from Quirrell advising him that there would be no need to recomplete the assignment. And Harry was quietly grateful that somebody, for the first time in a very long time, had gone in to fight his corner.

Now all he had to do was get through today’s Quidditch match, without making a fool of himself or letting his house down.

A presence behind him brought Harry from his thoughts, and he turned to peer up at the new arrival.

 “Good luck today Potter,” Snape said, giving him a small smile – the best the dour potions master could likely muster up, Harry concluded.  “Then again, now that you’ve proven yourself against a troll, a little game of Quidditch should be easy work for you. Even if it is against Slytherin.”

Throwing his friends a quick glance, Snape continued on towards the teacher’s table, leaving Harry silently thankful for his lack of reference to yesterday’s events.

 “Look, he’s limping,” Ron said suddenly, gesturing in the direction that Snape had gone.

Harry frowned, watching the potions master go. So he was.

 “That’ll be on account of the wound on his leg,” Hermione told them.

Ron frowned. “What wound? I can’t see anything.”

 “I saw it when he came into the girl’s toilets last night. On his right leg. Didn’t you notice it?” she asked.

The two boys shook their heads.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Honestly! Boys! So unobservant.”

 “Well, alright Miss Smarty Pants. Since you know everything, how d’you reckon he got it?” Ron asked, miffed.

 “It’s obvious, isn’t it? He must have been trying to get past that dog. To get his hands on whatever it’s guarding,” the girl said.

Ron’s eyes widened. “So then, he let the troll in?”

She nodded. “He must have.”

But Harry shook his head, slowly. “I don’t think so, guys.”

 “Why not? He’s a git. Have you forgotten how mean he was to you on the first day of classes?” Ron asked. “How else d’you reckon he got that limp?”

“I don’t know. But I don’t think Professor Snape would try to steal whatever that dog’s guarding. You’ve got it wrong,” he said, standing up. “I’d better get going. See you after the game.”

With that, he left his two friends at the table and disappeared from the Great Hall.

Shrugging, Ron pulled Harry’s plate across the table and tucked in.

 “What?” he asked through a mouthful of bacon, noticing Hermione’s look of disgust.

OOOOOOO

 “Drink up, Mr Potter,” Madame Pomphrey ordered, thrusting a nasty-smelling potion into his hand.

Harry grimaced, reluctantly.

 “Less of that. It’s just a Wideye potion. It’ll stop you from drifting off for a few hours, until we can be certain you’re not concussed,” the mediwitch told him.

 “I’m fine, Madame Pomphrey. I really don’t need to be here, taking up a bed,” Harry assured her.

 “As you can see, Mr Potter, I’m hardly overrun,” she said, gesturing around the otherwise empty hospital wing. “Now drink up.”

Relenting, Harry downed the potion, resisting the urge not to gag.

His little broom-surfing stunt had landed him there, after he’d taken a tumble and pretty much bounced off the floor of the Quidditch pitch.

Still, Harry thought, smiling to himself, at least he’d caught the snitch and Gryffindor had won. His first match, and they’d won!

Just then, the hushed whispers of his friends arguing outside the infirmary door echoed around the wing and Madame Pomphrey sighed, seeing the two little faces peering around the door frame.

 “Very well, come in, come in. But you may only visit for a short while. Mr Potter needs his rest,” she called.

 “You said I had to stay awake,” Harry pointed out.

 “There is a difference between resting and sleeping, Mr Potter. And I’ll have less of your cheek,” Madame Pomphrey scolded him, although there was no sternness to her voice.

Ron and Hermione were at his bedside now, arguing between themselves about something or other.

Harry smiled. “Hi guys.”

 “Hiya Harry. Thought you might want this,” Ron said, lifting up Harry’s Nimbus 2000 which had been left on the pitch when he had been carted off to the infirmary.

 “Thanks, Ron.”

 “How are you?” Hermione asked, taking a seat.

 “Bit of a headache, but I’ll be fine,” he assured her.

 “You were bloody brilliant out there, mate. The way you caught the snitch in your mouth like that. That was wicked!” Ron gushed. “I wish I could fly like you.”

 “Thanks. But maybe I’m not as great as everyone thinks,” Harry said, quietly. “I should probably get some more lessons.”

Ron frowned, confused. “Why d’you say that?”

 “Surely you saw how out of control my broom went?” he recalled. “I couldn’t stop it for ages. I really thought I was going to fall off.”

 “Harry, that wasn’t your fault,” Hermione told him, sincerely.  “Somebody was jinxing your broom.”

It was Harry’s turn to frown, now. “What?”

 “Not just somebody, mate. It was Professor Snape,” Ron hissed.

For a moment, Harry said nothing, and then he shook his head slowly, in disbelief.

 “It’s true,” Hermione said gently. “The moment I set his cloak on fire, you were able to regain control of your broom.”

 “You set his cloak on...? Hermione!” he cried, shocked.

 “Keep your voice down! I had to do something, Harry,” she whispered.

 “That’s quite enough excitement for one day. Back to your tower, the pair of you. Mr Potter needs peace and quiet,” Madame Pomphrey called, from her desk.

 “But we’ve only just got here!” Ron grumbled.

 “Yes, and you’ve seen him, and as you can tell, he is fine. Now out, the both of you!” she chided.

 “See ya mate,” Ron sighed.

 “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Harry confirmed.

 “I brought you some light reading, in case you get bored,” Hermione said, handing him a pile of books. “I thought perhaps you could scan these for anything about Nicholas Flamel. And don’t worry, I’ll try and find out why Snape was jinxing your broom.”

 “Uh… thanks,” he mumbled, watching his two friends go before he opened one of the books, entitled ‘Famous Wizards and Witches in Philosophical History’.

Professor Snape hadn’t really jinxed his broom, had he?

Thumbing the pages, Harry tried to push the thought to the back of his mind, ignoring the little pang of betrayal that came with it.

Several hours passed before Madame Pomphrey countered the Wideye potion with a Dreamless Sleep, allowing Harry to drift off.

Yet despite the dosage, he found that the second potion didn’t really live up to its name at all, as from the depths of his deepest slumber, Harry dreamed that his dark man came to visit him, tucking the covers more tightly around him and brushing a soothing hand across his forehead.

OOOOOOO

Severus Snape was thoroughly enjoying having the castle largely empty.

That afternoon, they’d shipped the majority of the students off for the annual Hogsmeade outing, and this year, he had not drawn the short straw when it came to chaperoning.

That meant he had the rest of the afternoon and most of the evening to browse the library, perhaps get some batch brewing out of the way and just generally enjoy a peaceful existence for once.

Entering the quiet library, the potions master headed towards the restricted section – he hadn’t perused those books in a while, and there was something in particular he was looking for presently.

As he made his way through the rows of ancient books, something caught his eye. Or rather, someone.

There, at the one of the desks in the centre of the library was Harry Potter. The boy was sat alone, playing a game of Wizard’s Chess against the evidently enchanted board.

Severus stopped.

He hadn’t seen the boy outside of class for some time. Harry’s Friday evening visits had come to an abrupt stop once Quidditch had started up, and the professor could only think that practice was taking priority over the boy’s studies.

Emerald eyes flicked in his direction.

 “Good afternoon, Mr Potter,” he said silkily, going to stand in front of the boy.

Harry mumbled a response, moving one of his pieces, which was promptly smashed to smithereens.

Severus took a seat at the desk, as the chess board made its move.

 “Why aren’t you in Hogsmeade with your little friends?”

Harry shrugged.

 “That isn’t an answer, Potter,” the potions master said, raising a brow.

 “My aunt and uncle wouldn’t sign the slip, sir,” he sighed. “So I wasn’t allowed to go.”

 “I see.”

Harry picked up another chess piece and went to move it, but the potions master stopped him with a silent wave of his hand, gesturing for him to move another piece instead.

The boy did as he suggested, and took one of the opposing knights.

 “Thanks,” he said, smiling faintly.

 “Tell me, Potter. How are your studies?” Snape asked.

 “Fine, sir, I think. Why d’you ask?”

 “No reason. It simply came to my attention that I had… not seen much of you, since the Gryffindor-Slytherin match,” Snape said carefully, after all, it wouldn’t do to let the boy think he cared – it was simply an observation.

Harry visibly tensed at the comment, and Snape frowned.

 “Problem, Potter?”

The child hesitated.

 “Go on.”

 “It’s just… That day, at the Quidditch match… my broom went out of control…” Harry began.

 “I recall.”

 “And… well, at first I thought it was me, sir. After all, I’ve barely had any flying lessons,” he explained. “But Ron and Hermione said…”

 “Ye-s?” Snape drawled, wondering when the whelp would get to the point.

 “They said someone was jinxing my broom,” the boy replied.  “And… they thought… I mean, they said that…”

 “Let me guess, Potter. Following the incident, your nitwitted friends, as always, put two and two together and came out with five, thus concluding that it was I who jinxed your broom, correct?” he offered.

Harry’s eyes widened.

 “Tell me Potter, what reason do you think I could possibly have for wishing to jinx your broom?” Snape asked.

 “I… don’t know sir…” came the small voice.

 “And do you not think that, should I wish to do away with you, I could simply chop you up and use you as potions ingredients?”

Harry paled a little. “I suppose so.”

 “So why, therefore, did you think it prudent to believe this nonsense?” he asked.

Colour quickly returned to the boy’s cheeks and he cast his eyes downwards. “I didn’t say I believed it, sir. I just… I wasn’t sure what to believe…”

 “Understandable I suppose, given the attempt on your life,” Snape mused.

 “So, someone did try to jinx my broom?” Harry frowned. “But… who? Why?”

 “As of yet, I do not know the answer to that,” the professor told him, which was only a half-truth. “However I intend to find out.”

 “Sorry I doubted you, sir,” the child said, suitably reassured that he was not sharing a library with his attempted murderer. 

 “That’s quite alright, Mr Potter. Given my efforts at countering the curse, it is hardly surprising that your friends came to the conclusion they did,” he said, and immediately regretted it.

The boy’s eyes were huge again. “You were trying to… to help me?”

Severus Snape sighed. Why was it the boy looked like somebody had just given him a huge present?

 “Is it truly that surprising to you? My reputation precedes me I am sure, but I am, first and foremost, a professor at this school and therefore would not see it fit to allow a student to fall from the skies whilst I sat back and did nothing,” he told the boy – there, that was a satisfactory explanation.

 “I… thank you, sir.”

 “Think no more of it, Potter,” he said, moving another piece across the board for the boy.

A comfortable silence followed, before Harry spoke again.

 “What’s it like sir?”

 “What is what like, Mr Potter?”

 “Hogsmeade,” Harry clarified, and Snape saw a mild flicker of disappointment return to the child’s eyes.  

 “It is largely dull,” the potions master lied, in an attempt to spare the boy’s feelings. “At this time of year it will be cold, the floor will be sludge and there will be so many people packed into the shops and inns that it is unlikely to be a very pleasant experience.”

“It’s okay,” he said, giving Snape another weak smile. “I know what you’re trying to do, sir, and I appreciate it. I’m sure there’ll be other years, and I don’t mind missing out all that much really. It was just… well, it would’ve been nice to go and get some Christmas presents for Ron and Hermione. And maybe Hagrid. I expect I won’t get another chance now. That’s all.”

Severus Snape surveyed the boy for a moment. Was this selfless child really the offspring of his childhood nemesis?

 “I understand, Potter. However, perhaps if you were to explain the situation to Headmaster Dumbledore, he may consider granting you the privilege of a trip to Diagon Alley, in conjunction with purchase of school supplies for January,” he suggested.

 “Thanks, sir. But I don’t think Professor Dumbledore would let me go to Diagon Alley on my own,” Harry sighed.

 “I am not for one moment suggesting you go alone, you idiot child. Perhaps, if he is so inclined, the headmaster may authorise such a visit if a member of the staff body were to accompany you,” Snape told him.

That would really put McGonagall out, wouldn’t it? An unwanted trip to Diagon Alley, right before Christmas. Severus Snape smirked inwardly at the thought.

 “Could it be you?” Harry asked, suddenly.

 “What?” Snape snapped, out of shock.

The boy’s face fell a little. “I’m sorry, sir. It doesn’t matter. I only thought that if I was going to go to Diagon Alley, I’d like to go with you most of all. But I understand that you’re busy, and I’m not your responsibility. So it’s okay, honest. Don’t worry about it.”

Severus Snape exhaled deeply.

 “Very well, Potter. I will accompany you to Diagon Alley. But only if Professor Dumbledore agrees,” he heard the words leaving his own mouth, before he could stop them.

Harry’s eyes lit up. “Really? That would be great, sir! I’ll ask him, first thing tomorrow!”

 “I have no doubt you will,” Snape said, as the chess board blew the last of Harry’s pieces to bits.  “And whilst we are there, perhaps a visit to Flourish and Blotts will be in order. In fact, I shall owl them ahead and ensure they put a copy of ‘An Idiot’s Guide to Wizard’s Chess’ on hold for you – your skills are sorely lacking.”

It was meant to be an insult, but the little brat actually had the audacity to laugh as he packed away the board and stood up.

Scooting around the edge of the desk, Harry reached out and wrapped his arms around Snape’s neck in a clumsy attempt at a hug.

 “Thank you sir,” he whispered.

And before Severus Snape had the chance to push the boy away or administer a few choice insults, the child was gone, leaving him to wonder what on earth he had just agreed to.

OOOOOOO

 “Liquorice wands,” Harry mumbled, wondering whether the password supplied to him by his head of house was some sort of joke.

But sure enough the Gargoyle began to move, revealing a stairway up towards Professor Dumbledore’s office.

The old man was sitting at a large desk when Harry entered, dictating a letter to the enchanted quill that hung in the air beside him, scribbling away on an expensive-looking piece of parchment.

He stopped when he saw the small boy appear.

 “Harry, my boy. How nice it is to see you,” he smiled.

 “’Lo Professor,” Harry greeted him, stopping in the doorway.

 “Come in, come in,” Dumbledore urged him, gesturing to a chair opposite him.

Harry sat in it, blissfully unaware of the fact its size made him appear even smaller than he truly was.

 “Tell me, Harry, how have you enjoyed your first term at Hogwarts?” he asked.

 “It’s been brilliant, sir. Really brilliant,” Harry smiled.

 “Good to hear. What has been your favourite part?” he asked, offering him a Sherbet Lemon from a small china dish.

 “Thank you sir,” he obliged, unwrapping the sweet and popping it into his mouth. “My favourite part…?”

Spending time with an adult who doesn’t think I’m a freakish waste of space.

 “…Well, it’s all been great, but I’ve loved playing Quidditch most of all,” he chose.

 “Ah, thoroughly enjoyable for all, I agree. Though it has been many years since I was last aboard a broom,” Dumbledore told him. “Still, I am sure you didn’t come here to discuss the finer points of the game.”

 “No, sir. Actually… I came to ask for your permission…” Harry began. “You see, I wasn’t able to go on the Hogsmeade trip yesterday. My aunt wouldn’t sign the permission slip. She’s a bit… wary about anything to do with school. Anyway, I wanted a chance to buy some Christmas presents, for my friends. And so I was wondering…”

 “If I would permit a trip to Hogsmeade?” the headmaster guessed.

But Harry shook his head. “I think Hogsmeade will be a bit cold, sir. The floor will be sludge and it’ll be too packed with people to be very enjoyable… So I was actually wondering if you’d give me permission to go to Diagon Alley. Not on my own of course, I know that wouldn’t be allowed. But maybe if one of the teachers went with me? Perhaps…”

 “Professor Snape?” Dumbledore suggested.

Harry’s eyebrows disappeared beneath a curtain of dark hair, and the elderly wizard chuckled.

 “How did you know what I was going to say?” the boy asked. “Did you speak to him about it already?”

 “I can assure you, Harry, that I have neither seen nor heard from Severus since the weekend began,” Dumbledore told him. “Your choice of words was merely… illuminating.”

Harry simply sat there, gaping at him then, until the headmaster spoke again.

 “Might I ask Harry, if you would be kind enough to indulge an old man for a moment – why Professor Snape?”

The boy shrugged his shoulders. “I just like him.”

This earned more laughter from the older wizard, and Harry gave him a curious glance.

 “Forgive me Harry. It is just that I have worked with your professor for a number of years now, and I cannot say that I have ever had a student tell me they ‘like’ him before.”

 “I know he’s stern and all. And he can be pretty scary in class. But… he’s been kind to me since I got  here, sir. He’s helped me with my assignments, and he taught me how to write with a quill properly. And he helped me when I lost control of my broom during the Quidditch match.”

And he gives the best hugs, and doesn’t push me away, even when I’m acting like a stupid baby.

Dumbledore gave him a knowing smile. “Very well, Harry. Then I shall confirm that I am more than happy for you venture to Diagon Alley with our potions master. However, do try not to run him too ragged. A great many people rely on him, you know?”

It was Harry’s turn to smile now, as he stood up from his seat. “Thank you, sir.”

He reached the doorway before he turned to look at the headmaster again.

 “Sir? What do you think… I mean, it probably wouldn’t be anything great, and it’ll be hard, what with him being there with me and all but… well… what sort of Christmas gift do you think Professor Snape might like?”

Dumbledore regarded him for a moment, a twinkle in his eye.

 “I am certain Harry, that Professor Snape will like most any gift you give him, just so long as it comes from here,” he said, placing a hand over his heart.

Harry nodded, gratefully.  “Thanks again, Professor Dumbledore.”

 “You are most welcome, Harry. Most welcome…” the headmaster muttered, more to himself than the boy, who had already gone from the room.

With that, he turned back to the quill, which was still poised in the air in anticipation.

 “…Furthermore, it has come to my attention since beginning to write this letter…”

OOOOOOO

Severus Snape strode towards The Leaky Cauldron the Potter whelp trotting several paces behind him.

He hated shopping, particularly at this time of year, shops jam-packed full of dunderheaded parents and children giddy with Christmas cheer.

By this point, he was convinced that they had visited every shop in Diagon Alley at least three times, and the brat was taking this present-buying business far too seriously for his liking.

He had intended to floo them straight back to Hogwarts as soon as the expedition had ended, but it had taken a lot longer than he had imagined, and he was certain that he had heard the boy’s stomach grumbling as they’d traipsed around Quality Quidditch Supplies. The last thing he needed was the child fainting on him. No, best to feed him now to avoid disaster.

The Leaky Cauldron was, for once, relatively empty, and the potions master quickly found them a table in the corner, pushing a menu across in the boy’s direction.

 “Thanks for bringing me, sir. I reckon my friends will love these gifts,” Harry said, stowing the paper bag beneath his chair. It had taken him a while to find the perfect items, but he was pretty sure he had: a rare hardback copy of ‘A History of House Elves’ for Hermione, a brand new back of collectible Quidditch playing cards for Ron, and even a dragon’s tooth pendant for Hagrid, since the caretaker had always wanted a dragon. 

 “Hmm, if their appreciation is measured against the time taken to select said gifts, I have no doubt they will,” Snape said, flatly.

Harry smiled, taking off his gloves and scarf.

 “Contrary to popular belief, Mr Potter, we do not have all day to spend here. So I would advise you to review the menu and make a decision on what you would like for lunch,” Snape told him, noticing that the boy had not so much as picked up the menu that had been handed to him.

Harry frowned in apparent confusion.

 “Me, sir?”

Snape arched a brow. “I do not see any other troublesome miscreants around here.”

 “Sorry, sir. I just… thought… maybe you were hungry, or… you know…” Harry began.

 “Did you imagine, Potter, that I had simply brought you here so that you could watch me eat?” he asked, unimpressed.

The boy watched him for a moment, green eyes full of… what? Surprise? Uncertainty?

Yes, that was exactly what the boy had imagined, Severus realised.

 “That is… not so,” he confirmed, his tone gentler. “Now, presuming you have not lost the ability to read…”

Smiling almost shyly, Harry picked up the menu and began to browse.

And Severus Snape waited.

And waited.

And waited.

In fact, it seemed that shopping for gifts was not the only thing that took the boy an age.

 “Perhaps I should seek out the breakfast menu, Potter? After all, it may well be morning before you make a decision,” he said, sarcastically.

 “Sorry sir. It’s just… there are a lot of choices and I’ve never…”

The boy was overwhelmed, Severus recognised. Clearly, his muggle relatives had never taken him anywhere or lavished him with anything so luxurious as a pub lunch, and the child did not know what to do for the best.

Catching the eye of a nearby waitress, he gestured her over.

 “Afternoon, gentlemen. What can I get you?” she asked, giving Harry a friendly smile.

 “A pot of coffee for me, please. And unfortunately it would seem that your excellent menu has left young Mr Potter here spoilt for choice. Is there anything you can recommend?” he asked, ignoring the grateful look the child cast his way.

 “Well, rumour has it the chef’s special steak and kidney pie is something special,” she said kindly.

Harry gave her a small smile. “That sounds good. Thank you.”

 “No problem. And something to drink? Some hot chocolate, perhaps?” she suggested.

Harry glanced up at his professor, as if wondering whether a drink was pushing it.

The potions master simply nodded.

 “Coming right up,” the waitress smiled, and disappeared in the direction of the kitchens.

 “So, Potter, what are your plans for the Christmas break?” Snape asked, once they were alone again.

 “Not much, sir.”

 “Are you returning to your relative’s home?” he probed.

Harry shook his head. “No, sir. They’re taking Dudley to Lapland this year, and I didn’t much want to go.”

Snape inclined his head, concluding that this likely translated into ‘I wasn’t invited or wanted on the trip.’

 “I see. Well, I’m sure that you’ll find Christmas at Hogwarts just as enjoyable, if not more so.”

 “I think I will. How about you sir? Do you have plans?” the boy enquired.

The potions master resisted the urge to snort. Him? Christmas plans?

 “Not likely. I, too, will remain at the castle.”

Just then, Harry gasped, his mouth dropping open.

 “What is it, Potter? Are you hoping to catch a fly in there?” Snape asked, unimpressed.

 “Sir, I forgot!” he exclaimed.

 “Forgot what, Potter?”

 “About the book, in Flourish and Blotts. The chess book you owled them about,” Harry elaborated.

 “Calm down, Potter. You must truly be an idiot if you thought I had any plans to owl them regarding a book entitled ‘An Idiot’s Guide to Wizard Chess.’ There is no such book. However,” he began, against his better nature. “I daresay there is some kind of text on the topic, if you wish to revisit the shop following lunch.”

Harry thought about it for a moment before shaking his head.

 “No thank you. That’s okay, sir. I don’t think a book would be the best way for me to learn, anyway.”

 “Is that so? And how, pray, do you plan to improve your game?” Snape asked.

 “Well… I was thinking… It seemed like you really knew what to do, in the library the other day… So maybe, if you have time… perhaps… you could, you know… teach me how?” Harry suggested, hopefully.

Severus Snape silently cursed. Just when it had seemed like he may get a couple of weeks of solitude, there was this brat again, with more demands for mundane tasks that he simply had no desire to take on.

All the same, as Harry tucked into his steak and kidney pie, the potions master drew the outline of a chess board on the back of the menu, and began to teach.

OOOOOOO

The first day of the Christmas break passed with very few happenings, which was much to Severus Snape’s liking.

Most of the students had cleared out the day before, with the stragglers being seen off that morning. It was an unusually quiet year, he noted, with only a handful of students staying at the school: three Hufflepuffs, two Ravenclaws and one Gryffindor which was, of course, the Potter brat.

He had spent the majority of that day brewing, having a number of potions to prepare and send out before the festivities began.

He chose not to eat in the Great Hall that evening, instead having the elves bring food to his quarters. Dinner was an altogether silent affair (just how he liked it), after which he settled on the large black sofa by the fire with a copy of the Daily Prophet.

Before he knew it, it was nearly 10 o’clock, and Severus Snape was very nearly considering an early night when it happened.

Knock knock knock.

He sighed.

The rhythm of the knocking was familiar, and was low enough down on his door for him to guess who was on the other side.

Knowing that there was absolutely no point in ignoring it, the potions master got up and went to open the door, ready to give the impertinent whelp a piece of his mind.

Harry gazed up at him blearily, teeth chattering as he stood there in his pyjamas and dressing gown, nothing on his feet save a pair of odd socks.

 “Potter, what are you…?” Snape began. “You are well beyond curfew, young man.”

 “I know, sir. It’s just… awfully quiet in the Gryffindor tower…” the boy began, sheepishly. “It’s a bit… you know, creepy.”

 “Ah. So naturally, you saw it fit to travel across the castle and through the dungeons alone, in the dark,” he drawled.

Harry shrugged. “I just... wanted to sit with you for a bit, if it’s okay?”

Severus Snape resisted the urge to sigh, opening the door wider to allow the child in.

 “Very well. For a short time, after which I will personally escort you back to your tower, before Filch finds you out of your bed.”

The potions master sat the boy on the sofa then, summoning one of the elves to bring a cup of hot cocoa before returning to his original seat and back to an interesting article he had been reading on research into a potential cure for maledictus curses.

For a while, they sat in a comfortable silence that seemed to occur naturally between them.

Severus was so wrapped up in the article that he barely noticed that the boy had edged across the sofa towards him until it was too late.

Realising that he had appeared at his side, the potions master lifted up the newspaper to give the child a stern look. The movement of his arms, however, was taken in an entirely different way by Harry, who took the opportunity to scoot in even closer, pressing his head against the man’s chest.

So this was what the little brat wanted.

 “What’re you reading?” he mumbled, making himself comfortable.

 “The newspaper,” Severus replied, so taken aback that it was all he could muster up.

Harry sniggered softly. “I know that, sir. I’m not stupid.”

 “Hmph. I think that is entirely a matter of opinion, Potter,” he said, turning the page.

What should he do now? Send the child back to the other end of the sofa? Tempted though he was, Severus decided it against it – perhaps if he indulged the child for a short period, he’d be rid of his presence much more quickly.

 “So, what happened with your little friend, Potter? It was my understanding that he would be staying at the school over the Christmas break,” he said, referring to the Weasley boy.

 “Another change of plan,” Harry said. “It’s not much fun being in that tower on my own.”

 “Yes. Well. You should be in bed, asleep,” he pointed out.

Harry shook his head. “I just get bad dreams. And it’s even worse when there’s nobody else about.”

 “What do you dream about?” Snape asked, curious at the new information.

Harry just shrugged, clamming up a little.

 “You can say,” the potions master told him carefully, folding up the newspaper and putting it down.

The boy seemed somewhat surprised to have his professor’s full attention on the matter, and large emerald eyes met his own.

 “But they’re just stupid dreams, aren’t they? They’re not real…”

 “That doesn’t mean they don’t frighten or upset you,” Snape pointed out.

His words seemed to give Harry the reassurance he needed, and he spoke again.

 “Sometimes I dream about being at Privet Drive, and Uncle Vernon yelling and yelling at me because I’ve done something freaky…” he began. “And then… sometimes just about other stuff. Scary stuff. Like the night with the green light, when my mum…”

Severus felt his chest ache, though whether it was for Lily, or the little boy pressed to his side, he wasn’t entirely sure. Either way, he found his hand atop the child’s head, stroking the dark hair absent-mindedly.

 “Don’t you think it’s stupid sir?” Harry asked, seemingly thrown off guard by the fact his professor hadn’t laughed at him, or told him not to be such a baby.

 “No, Potter. I don’t. It is understandable, given your past, that you should have such dreams,” he said, stiffly. “Perhaps, if you are ready for bed, a small dose of Dreamless Sleep may be beneficial, before I return you to your dorm.”

Harry shook his head.  “’M’not tired…”

The potions master arched an eyebrow, looking down at the boy, whose drooping eyelids told a different story.

 “Alright, Potter. Well when you are ready, do let me know.”

 “Mm-hm,” Harry confirmed, burrowing further into the black robes.

Severus rolled his eyes, wondering when the formidable, draconian image he presented to his students had ever given the impression that he would make a suitable pillow for eleven year old Gryffindors, of all things.

With that, he accio’d a nearby blanket cover the child, refusing to be the reason that The Boy-Who-Lived caught pneumonia.

OOOOOOO

Severus Snape was not sure for exactly how long he had been sat there on the sofa, the boy sleeping soundly beside him. It was entirely possible that he himself had dozed off, he surmised, having been brought back to reality by a whooshing noise coming from the direction of his fireplace.

Straightening up, Severus cursed inwardly when the face of Albus Dumbledore appeared within the flames. This was all he needed.

 “Severus, my boy! There you are. May I come through?” he asked.

 “What is it headmaster?” Severus sighed.

Seemingly taking this as an invitation, Dumbledore’s face disappeared momentarily before he stepped through into the position master’s living quarters.

 “I must apologise for visiting so late, Severus. However it appears that we have a student missing–” the elderly wizard began, before stopping abruptly to survey the scene before him, his eyes beginning to twinkle annoyingly.

Snape shifted uncomfortably, suddenly very conscious of the small boy curled in beside him.

Turning back to the fireplace, Dumbledore put his head back into the floo.

 “I’m pleased to confirm that the panic is over, Argus,” he said, evidently addressing the caretaker who was at the other end. “The student has, thankfully, been located and is safely tucked up to sleep. Thank you for your concern, do have a good evening!”

Snape scowled.

Turning back to face him, Dumbledore gave him a cheery smile. “So sorry, my boy. Our Mr Filch was quite concerned with a student being out of bed.”

 “And rightly so,” Snape grumbled.

 “Might I ask…?” Dumbledore began, glancing questioningly at the child.

“It would seem our hero is not quite so brave when he is all alone in the Gryffindor tower, headmaster,” he replied, trying to throw his best sneer in there for good measure.

 “Ah, yes. Even Hogwarts can be the loneliest of places when the ones we hold most dear are absent,” the headmaster nodded, taking a seat on the armchair across from him and glancing at the half-empty glass of wine on the table. “Merlot?”

 “Yes.”

 “An excellent choice. And a personal favourite of mine, also,” Dumbledore smiled.

Severus had to hold back an audible growl at the headmaster’s shameless hinting. 

 “Would you care for a glass, headmaster?”

Dumbledore’s smile only grew wider. “Why, Severus, how kind of you to ask! That would be wonderful.”

The house elves were summoned once again, then, and it was clear that even they were a little puzzled by the apparent increase of workload coming from the potions master’s quarters.

“It would seem, Severus, that you have made quite an impression on our young Harry,” Dumbledore said eventually, glass in hand. “May I be so bold as to enquire how this came about?”

 “The boy simply latched himself on to me, Albus. I have no idea why, nor am I clear on how I might be able to rid myself of him,” Snape said flatly.

Dumbledore chuckled, his gaze flickering momentarily to the potion master’s hand, still cupped against the back of the boy’s head.

 “I should think that you could have done so already, had you truly wished to.”

 “What is that supposed to mean?” Severus snapped.

The headmaster examined him above his half-moon spectacles for a moment before he spoke again.

 “You know, aside from his muggle relatives, Harry has no other family to speak of.”

 “I would hardly describe the muggles as any kind of ‘family’ to the boy, either,” Snape commented.

 “The blood wards protect him, but alas, Harry lacks a true source of comfort in the magical world. He is very much alone,” Dumbledore said.

 “He has an army of adoring fans,” he countered.

 “Yet it is you he seeks out, time and time again,” his boss pointed out. “No, I am quite certain that what young Mr Potter craves is the care and attention of an adult.”

 “Then, he is all yours, headmaster,” Snape said, dryly.

 “We both know I am far too old for this kind of thing, Severus. And if you truly mean to keep the vow you made in my office, all those years ago…”

 “What exactly is it you are asking of me, old man?” he demanded, starting to feel a little worried.

 “Not much, my dear boy. Perhaps only that you provide some company for the boy, over the Christmas Period and into the new term. Somebody to whom he can come, should he find it necessary,” Dumbledore suggested, draining the wine glass and standing back up. “The rest, as they say, will follow.”

 “What on earth does that mean?” Snape asked, dubiously.

But the headmaster had already stepped into the floo and disappeared.

OOOOOOO

Harry stood in the corner of the DADA classroom, watching Professor Quirrell sifting through a large pile of papers on his desk.

He didn’t move, and even silently held his breath, hoping the professor wouldn’t notice him.

 “Where is it? Where is it?” Quirrell muttered, his paper-shuffling become more furious as he searched for something.

 “We have no use for it, you imbecile,” another voice hissed. “Use the boy to get to the–”

 Harry audibly gasped as his scar began to sting, his hand flying to his forehead.

Unfortunately, the disturbance was enough to notify the professor of his arrival, and whomsoever the other voice belonged to, as the room fell silent.

Professor Quirrell looked up from his desk.

 “P-Potter. Where is it?” he asked.

Harry opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

 “Where is it?!” Quirrell asked, his voice louder this time as he moved across the classroom towards Harry.

 “Where’s what, sir?” Harry asked, trying to back up but finding himself penned in by a stone wall.

 “The essay, you fool! I TOLD YOU that I wanted a rewrite, on your real fear!” the professor cried.

 “But sir, I did write about my real fear–”he began.

 “Don’t lie to me, you miserable brat!” Quirrell shrieked, his face twisting with fury. “You will write your assignment about the Dark Lord, just as planned!”

 “Planned?” Harry frowned. “But he isn’t what I’m most afraid of. I don’t even rem–”

 “That will soon be rectified…” the other voice hissed. “Seize him!”

Quirrell reached out a trembling hand towards him, long, dirty finger nails scraping against his neck.

Harry screwed his eyes shut, and began to scream.

OOOOOOOO

Severus Snape bottled another batch of Wolfsbane and glanced at the clock.

It was far too late to be brewing, but the headmaster’s visit and subsequent cryptic words were enough to ensure he never slept again. Was Dumbledore really suggesting that he, Severus Snape, former Death Eater, be… what? Be there for the Potter boy? Be some kind of trusted adult?

He shook his head, placing the delicate glass bottle into the wooden crate alongside the others.

If this was the case, then the headmaster really had lost it, finally. He could not be someone for the child to rely on – any child, for that matter, but especially not that one.

No, the potions master decided, he needed to put some distance between himself and the boy moving forward.

A sudden, blood-curdling scream brought him from his thoughts, and he was swiftly reminded that said boy was still asleep on his sofa. Or at least, so he had thought.

Opening the door to his potions lab, Snape hurried back towards his living quarters, wondering what on earth he was going to find.

Sure enough, Potter was still on the sofa, and it quickly became evident to him that the boy was currently embroiled in some form of night terror.

Moving across to the sofa, Snape sat down, reaching out a hand to steady the small, thrashing body beside him.

Harry let out another, more muffled scream.

 “Potter, wake up,” Severus said, giving the boy’s arm a shake to bring him out of it.

The child flew into an upwards position, gasping for breath.

 “It’s okay. You were dreaming. You are perfectly safe, Mr Potter,” the potions master assured him.

Harry choked back a sob, searching frantically for something.

For a moment, Snape was at a loss, and then he realised.

Reaching out, he picked the boy’s glasses up from the side table, placing them gently onto the bridge of his nose.

Harry’s chest heaved for air as his eyes adjusted to his surroundings.

 “You are safe,” Snape repeated.

The child’s emerald eyes flicked in his direction, as if he had been totally unaware of his professor’s presence until that moment. And then he outstretched his arms, another sob escaping his lips.

For a moment, Severus Snape didn’t move.

And then it occurred to him.

The child was asking to be held.

No, the child was asking to be held by him.

Completely unequipped to deal with such a situation, he reached out - albeit cautiously at first - and drew Harry nearer.

Harry curled into his chest, burying his head in the black robes, his body trembling.

This child has never been held after awakening from a nightmare.

His fingers moved through Harry’s hair, moving the damp fringe away from his forehead as he spoke softly to the boy, reassuring him that he was safe.

Eventually, Harry’s breathing steadied somewhat and he relaxed into the potions master’s arms, gathering up a fistful of the said man’s robes as he did, as if fearful the contact might end as he calmed.

 “Do you wish to talk about it? Your nightmare?” Snape asked eventually.

Harry shrugged.

 “What frightened you so?” the professor asked.

 “Pr… Professor Quirrell,” Harry began, his cheeks colouring, as if he expected the older man to laugh.

Severus Snape did not laugh however, and merely arched an eyebrow.

 “I see. Has he bothered you again, since the last… incident?”

“Not really, sir. Not since… whatever you said to him…” Harry said, pausing as a small furrow appeared in his brow. “There was something else, though… Another voice…”

 “What do you mean?”

 “In the dream… I don’t… It’s hard to explain,” he said, feeling as though the images he had seen and the things he had heard in his sleep were already becoming fuzzy. “Do you mind if we don’t talk about it?”

The potions master inclined his head. “As you wish. In any case, it is the middle of the night, and it would be prudent for you to try and get a proper night’s sleep.”

Harry glanced up at him, nervously. “Can… Can I stay here tonight?”

 “May I, Mr Potter, and yes you may, on account of the fact that it is far too late for you to be wandering the corridors of this castle,” Snape said. At least he had made it clear that curfew was the only reason the brat was being given such as a privilege. “However I must inform you that you will have to remain on the sofa, given the fact that there is no spare bed in the guest room. I am a solitary man and do not often care for visitors.”

 “That’s okay sir. ‘S’really comfy,” Harry told him, rubbing his eyes.

Snape gave the boy a small dose of Dreamless Sleep then, which Harry swallowed with a grimace.

 “What’s it s’posed to do?” he asked after swallowing it.

 “Don’t be dense, Potter. It does exactly as it purports to do on the label – enables the consumer to sleep without the interruption of dreams, or in your case, nightmares,” Snape told him, evenly.

 “Wasn’t being dense, sir. I just wondered, because the one I took in the infirmary didn’t exactly work,” Harry said, sulkily.

 “What do you mean it ‘didn’t exactly work’?” the potions master asked.

 “I mean I still had dreams and stuff.”

 “Then why, Mr Potter, have you just taken another dose?” he enquired, a lecture about wasting good potions already forming in his head.

 “Well… I figured this one might be a better version, sir. And it might actually work,” Harry mumbled.

 “And how, pray, did you come to that conclusion?” Snape asked, wondering if he would ever understand the inner-workings of a child’s brain

Harry shrugged, giving him a watery smile. “Because you made it.”

For a moment, Severus Snape said nothing.

And then he nodded stiffly.

 “An entirely plausible theory,” he said – one which he would be sure to share with the mediwitch at a later date.

With that, he stood up.

 “Get some rest, Potter.”

 He made it to the door before the boy spoke again.

 “Sir?”

Stopping, he turned back to face the child. “What is it?”

 “Could you… I mean, if it’s not too much trouble… could you maybe stay with me? Just ‘til I fall asleep?” Harry asked, emerald eyes full of hope.

And that was how Severus Snape came to be sitting on the sofa in his quarters at nearly 2 o’clock in the morning, with the head of his worst enemy’s son resting in his lap as Dumbledore’s irritatingly cryptic little message played over and over in his mind.

“The rest, as they say, will follow.”

Just what had he gotten himself into?

OOOOOOO

From his usual place at the top table, Severus Snape scowled and kept his eyes trained firmly ahead of him as the handful of students staying in the castle tucked into their breakfast.

Thinking back to that first night of the Christmas break, he could not recall ever giving Harry Potter any indication that the visits to his personal quarters should become a nightly occurrence.

And yet somehow, over the course of the next week, they had.

The routine, it seemed, was a little less clockwork than the previous Friday evening classroom visits - yet it became a routine all the same, whether he liked it or not.  

Some evenings, Potter would bring his chess set with him, and Snape had to admit that the boy was improving. On other nights, there wasn’t much conversation, but the child seemed content to sit beside him and read.

On more than one occasion – and much to the potions master’s annoyance – the little whelp had seen it fit to fall asleep on his sofa.

This was, in fact, exactly what had happened the previous night, and he was rapidly coming to think of it as less of his sofa at all, and more as ‘Potter’s bed.’

This occurrence was the catalyst for his current source of irritation, for as he’d strode into the Great Hall for breakfast on Christmas Eve morning, with The Boy-Who-Slept-On-His-Sofa-All-The-Time trotting behind him, Severus Snape had not failed to notice the look of pure glee in the headmaster’s eyes.

With very few of the other teachers remaining at the school, it was difficult to avoid conversation with the older wizard at the breakfast table, and try as he might, his stoic glare only served him well for the first ten minutes or so before he could take it no more.

 “What is it headmaster?” he demanded, catching the man smiling at him in his peripheral vision.

Dumbledore’s smile broadened.

 “Oh, come now, Severus. I was just thinking how nice it must be for Harry to have found someone like you.”

 “’Someone like me’?” he repeated, arching a brow.

 “Somebody he can trust,” Dumbledore explained. “Look up to, perhaps.”

 “Is that so? For me, it is something more akin to finding a stray dog on the streets and having it follow you home,” Snape drawled, still refusing to look at him.

If he had hoped to shock the headmaster he was to be sorely disappointed, as his words did nothing more than elicit a soft chuckle from the other man.

 “Severus, you and I both know that isn’t true,” he said. “It is quite okay to admit that you enjoy Harry’s company, my boy.”

 “I am merely tolerating him, nothing more.”

 “If you say so,” Dumbledore shrugged. “Even so, perhaps, in the spirit of Christmas, perhaps you might humour me and tolerate him a little longer?”

 “Meaning?” Snape pressed.

 “I would hate to think of Harry spending Christmas eve or Christmas morning alone,” the headmaster said wistfully, his eyes falling up on the small boy on the table in front of them. 

Snape resisted the urge to scoff.

 “Potter has spent the best part of the last week in my quarters as it is. But then again, you already knew that, didn’t you?” he said, finally turning to face him.

 “That’s the first I’ve heard of it,” Dumbledore replied, feigning surprise.

Huffing, Snape turned away again.

There was a pause before the headmaster spoke again.

 “You know Severus, a sofa really is no place for a child to sleep.”

 “Well then perhaps you could have a word with the boy, appeal to his better nature and ask him to stay in his own bed?” he suggested.

Dumbledore nodded his head thoughtfully. “Yes, I suppose that is the first option…”

Snape sighed. “The second being?”

 “You have a guest room in your quarters, do you not? It would look lovely with–”

 “Stop right there, headmaster. Absolutely not!” Snape cried, incensed.

 “Severus–”

 “This conversation is at an end. Whatever you are trying to do, I will ask you to desist,” he said firmly. “I will see to it that the boy does not spend his Christmas alone. But beyond that, I cannot be what he – or you – wants me to be.”

 “And what is that? You mean to tell me that you can’t be an adult that the boy can trust or confide in? A mentor?” Dumbledore asked.

 “No. I mean to tell you that I cannot be a father to an orphaned child,” Snape replied.

And with that, he got up and stalked out of the Great Hall, robes billowing behind him.

Harry watched him go, before casting a curious glance in the headmaster’s direction.

Dumbledore gave him a wink.

This was going to be a lot easier than he had first imagined.

OOOOOOO

Harry spent the majority of his day in the Gryffindor common room, reading.

Hermione had set him the task of researching Nicholas Flamel over the Christmas break, and although he supposed it wasn’t the way most eleven year olds spent their Christmas Eve, it beat peeling vegetables for the Durley’s and spending the night in his cupboard listening them to them all having a nice time whilst he was miserable.

So far, he had scoured several volumes of ‘A History of Magic’ with absolutely nothing to show for it. Of course, Hermione had suggested he visit the restricted section of the library, but he wasn’t sure how to do that without getting caught. All in all, the hunt for Flamel was looking pretty bleak, and he was just about to give up and make his way to the Great Hall for dinner when he heard the voices out in the corridor.

 “–Not unless you have the password!”

 “I am a professor of this establishment, and I am ordering you to grant me access, you ridiculous scrawl –”

 “–SCRAWL!!! How dare you! I’ll have you know that I am a 19th century oil painting, and I am the guardian of this tower–”

 “– I can assure you that, should you refuse my entry, you will promptly find yourself situated on the wall of the Prefect’s Bathroom–”

 “ – Your idle threats do not scare me, Severus Snape. We’ve been here before, a long time ago, have we not? I didn’t grant you access then, and I shan’t now!”

Snorting to himself, Harry padded down the narrow hallway towards the door and swung the portrait open.

 “Sir?”

 “Ah, there you are Potter. You have just saved the good lady of Gryffindor tower a great deal of embarrassment,” Snape told him, folding his arms.

 “Are… are you here to see me, sir?” Harry asked, unable to hide the disbelief from his voice.

 “As you are the only Gryffindor remaining the castle at the present time, I struggle to imagine who else I might have been hoping to find here,” Snape told him, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Given that it is Christmas Eve, we will skip the meal in the Great Hall, and you will join me for dinner in my quarters, if you find it agreeable.”

Harry smiled. Professor Snape actually wanted to spend time with him on Christmas Eve? Nobody had ever wanted him around at this time of year before.

 “I will take the stupid grin on your face as a yes. As I have little desire to spend time in the Gryffindor common room, I will wait out here whilst you put your shoes on,” Snape told him.

Harry nodded. “Okay, sir. I won’t be long.”

He went to head back inside, but the potion’s master caught hold of the portrait before it swung shut again.

 “Oh, and Potter?”

Harry stopped,  turning to face him again. “Yes sir?”

 “As rare as it will be for you to turn up at my quarters in something other than your night clothes, please see to it that you bring them along. I do not wish to enter in to any further debate with the portrait this evening.”

Smiling again, Harry took off in the direction of the dormitory.  

OOOOOOO

Dinner with Harry was much more of a tolerable affair than the picture Severus had built up in his mind, and though he would never have admitted it out loud, he found the boy to be fairly good company when he wasn’t babbling incessantly about Quidditch or snivelling into his robes like a toddler.

They had just finished eating when there was a knock at the door, and something told the potion’s master he wasn’t going to like what he found on the other side.

He ignored the first knock, busying himself with clearing the table with several flicks of his wand.

 “There’s somebody at the door,” Harry said, following the second round of knocking.

 “Hmm. It is usually you,” he commented.

The boy laughed. “That doesn’t make any sense. Shall I get it?”

 “No. I will go,” Snape sighed, making his way towards the door.

Opening it, he was irritated – yet not surprised – to find Albus Dumbledore standing there.

 “Hello,” the headmaster smiled pleasantly.

 “Good evening headmaster. What can I do for you?” he asked, scarcely able to hide his annoyance.

 “Forgive me Severus, I couldn’t help but notice that neither you nor Harry were at dinner…” Dumbledore began. “And well… I do hope I’m not disturbing you?”

 “As a matter of fact, we were just finishing dinner ourselves,” Snape told him, hoping he would take the hint.

 “Ah. Then it would appear that I’m just in time,” the headmaster beamed, producing a plate from beneath the sleeve of his robes. “I brought mince pies!”

Harry appeared behind him before he could provide another, less subtle response.

 “Hello Professor Dumbledore.”

 “Good evening, Harry. I trust you are enjoying your Christmas Eve?” the old man smiled.

 “Yes, it’s been brilliant, sir!” Harry nodded, glancing up at the potion’s master and tugging the cuff of his sleeve. “Aren’t you going to invite him in? It’s rude to make someone stand on the doorstep, you know?”

Biting his tongue to prevent him from saying all of the things he would have liked to, Severus Snape stepped aside to allow the headmaster through.

And that was how the three of them came to be sitting at the table, eating mince pies on Christmas Eve.

Severus didn’t know what was more of an annoyance – watching the brat inhale the pastry as if somebody might take it away, or catching the knowing smiles from his boss out of the corner of his eye.

 “Chew this one before you swallow it, perhaps?” he suggested, as Harry reached for a second pie.

Harry flushed. “Sorry, sir. It’s just… I’ve never had mince pies before. I always wanted to try one.”

 “Never had a mince pie before?” Dumbledore enquired, surprised. “I was quite sure muggles enjoyed them as much as wizards.”

The boy shrugged, bowing his head and concentrating on getting the pie out of its foil case.

He hadn’t said his muggle relatives didn’t eat mince pies of course, but Snape knew it was unlikely that they had ever deigned to offer him one.

 “Thank you for bringing them, Professor,” Harry said, more softly. “It was really nice of you to do that.”

 “You are most welcome, Harry,” Dumbledore assured him. “And I must say that I, too, have thoroughly enjoyed myself. Perhaps, I may have just started a new tradition.”

 “Tradition?” the boy frowned, puzzled.

 “Something that we do to mark the occasion, year on year. I’m sure that even non-magical folk have them. Perhaps your Aunt and Uncle do the same things, every year at Christmas? To make it special?” the headmaster suggested.

Harry thought about it. “Well… they do let my cousin Dudley open one present on Christmas Eve every year. Right before bed.”

 “And as such, it is a Christmas tradition,” Dumbledore confirmed. “Perhaps, this can be ours.”

The boy smiled, biting into his pie, and Severus refrained from pointing out that he had no intention of being sat around a table eating mince pies with either of them a year from now.

 “Well, my boys, as enjoyable as this has been, I think that I shall now retire and leave you to your Christmas Eve,” Dumbledore said eventually, standing up.

 “So soon?” Snape drawled.

 “Alas, I am old, and it is nearly past my bed time,” the headmaster told him, producing a wine bottle-shaped gift wrapped in festive paper and handing it to the potion’s master. “To replace the one we drank, Severus. And not forgetting Harry, of course…”

 “For me, sir?” Harry asked in awe, as the headmaster handed him a box, packaged in the same brightly-coloured paper. “Thank you!”

 “No opening them until the morning, mind,” Dumbledore called over as his shoulder, as he headed back towards the entranceway. “Although…”

The headmaster stopped, right outside the guestroom, which was the last room on the left before the corridor which led to the entrance of Snape’s quarters.

 “I think perhaps your relative’s tradition is one we might observe, also,” he said, tapping his hand against the door twice and giving Harry a wink. “Merry Christmas, Harry.”

Confused, Harry moved across to the door, opening it and peering inside.

He gasped.

 “What is it Potter?” Snape demanded, following him. Had the child never seen a room full of dusty old books before?

But stopping directly behind the boy, Snape observed that there was no longer a single dusty book in sight.

Instead, the room contained a four poster bed and a small pinewood desk and chair. The soft furnishing were maroon and gold in colour, and the walls were adorned with every manner of Quidditch paraphernalia.

It didn’t look like his spare bedroom at all. In fact, it looked very much like the bedroom of an eleven year old Gryffindor boy.

Trying to count to ten, Severus Snape turned to give the headmaster a piece of his mind, only to find that the meddlesome old fool and completely vanished from the room.

 “You never said it looked like this,” Harry told him, confused.

 “Until this evening, I can assure you that it did not.” 

The boy looked up at him, frowning in confusion.

 “It would seem that the headmaster is concerned about your sleeping on the sofa,” Snape elaborated.

 “You mean… this is for me?” he breathed. “And you’re really okay with it?”

 “I was hardly given a choice in the matter, Potter. However, if it means that you will relinquish my sofa and I can return it to its original use, I… see no harm in you making use of this room, for the time being,” Snape told him, stiffly.

Harry’s face lit up as he stepped inside the room and looked around.

 “Wow. I never had a room of my own before…” he murmured, more to himself than anybody else.

Wandering over to the desk, Harry noticed a small stack of books, and picked one up from the top of the pile.

 “’Babbity Rabbity’s Christmas Wish’,” he read aloud. “I’ve never heard of this one before.”

 “Having spent a large part of your life in the muggle world, that is hardly surprising,” Snape said. He himself recalled the story from his own childhood, and did not much want to revisit it.

As if on cue, Harry turned to look at him, those green eyes full of hope again.

 “Could you read it to me?”

 “Unless you have lost the ability in the last 3 seconds, I am fairly sure you are quite capable of reading to yourself, Potter. In any case, you will likely find that book beneath your age range now,” the potions master said.

He saw the boy visibly deflate before is eyes.

 “However, perhaps a game of Wizard’s Chess, once you have changed in to your night clothes?” the professor suggested. There, that was a fair compromise.

Harry gave him a weak smile, shaking his head as he put the book back down.

“It’s okay, sir. You don’t have to do that. It was just… I never got a chance to read any magical children’s books. And my Aunt Petunia always used to read a Christmas book with Dudley when we were little, so I just wanted to have that too… just once. I know it’s babyish, but we don’t have to play chess instead. I’ll just read in my room for a bit.”

Harry’s disappointment was palpable, and it served to remind Snape that this child had never experienced a true Christmas before.  He had never eaten mince pies, perhaps never received a present and, indeed, had never known the pleasure of something as simple as having a Christmas story read to him by an adult.

Severus Snape sighed.

 “Very well, Potter. But I will not do voices. And this will be a one-time occurrence. Do I make myself clear?”

Harry nodded, a huge smile lighting up his features.

And so no sooner had the boy changed into his pyjamas, he situated himself on the sofa beside the potions master, watching the older man expectantly.

Clearing his throat, Snape opened the book, hoping to get this over with fairly quickly.

 “Once up on a time–” he began.

 “Wait,” Harry stopped him.

Snape turned to look at him, ready to give the child a piece of his mind for prolonging this ordeal.

Harry scooted closer, settling himself against the potions master’s chest. “Okay. Ready.”

Swallowing his pride, Severus began again. He would deal with Albus Dumbledore in the morning.

 “Once upon a time, in a land covered by snow…”

OOOOOOO

Severus Snape sat back on the sofa and watched as the Potter brat carefully unwrapped each of the presents from his friends, that had somehow found their way into his quarters just in time for Christmas morning.

A hideous-looking knitted jumper from Molly Weasley, numerous bits of junk from the other Gryffindor boys, and a thick hardcover book from the Granger girl entitled ‘Quidditch: A Lengthy History’. Too lengthy for his liking.

From Dumbledore, a huge box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, which would no doubt have the child bouncing off the walls for the rest of the winter break.

Of course, he had felt he had no choice but to purchase a gift for the boy himself, though it was much more practical than the others, and likely paled in comparison to the numerous Zonko’s products sent by the Weasley clan.

The small, neatly-wrapped gift was at the bottom of the pile and was the final one Potter picked up.

Harry examined the gift for a moment.

 “It doesn’t say who it’s from,” he stated.

 “That… is… merely a small token,” Severus said, stiffly.

The boy looked at him with huge eyes. “It’s from you, sir?”

The potions master inclined his head and Harry unwrapped the present as carefully as he had the others.

Opening the wooden box inside, the child’s mouth fell open into an ‘o’ shape as he looked at its contents: a gold-plated quill adorned with a beautiful peacock feather.

 “Your penmanship has improved greatly over the last 3 months, and I believe you have therefore earnt it,” Snape explained, feeling as though the boy might be wondering why he had been gifted a pen.

But Harry’s eyes were filling up now.

What was wrong with the child? Was he disappointed with the gift? The ungrateful little–

 “Sir… this is… it’s beautiful,” Harry told him, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t think I deserve this.”

 “It is not down to the recipient to determine on whether they do or do not ‘deserve’ the gift, Potter. That is down to the gift’s giver,” Snape told him.

With that, Harry jumped up from where he had been sitting cross-legged on the floor,  and threw himself at the professor, who let out a soft grunt as he was pushed further back into the sofa’s cushions.

 “Thank you, sir. It’s the best present I’ve ever gotten,” he whispered, sniffling.

 Grimacing, Snape patted the child’s back reassuringly. “Yes, alright, Potter, no need to turn into a blubbering wreck…”

 “Oh! I almost forgot!” Harry cried suddenly, pushing himself back into an upright position.

Snape watched in confusion as the boy scurried off into his bedroom, wondering what on earth the rush was, and when on earth he had begun to think of it as Potter’s bedroom.

Harry reappeared moments later, clutching something in his hand.

 “It’s… it’s not much sir…” he began, handing the poorly wrapped object to the potions master. “But I didn’t know what to get you… and Professor Dumbledore said… well, anyway… it’s for you.”

Unaccustomed to receiving gifts aside from the annual bottle of cheer from Albus, Snape unwrapped the item stiffly.

Inside, was a snow globe. Yet, instead of the usual winter scene at the back of the dome, a rather curious image presented itself.

At first, the image appeared to be one of a lion, crossing over from one side of a mountain to another using a bridge. But upon closer inspection, Snape realised, the bridge was in fact a snake – the magnificent serpent uncoiled to help the lion across to the other side.

 “It reminded me of you, sir,” Harry told him softly. “And how much you’ve helped me, even though I’m not in your house.”

 “This is very… thoughtful, Harry. Thank you,” Snape told him.

The boy smiled, watching him with big eyes as he sat down beside him.

 “What?” the professor asked, mildly irritated by the child’s undulating emotions.

 “You called me Harry,” he pointed out.

 “Yes,” Snape sighed. “I suppose I did.”

With that, he shook the snow globe gently to awaken the flurry of white within, vaguely aware of the small body which had come to rest against him and the head of dark hair leaning against his arm.

Silence followed between the two of them as they watched the snow swirling within the dome, both fully aware that the image symbolised much more than the union of Hogwarts’ two rival houses.

OOOOOOO

Harry didn’t think he’d ever had a better Christmas.

After presents and breakfast, Professor Snape had allowed him to play outside in the snow, and had even humoured him with several games of Exploding Snap before a fantastic dinner in the Great Hall with the other teachers and students who had remained at Hogwarts.

It wasn’t the most eventful of days, but it certainly beat peeling vegetables at the Dursleys and spending the rest of the day in his cupboard, listening to his so-called family having fun.

When he finally returned to his dormitory the following day, Harry was surprised to find another gift had been left there for him, with a small piece of parchment attached.

Your father left this in my possession before he died. It is time it was returned to you.
Use it well.

Harry wasn’t sure where the gift had come from, on account of the fact the mystery benefactor had neglected to sign their name.

Upon opening the gift, the boy pulled out what he initially thought to be one of Mrs Figg’s old curtains, however on closer inspection he realised that it was a cloak. It was only several seconds after throwing it on that he realised the cloak was a little unusual.

He was invisible.

That ruled Snape out then – there was no way the potions master would ever approve of this cloak, let alone be the one to gift it. Besides, Snape didn’t know his father, did he?

Harry’s thoughts did not dwell upon the gift giver for long – he was eager to try the cloak out.

There was still another hour until curfew, perhaps he could go for a wander around the castle.

The boy slipped on his shoes, and his eyes fell upon the book lying at the foot of his bed - ‘A History of Magic: Volume IV.’

Hermione’s words echoed in his mind. 

  ‘Not in the restricted section.’

Pulling the cloak over his head, Harry headed for the door.

OOOOOOO

By the light of a lantern, Harry searched the restricted section for several minutes with no joy before he seriously began to wonder whether this was worth the risk.

There were hundreds of books in the section – there was no way he’d be able to check them all, and every moment he stayed there, he was a another moment closer to being caught.

His thoughts were on exactly that when he opened the book he currently held in his hand, only to be met by a hideous face and an ear-piercing scream.

Startled, Harry slammed the book shut and put it back onto the shelf.

 “Who’s there?” a voice from the main library.

Filch.  

Harry grabbed at his cloak and in his hurry, sent the lantern crashing to the floor.

 “I know you’re in there! You can’t hide!”

As if reminded of the exact opposite, Harry flung the cloak over himself again, just before Filch’s silhouette appeared at the other end of the library.

 “Who is it? Show yerself!” the caretaker called.

Met with silence, the man began to sidle in his direction.

Holding his breath, Harry moved in the opposite direction, slipping past Filch easily.

Somehow, he made it back out into the corridor, and after a brief moment during which he thought he was about to be exposed by Mrs Norris, Harry made it past the cat unscathed.

He was just about to round the corner and head back towards the Gryffindor common room when he realised there were two figures just in front of him.

Harry stopped dead, watching as Professor Snape pushed Professor Quirrell against the wall.

 “S-Severus… I…” the DADA teacher stuttered, nervously.

 “You don’t want me as your enemy Quirrell,” Snape told him, testily.

 “W…what d’you mean?” the other man asked.

 “You know perfectly well what I mean,” Snape was saying, as Harry tried to skirt round the two of them silently.

Suddenly, Snape turned to look in his direction.

Harry held his breath again, wondering for a moment if the potions master could see him.

Snape reached out a hand, and Harry managed to back up just in time to dodge it. The professor continued to stare suspiciously in his direction for a moment, before spinning back to face Quirrell again.

 “We’ll have another little chat soon,” he told him. “When you’ve had time to decide where your loyalties lie.”

Hearing the hurried footsteps of the caretaker at the other end of the corridor, Harry took his opportunity to slip away before the situation got any worse.

 “I found this, in the restricted section. It’s still hot…” Filch was telling the two men.

Turning the corner, Harry made for the nearest door and slipped into a room, deciding it was likely best to lay low until the three men had moved on.

Closing the door quietly behind him, he shrugged off his cloak and scanned the seemingly empty room. Something caught his eye in the far corner.

Venturing further into the room, Harry squinted into the darkness.

It was a large, free standing mirror.

Harry moved forward for a closer look.

OOOOOOO

After the third knock, Harry decided that Snape was definitely not in his quarters, and set off in the direction of the professor’s classroom, which seemed to be the only other place he would possibly be in the middle of the day.

Since stumbling upon the mirror the night before, the boy could not get the images he had seen in its reflection out of his head, and he really needed to talk to somebody about it.

His parents were dead. He knew that.

What he didn’t know was how they could have possibly been staring back at him from inside of the mirror.

Professor Snape would know, Harry had concluded.

The door to the potions lab was slightly ajar, but Harry hesitated outside, hearing voices from within.

 “Now Severus–” Dumbledore’s voice.

 “Do not try to placate me, Albus,” came Snape’s response. “I know full well what you are trying to do, and I can assure you that it will not work.”

 “You are overreacting, my boy.”

 “No I am not. I told you in no uncertain terms that my guestroom was not going to become a bedroom for the boy, and you went against my wishes,” Snape snapped.

Harry froze, realising that he was the current topic of conversation.

 “You also said that you could not become his father,” Dumbledore responded, calmly.

 “Ah, so you were listening,” the potions master drawled. “I do believe you have just contradicted your own argument, headmaster.”

 “Not at all Severus, on the contrary, that is entirely my point,” the older wizard told him. “When we talked that day, I merely suggested that you acted as a mentor for Harry. It was you who used the word ‘father’–”

 “Enough!” Snape hissed. “I am not the child’s father! Potter had a father, and in case you have forgotten, he was an insidious and unrelenting bully. I am not inclined to take his place, and I will not be manipulated into doing so by you!”

Harry’s breath hitched in his throat.

 “That is a shame, Severus. As I thought perhaps you had begun to care for the boy at last…” Dumbledore sighed.

 “You are mistaken. As I have previously indicated, I have – up until now – tolerated Potter’s presence in the hope that he may lose interest and leave me in peace,” Snape told him. “I neither want nor need a child, Albus – especially the offshoot of James Potter.”

Dumbledore went to respond, but Harry didn’t hear it. He had already heard enough.

Turning on his heel, he fled.

OOOOOOO

When Harry reached the boy’s dormitory, he threw himself into his bed, pulling the curtains shut despite the fact he was alone in the tower.

Burrowing himself beneath the covers, Harry screwed his eyes tight shut against the tears that threatened to escape from them.

So what if Snape didn’t want him? No body had ever wanted him – why should Hogwarts’ strictest teacher be any different?

He’d gotten on just fine for the past 11 years without an adult to look out for him or even give him the time of day.

Finally catching his breath, Harry rubbed the tears from his eyes, angrily.

He was stupid to cry, and he had been stupid to think… what? What had he thought? That Professor Snape had grown to care for him? That perhaps this was how it felt to belong to somebody?

No. It had been a mistake.

Professor Snape didn’t want him around, he had simply been putting up with him. He hadn’t wanted his guestroom to become Harry’s bedroom.

And he certainly didn’t want to be Harry’s father.

He never would be.

Exhaling, Harry turned onto his back, removing the covers from his head and staring up at the solid oak panel atop the four poster bed.

Had it perhaps felt that way, if only for a little while?

Had he come to think of Professor Snape as some kind of… father figure?

Shaking his head, Harry tried to push the thoughts out of his mind.

It didn’t matter now. None of it was real.

When sleep finally came that evening, Harry did not dream of his dark man.

OOOOOOO

Severus Snape did not see his former shadow for the rest of the Christmas holidays, other than the odd glimpse of the boy from across the Great Hall or in one of the corridors.

The year ended quickly and before he knew it, the new term had begun and he was, once again, preparing to teach class after class of dunderheaded children.

His year got off to a good start with a dose of double potions for first years, and within that initial two hour period, Hermione Granger had put her hand in the air a record 24 times, whilst Neville had spilled his potion a good many more.

And Potter? Potter was sat at the back of the classroom with a face on him.

The potions master was not sure exactly what he had done to upset the boy, but the brat gave him one word answers throughout, throwing the odd glare in his direction.

By the end of the lesson, Severus Snape had had enough, and he ordered the boy to stay behind as the other children filed out of the lab.

Stopping and putting his bag back down on the desk when he was called, Harry busied himself with picking at a stray piece of threat hanging from its handle, avoiding eye contact with his teacher.

 “Mr Potter, have I done something to offend you?” Snape asked, evenly.

Harry shrugged his shoulders.

 “That is not an acceptable response to my question,” the potions master told him. “You have been sulky and petulant throughout the class. Is there a problem?”

 “No sir, I’m just tired,” the boy mumbled in response.

 “Then, perhaps an earlier bed time?” Snape suggested.

 “Alright,” Harry agreed, picking up his bag again and putting it over his shoulder. “Can I go now?”

Snape inclined his head.

 “And Mr Potter? If there… is something troubling you… you are more than welcome to join me in my quarters this evening to discuss it,” he said, as the boy reached the door.

 “I can’t. I’ve got Quidditch practice tonight,” Harry told him flatly.

And then he left the room, without so much as a second glance in Snape’s direction.

OOOOOOO

Harry’s next class was Defence Against the Dark Arts, but when Professor Quirrell failed to show, Hermione suggested they go to the library.

So whilst all of their classmates embarked on an extra hour’s break, she frog-marched the two boys off, telling them she had something to show them.

 “Wonder what she’s got in store for us?” Ron asked, when the girl had left the two of them alone at one of the desks.

Harry just shrugged, playing absent-mindedly with his pencil.

 “You alright mate?” the red head asked, noticing his friend’s sombre mood.

 “Yeah, just tired,” Harry told him, as Hermione returned with a huge book in her arms.

 “I had you looking in the wrong section,” she told Harry, throwing it down onto the desk with some force. “How could I be so stupid? I checked this out weeks ago for a bit of light reading.”

 “This is light?” Ron asked, sceptically.

Fixing him with a glare, Hermione turned the pages of the book.

 “Of course. Here it is,” she said, pointing at one of the paragraphs. “Nicholas Flamel is the only known maker of the Philosopher’s Stone.”

 “That what?” Harry and Ron asked in unison.

 “Honestly, don’t you two read?” Hermione asked. “The Philosopher’s Stone is a legendary substance with astonishing powers. It’ll transform any metal into pure gold, and produces the elixir of life which will make the drinker immortal.”

 “Immortal?” Ron frowned.

 “It means you’ll never die,” she clarified.

 “I know what it means!” he huffed, incensed.

Harry shushed him, keen to hear what Hermione had to say.

 “The only stone currently in existence belongs to Mr Nicholas Flamel, the noted alchemist, who last year celebrated his 665th birthday,” she continued.  “That’s what Fluffy’s guarding on the third floor. That’s what’s under the trapdoor! The Philosopher’s Stone.”

 “I’ll bet Snape’s trying to steal it,” Ron said, hotly.

Hermione cast a glance at Harry. “I don’t know, Ron. Harry said he didn’t think it was Professor Snape…”

Harry shrugged, giving her a wry smile. “I dunno, maybe Ron was right all along.”

 “What d’you mean?” Hermione frowned. “I thought you and Professor Snape were getting along well? Did something happen?”

Shrugging his shoulders, Harry stood up and packed his books away. “I think it was all just an act, really.”

 “An act?”

 “Doesn’t matter. I don’t really want to talk about it,” he said.

 “Where are you going? We need to think about who might be trying to steal the stone and why,” Hermione told him.

 “I’m not really in the mood, Hermione. I’m sorry. I’m just gonna go back to the common room for a bit. I’ll see you both at lunch,” Harry told them.

 “D’you think he’s alright?” Ron asked, as the two of them watched him walk away. “He’s acting a bit weird. He has been since…”

 “Since Potions,” Hermione confirmed.

 “Well, you can hardly blame him for that. Two hours with Snape is bloody awful,” he commented.

Hermione shook her head, frowning. “That’s the thing, Harry owled me just after Christmas and told me what a great time he’d had with the professor over the winter break. He seemed really… happy.”

 “Must be barking,” Ron muttered.

 “Something must have happened,” she concluded. “You should try talking to him.”

 “Me?!” he cried. “Why me? You’re a girl – girls are good at that sort of thing, so if you really want to know, maybe you should do it yourself. Or better still, maybe you should mind your own business, I’m sure Harry will tell us if he wants us to know.”

 “Honestly, Ronald. Don’t you care about him at all?” Hermione asked, unimpressed.

 “Of course I do! But badgering him about it won’t do any good. He’ll tell us in his own time,” Ron reasoned. “And besides, if he’s shot of that greasy git, that can only be a good thing. I never understood why he gave Snape the time of day.”

 “You just don’t get it, do you?” she sighed. “Harry isn’t like us, Ron. He doesn’t have any parents. And I don’t think his relatives are… the best…”

 “Yeah, I know,” Ron admitted.

 “Harry spending time with Professor Snape was… well, it was probably nice for him to have an adult he could depend on,” Hermione told him.

Ron pulled a face. “But really, Hermione? Snape? It’s not like he’s gonna be Harry’s new dad or something…”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re so pig-headed sometimes, Ronald. Just because you don’t like Professor Snape. Couldn’t you see that Harry did?”

 “Yeah, and you heard what he just said. Somethings happened and now Harry’s seen what he’s really like,” Ron pointed out. “Honestly Hermione, I think you should just leave it be.”

Exhaling, Hermione stood up, picking up the large book.

 “Where are you going?” he frowned.

“To talk to Professor Snape. Maybe I’ll get some sense out of him,” she said, turning on her heel.

OOOOOOO

Things did not get better for Harry over that first week of the new term, and the next two potions classes he attended were much like the first.

He had, thus far, managed to avoid anything more than passing the time of day with the potions master, although it was becoming increasingly difficult to deflect the questions from his concerned friends.

That Monday, he had woken up extra early in a bid to ensure he was the only student in the Great Hall for breakfast. He didn’t much feel like talking to Ron about the Quidditch match they’d lost to Hufflepuff at the weekend, and he couldn’t face any more of the worried glances Hermione insisted on throwing his way constantly.

Fortunately, his plan worked, and he found himself to be the only student at the Gryffindor table.

Unfortunately, not long after he had taken his seat, he realised that Professor Snape was amongst the handful of teachers already at the top table.

Put off, Harry pushed his food around his plate for ten minutes or so, hoping for a suitable moment to slip away.

It didn’t come.

At least, not before he found the dour professor standing right behind him.

 “Mr Potter, is there a problem with the food?” he asked silkily.

 “Huh?” Harry asked, still trying to recover from the shock.

 “As intelligent as ever, I see. This is the third morning in a row that you have chosen to eat less than an adequate amount of food for a boy of your age, and I would like to know if there is a problem with what is being served,” Snape told him.

 “’M’just not hungry,” Harry mumbled, turning his back on the potions master.

If he had hoped his response would get rid of Snape, he was to be sorely disappointed.

Instead, the professor leaned in closer, lowering his voice.

 “Given that you are clearly going through some form of troubling time at the moment, I shall overlook your poor attitude and lack of respect on this occasion. I will not, however, allow you to starve yourself,” he said, in a voice so calm yet so dangerous that Harry felt a chill run down his spine. “I expect you to eat at least half of the food on your plate before you leave the table.”

 “You can’t make me,” Harry told him, feeling anger bubbling in the pit of his stomach.

 “I assure you, Mr Potter, that if I were so inclined, I could simply spell that food into your stomach this moment,” Snape told him. “However, as you are not 5 years old, I will give you one more chance to see reason.”

Finally reaching boiling point, Harry slammed down his fork.

 “What do you care?!” he snapped, turning to look at Snape again. “You don’t! So why should I?!”

 “I would not be standing here if I did not,” the professor told him.

 “That’s a bloody lie!” Harry cried, pushing the wooden bench back with some force and standing up, sending his wand rolling onto the floor. “You don’t care, and you can’t make me eat! You’re not my family, you don’t get to tell me what to do!”

With that, he scrambled out from the table, picking his wand up as he went. 

 “Detention Potter, 7 o’clock tomorrow evening, my office!” Snape told him.

 “Can’t wait!” Harry called over his shoulder as he made for the door, wondering if he was brave or just plain stupid.

As he reached the entrance to the Great Hall, he met Ron and Hermione, on their way in for breakfast.

 “You alright mate?” Ron frowned, as Harry pushed past them.

Harry didn’t respond – he was already half way down the corridor.

 “What the bloody hell’s wrong with him?!” the red head cried, watching his friend go.

Hermione nudged him with her elbow, gesturing across the hall as Professor Snape stalked back towards the teacher’s table.

 “Git,” Ron muttered. “You never did tell me how that went. Did you talk to him? Snape, I mean.”

Hermione just nodded.

 “And?” he pressed.

 “Don’t ask,” the girl sighed.

Ron snorted. “Let me guess, he told you to keep your beak out?”

Huffing, Hermione moved past him and went to find a seat at the Gryffindor table.

OOOOOOO

Harry had had a rotten day.

Scratch that – he had had a rotten weekend and a rotten start to the new week.

Not only had Gryffindor lost to Hufflepuff during Saturday’s Quidditch match, he was also behind with his DADA and Herbology homework and to top it all off, he had a detention with Snape to look forward to the following day.

Exhaling deeply, he sat down on the cold stone floor in front of the mirror, looking up at the now-familiar reflections of his parents.

His mother was smiling at him.

She always smiled at him, but tonight, Harry didn’t much feel like smiling back.

His father gave him a look that was almost questioning.

Harry shook it off. “Just one of those days, I guess.”

Silence.

He glanced up at his mother again. “I wish I could hear your voices. I wish I could talk to you.”

She nodded her head, almost encouragingly.

What did he have to lose at this point?

 “I’ve got detention tomorrow…. Snape. I was pretty rude to him but…”  Harry stole another glance in his father’s direction. “I… I hope you don’t mind, Dad. I just… I thought he was different. I thought he cared. He is strict, and he doesn’t smile very often but… he was kind to me, in his own way. And after the dreams… well… well, it doesn’t matter anyway – I was wrong.”

His mother was watching him intently, a sad look in her eyes. 

 “It sounds stupid but when he was around, I didn’t feel like I was all alone,” he said softly, before shaking his head bitterly. “But he doesn’t want me around, not really. Why would he?”

 “Back again, Harry?” a voice behind him.

Startled, Harry jumped up, spinning around to find Professor Dumbledore standing behind him.

 “I see that you, like so many before you, have discovered the delights of The Mirror of Erised,” the headmaster said, coming to stand in front of him. “I trust by now you realise what it does? Let me give you a clue… the happiest man on earth would look into the mirror and see only himself, exactly as he is.”

 “So then… it shows us what we want?” Harry guessed. “Whatever we want?”

 “Yes… and no,” Dumbledore replied, as cryptic as ever. “It shows us nothing more or less than the deepest and most desperate desires of our hearts. Now you, Harry, who have never known your family… you see them standing beside you. But remember this Harry – this mirror gives us neither knowledge or truth. Men have wasted away in front of it, even gone mad. That is why tomorrow, it’ll be moved to a new home. And I must ask you not to go looking for it again. It does not do to dwell on dreams Harry, and forget to live.”

Feeling disheartened but knowing the headmaster was right, Harry looked back into the mirror again.

 “Speaking of which… is there something you would like to talk to me about?” Dumbledore asked.

Harry frowned, turning  to look at the older wizard again. “Sir?”

 “Forgive an old man for eavesdropping Harry… I couldn’t help but overhear some of the things you said just now. Am I to understand there have been some… difficulties between yourself and Professor Snape?” he asked, gently.

Harry sighed. “Not really sir… it’s just… I think I did exactly what you just said. I got so mixed up about my dreams that I… I think I forgot they weren’t really real.”

 “How so?”

Harry hesitated for a moment before speaking again, feeling a little foolish.

 “Ever since I was little, I’ve been having these… dreams…” he began. “There was a man. Whenever I was sick, or scared, or having a really bad time… I used to dream about him.”

 “And what happened in these dreams?” Dumbledore asked.

 “Not much. The man just took care of me,” he explained. “I guess it was just my imagination, I don’t know… it made me feel better or something.”

 “A source of comfort,” the headmaster concluded, thoughtfully.

Harry nodded. “Except… when I got to Hogwarts… the first time I saw Professor Snape… I thought he reminded me an awful lot of the man in my dreams.”

If Dumbledore was surprised by this revelation, he did not show it.

 “Hence why you were drawn to him,” was all he said in response.

Harry nodded again. “It was silly, really. But it’s like you said – I was thinking too much about my dreams. I expected him to be just like the man in my dreams… expected him to care… but it’s not real.”

 “On the contrary. Although not the most demonstrative of men, I believe that Professor Snape cares a great deal about you,” Dumbledore told him.

He shook his head this time. “I don’t think so. It’s okay, sir. He was kind to me, anyway. But he doesn’t have to care about me. I’m not even in his house. I’m not… anything to him.”

For a moment, the headmaster watched him silently, a twinkle in his eye.

Harry felt mildly irritated – what could he have possibly said to amuse the older man?

 “Funny things, dreams,” he said, eventually. “Sometimes they can seem so very, very real, can’t they?”

He didn’t respond, instead allowing the headmaster to put a gentle hand on his shoulder, guiding him out of the abandoned classroom and back towards the Gryffindor tower.

 “On other occasions, dreams are so strange that we know they simply can’t be real, even whilst we are in our deepest sleep,” Dumbledore continued.

 “Yeah,” was all Harry said – because he didn’t know what else to say.

When they finally reached the Fat Lady, Dumbledore stopped.

 “I shall leave you to the rest of your evening now Harry,” he said kindly. “But do remember what I said, in regards to the mirror.”

 “Yes sir,” he nodded, turning to the portrait.

 “Oh, and Harry?”

Stopping, he glanced back over his shoulder.

 “Don’t forget this,” Dumbledore said, passing him his neatly folded invisibility cloak.

Harry took it, mumbling the password for the Gryffindor common room. “Thank you, sir. Goodnight.”

When Harry finally went to bed and opened his trunk to store the cloak away, something fell out from between the layers of fabric.

Bending down to pick it up, Harry realised it was a piece of parchment, not dissimilar to the one that had come with the cloak when he had first received it.

Straightening it out, Harry frowned at the words, which didn’t appear to be English at all.

In somnis veritas.

OOOOOOO

Whilst Professor Quirrell handed out last week’s homework assignments, Ron picked up the piece of parchment for close inspection.

He and Harry had been staring at it for most of the lesson, as if they were hoping it may somehow reveal its secrets.

 “Looks like Italian or something,” Ron said, perplexed.

Rolling her eyes, Hermione leant across the table impatiently.

 “Oh, come on. It’s Latin,” she told them, precociously.

Ron pulled a face. “Alright then Smartie Pants, what does it mean, since you know so much?”

 “I don’t know,” the girl said, more quietly this time.

The redhead smirked, triumphant.

 “But we can find out,” she said, ignoring him. “We’ll go to the library tonight after dinner – there’s bound to be something there to help us.”

 “The library. Is that your answer to everything?” Ron sighed.

But Harry shook his head. “I can’t. I’ve got detention, remember?”

 “Right,” Hermione sighed. “Well, Ron and I can go. We’ll find out what it means.”

 “Why do I need to go?” Ron whined, earning himself a sharp dig in the ribs from the young witch. “Ow! Alright, I’ll go.”

“Good work P-Potter,” Quirrell said, handing him his assignment.

Glancing down at the parchment, Harry’s eyes widened as he saw the large ‘O’ in the top right hand corner of the page.

An outstanding! He’d gotten an outstanding on his Defence Against the Dark Arts homework!

 “Thank you sir,” Harry replied, smiling – perhaps for the first time in days.

This was the first outstanding grade he’d gotten.

 “That’s great, Harry! Well done,” Hermione told him.

 “Thanks. Wait until I tell–” Harry began.

But he stopped mid-sentence, and as quickly as it had appeared, his smile faded.

 “Tell who?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No body. It doesn’t matter. Come on, we better go or we’ll be late for Transfiguration.”

For a moment, Hermione didn’t quite look ready to let it go, but when Ron stood up she reluctantly followed suit.

 “P-Potter. Stay b-behind a moment, if you will,” Quirrell called from across the classroom.

Harry’s friends glanced at him, a little unsurely.

 “You go ahead. Let McGonagall know I’m on my way,” he assured them.

As the rest of the students left the classroom, Harry went to stand beside his professor.

 “Sir?”

 “H-how are you, P-Potter?”

 “Uh… fine sir, thank you,” Harry told him, confused.

 “Anything t-troubling you?” Quirrell asked.

Harry shook his head, wondering if this was the man’s way of making up for his behaviour last term.

 “C-couldn’t help n-noticing, you and P-Professor Sn-Snape h-haven’t been getting along s-so well,” he stuttered.

Harry shrugged his shoulders, unsure of how best to respond.

 “S-Severus can be a little p-prickly at times. N-not the be-be-best with children,” Quirrell continued.

Harry opened his mouth to defend the potions mater, but promptly closed it again.

 “W-Why don’t you stop by my office th-this evening, we’ll have a c-cup of tea?” the professor suggested.

Harry hesitated, feeling a little odd.

He wasn’t sure exactly why – after all, he had walked into Professor Snape’s own quarters without a second thought. But this felt different.

 “It’s alright, sir. Thanks and all, but I have detention tonight,” he said, turning to leave the classroom.

 “O-Okay. Another t-time then, P-Potter.”

Nodding his head with no real intention of ever following it up, Harry left the room.

OOOOOOO

Having passed the gargoyle with yet another ridiculous password of the week, Severus Snape knocked gently on the door before entering.

 “Ah. Severus my boy, come in, come in,” Dumbledore smiled, looking up from his desk as the potions master entered. “Sherbet Lemon?”

 “No thank you. You wished to see me?” he asked, standing in front of the headmaster and hoping this would only be a short conversation.

Dumbledore nodded, gesturing for him to take a seat.

 “How are things, Severus?”

 “Fine. Is this purely a social call, Albus? I have classes to prepare–” he began impatiently.

 “I understand, Severus. You are a busy man. I simply wished to know if everything is… okay? Between yourself and young Harry?” the older wizard enquired.

Severus resisted the urge to sigh.

 “The boy appears to be suffering from early onset teenage hormones,” he said, flatly. “He has reverted to true form and has, for the past week or so, behaved much like his father. An arrogant, insolent–”

Dumbledore chuckled. “Come now, Severus. Is this same the boy that was curled up in your lap not two weeks prior?”

 “Potter was not curled up in my lap,” Snape growled. “And in any case, it would appear that the brat has finally grown tired of harassing me and moved on. This has come not a moment too soon for me.”

 “You don’t truly believe that,” the headmaster replied – it sounded more like a statement than a question.

 “I can assure you, that is exactly what I believe.”

 “Did something happen between the two of you? A disagreement?” Dumbledore asked.

 “Nothing to my knowledge. That child is a spoiled, ungrateful miniature of James Potter, and I am pleased to say I will now be able to return my guestroom to its former state,” Snape told him.

 “As you wish, Severus, as you wish… I’m sure the boy will be fine, of course. In fact, I hear he was late to Transfiguration this morning, on account of the fact Quirinus kept him behind after class,” he said.

 “What does that possibly have to do with me Albus?”

 “Nothing, nothing, of course…  I was simply making the point that it is good to know Harry has other adults he can rely on,” Dumbledore told him. “Quirinus invited him to have tea with him this evening. Terribly nice of him, don’t you think?”

Snape bristled. “That oaf would do anything to say he has drunk tea with The-Boy-Who-Lived. If I remember correctly, he was relentlessly unkind to Potter last term.”

 “Perhaps he is simply trying to make amends, Severus,” the headmaster shrugged. “And from what you have said, you are glad to be rid of young Harry, so I shouldn’t let it concern you too much.”

Snape stood up. “Indeed.”

Dumbledore smiled – one of his more irritating expressions. “Have a pleasant evening, my boy.”

He nearly responded, but thought better of it, instead heading back towards the door.

 “Oh, Severus? There was one more thing…” the headmaster began.

 “Yes?” Snape turned back to look at him.

Dumbledore examined him for a moment before he spoke again.

 “When were you going to tell me that you’d been visiting the boy for years?”

OOOOOOO

Harry had spent the hour following dinner in the library with his friends, pawing through books in an attempt to find something that might give them a clue about the mysterious piece of parchment.

 “Anything?” Hermione asked, as Harry closed another heavy book and added it to one of the piles in the middle of the table.

He shook his head.

She sighed. “This is proving more difficult than I first thought.”

 “Any other bright ideas?” Ron asked, brushing the dust that had come off one of the books from his face.

 “Well, you’re fairly certain it was Professor Dumbledore that gave you it, aren’t you?” she asked Harry. “So perhaps you should just ask him.”

 “Hermione, when has Professor Dumbledore ever give me a straight answer?”  Harry pointed out.

The girl shrugged in acknowledgement, picking up another book.

 “I’ve got to go,” Harry said, glancing at the clock. “My detention…”

 “We’ll stay here and keep looking,” Hermione promised. “Good luck Harry.”

OOOOOOO

Harry had left himself a good ten minutes to get down to the dungeons, which was part of the reason he was currently wandering down the corridor at a pace something akin to a snail’s.

Stopping outside what he knew was Professor Snape’s ingredients store, he frowned, hearing low voices from inside.

 “S-Severus I’m n-not sure w-what you mean b-but I assure you–” Quirrell’s voice.

 “ –You know full well, Quirinius. I don’t know exactly what you are up to, but let me assure you: I will not allow you to take advantage of–”

 “–I was merely taking an interest–”

 “–You were taking advantage. Perhaps you could enlighten me as to what exactly it is you have to gain?” Snape demanded.

 “I’m a p-professor at this sch-school,” Quirrell stuttered.

 “That means nothing. You have form. I am watching you, Quirinius, and if you wish to remain a professor at this school, you will stay away from–”

 “ –W-what concern is it of yours anyhow, S-Severus?”

 “I made a promise to the headmaster. Nothing more than that. I am warning you – do not go looking for–” Snape began.

 “ –Th-this really is n-none of your b-b-business!” Quirrell interjected.

Turning  back the way he had come, Harry took off in the direction of the library.

When he reached the desk at which he had been sat with his friends, Hermione jumped up from her seat.

 “Harry! We’ve–”

 “Are you alright?” Ron frowned, noticing how out of breath the other boy was.

 “I think I know who’s trying to steal the stone,” Harry panted, leaning forward in an attempt to get some air into his lungs.

 “Who?” Hermione asked.

 “Quirrell.”

She frowned. “Professor Quirrell. But why…?”

 “I don’t know. But it’s got to be him, I’m sure of it,” Harry  told them. “And I think Snapes on to him. Come on!”

 “Where?” Ron asked.

 “Hagrid’s. We’ve got to find out more about Fluffy, and which teachers know about the stone,” he said.

 “But Harry, what about your detention?” Hermione asked as the two of them followed him out of the library.

 “This is more important,” he decided, setting off at a jog again.

OOOOOOO

As they ran across the grass towards Hagrid’s hut, Harry hoped that they hadn’t been seen. He was already in enough trouble for skipping Snape’s detention without anything else on top.

Climbing the steps, Harry hammered on the door.

After a moment, Hagrid opened up, wearing what could only be described as a pair of muggle oven mitts.

 “Hagrid–” Harry began.

 “Oh, ‘ello! Sorry, don’t wish to be rude but I’m in no fit state to entertain today,” the half-giant said, going to close the door again.

 “We know about the Philosopher’s Stone!” the three of them said in unison.

 “Oh.”

With that, Hagrid led them inside.

 “We think Quirrell’s trying to steal it,” Harry told him, taking his cloak off.

 “Perfesser Quirrell? Why on earth would he wanna do that?” Hagrid asked

  “We don’t know. But we’re sure it’s him,” Ron said, taking a seat.

Hermione gave him a look. “We? You thought it was Professor Snape an hour ago.”

 “Blimey, Perfesser Snape?” Hagrid asked, surprised. “He’s one of the teachers protecting the stone! He’s not about to steal it. Right, come on now, I’m a bit preoccupied today–”

 “Wait a minute. One of the teachers?” Harry clarified.

 “Of course!” Hermione said, suddenly. “There are other things defending the stone, aren’t there? Spells, enchantments...”

 “That’s right,” Hagrid nodded. “Waste of bloody time if you ask me. Ain’t no one gonna get past Fluffy. Ain’t a soul knows how – ‘cept for me and Dumbledore.”

 “Is Quirrell one of the teachers protecting the stone?” Harry asked.

Hagrid shook his head. “No. Doubt he even knows it’s here.”

 “And… he definitely doesn’t know how to get past Fluffy?” Hermione confirmed.

 “No, I told yer. Just me and Dumbledore. And I shouldn’t have told yer that!” he chuckled, nervously.

Just then, there was an audible tapping noise from the fireplace, and the three of them turned to watch as Hagrid pulled something out of a brass pot, trying not to burn his hands through the mitts.

He placed the item on the table, and the three Gryffindors gathered round.

 “Uh… Hagrid?” Harry began, warily. “What exactly is that?”

OOOOOOO

Severus Snape was in a foul mood and there was only one reason for it: Harry Potter.

Not only had the brat had the nerve to skip his detention the previous evening, he had now seen it fit not to turn up to his class that morning.

Yes, that was exactly why he was so annoyed, Severus told himself. That was the reason why three first year students’ potions had been poured away, the reason why another two had detention tomorrow, and why Neville Longbottom was crying at the back of the classroom.

It was not because Severus was frustrated with the current situation, or because he wasn’t sure what on earth he had done to upset the boy so badly.

And it was most certainly not because he found himself actually missing the child’s presence in his life.

In addition, he had stayed up fairly late the night before, and the fatigue was beginning to set in during his final pre-lunch lesson. Of course, he had been unable to sleep on account of how much the brat had angered him – Potter was, after all, the first child that had ever dared to swerve one of his detentions. It was definitely not concern for the boy that had kept him from sleep.

As the first years began to pack their things away – some of them breathing sighs of relief that the class was finally over – Snape looked up from his desk.

 “Granger, Weasley – stay behind,” he said.

As the classroom emptied, Hermione approached him, looking a little nervous. Weasley lurked behind her, hands in his pockets.

 “Are we… in trouble, sir?” the girl asked.

The potions master arched a brow. “Should you be?”

Both children shook their heads furiously.

 “Good. Answer my questions truthfully and it shall remain that way,” Snape told them. “Mr Potter failed to present for his detention last night – would either of you care to explain why?”

Ron swallowed hard and Hermione opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

 “Furthermore, as I am sure you have noticed, he did not attend today’s class,” he continued.

Silence.

Snape leaned down until his face was inches from theirs.

 “Where. Is. He?” he asked, wondering if speaking to the two of them as though they were imbeciles was the only way to get results.

Ron scratched his head nervously. “I dunno. I don’t think I saw him at breakfast, did you ‘Mione?”

 “No? How about in the dormitory that you no doubt share with him?” Snape asked, irritated.

Hermione sighed. “Sir, please. Harry’s… he wasn’t in class today because… he’s…”

 “Ye-es?” Snape drawled.

 “He’s in the infirmary,” she said quickly.

 “He’s gonna kill you,” Ron hissed.

 “Doubtful,” Snape told him. “The whole story please.”

Hermione hesitated.

 “W-well… what it is… you see…” Ron began.

 “Let us start with the reason Mr Potter chose not to attend my detention last night,” Snape said. “And since it appears that Weasley has lost the ability to string a sentence together, perhaps you would care to enlighten me, Miss Granger?”

 “He was going to come, sir. Really, he was. But then… something happened and we needed to go and talk to Hagrid instead,” she explained.

It was all Severus could do to contain his anger. So that impertinent little whelp had the cheek to conclude that visiting the half-wit caretaker was somehow more important than attending a detention assigned by a professor.

 “And how pray did this little adventure end with Potter in the infirmary?” he demanded.

 “Malfoy snitched on us,” Ron said. “McGonagall gave us detention.”

 “Professor McGonagall,” Snape corrected him. “And rightly so. With any luck, Mr Potter will see it fit to attend this particular detention.”

 “We already did, sir. It was last night… in the Forbidden Forest,” Hermione explained.

 “I beg your pardon? Miss Granger, do you honestly expect me to believe that you were sent into the Forbidden Forest to serve a detention?” the potions master asked.

 “It’s true sir, we did. Malfoy too. Hagrid went with us,” Ron said.

 “Oh, well that’s alright then!” Snape snapped, sarcastically. “What was the aim of this little venture?”

 “Hagrid said something has been killing the unicorns in the forest. We were looking for one that had been injured,” Hermione told him. “We split into two groups. Ron and I went with Hagrid. Harry and Draco took Fang. We hadn’t been looking for long when…”

 “When?” Snape asked, folding his arms.

  “Malfoy was his usual pathetic self and left Harry with that thing…” Ron said, pulling a face.

The potions master looked between the two of them, confused.

 “Harry and Draco found the thing that had been killing the unicorns. It attacked Harry,” Hermione told him.

Snape felt his blood run cold.

 “And what type of creature was this?” he asked, trying to remain calm.

 “I… don’t know sir. By the time we got there, it had gone. One of the centaurs had chased it away. But Harry fell… I suppose he was trying to get away from it. He hit his head on a rock,” Hermione said. “That’s why he’s not in class today.”

For a moment, Snape said nothing.

And then he turned back to his desk.

 “Thank you. You may go,” he told the children as he cleared his own things away.

Ron was straight out of the door, but Hermione hung back.

 “Professor? There’s… something else…” she said, softly.  

Snape whipped back round to face her. “What is it, Miss Granger?”

 “I… I know you told me to mind my own business the other day but… I think you ought to know,” she began. “I spoke to Harry in the infirmary last night. And he’ll hate that I’ve told you this but…”

Snape felt his impatience growing.

 “What is it?” he asked again.

 “The reason Harry’s been so upset with you this last week…” Hermione told him. “He… overheard you talking to Professor Dumbledore. He thinks you don’t want him.”

OOOOOOO

Severus Snape could not recall the last time he had swept through the corridors in such a manner.

It wasn’t a run of course – more of a power walk, but nevertheless, anybody who got in his way – student or staff – was practically mowed down.

He eventually reached the hospital wing, and took a moment to compose himself outside – it would not do for Potter to think he had dropped everything to be here.

From outside, he could hear Madame Pomphrey talking to the boy.

 “….Seems like there’s not a week that goes by that you’re not in one of these beds, Mr Potter. You really should be more careful you know? Look up for me. No, open your eyes properly…”

Rounding the corner, Snape found that Harry was sat up in bed, supported by several pillows. He had a gash to his head, and generally looked like he had been dragged through a hedge backwards.

Madame Pomphrey was leaning over the bed, using a lumos spell to shine a light into the boy’s eyes.

 “I’m afraid you’re not going anywhere just yet, Mr Potter. I’d like to keep you under observation a little longer,” she said.

Harry noticed the potions master then and the mediwitch followed his gaze, standing up straight.

 “Ah, Severus. Good afternoon. Can I help?” she asked, pleasantly.

Snape gave her a cordial nod. “Poppy. It… is in fact Mr Potter I am here to talk with.”

 “I’ve never known somebody have so many visitors!” she smiled. “I’ll leave you two in peace.”

Once she had disappeared down the other end of the ward, Snape sat on the edge of Harry’s bed and the two watched each other in silence for a moment.

 “If it’s about the detention…” Harry mumbled.  

Snape ignored him, reaching up his hand to brush the boy’s hair from his face and examine the gash on his head more closely.

 “Sir?” he asked in confusion.

 “I am not here to discuss the missed detention, Potter, though I am sure it is a conversation we will revisit at a later date,” the potions master told him. “I… heard about what happened last night in the Forbidden Forest, and I came to see how you were.”

Harry’s mouth hung open and he watched the professor, perplexed.

 “How are you feeling?” Snape asked.

 “A bit hazy sir,” Harry told him, truthfully. “And my head hurts a bit.”

There was another pause then, before the professor spoke again.

 “Mr Potter, it… has occurred to me that you may have overheard a conversation between myself and the headmaster recently which was not meant for your ears…” he began, feeling a little awkward.

Harry swallowed hard. “I wasn’t eavesdropping sir, honest. I didn’t mean to listen in, I just–”

 “Although I do not approve of eavesdropping, that is not the reason I have brought this up,” Snape told him. “I… am concerned that you may have heard some of the things I said… which were…”

 “It’s okay, sir,” Harry said softly. “I understand. And I’m sorry if I’ve been a nuisance. I didn’t mean to be, it’s just… I’ve never really had an adult be kind to me like you were. I guess it was just nice, you know? But I know that I’m not your problem, and you didn’t have to do any of the things you’ve already done. It’s okay that you don’t want me around – my own relatives don’t even want me, so it doesn’t make sense that anybody else would. So don’t worry about it.”

Snape shook his head. “Potter… I… said some things that day that were, perhaps, uncalled for…”

 “Sir, it’s–”

 “–Please, allow me to finish. As you will likely know by now, I am a man of very few words, particularly when it comes to voicing my… thoughts and feelings…” the potions master began, feeling thoroughly outside of his comfort zone. “What you overheard that day was not necessarily the case. I was simply irritated by the headmaster’s penchant for meddling, and this lead me to say a number of things that were, perhaps, untrue. And though I am not sure quite how this came to be, you… you are very much my problem, Harry.”

The boy simply stared at him, as if he had spoken in tongues.

Snape sighed impatiently. “Dear Lord, must I spell this out for you child? What I am trying to tell you, is that I have grown… somewhat fond of you and have found myself to enjoy your company much more than I first thought I might. As such, any misapprehension that you may be under about my… not ‘wanting’ you, as you put it, is… not so.”

 “Sorry, sir but… are… are you saying… you… want… me?” Harry asked, as if he couldn’t quite believe it.

 “I realise that I am not the most… affectionate or demonstrative of adults. However, from the stories you have told me, it has not escaped my notice that your family are… less than adequate. Professor Dumbledore is under the impression that you would benefit from having somebody to… rely on – somebody who is able to take care of you. And if I am not mistaken, over recent months, I do believe that we have gotten on… well,” Severus said, barely able to believe that the words were coming out of his mouth.

 “What… what are you saying, sir?” Harry asked quietly, as if he dared not believe it.

 “I am… suggesting, Harry, that if you so wish… we might perhaps make our recent arrangements slightly more formal. Although I realise that you are under the care of your Aunt during the summer months, I am not adverse to acting in loco parentis the rest of the time,” he said, stiffly.

 “In loco… parentis?” the boy repeated, looking a little surprised. “Like… a guardian?”

 “Of sorts,” the potions master confirmed. “I hardly think it matters what it is labelled. It is merely a suggestion, and if you are not comfortable or accepting of the idea then–”

Severus was cut off mid-sentence as he found himself with arms full of 11 year old boy.

Harry had scooted out from beneath the covers, clambering into his lap and wrapping his arms tightly around the man’s neck before burying his face in his shoulder.

Still a little unfamiliar with the sensation, Snape put his arms around the child in return, bringing one hand up to stoke the back of his head.

 “Shall I take that as a yes?” he asked, silently amused.

Harry nodded, sniffling softly, and it was quiet for a few moments then before the boy spoke again.

 “I missed you,” he murmured, into the fabric of the professor’s robes.

Severus exhaled, wondering just what this child had done to him.

 “I can assure you that the feeling is quite mutual,” he said.

And truly, it was.

OOOOOOO

  “Please?” Harry whined, handing the empty potion vial back to Snape. “I’m fine you know?”

 “You are not ‘fine’, Mr Potter. You took a significant blow to the head and you are still recovering from severe concussion,” the professor told him.

 “It wasn’t severe,” Harry grumbled. “And I feel fine now. I’m bored.”

Exhaling, Severus Snape sat down on the edge of the bed beside him.

 “If you promise to rest for the remainder of the afternoon, I shall permit you to eat dinner at the table. You may also spend the evening in the lounge. But only if you stay in bed whilst I finish the remainder of my lessons for the day,” he said.

Harry beamed. “I will, I promise!”

Snape inclined his head. “Very well.”

Settling back against the pillows, Harry curled up onto his side as he felt the potions master tuck the covers around his shoulders.

 “Can you give that to Ron and ‘Mione?” he mumbled, gesturing to the piece of parchment folded neatly on the table beside his bed. “I’ve not seen them in ages.”

 “It has been a mere three days, Mr Potter–”

 “ –Harry,” the boy corrected.

  “Please refrain from interrupting me when I am talking. As I was saying, it has been only three days since you last saw your friends. However, I shall deliver your letter, as I’m sure the Weasley boy thinks I have put you into a potion by now,” Snape said, standing up and tucking the piece of parchment into the pocket of his robes.

Harry smiled sleepily as his eyelids began to feel heavy. “Thanks.”

 “You are welcome. I have two further lessons to attend to, followed by a detention. I will be back around six thirty,” the professor told him. “Can I trust you will behave until then?”

Harry nodded, half asleep. As he slipped into a comfortable slumber, he felt two gentle hands reach out and remove his glasses from his face, placing them on the bedside table with a soft tap.

 “Sleep well, Harry.”

With vague, hazy consciousness, the young Gryffindor allowed himself one final smile before he drifted off.

OOOOOOO

True to his word, satisfied that the boy had spent the rest of the afternoon tucked up in bed, Severus Snape allowed Harry to join him at the dinner table that evening.

Following their meal, he even agreed to a game of Wizard’s Chess – purely to keep the boy from whinging of course.

 “Thank you for taking my letter to Ron and Hermione,” Harry said eventually, moving one of his pieces, which promptly smashed his opponent’s into smithereens.

 “Your chess skills have come a long way,” Snape told him approvingly. “And, you are welcome.”

 “I’ve been practicing with Ron a lot,” Harry told him. “And… I thought maybe tomorrow, I could go and see them? My friends.”

 “I think that it is far too soon for you to be galivanting around this castle again,” the potions master told him.

Harry’s shoulders drooped in defeat.

 “However, if your friends can stomach it, they might perhaps visit you here. For an hour,” Snape added.

Harry smiled, grateful.

There was a pause then, before the professor spoke again.

 “Speaking of gallivanting around the castle, there is something I’d like to talk to you about.”

 “What?” Harry asked nervously, before catching Snape’s disapproving look. “I mean, what is it, sir?”

 “I would like to know what you were doing in the dungeons. The day you heard my… conversation with the headmaster,” Snape told him, a little awkwardly.

The potions master had half expected the boy to clam up and recoil into himself in a desperate attempt to hide his misdemeanours. Instead, Harry’s face suddenly bore a troubled expression.

 “Oh… Well…” he began.

Snape rose a brow, awaiting a more constructive response.

 “I… wanted to talk to you about something,” Harry frowned, busying himself with examining the chess board.

 “I see. With regards to what?”

 “It doesn’t matter now,” the child told him, softly. “Professor Dumbledore explained it. And besides, it’s gone now so…”

 “What is gone?” the potions master asked.  

Harry shrugged his shoulders, head bent over the table and eyes averted downwards.

 “Please look at me when I am talking to you, Harry. What is gone?” Snape repeated.  

Harry lifted his head obediently and emerald met obsidian before he spoke again.

 “The mirror.”

OOOOOOO

When Severus Snape entered Dumbledore’s office the following morning, he found it empty.

For a moment, he contemplated leaving again.  

And he almost did – until he saw it, in the far corner of the room.

Silently, he moved across the room to stand in front of the mirror that Harry had told him so much about the night before. He had heard the stories before of course, but had never truly believed that it was in the headmaster’s possession.

And what Harry had seen when he looked into it?

Stopping several steps away from the mirror, Severus hesitated.

And then he closed the gap, removing the dusty blanket that covered the glass and looking at his own reflection.

He frowned.

 “Good Morning, Severus.”

Startled, the potions master whipped around on his heel to find Albus Dumbledore standing behind him.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

 “Forgive me, I would have prepared some tea had I known you were coming,” the headmaster said eventually, moving to sit at his desk.

 “It is true, then,” was all Severus said.

 “That I haven’t prepared any tea? Alas, yes,” Dumbledore told him, pleasantly.

 “Do not try to distract me with mindless chit chat, Albus,” he snapped. “When Harry told me he had come across The Mirror of Erised in an abandoned classroom, I thought he must surely be mistaken.”

 “As you can see, he was not.”

 “This is a dark piece of magic, headmaster. Surely you know that?” Severus asked, examining the lettering of the mirror’s frame more closely.

 “Perhaps it is. Perhaps not,” was all the headmaster said.

 “To a little boy with no real memory of his family, this is an extremely dangerous thing to be stumbling across,” he said, unable to hide his irritation. “This mirror–”

 “–Will be moved to a more secure place, where it can be found by neither student nor staff, for that very reason,” Dumbledore told him calmly.

Severus nodded his head. “Let us ensure that it is.”

 “What did you see?” the older wizard asked him.

 “I beg your pardon?”

 “You looked into the mirror just now, did you not? An entirely personal question, I know, but one can be forgiven for being curious,” Dumbledore said.

Without a word, Snape turned and replaced the dusty blanket back over the mirror’s glass, before turning to leave the office.

He did not answer the headmaster’s question.

OOOOOOO

The next few weeks passed relatively smoothly, with Harry recovering from his injuries and being allowed to return to his classes, and dorm room.

He and Snape fell into a comfortable routine, with Harry spending evenings and most weekends down in the potion master’s quarters.

Although he would never have admitted it outwardly, Snape appeared to be working hard to make up for the conversation the boy had overheard between himself and the headmaster.

He was strict - mandating weekend bed times, ensuring Harry studied hard for his upcoming exams and even monitoring the amount of sugar the boy consumed. Yet all of this was a novelty to Harry, who had really never had an adult pay much attention to any of those things before.

In fact  - Hogwarts aside - being in Snape’s care and staying in his quarters was the first true sense of ‘home’ that Harry had ever truly felt.

And what with his lessons, Quidditch and settling in to his new dynamic with the potions master, Harry really hadn’t had much time at all to dwell on his suspicions surrounding Professor Quirrell.

In any case, everything had gone quiet since the night in the Forbidden Forest, and Harry had concluded that Snape’s words of warning were enough to deter the DADA Professor from any amateur attempt at theft he may have had in mind.

Besides, as he entered in to the final term of his first year at Hogwarts, Harry decided that he had much bigger fish to fry, and he had chosen a quiet Saturday evening to broach it with his guardian.

Changed into his pyjamas, Harry wandered back out into the main living quarters, where the potions master was sitting in front of the fire. Summer may have been drawing nearer, but the dungeons stilled remained as chilly as ever.

Snape glanced over at him before folding up his newspaper and setting it down on the small side table.

 “Have you chosen a book?” he asked, steadfastly ignoring the fact that the attestations of  him reading to the boy being a one-time occurrence had not rung true, given that it had somehow become a regular weekly activity.

Harry nodded, holding a book up for his guardian to see and moving across the room.

 “Actually, I thought that perhaps we might try something new this evening and perhaps you might read to me?” Snape suggested, as Harry backed clumsily into his lap.

He pulled him closer to his chest – a necessity given the boy’s poor positioning – after all, he was not going to be responsible for any further injuries should the little whelp fall flat on his face.

Harry opened the book. And promptly closed it again.

 “Actually. I thought that we could talk about something else…” he began.

 “Oh? And what might that be?” Snape enquired.

 “Summer.”

 “What about summer?” the potions master asked – though he already knew what was coming next.

 “Well… it’s just… about my relatives…” Harry started, timidly.

 “Ye-es?”

The boy took a deep breath before he spoke again.

 “Idon’twanttogobackthere.”

A pause.

 “I see.”

 “I hate it there,” Harry said – perhaps the first time he had ever admitted it out loud. “Can’t I stay here with you?”

 “It may shock you to know that I do not spend my whole life residing in this castle, Mr Potter, and I do in fact have a home of my own,” the professor responded, ignoring the faint glow of warmth sitting in the middle of his chest. “However I am afraid that it is a rather dull affair, and there is very little for children to do there.”

Harry shrugged. “It’s better than going back there. Unless… you don’t want me around during the summer holidays?”

Snape glanced down at the boy, who was watching him with sad eyes.

Those blasted eyes.

 “That is… not so,” he said stiffly. “But I’m afraid it is not merely as simple as you not returning to your aunt’s house.”

 “Why? It’s not like they want me there. They only took me in because I had nowhere else to go, but now I do and –”

  “–I can assure you that that is not the only reason they took you in. They were asked by the headmaster to take you in on account of the blood wards,” Snape told him.

Harry frowned, puzzled. “The what?”

The potions master exhaled before continuing. “When your mother put herself between you and the Dark Lord to protect you… it created a kind of magic – a protection so strong that it might never be undone.”

 “But… she’s dead,” the boy reminded him.

 “Whilst that is true, her sister – her closest living blood relative aside from you – is not. The blood ties mean that the protection lives on, but only whilst you are in your aunt’s home,” he explained.

 “So… as long as I’m inside the house, Lord V– You-Know-Who can’t hurt me?” Harry guessed.

Snape inclined his head.  “So perhaps you will understand why my removing you from their care is not desirable.”

Harry nodded, thumbing at the edges of his book thoughtfully.

 “I do. It’s just…”

 “Just what?” the potions master asked.

 “Well… I understand that they protect me from You-Know-Who – that’s great and all… but… who will protect me from them?” Harry asked,  softly.

Snape did not respond. Because for the first time in a long time, he simply could not think of anything to say.

And so it was Harry who eventually broke the silence.

 “Could you maybe speak to Professor Dumbledore? Just to see?” he asked, eyes full of hope.

The potions master nodded.  

Smiling, Harry put down his book and leaned his head against his guardian’s chest.

Reaching up a hand, Snape cupped it to Harry’s cheek.

Harry’s reading book of choice remained firmly closed that evening.

OOOOOOO

 “I’m sure you know that his situation is… less than ideal, headmaster,” Snape said, as the two of them navigated the west wing corridor of the castle. They were in search of Peeves who, rumour had it, had flooded the girl’s lavatories out of spite when his usual taunting had failed to achieve the desired reaction from Moaning Myrtle.

 “As a matter of fact, I do. I recall Minerva pointing out when we left young Harry there that they were… what was it, now? ‘The worst sort of muggles imaginable’,” Dumbledore nodded.

 “So then why was the boy left with them in the first place?” the potions master asked, exasperated.

 “I feel sure you know why, Severus. But might I ask, why this is suddenly of consequence now? After all this time?” he asked.

 “Headmaster?”

 “Surely this is not the first time you’ve become aware of Harry’s treatment by his relatives?” the older wizard asked, raising a brow.

Snape bristled. “Previously I was not… in a position to… act upon my observations… But now…”

 “Now? Now that you’ve grown to care for the child?” Dumbledore surmised.

 “He has expressed a wish not to return there this summer,” the potions master told him plainly, refusing to engage in any further game play with the headmaster.

 “Ah.”

 “Is that all you have to say on the matter?” he demanded.

 “I suspected this might happen,” Dumbledore told him. “After all, Harry really has become very attached to you…”

 “I hardly think that–”

Dumbledore smiled gently. “Come now, Severus.”

 “Contrary to your evident belief, headmaster,  I am not here to discuss this with you simply for your endless entertainment, or to leave you with a warm and fuzzy feeling inside. The boy is miserable and wishes to remain in my care over the summer break. I am here to establish the feasibility of the request, nothing more.”

 “Alas, you and I both know it is not feasible in the slightest, my boy,” he said, a glint of sadness replacing the usual twinkle. “The bl–”

 “–The blood wards protect him. Yes, I am aware,” Snape snapped, impatient.

 “You are aware, yet here you are. A tick box exercise perhaps?” the headmaster suggested.

 “I can protect the boy as well as any blood wards,” he said.

 “I have no doubt that you would try Severus, but you and I both know that there is no greater protection for young Harry,” Dumbledore told him.

The potions master sighed.  “There is no possible way for us to replicate their protection?”

Dumbledore considered it for a moment.

 “None that are guaranteed, or that do not put little Harry in grave danger. However…”

 “Yes?” Snape urged

 “There is an ancient belief that the blood wards can - in some instances - replicate themselves, so to speak. That is to say, that they can - under rare circumstances - follow the one they protect to a new place of sanctuary. One that doesn’t require the presence of the original benefactors…” Dumbledore said, thoughtfully.

 “How is that possible?” he frowned.

Dumbledore looked him dead in the eye.

 “Love,” he said, simply.

 “W…what does that mean?” Snape asked, a familiar irritation with the headmaster’s crypticism creeping in.

 “It means, that for the blood wards to be ‘matched’… for them to be anywhere close to replicated, as you put it, outside of the Dursley’s home… Harry would need to see you as his family,” Dumbledore explained.

Silence.

Snape frowned – it felt almost too easy.

 “And by family, Severus, I don’t mean as a mentor… or even as a guardian,” the headmaster continued. “No, Harry would need to see you as his family in the truest sense of the word.”

Severus Snape exhaled, as he felt every hope or chance he had to remove Harry from the clutches of his relatives slip away.

OOOOOOO

 “So what did he say?” Ron whispered, casting a sideways glance at Professor Quirrell who had his back to them, writing something on the chalk board.

Harry shrugged his shoulders. “He said he’d ask Professor Dumbledore.”

 “Wh-whoever is talking, I trust you have finished c-copying down the incantations from Chapter Thirteen,” Quirrell called over his shoulder.

Ron quickly picked up his quill and jotted down a couple of words before checking to see what the professor was doing again.

Satisfied that the DADA teacher was not invested enough to turn around and follow it up, he looked back at Harry.

 “Do you really  want to spend all summer with Snape?” he whispered, grimacing.

 “It’s better than my relatives,” Harry whispered, ignoring a disapproving look from Hermione in the row behind. It had been a long day and he was just glad to get to his final class – that didn’t mean he had to be enthusiastic about notetaking. “And besides, he’s a good guardian and he–”

 “M-Mr P-P-Potter, Mr Weasley, I sh-shall not warn you again!” Quirrell called.

 “Bloody hell! Has he got eyes in the back of his head?” Ron hissed.

Without warning, the professor flung down his chalk and spun around to face them.

 “Are you incapable of following instructions?!” he cried.

The two boys stared at him wide-eyed, but didn’t respond.

Seemingly gathering himself, Quirrell adjusted his turban and considered them both for a moment.

 “D-detention t-tonight, Potter. Th-this classroom, 7pm sharp.”

A moment passed as Harry waited for the professor to dole out Ron’s punishment too, but eventually he frowned, realising that wasn’t going to happen.

The red head shrugged, giving him a sympathetic glance.

Sighing, Harry picked up his quill and began to write.

Detention with Quirrell. The perfect end to a perfect day.

OOOOOOO

 “It’s pretty weird isn’t it?” Ron commented as they left the Great Hall and accompanied Harry down to Professor Snape’s quarters. “I mean, it wasn’t as if Harry was talking to himself, was it?”

 “Well I didn’t hear you owning up and taking your punishment,” Hermione pointed out.

 “It’s fine,” Harry shook his head, too tired to care. “What good is it going to do us both being in detention?”

 “See?” Ron pulled a face at her.

 “Ron’s got a point though, Harry,” Hermione told him, rising above the red head’s behaviour. “It is a bit odd.”

Harry shrugged. “He caught me talking in class.”

 “He caught you both talking,” she corrected him. “Yet it’s only you he wants in detention. Seems a little strange, doesn’t it?”

 “What are you saying?” he asked, stopping as they reached the entrance to Snape’s quarters. 

 “Just… be careful, that’s all,” his friend said. “And maybe tell Professor Snape. Just so he knows.”

Harry nodded. “Alright, I will. I’ll see you both later, after detention.”

Once his friends had gone, Harry muttered the password and moved the portrait to one side, stepping inside the now-familiar living space.

His guardian was sitting on the sofa reading a book, but he placed it down beside him when the boy walked in.

 “Good evening.”

 “Professor McGonagall said you wanted to see me,” Harry explained.

Snape inclined his head, gesturing to the seat beside him.

 “Come and sit down.”

Harry obeyed, and seeing that the potions master’s face bore a grave expression, he began to wonder what the topic of conversation would be.

Perhaps he had already found out about the detention with Quirrell?

Or was he angry that Harry had skipped lunch to practice with the rest of the Quidditch team for the upcoming Gryffindor/Slytherin match?

Or perhaps…

 “Did you speak to Professor Dumbledore?” he asked, almost hoping the answer would be no.

 “I did.”

 “What did he say?” Harry asked, expectantly. “Is there something he can do about blood thingys? Can he make new ones?”

 “No,” his guardian told him after a pause. “I’m afraid there is nothing that can be done.”

For a moment, Harry struggled to take him what the professor had just said.

And then a million feelings rushed through him all at once – sadness, fear, anger…

 “That’s a lie!”

It came out of his mouth before he even realised it had.

 “It is not–”

 “Yes it is! You don’t want me so you’re lying about talking to Professor Dumbledore!” Harry yelled, jumping up from his head.

 “Sit down at once, Mr Potter,” Snape ordered, his voice dangerously low.

 “No! I don’t want to sit here with you! You’re a liar!” he shouted.

Snape reached out and took the boy by the arms to still him.

 “It most certainly is not a lie. I can assure you that I spoke to Professor Dumbledore just as we agreed,” he said. “Now you will desist with this abhorrent behaviour at once. Screaming and shouting will not get you what you want – you are not your cousin.”

Harry just stared at him, breathing heavily as the wave of anger began to pass and made way for something else.

Hot tears began to roll down his cheeks, steaming up his glasses and making his skin prickle.

 “It’s not fair,” he sobbed, finally accepting the potion master’s words. “It’s not fair, I don’t want to go back there.”

 “I’m sorry Harry,” was all Snape said.

Fixing his eyes to the ground, Harry continued to sob.

Two strong arms folded around him and brought him closer, and for a moment Harry was tempted to concede and bury his face in the black robes. But then the anger came back and he tried to wriggle free, fighting hopelessly against a strength he could not match.

So he did the only thing he could think to do – he brought his fists up and pummelled them against the potion master’s chest.

And Harry pummelled and pummelled until eventually, he felt himself released from his guardian’s hold.

 “I hate you!” he cried.

And then he fled from the room.

OOOOOOO

 I will not talk during class.

I will not talk during class.

I will not talk during class.

Harry exhaled, setting down his quill and flexing his aching hand. The hour had passed quickly, and somehow he’d managed to fill the two feet of parchment he’d been given.  

 “P-problem P-potter?” Professor Quirrell asked, looking up from his desk.

Harry shook his head. “No sir.  I think I’m done.”

 “Very well, bring it here,” Quirrell gestured him over.

Standing up, Harry took the parchment over to the professor’s desk.

Quirrell cast his eyes over it before looking back at the boy.

 “Everything al-alright Potter? N-not like you to t-talk in class,” he said.

For a second, Harry wanted to point out that it was Ron doing most of the talking, but instead he shrugged his shoulders.

 “W-what was s-so urgent that y-you needed to d-discuss it during D-Defence?” Quirrell probed. “Is P-professor Sn-Sn-Snape treating you w-well?”

Harry nodded. “Yes, sir.”

 “So th-then what, p-pray, was so important?”

 “I asked Professor Snape if I could stay with him during the summer holidays,” he said glumly – it didn’t really matter who he told now, anyway.

 “Oh? Is that p-preferable t-to your relative’s home?” Quirrell asked.

A nod.

 “Th-then why s-so glum, P-potter?”

 “He asked Professor Dumbledore, and he said no,” Harry said quietly.

 “Wh-why?” the professor asked, curiously.

 “He says I have to stay with my aunt and uncle. There’s some kind of magic that protects me whilst I’m there,” he said, fiddling with the sleeves of his robe.

 “M-magic?”

 “Some sort of… blood thing, I don’t know,” he said without thinking.

 “Blood wards…” Quirrell murmured, more to himself than to Harry.

But Harry nodded. “That was it.”

A silence followed, during which Quirrell studied the boy’s face closely.

 “T-terrible b-business about that dr-dragon,” the professor said suddenly, as if out of nowhere.

 “Norbert?” Harry frowned – it had been a while since that whole escapade.

 “Is th-that what he called it?” Quirrell chuckled nervously.

 “Hagrid loved that dragon,” Harry said, testily. He knew that Hagrid had been crazy to take the egg from a stranger, let alone hatch it. But that was Hagrid, and Harry suddenly felt fiercely protective of his friend.

 “I’m s-sure he d-did. Wh-what h-happened to it?” the professor asked him.

 “Went to live in Romania, in a colony,” he said.

Another pause.

 “Well, I better get back to my dorm…” Harry said eventually, feeling a little uncomfortable. His scar had started to prickle, much like it had that first day in the Great Hall, and he didn’t like it at all.

Quirrell nodded, as if snapping out of a trance. “R-right you are, P-potter. St-straight back and no dawdling.”

Harry left the DADA classroom and did exactly that – he had a Charms exam in the morning and Herbology in the afternoon, so he wanted to get an early night.

OOOOOOO

 “I’d always heard Hogwarts end of year exams were frightful, but I’ve found they’re rather enjoyable,” Hermione said, as the three of them walked through the courtyard the following afternoon, free of Charms and Herbology for the next six weeks.

 “Speak for yourself,” Ron grumbled, glancing across at his friend, who was noticeably rubbing his forehead. “Alright there, Harry?”

 “My scar… it keeps burning,” Harry told them truthfully.

 “It’s happened before…” Hermione pointed out – and she was right. But…

 “Not like this.”

 “Perhaps you should see the nurse?” Ron suggested.

 “I think it’s a warning. It means danger’s coming,” Harry said. “It happened last night too – during detention. I was talking to Professor Quirrell about… Oh! Of course!”

With that, he started to walk at pace, in the direction of Hagrid’s hut.

 “What is it?” Hermione asked, as she and Run hurried to catch him up.

 “Don’t you think it’s a  bid odd that what Hagrid wants more than anything I a dragon, and a stranger turns up who just happens to have one? I mean, how many people wander around with dragon eggs in their pocket? Why didn’t I see it before?” Harry asked, as the three of them jogged across the grass towards the half-giant, who was sitting in the sunshine playing his flute.

 “Hagrid!” he called.

Hagrid stopped playing, looking up at the three breathless children with surprise.

 “Hagrid, who gave you the dragon egg? What did he look like?”

 “I dunno. I never saw his face. He kept his hood up,” Hagrid shrugged.

 “This stranger though… you and he must’ve talked,” Harry pointed out.

Hagrid thought for a moment. “Well he… he wanted to know what sort of creatures I looked after. I told him, I said, after Fluffy a dragon’s gonna be no problem!”

 “Did he seem interested in Fluffy?”

 “Well of course he was interested in Fluffy! How often do you come across a three-headed dog, even if you’re in the trade? But I told him, I said… I said ‘the trick with any beast is to know how to calm him. Take Fluffy, for example, just play him a bit of music and he falls straight to sleep.’”

The three of them stared at Hagrid, horrified.

 “I shouldn’t have told you that…” Hagrid muttered.

 “Come on!” Harry cried, taking off back in the direction of the castle.

 “Where are you going?!” Hagrid called after them.

 Harry didn’t stop running until they were back in the corridors of the castle then, at which point he paused for breath as he waited for his two friends to catch him up.

 “Bloody hell mate. What’s going on?” Ron panted.

 “Harry, you don’t think that the person who gave Hagrid that dragon egg is the same person that’s trying to steal the stone, do you?” Hermione asked.

 “That’s exactly what I think,” Harry nodded. “And I think it’s Professor Quirrell.”

 “I don’t know Harry… we’ve been here before…” she said, unsurely.

 “Aside from us and Malfoy, the only other people who knew about Norbert were Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall,” Harry told them. “I didn’t even tell my– Professor Snape.”

 “So?” Ron asked, yet to catch on.

 “So Quirrell brought it up with me  last night,” he explained. “It didn’t even occur to me at the time! How do you think he found out if he wasn’t the one to give Hagrid the egg in the first place?”

 “What should we do?” Hermione asked, looking horrified.

Glancing at the nearby Transfiguration classroom, Harry set off at a run again.

Moments later, the three of them skidded to a halt in front of Professor McGonagall’s desk.

 “What is the meaning of this?!” the older witch cried, surprised.

 “We have to see Professor Dumbledore!” Harry told her. “Immediately!”

 “I’m afraid Professor Dumbledore is not here. He received an urgent owl from the Ministry of Magic and left immediately for London,” she told them.

 “He’s gone? Now? But this is important! It’s about the Philosopher’s Stone!” he cried.

Professor McGonagall looked between the three of them, shocked. “How do you know…?”

 “Someone’s going to try and steal it,” Harry told her. Beside him, Ron and Hermione nodded furiously.

 “I don’t know how you three found about the Stone, but I assure you that it is perfectly well protected. Now, would you go back to your dormitories? Quietly.”

Realising that they were fighting a losing battle, the three of them headed back onto the corridor.

 “What are we going to do?” Ron asked, as they huddled together.

 “Harry, I think you should tell Professor Snape,” Hermione said.

But Harry shook his head. “No. I can’t.”

 “Why not?”

 “We’re not… we had a row last night,” he admitted. Although that wasn’t entirely true, he knew, given that all the shouting had been very much one-sided.

 “A row? But yesterday, during Defence, you were telling me you wanted to stay with him over summer,” Ron frowned, confused.

Harry shook his head. “He doesn’t want me to.”

Hermione looked doubtful. “Is that what you’ve fallen out over? Harry, you have to put that to one side. This is more important… it’s… You-Know-Who.”

 “Good afternoon,” a silky voice from behind them.

The three children jumped, startled, and turned to look up at Professor Snape. 

“Now, what would three young Gryffindors such as yourselves be doing inside of a day like this?” Snape asked.

 “Ah… w-we… we were just…” Hermione began.

 “You ought to be careful. People will think you’re… up to something,” he said.

For a moment, his eyes found Harry’s and he paused, as if waiting for the boy to say something. But Harry remained stony-faced and eventually, the potions master turned and stalked away, his robes billowing behind him.

 “I can’t believe you didn’t tell him. Harry, we need his help!” Hermione hissed.

 “No we don’t. We can handle this,” he insisted.

 “You reckon? How?” Ron asked, sceptically.

 “We go down the trapdoor,” Harry told them. “Tonight.”

OOOOOOO

When Albus Dumbledore found his potions master on the astronomy tower that evening, he smiled pleasantly.

 “Severus, my boy. How nice to see you. I must say, I didn’t expect to find you here so late in the day.”

 “I was hoping to be alone,” Snape responded, drily.

If this offended the older wizard, he didn’t let it show – instead coming to stand by Snape, looking out over the grounds of the school.

 “Minerva said you had been called away to the Ministry.” 

 “Ah, a false alarm, it would seem,” Dumbledore smiled. “Tell me, how has Harry found the first of his exams?”

 “You would have to ask Harry,” he said.

Noting the curious look the headmaster gave him, he exhaled impatiently before speaking again.

 “He refuses to talk to me.”

Dumbledore chuckled. “Children, Severus. They can be difficult. What have you done this time?”

 “You assume it is my wrongdoing, old man, and we all know what happens when one assumes,” Snape commented. “I simply relayed your message in regards to the summer arrangements and the child took it badly.”

 “Oh? What did you say?” Dumbledore asked, as if fascinated.

 “I told him that it his request to stay with me during the summer break could not be granted. That it was not possible,” he responded, stiffly.

Dumbledore frowned. “Whatever for, my boy?”

The potions master turned to face him sharply. “You know full well. I do not wish to discuss this any further.”

 “But I’m afraid we must. Forgive me Severus, I know I am aging but I feel sure that even I cannot have forgotten our conversation quite so quickly. And I must say, I can’t recall refusing to grant Harry’s request, or indeed, my declaring it impossible,” the headmaster said. “I simply said–”

 “–That the boy must see me as his family for it to work. His true family,” Snape finished. “That is why it is impossible.”

 “Is it?” he asked, perplexed.

 “My relationship with the boy is companionship at best. Let us not forget that he is the son of Lily Evans and James Potter, Albus – he will never view me as anything more than a guardian, as well as you know,” Snape snapped.

 “On the contrary, Severus. I think you underestimate young Harry’s capacity for love,” Dumbledore told him. “And given everything he has been through in his short life, it’s really quite amazing.”

 “I think you mistake me for Molly Weasley, or some other sweet and sickly character,” he said, unimpressed.

 “Perhaps not. However, I remember another little boy. One whose life was perhaps as difficult as Harry’s has been, and yet who was capable of loving just as much,” the headmaster began. “What happened to that boy, do you think?”

Severus Snape swallowed hard, but did not respond.

 “Well?” Dumbledore pressed.

 “You know what happened!”

 “And therefore, you have concluded that you are not worthy of Harry’s love? Why? Because you believe that you are not capable yourself of loving Lily’s son as strongly as you loved her? Or perhaps you are afraid of losing Harry in the same vain?” the headmaster surmised.  

 “Enough,” Severus hissed, turning to leave.

 “Tell me Severus,” Dumbledore began, before the potions master could reach the spiral staircase off the astronomy tower. “Is that how you truly feel? Even after looking into the Mirror of Erised and seeing yourself with Harry?”

Severus spun to face him, wondering if, for a moment, his talent for occlumency had finally evaded him.

Dumbledore simply stared back at him, a twinkle in his eye.

But before either of them could speak again, Minerva McGonagall appeared at the top of the spiral staircase, looking a little dishevelled and pausing for a moment to catch her breath.

 “Minerva?” Dumbledore asked in surprise, turning his attention to her.

 “Thank goodness you’re back,” she breathed. “Three students are missing from their beds.”

 “Yes, I was just explaining to Severus here that my presence was, in fact, not required at the Ministry after all. But I’m sure you don’t need me for matters so trivial as students out of bed?” Dumbledore asked, calmly.

 “Who are the students?” Snape asked, as if he couldn’t guess.

McGonagall sighed. “Potter, Weasley and Granger.”

 “In that case, I shall leave the matter in your capable hands, Severus,” the headmaster smiled, unperturbed.

Muttering to himself about blasted Gryffindors, Snape went to move past the deputy headmistress, but she caught his arm, her eyes full of worry.

 “I’m afraid there’s more,” she began.  “I floo called all of the staff, to confirm that they had not seen the children since curfew. With the exception of Severus, there was only one other staff member I couldn’t reach.”

 “Who?” Snape asked, feeling sure he wasn’t going to like her answer.

 “Professor Quirrell,” she said, turning to Dumbledore. “What’s more… Potter and his friends came to see me earlier today. They had concerns that Quirinius might be trying to steal the Stone.”

 Before either of them could say anything further, Severus Snape was already at the bottom of the spiral staircase, striding back inside of the castle and in the direction of the third floor corridor.

OOOOOOO

The three Gryffindors stood in the darkened hall, surrounded by what appeared to be large statues – easily twice their size.

 “I don’t like this,” Hermione began. “I don’t like this at all…”

Harry moved in for a closer look – he hadn’t much liked the Devil’s Snare or the fast-moving keys, either.

 “Where are we? A graveyard?”

 “This is no graveyard,” Ron told them. “It’s a chess board!”

 “There’s the door!” Harry pointed to the other side of the room and the three of them set off.

But no sooner had they reached the middle of the board, the imposing figures on the other side of the board drew their swords, bringing the three of them to a halt.

 “Now what do we do?” Hermione asked, nervously.

 “It’s obvious isn’t it? We’ve gotta play our way across the room…” Ron told them, started to look around the board, a plan clearly forming in his head.

Harry took a look too, wracking his brains in an effort to remember all of the moves Professor Snape had taught to him. But his mind was blank, and he sighed.

 “Alright, Harry – you take the empty Bishop’s Square,” Ron told him. “Hermione, you’ll be the Queen-Side Castle. And as for me… I’ll be a Knight.”

 “What happens now?” Hermione asked, once the three of them had taken their places.

 “Well, white moves first,” the red-head told them. “And then, we play.”

 “Ron?” Hermione asked in a small voice, as one of the large white pawns slid across the board. “You don’t suppose this is going to be like real Wizard’s Chess, do you?”

Considering her for a moment, Ron turned to one of their own pieces.

 “You there, D5!”

Sure enough, the piece moved - and was promptly smashed into a million pieces.

 “Yes Hermione. I think this is gonna be exactly like Wizard’s Chess,” Ron confirmed.

 “This is too dangerous!” Hermione told them, horrified.

 “Have you got any other ideas?” Ron asked her.

The girl sighed. “No. I just wish Professor Dumbledore was here. He’d know what to do.”

Harry snorted. “Would he? Fat lot of good he’s been so far!”

Hermione shook her head. “You don’t mean that. I know you’re angry about the summer Harry, but Professor Dumbledore is what makes Hogwarts so safe – you must know that.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“How? By disappearing when he’s needed the most? Or by sending stupid cryptic messages in foreign languages,  that nobody can figure out the meaning of?”

Hermione gasped. “Oh! I completely forgot!”

 “Forgot about what?”

 “The message that Dumbledore left for you… we did figure it out,” she told him.

 “And you didn’t think to mention it until now?!” Harry cried, exasperated.

 “It was that evening, in the library. After you’d left for your detention with Professor Snape… I was going to tell you when you came running back in, but you were a little distracted,” Hermione pointed out. “And then when with everything that happened in the Forbidden Forest… it completely slipped my mind. We found another book on Latin whilst you were gone. The translation we found for ‘In Somnis Veritas’ is ‘In Dreams, Truth.’”

Harry frowned.

 “Does it mean something?” Hermione asked, hopefully.

Harry thought hard for a moment before responding.

 “I don’t think so…”

 “Think, Harry. What were you talking to Professor Dumbledore about, that evening when he slipped the note inside your cloak?” she asked.

Furrowing his brow, Harry concentrated, trying to remember the finer details of that evening.

What had he talked to the headmaster about?

The Mirror of Erised… his parents… his relationship with Professor Snape… and the headmaster was rambling about dreams. How they could often seem so real… And…

“And what happened in these dreams?” Dumbledore asked.

 “Not much. The man just took care of me,” he explained. “I guess it was just my imagination, I don’t know… it made me feel better or something.”

 “A source of comfort,” the headmaster concluded, thoughtfully.

Harry nodded. “Except… when I got to Hogwarts… the first time I saw Professor Snape… I thought he reminded me an awful lot of the man in my dreams.”

The furrow in Harry’s brow deepened.

 “We’re running out of time!” Ron called from across the room. “Quirrell could have gotten to the stone already. We need to play! Harry?”

Glancing across at his friend, Harry nodded.

OOOOOOO

In the minutes that followed, the sound of concrete crumbling and smashing filled the air, as Ron continued to shout orders at the chess pieces.

Eventually however, the abated, leaving nothing behind but a tense silence that hung in the air.

Harry glanced between Ron and the remaining white figures on the other side of the board, frowning.

 “Wait a minute…”

He remembered Professor Snape teaching him this part. It had been a rainy evening, chilly. But it had been cosy in the professor’s quarters, the two of them sharing the comfortable arm chair in front of the fire, Harry’s head resting against his shoulder as he had explained the finer rules of chess to the boy…

“You understand right, Harry?” Ron asked. “Once I make my move, the Queen will take me. Then you’re free to check the King.”

 “No! Ron, no!” Harry cried.

 “What is it?” Hermione asked, her lack of interest in Wizard’s Chess more evident than ever.

 “He’s going to sacrifice himself,” Harry explained.

 “No you can’t! There must be another way!”  

 “Do you want to stop Quirrell from getting the Stone or not?” Ron asked. “Harry, it’s you that has to go on – I know it. Not me, not Hermione – you!”

And with that, he turned to look at the Queen in front of him, swallowing hard.

 “Knight to H3.”

Slowly but surely, the horse that Ron sat astride moved across the board.

The Queen moved closer and drew her sword, smashing the horse and sending Ron flying toward the ground in the process.

 “Ron!” Harry cried.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hermione, poised and ready to run to their friend’s aid.

 “No! Don’t move!” he called. “Don’t forget, we’re still playing.”

She nodded, remaining in her square as Harry stepped into another.

 “Checkmate!”

The sword fell from the King’s hands with a clatter.

A pause – as if the two of them were waiting to make sure the game was definitely over.

And then they both ran to Ron’s side. The red-head was breathing, but seemed to be out cold.

 “Take care of Ron,” Harry told Hermione. “Then, go to the owlery – send a message to Dumbledore. And…”

 “What is it?” 

 “Can you tell Professor Snape I… I’m sorry?” he asked.

 “You can tell him yourself, once you’ve got the Stone,” she said, firmly.

 “Please, Hermione. It’s important,” Harry pleaded. “Tell him sorry, and tell him thank you.”  

 “What does it mean, Harry? ‘In dreams, truth’? I know you know,” she said, softly.

He hesitated before speaking again.

 “There was a reason I was drawn to Professor Snape when I came to Hogwarts. There was a reason I wanted to get to know him…”

Hermione watched him, listening intently.

 “All of the time I lived with the Dursleys… as I was growing up… I had these dreams,” he told her. “Mostly when I was sick, or when I was upset about something…”

 “What were they about?”

 “A man. He used to visit me… take care of me,” Harry said – and for the first time, he didn’t feel quite so stupid saying the words out loud. “The man… I think it was Professor Snape.”

Hermione frowned. “So you think the dreams were…?”

 “I don’t think they were dreams at all,” Harry said, his voice soft.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

 “I’ll tell him,” Hermione said, eventually. “And you can tell him, when this is all over. You’ll be okay, Harry. You’re a great wizard – you really are.”

 “Not as good as you,” he said.

She smiled. “Me? Books and cleverness? There are more important things. Friendship, and bravery. And family. So be careful, Harry. Please.”

Standing up, Harry nodded, heading toward the final door.

 OOOOOOO

Severus Snape strode through the corridors of the castle at pace, flanked on either side by the headmaster and the deputy headmistress.

 “Minerva,” Dumbledore said eventually, as they reached the main entryway. “Perhaps you could fetch the others? Filius and Pomona, Rolanda and Sybill. And perhaps Poppy, too. Tell them that their presence is required on the third floor corridor at once.”

Nodding, she turned in the opposite direction.

 “Severus? Perhaps it would be wise for us to wait until our colleagues join us?” he suggested, stopping the potions master in his tracks.

 “Given the circumstances, Albus, I think it would be prudent for us to deal with the situation immediately,” he said, agitated.

 “I understand, Severus. But the quickest way through the enchantments guarding the Stone will be achieved if the creators of those charms are present,” the headmaster told him. “Whilst your concern for our students is admirable, in this case, I believe it best to bide our time.”

 “Bide our…? You would suggest such nonsense? Whilst my child is in danger?” Snape hissed.  

Dumbledore did not respond, but instead, gave him a warm smile.

 “Is this funny to you, Albus?”  he demanded.

 “Not at all, my boy. Quite the opposite. It is touching, however, that you have come to think of Harry as such,” Dumbledore said.

Spinning on his heel, Severus Snape continued towards the third floor corridor. Time would wait for no man, and certainly not for that imbecile Trelawney to decide that the planets were sufficiently enough aligned for them to take on a Dark Lord.

OOOOOOO

Treading carefully down the stone steps, Harry squinted into the gloom, trying to make out the shapes in front of him.

Stopping half way down, he frowned, recognising the mirror that stood in the centre of the room.

And in front of it, a familiar figure – the turbaned head unmistakable.

 “You,” Harry breathed. “I knew it!”

Professor Quirrell turned to look at him, a cruel smile on his face.

 “Smarter than you look, aren’t you boy? I knew you were a danger to me right from the off. Especially after Halloween,” Quirrell said.

 “Then, you let the troll in!” Harry realised.

 “Very good, Potter. Yes. Just as suspicious as your honourable guardian, I see. Unfortunately, he wasn’t fooled and while everyone else was running around the dungeons, he went to the third floor to head me off. I knew he was going to be a problem too, after that night – ever the protector.”

 “I knew it was you who was trying to steal the Stone! And Professor Snape did too!” Harry cried.

 “He had his suspicions, perhaps,” Quirrell shrugged. “But he was too pre-occupied with his young charge to really do anything about it. Perhaps if he had, you wouldn’t be in this dreadful predicament right now…”

Harry shook his head. “That night… the night I was supposed to have detention with Professor Snape… I heard him warning you to keep away from the Stone and not to take advantage of your position in the school.”

Quirrell chuckled. “No, dear boy. What you heard  was him warning me to stay away from you!”

Harry frowned. Had he really gotten it so wrong?

 “He’d barely left me alone since the first Quidditch game. But he doesn’t understand. I’m never alone…” the man muttered, turning back to look into the mirror. “Now, what does this mirror do? I see myself… holding the Stone. But how to get it?”

 “Usssse the boy…” another voice rasped. Harry wasn’t sure where it came from, but it sounded snake-like… familiar… exactly like the voice in his nightmare earlier that year.

 “Come here, Potter! Now!” Quirrell cried.

Harry was so dumbstruck that he walked towards the professor, standing in front of the mirror himself.  

 “Tell me, what do you see? What is it?” Quirrell asked.  

Holding his breath, Harry lifted his head and looked directly into the mirror.

There in the reflection were his parents standing either side of him, exactly as they had been when he had stumbled across the mirror in an abandoned classroom earlier that year. Except, they weren’t smiling anymore, and their outlines seemed more hazy than they once had.

 “It’s okay, Harry,” – a woman’s voice. Harry heard it inside of his head, and though his mother’s lips were not moving in the reflection, he somehow knew it was hers.

His father was nodding, now.

Harry frowned, puzzled.

What’s okay?

As if in response, a third figure appeared in the reflection of the mirror, standing between Lily and James Potter.

Harry’s eyes widened, and his mother smiled at him.

Her image was becoming fainter and fainter, and before long, both she and his father had disappeared completely from view.

Casting his eyes upwards, Harry looked at the one remaining person in the reflection besides himself.

Silently, Professor Snape reached out and placed something in the pocket of Harry’s trousers.

The Stone.

Unconsciously, Harry reached down and put his hand into his pocket.

Sure enough, there it was – the cold, hard surface of the Philosopher’s Stone.

 “What do you see?!” Quirrell snapped impatiently, bringing Harry from his thoughts.

 “I’m… shaking hands with Dumbledore…” he began, shakily. “I’ve won the house cup…”

 “He liesss!” hissed the voice.

 “Tell the truth! What do you see?!” Quirrell snarled.

 “Let me speak to him…”

 “Master, you are not strong enough,” the professor replied.

 “I have strength enough for thisss…”

With that, Professor Quirrell reached up and began to unwind his turban.

Harry could only watch in horror as the fabric fell away, revealing another face protruding from the back of the DADA teacher’s head.

Slowly, Quirrell turned away from Harry, allowing the owner of the snake-like voice to see him.

 “Harry Potter, we meet again…”

 “Voldemort!” Harry realised.

 “Yesss. You see what I have become? See what I must do to survive? Live off another – a mere parasite,” he hissed. “Unicorn blood can sustain me, but it cannot give me a body of my own. But there is something that can. Something that conveniently enough lies in your pocket!”

Harry turned and ran.

 “Stop him!” Voldemort cried.

But as he started back up the stone steps, a huge wall of fire sprung up before him, blocking his exit completely.

 “Don’t be a fool. Why suffer a horrific death when you can join me and live?” Voldemort said.

 “Never!” Harry cried, indignantly.

Voldemort laughed sadistically. “Bravery. Your parents had it, too. Tell me Harry, would you like to see your mother and father again? Together? We can bring them back. All I ask is for something in return…”

Harry’s hand went to his pocket again.

His whole life, all he had dreamed of was a chance to know his parents, to talk to them, touch them… And now, it seemed so easy, just within reach.

 “That’s it Harry. There is no good and evil. There is only power, and those too weak to seek it. Together, we will do extraordinary things. Just give me the stone!”

 “You liar!” Harry shouted.

Those feelings of longing had subsided a little recently. He was no longer the lonely child, desperate to belong, because now, he had…

 “Severus Snape?” Voldemort asked, letting out another raspy laugh.

Harry glared at the back of Quirrell’s head. How was it this thing could seemingly read his mind?

 “That pathetic excuse of a half-blood is your alternative? Dumbledore’s favourite potions master, nothing but a coward and a traitor. He will soon be dead. As will you. Kill him!” Voldemort cried.

Before Harry knew what was happening, Quirrell flew forward, pushing him to the ground and pinning him by his throat.

Harry struggled beneath him, horrified as he realised that the Stone had toppled from his pocket, landing several feet away.

Somehow, he managed to free one of his arms, gripping on to Quirrell’s hand with his own in an attempt to release his stronghold.

Suddenly, Quirrell let go, stumbling backwards and crying out as his left hand began to smoulder,  disintegrating before him.

 “What is this magic?!”

 “Fool! Get the Stone!” Voldemort hissed.

For a moment, Harry could only stare at the scene before him. And then, without a word, he threw himself forwards, placing both his hands squarely onto Quirrell’s face.

Quirrell roared in agony as his face began to crumble too.

Harry stood, rooted to the spot as the professor’s whole body followed suit, leaving a pile of dust and a bundle of robes on the floor where he had been.

Aside from the crackling of the flames the room fell silent, and Harry turned, picking up the Stone from the floor.

He turned around just in time to see the dust rising up again behind him, taking the form of a ghoulish figure which rushed at him, passing through his body and sending him to the ground.

Everything went black .

OOOOOOO

 “I am quite sure that Harry and his friends will be perfectly fine,” Dumbledore told him, as he worked on disarming the charm and obtained the correct winged-key to move through the door.

They had gone on ahead without the other staff members, at Severus’ request.

The potions master rose an eyebrow. “You were ‘quite sure’ that Quirrell was perfectly harmless, too, if I recall correctly.”

 “Yes… well… sometimes even I make mistakes, Severus. Surely you can forgive an old man?” the headmaster sighed.

 “That remains to be seen.”

 “Does it?” Dumbledore asked, quizzically. “So there’s hope for me yet.”

 “It is heavily dependent on what lies on the other side of this door,” Snape told him. “If, for instance, Harry is not in one piece, I shall be less inclined to put this behind us.”

 “I am convinced you underestimate the boy, Severus,” Dumbledore told him. “He is shaping up to be a splendid young wizard…”

 “Whilst that may be true, he is also an eleven year old boy who has suffered years of neglect at the hands of his so-called relatives,” Snape pointed out. “He is not strong enough to take on the Dark Lord. Nor shall he ever be, as long as he remains in the care of those muggles.”

The headmaster muttered an incantation under his breath and in a split second, the hundreds of keys buzzing around the room fell to the ground at once.

Reaching out, he picked up the large brass one and dusted it off, smiling to himself.

 “You seemed sure that was where he was destined to remain, when we last spoke of this.”

 “My opinion has not changed. Not if what you say about the replication of the blood wards is true,” Snape said.

 “It is. And I see that you doubt your ability to overcome it,”  Dumbledore noted. “Yet, you have still taken the time to watch over the boy for years. Why was that, I wonder?”

 “You know why.”  

 “Lily?” the headmaster suggested. “For her?”

 “And for him. For Harry,” Snape told him, stiffly.

 “I see. Perhaps if the child knew…” Dumbledore began.

 “No,” he snapped. “He will not know.”

  “Ah,” was all Dumbledore said, moving past him to put the key in the door.

Snape glared at him.

 “Headmaster?” he enquired, suspiciously.

Dumbledore turned to look at him.

 “Tell me, Severus. Do you know why the boy attached himself to you in the way he did?” he asked.

 “I… do not…” Snape admitted.

 “Sometimes, as we sleep, the things that are happening in real-time around us seep through into our subconscious.  Often, we might mistake these happenings for dreams when we awake,” Dumbledore told him. “I believe this is what happened in Harry’s case. Thus he felt a sense of familiarity when he first saw you, in the Great Hall.”

 “Please tell me,” Snape began. “That you have not enlightened the boy?”

 “Did I tell him the truth, you mean? No,” Dumbledore assured him, putting the key into the door and opening it easily. “However, I may have provided him with something to help him reach the conclusion himself. I have no doubt he has already worked it out, especially with Miss Granger by his side. She really is the brightest witch of her age…”

With that, he slipped through the door into the next room, leaving Severus furious.

He followed, ready to give the headmaster a piece of his mind, but was promptly stopped in his tracks as two small bodies crashed into them.

 “Children!” Dumbledore exclaimed, and Snape saw looked down at the two heads of hair – one bushy and the other red in colour.

 “Where is Potter?” he snapped, panicked to see that the trio was reduced to a duo.

The two Gryffindors both began to talk hurriedly, pointing frantically behind them, so frenzied that neither men could understand a word they had said.  

 “Desist at once!” Snape hissed. “You will talk slowly. And coherently!”

 “Wizard’s Chess?” Dumbledore asked casually, looking at the room in front of them, as if he had never laid eyes on it before. “Did you win?”

 “I hardly think that is relevant–” the potions master began.

But Ron was nodding now. “Yeah, we played a blinder! But then…”

 “Harry went through there,” Hermione told them, pointing to the door at the far end of the room. “We think Professor Quirrell is through there. He’s trying to steal the Stone.”

Just then, the other staff members appeared through the smaller door behind them, coming to a halt to survey the scene before them.

 “Good Lord!” McGonagall breathed.

 “Thank you for joining us,” Dumbledore said kindly, turning to look at them. “Sybill, perhaps you would be so kind as to take Miss Granger and Miss Weasley back into the castle? Take them both to the hospital wing, Poppy will return to see to them shortly.”

 “Of course, of course…” Professor Trelawney nodded, reaching out to put her hands on Ron and Hermione’s shoulders, pausing only momentarily to lock eyes with Severus Snape.

 “Are you deaf, woman?” he snapped – his patience for her even less than usual.

Muttering frantically beneath her breath, the Divination teacher guided the two children from the room.

 “Mental this one,” Ron whispered to Hermione as they allowed the woman to take them along. “Did she just say something about Snape becoming a father?”

Hermione shrugged, glancing back at the other teachers anxiously before the door closed behind them.

With the two young Gryffindors removed from the room, Dumbledore turned back to the other staff members.

 “Stay behind me,” he said, and with that he began to move across the rubble of the chessboard, towards the large door, coming to a halt in front of it and brandishing his wand. “BOMBARDA!”

The door was thrown from its hinges, and Dumbledore shielded his eyes with the sleeve of his robe as the brightness of the flames within hit them.

A moment of relative silence followed, before Pomona Sprout ventured cautiously into the room, wand at the ready.

 “Merlin’s beard!” she gasped, seeing the heap of robes on the floor.

 “Professor Dumbledore!” Flitwick called  from the other side of the steps.

He was standing beside another heap of clothes. Or at least, that was how it first seemed.

But as their eyes adjusted, there was a collective gasp from the female teachers, as they realised that the tiny Charms professor was in fact standing over what appeared to be the lifeless body of a child.

They gathered around him.

 “Oh, Harry…” Minerva murmured, sounding as if her voice might crack.

Severus Snape pushed through the small group, fighting his way in to kneel beside the small boy.

He reached out a hand, brushing back the child’s hair from his forehead, willing him to open his eyes.

But Harry was still.

Too still.

OOOOOOO

For what felt like an eternity, Severus Snape simply knelt by the lifeless body of Harry Potter, willing the child to stir. Open his eyes, ask for a story, ask for a game of Wizard’s Chess, anything mundane. Anything familiar.

But Harry remained still.

 “Severus? Severus…” a hand on his shoulder.

He turned to look at its owner.

 “We should get him to the hospital wing,” Filius told him.

Coming to a little, Snape nodded his head, turning back to scoop the boy up.

 “No! Don’t move him!” Poppy warned, fighting her way to the front. “Not until we know the extent of his injuries. Let me in.”

Under normal circumstances, the potions master would likely have made a cutting comment about the her bossiness.

But these were not normal circumstances and right then, he simply wanted Harry to be okay, so he stood up to let the mediwitch in.

Gripping her wand, she immediately went to work, casting diagnostic and healing spells on the boy.

It was all Severus Snape could do to stand  by and watch, helplessly.

The tightness in his chest and constriction in his throat were not familiar feelings for the professor, but he had felt them before. Just once.

Lily…

The feelings were similar, yet different at the same time. He was no longer that young and foolish version of himself, consumed by intense feelings of love and lust mixed with jealousy and hatred.

No, this felt different. This felt as if he was watching this child slip away, right before his eyes.

This child which he had come to care about so deeply. Come to love.

Lily, please…

Satisfied that Harry was not unmoveable, Madame Pomfrey slide one arm beneath him and brought his head to rest on her knees as she worked.

Another comforting hand on his arm. He didn’t know who it belonged to and didn’t bother to check.

Seconds turned to minutes and the mediwitch continued her work in relative silence aside from the mumbling of incantations beneath her breath.

And then, just as Severus Snape was about to give up all hope, the boy’s chest heaved and he began to cough.

 “Oh, thank Merlin!” Madame Hooch gasped as Harry opened his eyes, blinking as he tried to adjust to the light.

Hurriedly, Poppy pulled him up into a sitting position, rubbing his back and giving it several firm pats.

 “There, there. You’re alright…” she soothed, though her face had gone an ashen colour, telling her colleagues that she had been beginning to doubt that herself. “Harry? Can you hear me? Are you alright?”

For a moment, Harry gazed around the room, groggily.

And then he began to murmur something inaudible.

 “Harry? Can you tell Madame Pomfrey how you’re feeling? Where does it hurt?” Minerva asked, leaning down to look at the child’s face.

Harry mumbled something again, disorientated.

 “What is it? I can’t hear what you’re saying,” Poppy told him.

 “Dad…” he managed, his voice hoarse and his eyes fixed on something directly ahead of him.

Pomona Sprout shook her head sadly. “The poor love, he doesn’t know… he doesn’t remember…”

The mediwitch followed the boy’s gaze.

 “No, he’s seeing that blasted mirror!” she retorted. “Will somebody get that out of here?!”

But Harry frowned in confusion, trying to crane his neck to look at the adults standing above him.

 “Want my Dad…” he murmured.

 “Oh sweetie, he isn’t here…” the mediwitch sighed.

 “On the contrary, my dear lady, I believe the one that Harry asks for is standing in this room right now,” Dumbledore told her.

The other staff members looked at him in confusion, but the headmaster simply turned to regard the potions master, a familiar twinkle in his eye.

 “Severus?”

For a moment, Snape stood stiffly, deterred by his audience.

But as his colleagues stood back, giving the young boy a clear view of his guardian, Harry tried to wriggle free of the mediwitch’s grip.

 “Easy,” Poppy caught him.

Eager to avoid any further damage to the boy, Snape knelt beside them and instantly, two arms reached for him.

 “Daddy…” Harry murmured.

The potions master lifted the child easily into his arms, a sense of relief washing him over him at the feel of the familiar, impish head finding its way to the crook of his neck.

Allowing Harry perch on his knee, Severus Snape held him tight, cupping a hand to the back of his head as if something horrible might happen if he were ever to let go.

 “Daddy…” the boy whispered again, his eyelids growing heavy once more. 

 “I’m here,” the potions master whispered.  

And he was.

There would be no need for Harry Potter to return to Number Four, Privet Drive that summer.

END