It was seven in the morning, and Harry wished he were still asleep. This was not because he was tired (although he was), but rather that being awake meant he was forced to contemplate his predicament.

Due to the way Aunt Petunia woke him up and immediately set him cooking breakfast, Harry didn’t have any fuzzy, intermediary time between waking and sleeping: he was either fast asleep or wide awake. This meant that he was immediately faced with the fact that the bed was somewhat comfier than usual— there wasn’t the spring digging into his back from Dudley’s old mattress. And the light was all different, too— and of course that, in the space of a few hours, he’d gone from being trapped inside a room with barred windows and a locked door, to flying in an enchanted car, to crashing said car, and to being left alone with Professor Snape.

He had foreseen precisely none of these events yesterday morning. 

And it was very muddling. For to be away from the Dursleys, the catflap and the cans of soup was wonderful— but that came at the (exceedingly high) cost of being at the mercy of a Snape who had had his summer abruptly interrupted by several teenage wizards crash-landing in his garden. If Harry had had his druthers, he’d be at the Burrow with Ron— but he didn’t know enough about the situation to know if he’d rather be stuck back at the Dursleys or not.

At least, he told himself, at least now I know they care — enough to try to rescue me . Though once he’d got his letters from Dobby his morale had increased drastically, knowing that Ron and his brothers were willing to do that kindled a flickering fire to warm his chest.

Sitting up in bed, he could see out the window onto a patch of weedy grass, then a wooden fence that was warping and buckling from a tree planted too close to it— and the weather augured to be a brilliant summer’s day. It was strange, really, for he felt the weather ought to at least attempt to reflect what he was facing. Thunderstorms, or a gale— even a light drizzle would have done. But, no— sun and warm breezes.

The Dursleys again, though— what Ron had shouted, and what Snape and Ron’s mother had then said—

No. 

He wouldn’t think about the implications. If he did he’d be miserable and ashamed or unrealistically hopeful— most likely both— with no way of knowing what would come of it. So instead he pressed his nails into his palms and wrote a letter to Hermione in his head.

Dear Hermione,

Thank you for writing to me so much! I hadn’t been getting any of my letters because of a house-elf named Dobby who was stopping them. I don’t really know why but he didn’t want me going back to Hogwarts. I don’t know if you know about house-elves but you probably do. He had really huge floppy ears and wore a dirty pillowcase.

I got in trouble because Dobby smashed a pudding and my aunt and uncle were really mad because they had important guests over. They didn’t see him and thought it was me. I got letters from someone telling me off for a hover-charm and warning me I might get expelled if I did magic again at home even though it was Dobby not me.

I know all that sounds nuts but you have to believe me, and it’s only gotten madder because Ron was really worried and he got Fred and George to fl—

There was a knock on the door. Harry jumped and jerked himself off the bed to open it. Of course, reaching for the handle, he realised just who had to be behind the door, and what he must be letting himself in for. But ignoring it, or jumping out the window, would just be stupid, so he only hesitated a split second before opening it. 

Snape was wearing not the perennial black Harry was familiar with from Hogwarts, but grey. The cut of the robes was different too— though Harry didn’t know enough about wizarding-wear to know much more than that. The man looked him up and down, slowly, deliberately, and Harry, suddenly aware of his bed-hair and unkempt clothes, shuffled his feet.

“Hmph,” Snape said, eyes boring into Harry. Then, “Follow me.”

Harry looked up from his inspection of his toes to scurry after him. Snape strode down the stairs, then through the hall to open the front door. Curious and confused, Harry stepped after him only to draw in a shaky breath at the sight of the car.

It hadn’t really hit him the night before, not fully. But seeing the crumpled car in full daylight was sobering. Harry bit into his lip to ground himself then picked his way across to where Snape was, right beside the Ford Anglia.

“Wh—” he started. But the word was destined to remain unsaid, for Snape barked out, “Quiet!”. The man looked around then pulled his wand out of his sleeve and said, “Accio luggage”. In a creaking of metal Harry’s trunk eased itself out. It was shoved over to Harry.

“Take it upstairs and go get dressed,” Snape said, not looking at Harry. 

The boy glanced down at it then back up at Snape. “I—”

“ Now ,” Snape roared. Harry, who hadn’t even known what he might have been going to say, lugged the trunk away as quickly as he could.

A little later, Harry was in the kitchen eating breakfast. An frostily-mannered Snape had served him a good helping of plain porridge, then ignored him as he ate. The way the man turned the pages of his potions journal seemed very pointed, though.

Once done, Harry got up quietly, keeping his eyes on Snape, and washed up his bowl and spoon. Then, as he placed them on the draining board, Snape said without looking up, “Into the parlour, Potter, and wait for Professor Dumbledore.”

Presumably the parlour was where they’d been last night. Harry walked there as quietly as he could and sat down on a chair, though he was curious about the photographs and books Snape had on the shelves. It was very clear that Snape was in no mood for dealing with Harry.

Perhaps half an hour later, the fire flared green again. This time Harry was expecting it when Dumbledore walked out of it, brushing off his robes. 

“Ah, Harry,” he said. Unlike the previous times Harry had been with him— few as they were— his bright blue eyes were not twinking. “Bring Professor Snape here for me, please.”

Harry only just restrained himself from gaping. Didn’t Dumbledore know that Snape seemed liable to murder him if Harry even breathed to loudly near him? He got up, but then just stood there, unable to make himself move as his mind whirled. 

“ Now, Harry,” Dumbledore said, his tone minutely colder.

He went. Back through the corridor, to tap meekly on the open kitchen door— his legs seemed a bit wobbly—

“Al—” Snape said. Then he looked up. “Potter,” he growled. 

“Ex-excuse me, sir,” Harry squeaked. “Professor Dumbledore is here now.”

Snape put down his potions journal with a thump on the kitchen table and swept past Harry, who was left to scurry after him. 

In the parlour, Professor Dumbledore motioned him to a seat. The headmaster was sitting, too, but Snape was a dark figure hovering near the mantlepiece. It felt a lot like an interrogation setup to Harry, who squirmed under their gazes.

“You are a very lucky boy,” Dumbledore began. Harry hardly had the time to wonder how that could be true before the man continued. “The car was not seen flying, so the obliviators did not need to be called in. The muggles only arrived after you crashed, so they believe it was simply some teenagers out for a late-night— ahem— ‘joyride’. This means that the Ministry of Magic has not become involved.”

They were the ones who’d sent Harry that letter, earlier in the summer, about Dobby’s hover charm. Since they’d threatened to expel him if there were any more violations of the decree for the restriction of underage wizardry, Harry knew that was a good thing. 

But it was clear that he was still in deep trouble. 

“But do not mistake me— in no way can we look lightly upon this,” Dumbledore said, voice hardening. “In getting in that flying car, you flouted the Statute of Secrecy. It was reckless, foolhardy, and extremely dangerous. I doubt you fully understand the ramifications of your actions. What if you had been seen? What if the crash had been worse? You and the Weasleys could have died, Harry.”

Harry couldn’t meet his eyes. A pressure was building behind his temples— but he couldn’t cry, he couldn’t—

“You could easily have landed elsewhere,” Dumbledore continued mercilessly. “What would you have done, Harry, stranded in the middle of muggle suburbia with injured companions?”

Harry blanched, imagining it. Someone would have called an ambulance, perhaps, and the police— but they would have had no way of contacting anyone, with Hedwig gone. They would have started asking questions … He swiped angrily at his eyes.

“Potter,” Snape said, voice as cold as Harry had ever heard it, “Look up. You don’t get to hide from this. Look up. ”

Harry somehow managed to do so. It was one of the hardest things he’d ever done. 

“Now tell me the age it is legal for muggles to drive,” Snape gritted out. It sounded as if he was forcibly restraining himself from shouting. 

And— oh, Harry hadn’t quite realised this, because it was an enchanted car after all, and his rescue had happened in such a flood of adrenaline—

“Seventeen,” he said, quietly, miserably. “Seventeen, professor.”

No, Snape wouldn’t make him cry— oh, no—

He sniffed and made a great heaving effort to stop the tear sliding down his cheek, but it didn’t work—

“Look up .” Snape said again. “Seventeen— for the provisional license. That means with a supervising driver. Now remind me, how old is George Weasley?” he asked, biting out each word.

“F-fourte—”

“Fourteen! Fourteen! You—”

Snape cut himself off. His voice had been getting louder and less restrained, but then, after an awful silence he said tightly, voice clipped, “Excuse me, Headmaster,” and walked stiffly out of the room.

Harry dug his nails into his palms and told himself, ineffectually, that Snape hadn’t scared him just then. It wasn’t true in the least.

Then—

“I am greatly disappointed in you,” Dumbledore told him, his tone sorrowful.

And Harry was crying now, unable to stop. Great heaving sobs hauled themselves out of his chest, and it was as if the events of the previous evening had finally caught up to him. The Weasley’s had cared and he was free of the Dursleys; the terror of the crash and Snape ; Ron talking about the bars and the catflap—

“Shh, shh,” Dumbledore murmured. And then he was holding Harry as he broke apart, a gentle hand curved round the boy’s back.  Harry curled into him, a hand gripping the elderly man’s robe.

It felt like an era had passed before Harry drew back with a great sniff. Dumbledore’s knees creaked as the man stood up. He conjured Harry a handkerchief, and the boy blew his nose with a loud honk. 

“Thanks,” he mumbled. 

“That’s alright,” Dumbledore told him. “Now, can you see our reasons for concern? You put yourself in a great deal of danger, last night.”

Harry nodded. “I get it,” he said, chokily. 

The old wizard tilted his head solemnly. “Good,” he said. “Then you will write me an essay on the subject as your punishment. Three feet, to be completed by the close of the week.”

An essay? Harry thought that the telling-off had really been enough, but he nodded jerkily anyway. “Yes, sir.”

“Good boy.”

Harry smiled wobblily, warmth spilling into his stomach at those words. 

“Now, Harry, I think we’ll just go find Severus— he and I have some things to discuss with Mrs Weasley.” And Dumbledore guided him out of the room to find Snape in a small study piled high with books and papers. 

“We’re done, Severus,” Dumbledore said, his hand on Harry’s shoulder. When Snape glanced up from his writing, Harry ducked his head down and shuffled his feet, very aware that he’d just been crying and his face would betray that.

“Hmmph,” the man said. Thankfully, he sounded much calmer than he had previously, and looked it too, when Harry flicked his eyes over. 

Snape stood up and took a vial out of his grey robes. “Potter,” he said. “Here.”

Accepting the glass vial, Harry tilted it to inspect the purply liquid inside. 

“Three drops, diluted in bathwater,” Snape was saying. Harry mentally shook himself, and nodded. 

“Okay,” he said, wondering what it was. 

“Are you listening?” Snape asked sharply. Harry jerked his head up and met the man’s gaze. “What did I just say?”

“Uh, three drops, sir.”

“Diluted in your bathwater, Potter, don’t drink it. Unless you want the bruise reduction serum to wreak havoc with your insides.”

Harry said, “Right. Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. I—”

“Just go already, Potter,” Snape sighed, waving a hand in dismissal.