After waking the next morning, Harry lay in bed, thinking about what had happened. A week was both a long period of time, and a very short one— and he was only going to be staying for four days. 

If it were all going to be like yesterday morning, Harry thought, it would be horrible; but if it would be like the afternoon, then it wouldn’t be so bad. Snape hadn’t really said much to him after Dumbledore had left, so that was alright— and there was food, good food, and that alone made it far better than being at Privet Drive. Harry didn’t care if the salmon and greens they’d had for dinner was eaten in silence so long as he got to eat it, really. 

When he entered the kitchen, downstairs, he was relieved to confirm that yesterday morning was not going to repeat itself. The quiet of the kitchen was not frigid, merely awkward: Harry ate his scrambled eggs and toast without suffering any paroxysms of impending doom like he had yesterday, when he was waiting for the wrath of Snape to fall on his head.

“Be ready in twenty minutes,” Snape said after Harry had finished, folding his newspaper then looking at the boy. Under Snape’s eyes, Harry had the urge to wipe his mouth with his hand, but managed to resist.

“Ready?” he asked. 

“The library,” Snape said. “To work on that essay the Headmaster set you. I do not endorse idleness in this house, Mister Potter.” He stood up and placed his chair under the table with a neat click . “Well?”

Harry went upstairs and hunted out all his writing equipment, stuffing it into a crumpled tote bag that had lurked at the bottom of his trunk ever since Seamus accidentally threw it across the room during a pillowfight and hadn’t bothered to get it back. 

It was a muggle library that Snape walked him to, one about half-an-hour from Snape’s house. It was early enough in the day that it wasn’t very hot, and the bright blue sky made him want to swing his arms and run and jump. He didn’t, though, because Snape was there. Even in muggle dress and with a satchel slung over his shoulder, the man was rather imposing. 

The streets weren’t too busy, either, the passers-by merely giving nods of acknowledgement that weren’t unfriendly. Harry would have liked to pat a few of the dogs that they passed, but doubted Snape would appreciate stopping for that. So he just walked past, watching the way Snape moved, wondering if the man realised he still walked as if he were wearing long flaring robes. It contrasted oddly to the cracked and weedy concrete of the footpath.

At the library, Harry was ensconced in the quiet study area and set to work on his essay. The muggle books on car-crash statistics he found made him feel rather sick, especially one that had quite gruesome photographs in it. This, he knew, was probably the whole point of the exercise.

Snape— well, Snape was there, too, armed with a red-inked fountain pen, making his way through lesson plans or syllabi or whatever it was that he was writing and editing. Harry didn’t want to ask— he knew Snape would see it as prying, and he wasn’t that curious. 

At midday, out of the corner of his eye Harry saw Snape gather up all his writing, and then head over towards Harry.

“It’s time for lunch,” the man said. “Come on, Potter.”

Lunch was toasted cheese sandwiches and tomato soup in a tiny cafe nearby. Despite the somewhat greasy formica tabletops, the food was very good, especially to Harry, who started wolfing it down in his hunger. He slowed, however, after a pointed Manners, Potter from Snape.

Back in the library, back to his essay… The slight flicker in one of the ceiling lights was starting to bother Harry. After a while, he rested his head in his hand for a moment, closing his eyes…

“ Potter ,” he heard. 

Jerking upright, Harry peeled his hand off his forehead. Snape was right in front of him, leaning forward across the table. The last time Harry had looked across, Snape had been sitting in an armchair near the fiction section, reading a Dorothy Sayers novel. Strands of hair were falling  forwards to cover his face, and they would get brushed back behind Snape’s ears with an absent-minded hand. The man hadn’t seemed to be paying any attention to Harry, but he supposed that Snape did always seem to know when Harry was doing something he shouldn’t.

‘I-I was—,” he said, then closed his mouth. When had the potions teacher ever accepted one of Harry’s excuses? There was no point.

“Sleeping?” Snape asked sarcastically. “An early bedtime for you, then, Potter. Shelve your books— we are leaving in five minutes.”

An early bedtime? Harry had never had any bedtime. But he obediently returned the books he’d been using, and gathered his things. Walking out, Snape nodded to the librarian at the circulation desk— a short jerk of the head— and Harry watched, a bit stunned, as that was returned with a smile and a roll of the eyes.

And indeed, he was sent to bed at half-past eight that night, which Harry thought was really a bit much. But when he’d opened his mouth to say something, there had been a glint in Snape’s eye that reminded Harry he’d only very recently crashed a flying car in his teacher’s garden. That glint told Harry it would be wise to mind himself— and that meant submitting to the ridiculously early bedtime.

The next few days followed much the same pattern. Sometimes, in the afternoon once they’d eaten lunch— the cafe, or something from the Turkish kebab shop— Snape would wait outside the library, near the after-hours return slot, until the automatic sliding doors had closed after Harry entered. Then he would walk away— to do the shopping, or to conduct satanic rituals, or whatever it was Snape usually did of an afternoon— then return to collect Harry later.

It was half-past two and they were beginning the walk back the last afternoon, when Harry said, “Will you give this to Professor Dumbledore for me? I’ve finished.”

“Hmmph,” Snape said, accepting the stapled pages that Harry held out to him. At first it had felt strange to not be using parchment, but Harry had reaccustomed himself to it quickly. 

After scanning it— Harry shifted uncomfortably, wishing he could be moving, but Snape had halted once he’d taken the essay— the potions professor placed it in his bag.

“Yes,” he said.

Then, a minute later when they were turning the corner, Snape said, “It seems passable.”

Harry supposed that was probably almost a compliment, coming from Snape. He refrained from saying anything, but waved hello to an elderly woman weeding in her front yard as he passed her by.

When they got back to Snape’s house, the man sent Harry upstairs to collect all his belongings.

“Bring it all down and leave it beside the floo, Potter,” he told Harry, who nodded dutifully but barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes when Snape added, “Refrain from leaving it in front where it will pose a trip hazard and potentially render your new guardians an injury.”

His trunk by the side of the hearth, Harry perched himself on an armchair in the parlour and waited, idly flicking through one of the books Snape had on his side table. There weren’t any pictures in it, but some words and phrases jumped out at him— Encyclopaedia, and  coat-tails; Sarasate plays at the St James’s Hall and Red-Headed League…

When Mr and Mrs Weasley came through the fire Harry flipped the book closed and put it back on the side table. 

“Hello, Harry,” Molly Weasley said warmly. Mr Weasley smiled widely, said hello, and came over to shake Harry’s hand.

“Hello,” Harry said, feeling shy all of a sudden.

“It’s good to meet you, Harry,” Mr Weasley said. “I feel like I’ve heard so much about you already from Ron that it’s as if I’ve known you for years. However, I—” he looked at his wife, who shook her head ruefully, “I do have a question— but you needn’t answer it if you don’t want to…”

Harry nodded his acceptance of the question, a bit warily.

“I just can’t work it out— please, could you tell me what the purpose of a rubber duck is?”

Laughter bubbled its way out of Harry, surprising him in its vivacity. That had not been what he’d expected. 

“A rubber duck—” he wheezed. “A rubber duck—”

It was at this moment that Snape entered the room.

“Arthur, Molly,” he said, dipping his head in greeting. Then he turned to Harry. “Potter, what— why are you laughing?“ The man looked at the Weasleys for clarification, but they looked as baffled as Snape was. “Have you gone mad? I don’t see— stop, Potter— stop.”

But Harry couldn’t. It wasn’t just the idea of Mr Weasley wanting to know the purpose of a rubber duck— it was the situation, Snape and the Weasleys, and the flying car, and a muggle library and—

“Gods, Potter, are you even breathing?” he heard Snape say, disgustedly. “ Anapneo .”

Harry stopped laughing. In a very strange sensation, his lungs had abruptly filled with air.

“I’m fine,” he said after a little, noticing the concerned looks on the Weasley’s faces. “It’s just- well, I don’t think there is a purpose for a rubber duck, really… It’s like a bath toy, I suppose. It floats.”

Arthur Weasley looked puzzled by this information, but Snape was pinching the brim of his nose. 

“ Thank you for that pointless fact, Potter,” he said. “I do believe it is past time for you to leave.”

Harry walked over to pick up his trunk, and Mrs Weasley rested a gentle hand on his shoulder. A warmth spread through Harry at that, and he knew in a rush of intuition that he would very much feel at home in the Burrow.

“Oh, well, I suppose we’d best be off,” Mrs Weasley said. “Thank you for taking care of Harry, Severus.”

This was when Mr Weasley offered Harry some green-coloured powder from a ceramic bowl on Snape’s mantel, so he nearly missed seeing the strange contortions that the professor’s face underwent at those words.

“Throw it into the flames and say, ‘The Burrow’ clearly,” Mr Weasley was saying. “Then you just step into the fireplace, like so— wait, I’ll just get your trunk, shall I— ah, good, now—”

And Harry watched as Mr Weasley and his trunk spun away in green glittering flame.

“Alright then, your turn,” Mrs Weasley said brightly. 

But Snape strode over and said, “No— I’m not going to fetch Potter when he ends up stuck in some unsuspecting fool’s chimney. Take him in with you, Molly.”

“He’s not five,” Mrs Weasley said, looking Harry up and down. “Really, he’s a bit old for that, Severus. I’d do my back in.”

“Put a weightless charm on him, then,” Snape snarled. Mrs Weasley rolled her eyes but did so, an odd sensation overcoming Harry. 

Then she picked him up, hands under his armpits, and rested him on her hip. Harry gave out an embarrassing squeak, high-pitched and startled.

“I suppose if he hasn’t used the floo before, he might end up somewhere odd,” she said, using both arms to balance him. 

Harry opened and closed his mouth a few times, then looked away, face flushing. Snape had shot him a triumphant, superior smirk. He supposed this was payback for the way Harry had flustered him with his uncontrollable laughter.

“Do I have to go this way?” he asked unhappily. What if Ron and all his siblings were on the other side, waiting to see Harry be carried like a toddler?

“Yes, it’s safer,” Mrs Weasley said absently, hoiking him up a little. “The floo powder, if you please, Severus… Hold on, Harry...”

The fire flared green and she stepped forward into it— the world spun around Harry and he clutched tighter to Mrs Weasley— chimneys and fireplaces and green flame swirled together rather sickeningly—

And then Mrs Weasley stepped out into a neat and thankfully empty kitchen. She set him down— Harry wobbled, coughing— and tutted at him.

“You’re very sooty,” she said, taking a handkerchief out of her pocket and wiping at his cheek. “Oh well. I’ll get Ron to show you the bathroom and you can clean yourself up a bit before dinner.”

Later that night, lying in his bed in his new room at the Weasleys, Harry realised he’d forgotten to do something.

Before he lost his nerve, he hunted out an uncrumpled piece of parchment and wrote two words on it, managing to avoid blotting ink on the paper, but staining his fingers in the process. 

“Hedwig,” he called out softly, rolling up the parchment tightly and tying it with a bit of string from the pocket of his jacket. “C’mere, Hedwig.” His snowy owl had a perch in his ( his! ) new room. 

He told her where to go, then opened the window for her with a soft creak. She winged her way out and flew away, white feathers gleaming in the moonlight.

Harry flopped back onto his bed and pulled the sheets over him. Rubbing the fabric between his fingers, he closed his eyes.

Sometime in the early morning, Hedwig flew back inside. Harry was asleep, bent in an awkward, humped position, his left arm dangling off the side of the bed. The owl hooted softly, affectionately at him, then started preening her feathers.

She hadn’t brought back any reply, but Harry, waking up to bright sunlight streaming in on his face and Ron knocking at his door, hadn’t expected one anyway.