Harry’s close encounter with Death Eaters had two direct consequences: Saturnine intensified their Occlumency training, and—as Remus had predicted—he had to kiss his flying free time goodbye. Other than that, nothing changed within Cove Cottage. He still cooked breakfast every day, while she took care of their lunches and dinners. Professor Lupin dropped by once or twice a week for tea. And later that month, Harry was even allowed one Saturday afternoon at the Burrow with Hermione and the entire Weasley gang.

Nothing had changed—but at the same time, everything had. Harry now had something new, something he’d never had before. He had someone who cared about him. Someone who worried about him, who was afraid for him. Someone who gave him rules to follow and punished him when he broke them.

Harry was no fool; he knew Ron and Hermione loved him and thought of him as a brother. And Remus Lupin had always been more than a teacher. And Sirius—Sirius had loved him, too, and with time, perhaps the two of them could have built that kind of relationship. But his godfather was gone, and the fact remained that Saturnine was the first person, since James and Lily Potter died, who cared about him as a parent would. And that was more precious to Harry than all the money in Gringotts’ many vaults.

Harry had yet to put his feelings into words, though. And he wasn’t quite sure if he ought to. Saturnine had never commented on how she felt about him. After their brief hug the other day, they’d relocated to the kitchen, where Harry was given a slice of the best apple tart he’d ever tasted in his life. Then he’d proceeded to tell her everything about the Order meeting she had missed, which included a complete recap of the last twenty-four hours. Saturnine had told him of his revoked flying privileges and their new Occlumency schedule, and that had been that. They had moved on, resumed their routine, and never brought the subject—or their hug—up again.

But Harry liked to think that he wasn’t the only one who had felt a shift in their dynamics. He couldn’t dismiss that something had loosened in the dark-haired woman’s azure gaze. There was a warmth there that hadn’t been allowed to show before. And not a day would go by when Saturnine didn’t find a way to touch him. Whether it was a clap on his shoulder or a quick pat of his forearm, it was as if she needed to reassure herself that he was there, wholesome and unarmed.

And Harry had altered his behaviour accordingly—choosing to spend less time alone in his room and more in the living room, where Saturnine often spent her free time reading. There, they would either chat or be content to enjoy their respective books in silence.

And so it was that when Harry truly hit a wall with his Potions homework, he did what any other child in his situation would do: he went and asked a grown up for help.

Entering the living room with parchment, a quill, and an ink bottle in hand, he asked, “Do you have a minute?”

Saturnine was sitting sideways on the sofa, her legs folded beneath her, with a book in her hand. She placed a finger between the pages and raised her head at Harry’s arrival. “Of course,” she said. Then, catching sight of what lay in the boy’s hands, she asked, “Trouble with your homework?”

Harry nodded.

“Hmm, and that would be Potions. Right? That’s the only one that’s left if I’m not mistaken.”

Harry nodded again.

She sighed. “And what has Professor Snape assigned you lot this year?”

“He wants us to re-work three potion recipes while changing one of the core ingredients, without them losing any of their potency,” Harry said. And then, because he couldn’t help venting his frustration, he added, “That’s rich coming from a man who’s been trying to drill it home from day one that we were not to ever step one toe out of line and always, always, follow each and every one of his instructions and potion recipes to the letter—or else face his wrath.”

Placing a bookmark between the pages, Saturnine closed her book. Unfolding her long legs, she placed it on the coffee table before patting at the space next to her. “That’s pretty advanced stuff. I’m surprised he’s asking fifth-years for something like that.”

Harry snorted, feeling better now that he’d let some of the steam out. “Wouldn’t be the Parchment from Hell, otherwise.”

Saturnine raised a curious eyebrow at him. “I’m sorry?”

“Oh, that’s what we call Professor Snape’s summer essays,” Harry informed her. “Last year, we had to pick a charm and invent a potion that would yield the same result. No one scored above A—and that was only Hermione.”

“Which charm did you pick?”

“Hangover Charm—and I proposed a potion that used Alka-Seltzer, sugar, lemon juice, and vitamin B.”

“Oh, Harry. I wonder if I should praise you for your audacity or worry that you knew how to make a decent headbanger juice at such an early age.” She chuckled. “How did you score?”

Harry’s smile soured as if he’d been forced to take a sip of his proposed hangover cure. “Didn’t! Snape disqualified me because my potion was too Muggle.”

“He might have had a point there,” Saturnine said, still smiling. “It wasn’t so much a potion as it was a beverage.”

“I know, I know. It was a rushed job that I did on the train on my way to Hogwarts. And before you start to worry about me, I asked Dean Thomas to help me with the ingredients list.” Harry paused before handing his essay to the knowledgeable witch. “For once, I’d really like to do it right. And who knows, Professor Snape might even agree to grade me this time.”

“I’ll gladly help you,” she said, taking the paper from his hand. “And if he’s reluctant to do so, I’ll see to it that Professor Snape grades it, Harry. Promise.”

And so it was that they spent the entire afternoon, and the following evening, working on Harry’s homework from hell. Saturnine had real patience when explaining things—which boded well for their upcoming Defence classes—and she could hold her own in Potions, Harry discovered. But the best part was that she didn’t hand him the solution on a silver platter, though the young man was certain she could have if she so wanted. Instead, she was content to tutor him and help him along until he reached the end-point on his own.

Saturnine asked him questions that, when answered, highlighted the errors of his thinking. She went over some of the more classic theorems that Professor Snape had quickly barrelled through, taking her time with each one and supplementing each theory with examples that made it easier to understand. Ultimately, she did have to fill in a few of the knowledge gaps that Harry possessed, but she left him to make the connections between those and the rest of his reflections on his own.

The following morning, she double-checked everything Harry had written down and felt quite sure that the changes he’d made to the potions would work. And when the boy grumbled something about what a pointless exercise this had been, Saturnine spent close to half an hour explaining to him that it wasn’t. Sometimes witches and wizards could find themselves in dire situations where they didn’t have stores full of ingredients readily available to make any potion that caught their fancy. And that, at such dire times, having a sufficient understanding of the craft to allow them to switch ingredients to their hearts’ content could very well save someone’s life. And Harry swallowed all the complaints he had on the tip of his tongue, wondering how many of Professor Snape’s difficult essays had been more useful than he had first thought.

The next day, Saturnine cancelled their Occlumency lessons so that she could Floo away from the cottage for a short while to procure everything they needed to test all three potions recipes Harry had developed. The young Gryffindor had no idea where she managed to procure not only the cauldrons but all the necessary ingredients from. And she refused to tell him. But the fact remained that she went through the trouble to do so. And that left him feeling warm all over.

Harry brewed under Saturnine’s watchful gaze all morning, all afternoon, and late into the night. That left him exhausted, his back aching from spending so many hours hovering over a cauldron. His hair was matted to the side of his face, congealed into thick, greasy lumps by the vapours that had sunk into his every pore. But he still beamed a huge smile as he held three phials containing the required potions out for inspection. A fully functional Cure for Boils that was a little more purple than blue—but Saturnine assured him that was because of the chilled Alka-Seltzer they’d used instead of the room-temperature Advil. A powerful Forgetfulness Potion that was a little gooier than expected but just as orange—a change that could be explained by switching the four mistletoe berries to the petals of three red roses. And a Strengthening Solution that smelled strongly of coffee—no wonder, given the amount he’d used to replace both the crushed cayenne pepper and the half-drop of viper venom.

“Excellent job, Harry,” Saturnine said as she helped him carry the phials to his bedroom and safely tuck them into his school trunk. She even added a Break-Me-Not Charm on them before he closed the lid. “And you thought you were pants at Potions.”

“Well, brewing in the cottage’s living room with you is a lot different than in a class half-filled with rotten Slytherins and Professor Snape breathing down my neck.”

“Speaking of school,” Saturnine said, moving back towards the door. “I’ll take you to Diagon Alley sometime next week so that you can get your supply for sixth year, and—” she looked him up and down “—some new clothes, perhaps?”

“I’m fine with the ones I have,” Harry rushed in to say. “Maybe just a pair of robes?”

In truth, he had grown quite a lot recently, and everything he owned was too short now—or still desperately too baggy if it was some of Dudley Dursley’s cast-offs. But Harry knew that he only needed to get a decent set of robes, and everything else could be hidden underneath. After all, it was all he could afford.

“Nonsense,” Saturnine said, turning back to face him and leaning herself against the doorjamb. “You need new trousers and shirts, and something warm for when the summer’s over. I’ve seen your sweaters. They’re worn-thin. I don’t care that you don’t like shopping for clothes, we’re going, and it’s final.”

Harry felt himself blushing, and he rubbed his neck as he thought hard and fast for a way to wiggle out of this situation without having to reveal the truth. When he failed to come up with any, and the silence had stretched too long for him not to reply, he forced himself to say, “It’s not that I don’t like to, Saturnine. I just—I don’t have much money, that’s all.”

That seemed to surprise her. “What do you mean? Surely your parents left you something. The Potter family is a very old one, there’s bound to be enough Galleons in the Gringotts vaults for you to buy a few pairs of t-shirts once a year.”

“Yes, they did leave me some money,” Harry said hastily, not wanting her to get the wrong idea about his parents. They had thought to make the necessary arrangements to leave Harry some money. “But it isn’t much, and I have to be careful if I want it to last me until school’s over. It’s no problem, really. I’m used to it.”

“Well, I’m not.” Saturnine crossed her arms over her chest, and Harry knew her well enough to know that whatever decision she’d come up with was final. If it really came to that, he supposed he could buy a few things, then go his entire year without buying anything during the Hogsmeade trips.

“You’re getting new clothes—proper ones that fit you. I’ll buy them myself if I have to.” Her brows furrowed, and she added. “And I’ll check in with Gringotts because none of that sounds right to me.”

And that left Harry speechless.