“This car is so cool ,” Harry laughed, exhilarated. They were soaring away from Privet Drive, wind rushing past the car, having set Hedwig free to fly to the Burrow. “Thanks for coming to get me! I was so sick of that room!”

Ron grinned hugely at him. “Well, we had to, when you weren’t answering our letters… I sent one a few days ago saying that if there was no response we’d fetch you— and so we fetched you!”

Fred was hauling in the bars from Harry’s window, which were dangling from the rope he’d tied around them. “Why didn’t you answer them?” he asked. “Were they keeping them from you? Bastards!”

The other twin, driving the car, jerked the wheel a bit when he added, “Yeah— wish we could have left behind a little experiment of ours.”

“Err,” Harry responded, not quite sure how to explain it. “It wasn’t them. They were getting intercepted. By some house-elf named Dobby.”

From what little Harry could see of Ron’s eyes in the moonlight, they were rounded in shock. “A house-elf!”

He nodded. “Yep. I think he might’ve been crazy— kept telling me I couldn’t go back to Hogwarts— said that was why he took my letters. Used magic and then the Dursley’s just kept me in my room after that. Look, I dunno.”

“ Weird ,” Ron said, a concerned look on his face. “But now you’re with us we don’t have to send you letters, so it doesn’t matter. George !”

George had nearly flown them into a tree.

“Sorry— sorry,” he gritted, wrenching the wheel. “Hadn’t realised how low we’d gotten. Why don’t you go up ?”

The car seemed disinclined to go up again, but was making sputtery coughing noises and jerking itself about. 

“Sounds sick,” Fred said. Then— “ Idiot! ”

The car had dropped a good ten metres without notice.

“It’s not me, it’s the car!” George shouted, red-faced. “It’s not working !” 

This was clear from the way it was shuddering and shaking. They were still going forward quite quickly, Harry noticed, but they weren’t very far off the ground, and George kept having to jerk the wheel to evade trees and houses. Luckily the invisibility booster was still working. But the shuddering only got worse: Harry felt as if his head was being rattled back and forth by an angry Uncle Vernon. Outside the windows was a blur and he felt terribly sick.

“Shi—” George threw his whole body at the steering wheel, and—

Whomp!

Harry was whipped forward.

Crash!

His head banged the dashboard. It hurt . It hurt .

They weren’t moving anymore, he didn’t think. It was all blurry, and spinning a bit, but there was no more jerking. Harry lifted an aching arm to his forehead and it came away with fuzzy red on it.

“—ry, Harry! Get him out, Fred—”

“C’ming,” he said wobblily. And somehow, he staggered out of the car to collapse on the ground beside Ron. 

He had to shut his eyes for a little while, to stop the spinning. When he opened them, he felt a bit clearer.

“What—” he asked. “What—”

Ron’s face was white. It made his freckles stand out— and there was a cut on the bridge of his nose. 

“We crashed, Harry,” he said. “We crashed. I think George has broken his ribs or something.” 

Leaning against someone’s garden wall, George was even more whey-faced than Ron. He was clutching an arm round his ribs, Fred by his side.

“Oh no,” Harry said faintly. Then, looking around, “Where’s the c— Oh no .”

“ Oh no indeed, Mister Potter.”

Ron whipped his head around and blanched even more. “Harry,” he whispered. “ Harry. Am I—”

“You’re not hallucinating,” Harry murmured back. Then, closing his eyes for a second in order to wish himself far away— it would be better if they were both hallucinating— he pushed himself off the ground.

“Hello Professor Snape,” he said in a very small voice. 

“Potter,” the man said coolly. “Why have you crash-landed a car in my garden?”

After that awful, blanching first moment that felt like it lasted for centuries, things actually happened very quickly.

Snape, his nostrils flaring with suppressed anger, had not said a single word after that terrible, horrible question. Ron and Harry hadn’t said anything either, not feeling able to utter a word in their disgrace, nor lift their eyes from the ground. The professor had ushered them inside, into a dim room that was lit only by the streetlight outside. The boys had huddled together on a couch when the man had gone outside to fetch the twins, who were also escorted inside and then left as Snape once again went out the door.

“He’s gone to deal with the neighbours,” Fred said quietly. “The whole street was out there. They’ll probably have to get the obliviators in.” 

Harry felt for Ron’s hand in the dark, and squeezed it desperately, feeling the grit of dirt on the other boy’s fingers. Then they all sat there together in the dark, not saying anything.

When the man came back inside five minutes or so later, he closed the door with a slam and after flicking the lights on headed straight for George.

“Can you feel this?” he snapped. 

“Ow! ” George yelled. “Yes,” he said, more quietly. “It hurts like billy-oh.” The boy was gripping tightly on his twin’s arm, so hard Harry could see Fred wincing.

“St Mungo’s for you,” the man said. Then he slashed his wand in the direction of the fireplace and flames whoomphed up from it. Snape slid his wand back up his sleeve, picked up a jar from the mantelpiece, and threw something inside it on the flames, which turned bright, glittery green.

Harry had just enough time to mutter to Ron, “What’s—”

Then he gaped. Snape had stuck his head in the fire.

“ MOLLY! ” the man yelled. “ MOLLY! ARTHUR! ” 

“Floo powder,” Ron said in an undertone. “He’s— He’s calling Mum…”

It seemed that the potions teacher wasn’t going to burn his head off, after all, because then he was talking quickly, head still in the flames, though they couldn’t hear just what he was saying now that he wasn’t shouting. Harry suspected it was nothing good. Then Snape’s head was pulled out of the flames, and he stepped away from the fireplace.

“ Oh no ,” Ron breathed. “We’re dead.”

The fire flared up, green flames sparking wildly, and spat out Ron’s mother.

“ WHERE ARE THEY?” she shouted, spinning around the room. Then, spotting Harry, her fierce scowl disappeared for a moment as she said, quite calmly, “Oh, hello, Harry.” Then— “FRED, GEORGE, RON!”

“Mister Weasley needs to go to St Mungo’s Hospital,” Snape said, gesturing at poor George, who only looked more ill when facing his mother. “Broken ribs, I believe.”

“ Broken ribs !” Mrs Weasley said, face red with anger. “That car ! I told him— George, dear, you’re in big trouble — but what happens when I do this—”

“ OW! ” roared George, his face now suddenly flushed. Sweat was gleaming on his forehead. “Why do you— it— stop — I’m sorry— just—” a tear slipped out of his eye and trailed down his cheek. “It hurts , alright—”

Mrs Weasley nodded grimly. “St Mungo’s for you, my lad. Better take the rest of you as well, just in case. Stealing that car ! Crashing that car! You just wait until we get home.” And she helped George over to the floo. 

“Thank you, Severus,” she said, nodding her head in acknowledgement. “My apologies for their horrendous behaviour. They won’t be having fun anytime soon. Come along, Ron, Fred. Here— St Mungo’s.”

And she held out the jar to Fred, who took a pinch of the substance inside it and said, “St Mungo’s!” before stepping into the flame.

“Hurry up, Ron,” his mother said. But Ron was standing half-way between the couch and the fireplace, not moving.

“What about Harry?” he asked.

“He’s staying with the Professor for just now, until he can go back home,” Mrs Weasley replied. “Come along—”

“Go back!” Ron shouted, clenching his fists. “Go back ! They were STARVING him, Mum!”

“I never told you that,” Harry blurted out, angrily. Then he flushed an ugly brick-red. Why did he have to go and say that?

“He’s THINNER and there was a CAT FLAP and BARS ON THE WINDOW—”

“RONALD WEASLEY—”

“His UNCLE’S been—”

“ Enough ,” Snape said. “Weasley, be quiet .” But Ron already was, his chest heaving as he glared at his mother and Snape.

“No more shouting,” Snape said coldly. “George Weasley is in need of medical attention. You will go to St Mungo’s with him and your mother, and Potter will remain here with me. He will not be going back to the Dursleys until I can verify the truth of what you are saying.”

Ron’s hands unclenched slowly by his side, and then after a little he said, “ Mum— ” in a rather broken-sounding voice. 

“Oh, Ronald ,” Mrs Weasley sighed, still supporting George, who was leaning against her looking hardly conscious. She exchanged a look with Snape, and then focussed back on her youngest son. “It’ll be fine. Come here. Harry will stay where he’s safe, and Dumbledore will be able to come round in the morning to sort it all out.”

Ron was walking over to the hearth slowly, now. “Bye, Harry,” he choked out, before he vanished into the flames.

“I’ll call you in the morning,” Mrs Weasley told Snape. “Take good care of that boy, now. I’ll see you later, Harry.” 

And then Harry was left alone with Snape. The boy picked at the stitching on the couch and wished he were anywhere but where he was. When he chanced a glance up at a surprisingly quiet Snape, he saw the man had his eyes closed and was resting his fingertips lightly on his temple.

Harry looked down again, at his hands. There was a deep sigh from the man in the corner. 

“Potter,” Snape said after a minute, sounding as weary as Harry had ever heard him. “It is two o’clock in the morning, and I have had enough to deal with tonight. You will follow me without a word and obey me to the letter. Understood?”

Harry nodded. Standing up from the couch, he followed Snape down a corridor and then up a rickety staircase. 

In a tiny, cream-tiled bathroom, Snape had him stand very still while he waved his wand in a complicated pattern. Seemingly satisfied with what he found, the man rummaged in a cabinet and handed Harry a washer. 

“Get all that blood and dirt off your face while I hunt out the surface cuts solution.”

A glimpse in the mirror assured Harry he looked a fright, and made him aware of the tacky, unpleasant feeling of the dried blood on his face. He gently wiped it off with the wet flannel, before Snape unscrewed the lid of a jar and dipped his fingers within. 

“Stand still.” 

And Harry endured Snape’s cool fingers spreading a thin layer of ointment on his cut forehead. It was strange— Harry could feel the cut actually binding itself back together.

“Hmmph,” the man said, washing his hands. “Potter, you’re all over bruises, but that will wait. That cut would have become infected. Follow me.”

Again Harry trotted silently after Snape, each step making his legs seem heavier and heavier. He muffled a yawn in his elbow.

“In.” 

The room was small but neat— obviously a spare room, it looked unlived-in. The light Snape had switched on when he entered was flickering. Snape flicked his wand and the sheets stripped themselves off the bed, only to be replaced with fresh ones he’d summoned.

“Bed,” Snape uttered, pointing at it as if he thought Harry didn’t understand what he meant. Harry toed his shoes off and slid under the covers. 

“Now,” Snape breathed, “I’m not to hear a peep until I come get you. The only thing you’re to do now, Potter, is sleep. You’ll have a big day tomorrow.”

And on that ominous note he left the room, turning off the light and closing the door behind him. But Harry wasn’t given time to ruminate on the fate that awaited him in the morning; instead, he rolled over onto a less bruised part of his body and instantly fell asleep.

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. 

The bath was just what Harry hadn’t known he’d needed. The water, an odd purple tint after he’d added the prescribed amount of Bruise Reduction Serum, was hot and calming. Harry sunk into it up to his chin and closed his eyes.

Some time later Harry got dressed as the water gurgled down the drain. It was strange, he thought, how he hadn’t really noticed the bruises from the crash until they were gone and it was suddenly much more comfortable. He rubbed his hair until it was mostly dry, then hung up his towel. 

Going downstairs again, the stairs creaked as he walked. When  he peeked in at the parlour door, Dumbledore beckoned him inside. 

“Sit down, Harry,” he said. Snape and Mrs Weasley were there too, and Harry felt rather watched as he took a seat on a chair. It wasn’t a you’re-in-trouble kind of watching, strangely enough, but it was still enough to make him squirm a bit.

“Hi Mrs Weasley,” he said. “Is George alright?”

When she smiled at him, the skin around her eyes crinkled. “Yes, dear,” she replied. “The healers soon fixed him up. Though he and Fred and Ron are in a great deal of trouble for stealing Arthur’s car.”

Harry fitted his hand into the gap between the cushion and the side of the chair. So really, it kind of was his fault that Ron and the twins were in trouble. 

“— have some things to ask you,” Mrs Weasley was saying. Harry blinked to clear his head, then looked up at her again.

“Ron said you weren’t getting your mail?” she said, looking encouraging. “Something about a house-elf?”

Harry nodded. 

“So it had nothing to do with… your...relatives?” she asked, delicately.

Not liking where this seemed to be going, Harry dug his thumb nail into his index finger. “The house-elf was called Dobby, and he didn’t want me going back to school so he stole all my letters to make me think I had no friends. Why’d you ask?”

Mrs Weasley didn’t answer him— her glance flitted away, to Dumbledore.

“Harry,” the man said seriously, looking him in the eye over the top of his gold-rimmed spectacles. “There have been some concerns raised about your life with the Dursley family.”

There it was— though the few people who had asked before, back in primary school, had always come at it more obliquely. Harry felt pinned by Dumbledore’s gaze, a twitching, frantically fluttering moth. He did not move. 

“Oh,” he said dully. 

“Could you tell us about them?” Dumbledore asked.

From the moment when Ron had blurted out about the bars on his window, Harry had known that this must be coming. He’d shoved that knowingness to languish dustily in the back of his head, however, because if he’d acknowledged it then it would have been admitting that there was something wrong.

“Uncle Vernon works at Grunnings,” he said. “He’s hoping for a promotion, and he tells golfer jokes. They aren’t funny. Dudley goes to Smeltings, and he likes video games. Aun—”

Snape scoffed. It was an incredulous sound, one that jerked Harry’s attention to the other man, who so far had not said anything. But then the boy had to look away, because the expression on Snape’s face was far too intent and knowing for comfort.

“Aunt Petunia likes knowing what’s going on in the neighbourhood,” Harry continued, looking at his knees. “She always does a roast on s—”

“Enough,” Snape said quietly, leaning forward. “ Enough of that, Potter. You are being deliberately obtuse.”

“She always does a roast on Sundays ,” Harry said, louder. “And—”

But he couldn’t go on, for some reason— he’d meant to say something about how Uncle Vernon always said that his aunt made the best roast dinner in Surrey, but it stuck in his throat. Looking at Mrs Weasley had been a bad idea, because her eyes were sad and calm and he just couldn’t say it, though it was true…

Seconds passed. Harry looked anywhere but at the adults, picking at his cuticles.

“You know what the headmaster meant,” Snape said softly, in an increasingly dangerous tone. “An utter imbecile would have known what he meant. Are you so rude as to ignore him? To lie to him?”

Harry pressed his tongue into his upper left canine, letting the sort-of-hurt of it ground him. “I’m not lying ,” he said. “And I’m not being rude. You’re being rude— you interrupted me—”

“Harry,” the headmaster said quietly, cutting off the boy’s rising voice. “Harry.”

Lowering his head, he said, “Yes, sir?”

“Let me tell you what we know,” Dumbledore said, still very quietly. He waited until Harry gave a reluctant nod, then said, “There were bars on your window before the Ford Anglia pulled them off. There was a cat-flap installed in your bedroom door.”

Harry was silent. 

“You did not go home for any of the mid-year holidays, nor receive any Christmas presents from them. Mrs Weasley has mentioned the thank-you note you wrote for the jumper— she told us she remembered saying to Arthur that you seemed just so happy, it was like you’d never had a present before.”

So?

“Fred Weasley said there were five different locks on your door— on the outside of your door. Your school-books were locked away, as was your owl.”

But—

“ Ronald Weasley said your clothes are all too big for you. He said you looked half-starved— and I am inclined to agree with him on that point. Mrs Weasley told us he’d written to her mentioning how he’d never seen you receive a letter at school from your relatives,  and that you had made several off-hand comments concerning their lack of care.”

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it again. 

“I am sure there would be more,” Dumbledore said gently. “You will not be going back there, Harry, no matter what you say. I will be speaking with Hagrid, and Professor McGonagall— and your primary school teachers— but that is more than enough to lay charges of intentional neglect on your relatives. You do not have to speak about it, but is there anything you wish to say?”

“They don’t like magic very much,” Harry said eventually. “I think it scares them.”

I scare them , he didn’t say. But he knew that was probably why they hated him so much— that, and just some plain hatred simply because it felt good to hate someone and feel that they were better than him.

Dumbledore sighed. “That does not and could not excuse them,” he said wearily. “Believe me, child, in no way could you— or anyone— deserve to be treated in that way.”

Harry ducked his head away, even more uncomfortable than before. He could feel his cheeks heating up. 

 “But I was ungrateful to them,” he mumbled, scuffing his foot on the carpet. “And it doesn’t matter, anyway.”

He was speaking the truth when he said that. How the Dursley’s had treated him— the dirt, the  embarrassment, the guilt of it— didn’t matter to Harry. He had Hogwarts, and Ron, and Hermione. The Dursleys were just there, and though they weren’t nice to him he could understand why, sort of— and anyway at the end of the summer there would always be Hogwarts. 

“So ungrateful that they locked you in your room with multiple locks?” Snape said, lip curling. “Forgive me, Potter, if I believe—”

“Well, I don’t care what you think,” Harry said defiantly. “It was fine. They were fine. My room was fine. It was better than—”

He cut himself off, feeling his hands shake. He’d almost… 

“Better than what , Potter?” Snape asked, rolling the words over his tongue. “Better than what? Because as I was saying before you so rudely interrupted me, you will have to forgive me for believing that a child could never act ungratefully enough as to warrant being locked in a room for weeks with insufficient food and bars on the window.”

Harry wanted to tell him, well, I did , but knew better than to say anything more. Besides, it seemed that all of them had caught the idea of what he had been going to say, if not the specifics of it. Mrs Weasley had raised a hand to cover her mouth, her cheeks pale.

“Albus,” she whispered.

And Dumbledore was looking at Harry, still, though now it was somehow an even weightier gaze than before.

“I see,” he said.

There was silence. Harry shifted, wishing he could curl up his legs onto the sofa and pretend he wasn’t there— but he knew it would not work.

“As I said, you will not be going back there,” Dumbledore said after a while. “Mrs Weasley has invited you to stay for the rest of the summer.”

Ron’s mother smiled a wobbly smile at him, and said, “It would be our pleasure.”

It turned out that the rest of the summer wasn’t quite true. This was because Harry was to spend the rest of the week with Snape, while the Weasleys added another room to the Burrow— which was the name of their house. Harry thought the name suited the family— imagining the house, he knew it would be warm and cozy and a bit mad, because of course Fred and George were living there.

“The extension charms need a few days to settle into the house,” Mrs Weasley had told him. “But we need a room for you, because Ron’s is really too small to share. After Charlie moved out, the house subsumed his and Bill’s old room into the kitchen and the living room—”

“The house — what, ate their room?” Harry asked, incredulously.

Mrs Weasley made a flapping motion with her hand. “There’s so much spell-work in the walls of the Burrow that it has a mind of its own. But in any case, it’ll be ready then. 

When she’d flooed away after promising to return for him on Friday evening, Harry was fed lunch— an awkward, polite but rather silent lunch of sandwiches with Snape and Dumbledore— before Snape sent him out into the yard.

The car had been removed by a muggle tow-driver, but Harry stared at the spot where it had been. The piled stones that had made up the garden wall were scattered; a bush’s branches were snapped and squashed, and a poor rosemary plant was utterly crushed. 

Harry tried to heft the stones back in place, but they wouldn’t balance properly. So he just gathered all the debris from the accident and piled it together neatly-ish, then lay on his back amid the thick grass and thought of nothing at all.

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.